summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife.
word count. 6.8k
warnings. pregnancy rumor hijinks, minor angst, jealousy, miscommunication, donor wellness retreat from hell, bucky saying everything except that he's in love with her, no use of y/n
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By noon, Bucky had read the same paragraph of the same memo six times and retained none of it.
The memo was not difficult. It concerned the amended oversight language in the Enhanced Persons Protections Act. He knew the material.
But the words would not stay where he put them.
They kept shifting into other things. Your voice in the kitchen and your face when you said you deserve good things. No joke afterward to drag the moment back into something safer.
Bucky leaned back in his desk chair and dragged one hand over his mouth. You were in the conference room with Mia and two legislative aides going over the guest list for the donor dinner now linked to one of the shell companies from the drive. He could see you through the glass wall if he turned his head.
You looked fine.
Which meant nothing.
You were good at looking fine.
He turned back to the memo, but didn’t get far before the memory returned again. Your head tilting tiredly in the kitchen. His mouth against your forehead before he had the sense to stop himself.
It had not been strategy. It had not been public. He could have explained a hand at your back. He could have explained holding a door, pulling out a chair, warming the car, checking your bruise because you had been hurt on a mission he should have been on. Bucky had explanations for all of those, even if some of them were bad.
But the forehead kiss had slipped out of him like habit. A dangerous habit.
His phone buzzed.
A text from Sam.
Wilson
You alive?
11:35
Bucky stared at it, then typed back: At work.
Sam replied immediately.
Wilson
That is not what I asked.
11:36
Bucky huffed despite himself and set the phone facedown.
A minute later, Sam Wilson walked into his office without knocking.
Bucky looked up. “Door was closed.”
“Was it locked?”
“No.”
“Then it was open.”
“‘S’not how doors work.”
Sam shut the door behind him and dropped into the chair across from the desk. He wore a dark jacket, no shield, no visible weapons, and the expression of someone who was far too entertained to be in a government building.
“I’m busy,” Bucky said.
Sam leaned forward and looked at the first page. “You’ve been on page two since I texted you.”
Bucky set the memo aside because pretending to read it was starting to feel more embarrassing than being caught. “What do you want?”
“Wanted to check on you after last night. She texted me last night.”
Bucky blinked. “She texted you?”
“Texted Mia first, who told her not to engage. So naturally she texted me with twelve jokes she is not allowed to post. I ranked them.”
Bucky exhaled and leaned back in his chair.
Sam smiled for a second, but it softened quickly. “She okay?”
“Yeah. Sore knee and bruised shoulder, nothing serious.”
“Did she let you look at it?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because it’s a miracle every time that woman lets someone help her, and I like to keep track.”
“She let me look.”
Sam nodded. “Good.”
Bucky looked toward the glass wall before he could stop himself. You were still in the conference room, standing now, one hand braced on the table while Mia pointed at something on a tablet. Peter entered with a stack of folders, nearly dropped one, recovered too fast, and then looked around as if hoping no one had noticed.
Bucky noticed.
There was still something strange about that kid.
Before he could focus on it, you looked through the glass and caught his eye. You lifted your brows slightly, a silent question from across the office. You were asking if he was fine.
He nodded once.
You gave him a look that said you did not believe him but lacked time to prosecute, then turned back to Mia.
Sam’s eyes sharpened. “What happened?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Try again.”
Bucky looked down at the desk. The ring on his left hand caught the light from the window. It looked real on his hand. That was one of the daily cruelties of his life now.
“I kissed her,” he said.
Sam stared.
“On the forehead,” Bucky clarified.
Sam blinked.
“That’s it?”
Bucky looked up.
Sam lifted both hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be dismissive, but are you middle schoolers? Call me when you have sex.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Sam.”
“Buck.”
“I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Why?”
“Because she didn’t ask for that.”
Sam’s expression changed, the exasperation giving way to something more careful. “Did she pull away?”
“No.”
“Did she say anything?”
“No.”
“Then maybe don’t put a felony charge on a forehead kiss.”
Bucky stood and crossed to the window and looked down at the street below. Staffers from other offices cut across the sidewalk with coffee, badges, phones pressed to ears.
“It’s not about the kiss.”
“No kidding.”
Bucky kept his eyes on the street. “I get to be married to her. I get all the parts that look like a life. She lives in my house. Sleeps in my bed. Leaves her tea in the pantry and her knives in places she thinks I haven’t found. I know how she likes eggs.”
Sam did not interrupt.
Bucky swallowed. “And none of it’s mine.”
The office noise dulled behind him. Someone outside laughed. Through the glass reflection, Bucky could see Sam in the chair, watching him with that tired, patient look he wore when he was trying not to punch through a friend’s self-loathing.
“She doesn’t want it,” Bucky said. “Not like that. If I forget for one second that this isn’t real, then I’m the guy who used a bad situation to get close to her.”
“You’re not that guy.”
“She doesn’t know,” Bucky said.
Sam’s voice came lower. “I know.”
“If she knew, she’d never trust me again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know her.”
“You know the parts she lets you see.”
Bucky turned. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. It’s supposed to make you stop acting like you’re the only person in this marriage with complicated feelings.”
“What are you sayin’?” Bucky asked.
“I’ve had you in my ear for two months telling me you can’t say anything because she doesn’t want you. I told you to tell her the truth about New Orleans.” Sam leaned back in the chair again. “I told her to stop assuming she knows what you feel. I have been consistent, mature, and handsome in extremely difficult conditions.”
Despite himself, Bucky huffed.
Sam pointed at him. “Don’t laugh. I’m mad.”
Bucky sat back down.
Sam’s tone sharpened. “You’re making decisions for each other. You’re deciding what she can handle. She’s deciding what you want. Both of you are wrong often enough that I should be getting some sort of pay for putting up with it.”
Bucky looked down.
“I can’t tell you what she feels. That’s not mine to give you. Same way I won’t tell her what you said to me. But you are not doing either of you a favor by standing in the middle of the road waiting for a truck because you feel bad about New Orleans.”
Bucky’s mouth tightened. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Buck.”
Sam let the silence sit for a moment, then lowered his voice.
“You made a mistake. And you’re gonna have to tell her. Every day you don’t, you’re building something with her on top of a thing she doesn’t know. And the longer it goes, the worse it gets.”
Bucky said nothing. He knew that. He knew it so well the knowledge had become part of the room he lived in.
Sam shrugged once, but his face stayed serious. “You kissed her forehead. Fine. Maybe you shouldn't have. But if your worst crime yesterday was being gentle with a woman you love, then congratulations. You have become annoying in a very normal way.”
Before Bucky could answer, the office door opened without warning, and you stepped in with a folder under your arm and a brown paper takeout bag in your hand.
“Am I interrupting something?”
Sam leaned back. “Yes.”
“No,” Bucky said at the same time.
You looked between them. “Terrible coordination.”
“You need something?” Bucky asked.
“I need many things. A better printer, for starters.” You held up your takeout bag. “I need my lunch courier to stop having a crisis.”
Bucky frowned. “Your what?”
“What did you do?” Sam asked.
You reached into the bag and pulled out a container of soup, a wrapped sandwich, a bottle of ginger ale, and a pickle sealed in plastic. “I allowed Peter to pick up my lunch.”
Bucky stared at the food, then looked through the glass. Peter stood near Priya’s desk, clutching a stack of mail and trying not to look into Bucky’s office. The second Bucky looked at him, Peter looked away so quickly he nearly hit himself in the face with the envelopes.
Bucky turned back to you. “Why did Parker get your lunch?”
“Because some men still have manners, dreamboat.”
“Why did he think you needed lunch?”
You opened the soup container and smelled it with great satisfaction. “I may have mentioned that I was craving this specific soup from the place on the corner.”
Bucky closed his eyes. Sam started laughing.
“Chief.”
“What?”
“You told Parker you’re pregnant.”
“I did not tell Peter I’m pregnant.”
Bucky opened his eyes.
You held up one finger. “I may have insinuated the baby wanted ginger ale.”
Bucky stared at you.
You shrugged. “The tabloid introduced the premise. I just explored the available consequences.”
“By letting the office think you’re pregnant.”
“I created an atmosphere of possibility.”
You looked up at him with the spoon halfway to your mouth, eyes bright with trouble. You were enjoying this. Not the rumor itself, but the chaos that came after. Someone had handed you a stupid misunderstanding, and you had turned it into soup.
Bucky should have been annoyed, but he was trying too hard not to smile.
“Parker,” Bucky called.
Peter appeared in the doorway so fast Bucky wondered, again, what the hell was wrong with the kid.
“Yes, sir?”
“Why did you buy my wife lunch?”
Peter’s face reddened immediately. “Oh. Um. I was going out anyway.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “If my wife were pregnant, I wouldn’t have another guy running around attending to her.”
You stopped with the pickle halfway to your mouth.
Sam’s eyebrows rose.
Bucky cleared his throat. “I can take care of her just fine.”
“I-I’m sorry, sir. There was the article—and Mrs. Barnes said I was a kind young man who understood urgency,” Peter stumbled over his words. “The next thing I knew I was outside buying soup.”
You nodded. “And you did beautifully.”
Peter looked trapped between pride and terror. “Thank you?”
“She’s not pregnant,” Bucky reminded him.
You threw your hands up. “James. You are robbing me of a very important cultural moment.”
Bucky stared at you. “What cultural moment?”
“The moment where the internet decides you’re a problematic older man who knocked up his much younger wife after a suspiciously sudden wedding.”
Sam leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I’d read that thread.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Where is the outrage? Where is the discourse? Why is no one asking whether Congressman Barnes should be cancelled for being a cradle-robbing menace to democracy?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not that much younger than me.”
You blinked at him.
Sam blinked at him.
“Bucky,” you said carefully, “you fought in a war that has documentaries in black and white.”
“I was frozen.”
“Oh, convenient excuse.”
Peter’s mouth hung halfway open. “So… she’s not pregnant?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“She was messing with you.”
Peter processed that with the grave disappointment of a young man encountering betrayal. “So the baby doesn’t want ginger ale?”
“There is no baby,” Bucky said.
“Not with that attitude.” You rolled your eyes.
Sam lost the fight and laughed openly.
Peter took one step back. “Should I go?”
“Yes,” Bucky said.
“No,” you said at the same time. “Peter, thank you for the lunch. You showed initiative, compassion, and excellent pickle judgment.”
Peter nodded uncertainly. “Okay.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Bucky said, because the kid looked one sentence away from drafting his own resignation letter.
Peter looked relieved. “Okay. Good. Great. I’m sorry for implying anything about your personal life or family planning or, um, biology.”
“Peter.”
“Yes?”
“Breathe.”
Peter inhaled sharply. “I’m going to file constituent letters now.”
“Good idea,” Bucky said.
Peter left quickly, but not before nearly colliding with the doorframe and apologizing to it.
Bucky turned to you, fixing you with a look.
You sighed, irritated by your own conscience. “I will apologize to Peter."
“Good.”
“I will not return the soup.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“And I will be keeping the ginger ale.”
“That’s fine. Keep eating your soup.”
“Is that an order?”
“More of a suggestion.”
“Right. Because the baby needs nourishment.”
Bucky looked toward the ceiling. “There is no baby.”
Sam leaned back, enjoying himself.
You stood from the chair, picked up the ginger ale, and came around the desk. The office was small enough that he should have stepped back. He did not. You stopped just inside his space and tilted your head up at him, eyes bright, mouth doing that pleased little thing it did when you had committed to a bit.
“Would you peel grapes for me?”
“No.”
“What about oranges?”
“No.”
“What if the baby developed scurvy because of your neglect?”
Bucky tried not to smile. “There is no baby.”
You nodded. “It’s good to know that there are limits to your devotion. I’ll remember this.”
“You do that.”
You lifted the ginger ale between you. “I think I’ll name the baby Minestrone. Minestrone Barnes. That has a good ring to it, yeah?”
“We’re not naming the kid Minestrone.”
“Ah,” you said, delight dancing across your features. “So you are acknowledging the baby now.”
“Get out of my office.”
“Minestrone is a hell of a lot better than Borscht Barnes. Or Chicken Noodle Barnes.”
“Out.”
“Or maybe they should take my last name. French Onion—”
“Now.”
You backed toward the door, looking unbearably pleased with yourself again. “Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.”
Bucky’s stomach turned.
You said it as a joke. He knew you said it as a joke. It was part of the bit. Still, his voice came out before he could stop it.
“You’re wanted.”
You stopped.
Sam went very still.
Bucky did too.
The office noise beyond the door seemed to thin out. Bucky’s pulse beat once, hard, beneath his collar.
Then you smiled. Smaller this time. “Careful, Congressman. That sounded almost sincere.”
“It was.”
Your face shifted again, softer and more uncertain than he meant to make it.
Then Oliver called your name from the bullpen, asking something about Mia and the revised statement. The moment snapped like a thread pulled too hard.
You lifted the ginger ale in half salute. “Duty calls.”
Bucky’s eyes followed you until you were out of eyesight, at which point he turned back to Sam who was regarding him with something between disappointment and annoyance.
“Are you kidding me?”
“What?” Bucky asked.
“‘You’re wanted’?” Sam made a gagging noise.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Yes, exactly. I’m being obvious. I couldn’t be more obvious.”
“Oh, you absolutely could. Have you ever tried ‘hey Chief, I want you. I want to wake up next to you and smell your hair and hold your hand and be your husband forever and ever and ever.’ You ever try that?” Sam stood from where he was seated and stretched.
“No, haven’t tried that one yet.”
“Well that’s your problem.”
“You’re my problem.”
Sam fixed him with a look. “You’re your own problem. I can’t be flyin’ in here all the time every time you have a middle school crush.”
“I didn’t ask you to fly in here.”
“And you’ll never have to. But you seriously need to do something about this.”
“I have been doing something about it.”
“What, you think kissing her on the forehead and staring at her with puppy dog eyes while you’re in the office is doing something about it?”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Well I’m not going to ‘smell her hair’ if that’s what you want me to do.”
A slow smile spread across Sam’s face.
“Y’know, maybe you do need to up your physical game. Here, I’ll be you—”
“No.”
“—and you be her.”
“No.”
But Sam was already crossing the office, his voice dropping to a lower register in an attempt to imitate Bucky’s voice. If you would have asked Bucky, it sounded nothing like him.
“Gee whiz, sweetheart. I know I’m a grumpy 200-year-old super—”
“I’m not that old.”
“You sound nothing like her.” Sam scowled. “It’s like you’re not even trying. Now where was I? I know I’m a grumpy 200-year-old super soldier, but you’ve really put the razzle-dazzle on my ticker. Better call a doctor, ‘cause I’ve got a case of the feelings and there ain’t no penicillin for it!”
Bucky stared at him.
“Penicillin existed when I was young.”
“No one likes doing bits with people who fact check them.” Sam snapped back into the voice. “Dollface, you’re the bee’s knees, the cat’s pajamas. I’m awfully sweet on ya, but unfortunately I’m too committed to being a stoic flimflam to do anything about it.”
“You’re not even using those terms correctly,” Bucky said, picking up the memo once more. “This is terrible advice.”
Sam’s grin widened. “Try this one: listen here hussy—”
“I have never called someone hussy in my life,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “And I certainly wouldn’t call her that.”
“—I like you an awful lot, but I’m too much of a coward to say anything about it. So I oughta show ya!”
Before Bucky could process what was happening, Sam had grabbed Bucky’s face in his hands and was leaning in to place a sloppy wet kiss on him.
Bucky realized what was happening with just enough time to hold Sam at an arm’s length, but Sam was persistent. Despite Bucky’s super strength, Sam was able to plant a kiss on his cheek, prompting Bucky to throw him off of him.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Sam couldn’t respond over his fit of laughter.
Before Bucky could throw his best friend out the window, you appeared in his doorway again, this time without the soup, the ginger ale, or the ridiculous performance of pregnancy theater. You held a folder in one hand and his reading glasses in the other.
He frowned. “Where’d you find those?”
“Windowsill.”
“I looked there.”
“You looked near there. You were probably too busy making out with Wilson to look properly.”
Sam coughed.
Bucky took the glasses. Your fingers brushed his for barely a second. He put the glasses on and opened the folder.
You leaned one hip against the doorframe. “Mia wants your approval on the revised statement before she sends it.”
“Is it going to say you’re not pregnant?”
“It is going to say we do not comment on private family matters.”
“That sounds like you’re pregnant.”
“It denies nothing. It confirms nothing. It lets the story die without us chasing it around with a shovel.”
Sam nodded. “She’s right.”
Bucky turned to him. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough for one day?”
“Can the two of you work out your couple’s dispute on your own time?” You said.
Bucky signed off on the revised statement and handed it back. “Tell Mia it’s good.”
“I’ll tell her it passed the old-man desk.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“You have a wooden letter opener.”
“It was a gift.”
“You use it.”
Sam pointed at Bucky. “She has you there.”
“You are both in my office,” Bucky said.
“You’re only in this office because of me,” you pointed out. “Dinner is at seven. We leave at six-thirty.”
You left, and Sam took that as his sign to finally leave Bucky alone, muttering something about being late for a meeting with the president.
Bucky sat alone with the memo, the revised statement, the faint smell of your soup still lingering near his desk, and the sound of your voice drifting through the office as you told Peter yes, the sandwich was his.
“I thought this was going to be a networking event.”
You hated this place.
It was not even a real resort. It was a private wellness retreat outside the city with too many windows. A major supporter of Bucky’s bill had insisted that he and his wife attend the one-day donor wellness intensive because it would be “a meaningful opportunity to connect with the more human side of the coalition.”
You had assumed that meant lunch.
Maybe a roundtable.
It had not meant sitting in a circle while a woman named Marigold asked each pair to “share one unspoken emotional request through eye contact.”
You had stared at Bucky for eight full seconds and tried to communicate kill me.
He had looked back at you with calm blue eyes that somehow communicated behave.
You were now thirty-seven minutes into something called a partner attunement sequence, and Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, current congressman, and fake husband, was holding both your hands while Marigold circled the room barefoot with a small brass chime.
Around you, other couples murmured soft things to each other. One foundation director and her husband had already cried twice before lunch. Somewhere near the windows, Senator Vale’s wife was telling her husband that his listening face needed work.
Bucky leaned slightly toward you. “We only have to make it to four.”
“Time stopped during the compassion labyrinth.”
A muscle in his jaw moved.
The truth was, you had been teasing him all morning. If you stopped, you would have to notice the fact that this whole thing was designed to make couples behave like couples. Couples who did not have to decide whether holding hands was a strategy or a habit.
And the problem was that you and Bucky were good at this.
In the mirrored movement exercise, his hand had lifted at the same time yours did, both of you reaching for balance before anyone instructed you to. You were beginning to suspect fake marriage looked very different from the inside than it did from the outside.
Marigold announced they would be moving into a guided intimacy practice, clapping her hands softly.
“Before we begin, take a moment with your partner. Ask: What do I need from you that I have not asked for?”
You stared at Bucky.
Bucky stared back.
There were too many answers in the room, and you didn’t like any of them.
Then, from somewhere behind a tall arrangement of pampas grass and a table of herbal tea, a familiar blonde head appeared.
You froze.
Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.
Yelena stood near the refreshments table wearing a cream-colored staff tunic, a name tag that read Juniper, and a deeply satisfied expression of a woman who had lied her way into paradise and was disappointed with what she found.
You blinked.
She lifted two fingers in a wave.
Bucky turned his head toward you. “Is that Yelena?”
“No.”
“Her name tag says Juniper.”
“Then clearly that’s Juniper.”
You closed your eyes.
Bucky said, very quietly, “Why is she here?”
“Am I my sister’s keeper?”
Yelena picked up a small tray and began circulating with lemon water as if she had been born for hospitality and minor espionage. She stopped beside you with practiced politeness.
“Infused water?” she asked.
You stared at her. “What are you doing?”
“My job.”
“You have a job?”
“Many.”
Bucky looked pointedly at her name tag. “Juniper?”
“You may call me Miss Juniper. This is a professional setting.”
You took a glass from the tray. “Why are you here?”
Yelena’s eyes brightened. “I wanted to see this.”
“This?”
“Yes. Couples retreat with husband.”
“Fake husband,” you corrected in a hushed tone.
Yelena smiled. “Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Leave.”
“No.”
“You are not staff.”
“I have uniform.”
Marigold glanced over. Yelena immediately straightened, serene and helpful.
“Everything all right here?” Marigold asked.
“Yes,” Yelena said. “The couple was just working on open communication.”
Marigold nodded solemnly. “Wonderful.”
When Marigold drifted away, you hissed, “I am going to put you in the koi pond.”
“You would have to catch me,” Yelena replied.
“Don’t tempt her,” Bucky said.
Yelena looked him over. “You look less miserable. Marriage is growth.”
Then she swept away with the tray.
Bucky leaned closer. “We are not telling Sam.”
“We are absolutely not telling Sam.”
Marigold began instructing couples to close their eyes, hold each other’s hands, and match their breathing to one another.
You patted his hand. “If you die from poisoned cucumber water, I get everything, right?”
He opened one eye to look at you.
You expected an eye roll. A dry comment.
“Everything I have is already yours.”
You stopped breathing. Which was so not the point of the exercise.
Bucky seemed to realize what he had said only after it was too late. His gaze dropped briefly to your joined hands. His thumb was resting near your ring.
“Careful, dreamboat. Dangerous thing to say to an ex-assassin,” you said quietly.
His mouth curved faintly.
“Also,” you added, “was that a will update, or do men from your era just hand over their assets at wellness retreats?”
Bucky looked down at your joined hands. “You always this difficult when someone says somethin’ nice to you?”
“Yes. It keeps me young. You should try it.”
Marigold rang her chime again.
The intimacy and boundaries exercise began with instructions that were uncomfortably intrusive. One partner would ask a question. The other would answer without deflection. Then they would switch.
Bucky looked too large for the mat. The linen shirt did unfair things to his shoulders. You hated the shirt. You hated wellness. You hated Yelena’s little uniform.
Marigold instructed the first partner to ask, “What boundary do you need honored in this relationship?”
You and Bucky looked at each other. Neither of you spoke. Around you, couples began murmuring. Soft, earnest answers drifted through the room. More alone time. Don’t read my texts. Please stop signing us up for pickleball.
You stared at Bucky. He stared back.
Because you were tired and cornered, and deeply irritated by the fact that this room had been designed to foster sincerity, you said the first thing to come to your mind.
“Are we allowed to sleep with other people?”
Bucky went perfectly still.
“While we’re fake married, I mean. Not that we have to, it’s just we’ve been at this for months—and I’m not complaining—but this whole situation has really put a damper on dating.” You heard yourself continue before you could stop. “Y’know, having a very public marriage and all. I haven’t been laid in—”
Bucky interrupted you, saying your name softly.
The room around you kept murmuring, oblivious. Somewhere behind him, you could feel Yelena’s eyes watching the two of you.
“You want to?” Bucky’s voice came low.
“No,” you said quickly.
His face shifted.
“I mean,” you corrected, because now you had started and you never knew when to put the shovel down, “not with a specific person. I don’t have a candidate waiting in the wings with a number ticket. But it’s been months, and I still have… well, needs, right?”
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
You pressed on, hating every word more than the last. “It just seems like something we should discuss.”
“Here?”
“Would you rather discuss this during tax preparation?”
“Maybe not in a room full of donors and politicians doing yoga.”
“This isn’t yoga.”
“Hardly the point.”
You made a face. “God forbid a girl try to engage with the retreat.”
“That wasn’t an open invitation to bring up our sex life.”
“Our sex lives. Theoretically separate. Which is the issue at hand.”
Bucky looked down for half a second, then back up. “Right.”
You hated that you had said anything. You hated that some stupid, reckless part of you had wanted him to say no immediately. In a way that meant he could not stand the thought any more than you could. You hated that you had no right to want that.
So you made your voice brisk.
“We can be adults about it.”
“Yeah.”
“If one of us wanted to, discreetly, obviously—”
“Obviously.”
“No staff. No donors. No one connected to the office.”
“God, no. No one in the townhouse.”
You nodded.
Your hands were still in his. You wondered if he was thinking of someone. Some woman from before you. Some veterans advocate with kind eyes. Some woman who didn’t come with a suitcase full of trauma and a fake marriage license.
Whoever she was, you hated her.
Which was unfair, because you had invented her less than four seconds ago.
“If that’s what you want,” Bucky said.
It was not what you wanted. It was not even adjacent to what you wanted.
But you had brought it up, and now pride had locked the door behind you.
You nodded once. “It’s practical.”
“Sure.” His mouth tightened.
For one second, something almost broke through his expression. Hurt, maybe. Or anger. Or want. You could not tell, and that was the problem.
The exercise moved on around you. Couples switched roles. Marigold rang that stupid chime. Someone nearby cried quietly into a bamboo napkin.
You and Bucky did not ask the next question.
You sat there facing each other in a room full of people trying to become more intimate with their spouses, having just given one another permission to be with someone else.
Three days after the wellness intensive, Bucky discovered that agreeing to something and surviving the idea of it were two separate skills.
He had agreed because it was fair.
That was what he told himself.
It was fair for you to have a life outside a marriage neither of you had planned.
Fair for you not to be trapped by the ring on your finger, by the townhouse, by the office, by every camera and donor and staffer who thought the two of you had stumbled into something romantic instead of something legally inconvenient and increasingly difficult to survive. Fair, too, for him to say yes without making his feelings your problem.
So he had said yes.
The worst part was that nothing had happened yet. There was no one. Not that he knew of. You had not come home late with a lie in your mouth or a new perfume on your coat. You had not guarded your phone. You had not started smiling at texts. There was no evidence of anything at all.
Which meant the entire problem was Bucky’s.
He knew that.
He did not need Sam in the room to tell him.
He could hear Sam anyway, which was one of the drawbacks of having a best friend with a loud moral compass.
You agreed to it, man. Don’t get jealous about imaginary people.
Bucky adjusted the cuff of his shirt and looked across the ballroom.
You were talking to General Adrian Vale.
Not Senator Vale. His brother. Retired Air Force, now some kind of senior defense liaison attached to a multinational security commission. Silver at the temples. Navy dress uniform.
He was standing too close to you.
Close enough that when the crowd shifted, Vale leaned slightly toward you instead of away. Close enough that his smile lasted half a second longer than the conversation required. Close enough that when you said something, he laughed and looked down into his drink like he needed a moment to recover.
Bucky hated him immediately.
Then hated himself for hating him.
You were not doing anything wrong.
That was the trouble. You were doing your job. You were working the room the way only you could, all sharp charm and careful attention, letting people underestimate you right up until they handed you exactly what you needed.
Your dress was dark, simple, expensive enough to disappear among donor wives and embassy staff, but cut with enough precision that Bucky had not known what to do with his eyes when you came downstairs earlier.
You had asked, “Too much?”
He had said, “No.”
Now you were across the room in that same dress, laughing with General Vale.
Bucky took a slow sip of water and listened to Congressman Pike explain something about appropriations that Bucky should have been tracking. He heard enough to nod at the right place. He had become good at listening while his attention was elsewhere. A useful skill in government. A necessary one in war.
A miserable one at a diplomatic reception where his fake wife was maybe, possibly, probably not flirting with a man who had once commanded fighter squadrons.
“Representative Barnes?”
Bucky looked back at Pike. “Sorry. Say that again?”
Pike smiled a closed-mouth smile. “I was only saying that your wife has made quite an impression tonight.”
Bucky’s eyes went to you again before he could stop them.
Vale was speaking now. You were listening. Your head had tilted slightly.
“She does that,” Bucky said.
Pike chuckled. “General Vale is not easily impressed.”
Bucky did not like that either.
“Good for him.”
Pike blinked, then laughed because he thought Bucky was joking.
Bucky had been, technically.
You glanced over then. Across the bodies, the polished floor, the low lights, the embassy flags lined along one wall. Your eyes found his like they always did in crowded rooms. Not dramatic. Not searching. Just a quick touch, a check-in.
You lifted your glass slightly.
Then Vale said something, and you looked back at him.
Bucky’s hand tightened around his glass.
He forced it to loosen.
This was what he had agreed to.
Not this specifically. Not you and Vale at a reception full of defense money and polite predators. But the possibility. The right for you to decide that someone else interested you, that someone else might give you something uncomplicated, physical, easy.
Bucky set his glass down.
Pike was still talking.
Bucky said something that passed for an answer and excused himself before the man could decide whether it fit the conversation.
He imagined what you might be saying.
My marriage is complicated.
No one has to know.
It’s not like that with him.
That last one made something in him go cold.
Someone stepped into his path. A woman from the veterans’ coalition, gray-haired, kind-eyed, with a drink in one hand and a gold pin shaped like a dove on her lapel. Bucky recognized her but could not immediately remember her name, which made him feel worse.
“Congressman,” she said warmly. “Your remarks earlier were wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
She followed his gaze before he could stop it.
“Your wife is very good in these rooms,” she said.
“She is.”
“That must be a comfort.”
Bucky looked at her.
She did not seem to mean anything by it. Maybe she only meant what everyone meant when they saw you beside him: that the marriage helped soften the edges of his public life, gave him someone to look at across rooms, made him seem less alone.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
By the time Bucky looked back, Vale had stepped away. You were alone near the archway leading toward the quieter side corridor, looking down at your phone with your drink tucked against your wrist.
Bucky crossed the room before he could decide not to.
You did not look up until he was almost beside you.
“There you are,” you said.
He stopped. “You looking for me?”
“No. But it sounds nicer than ‘why are you looming by the ficus?’”
“Funny.”
“I am very funny. People say this.”
“Who?”
“People with taste.”
Your eyes flicked over him. “You’re doing the jaw thing.”
“What jaw thing?”
“The one where you’re either angry, hungry, or trying not to say something.”
“I ate.”
“So we’ve eliminated one.”
He looked toward the ballroom.
You followed his gaze. Your expression changed just slightly.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“General Vale.”
He looked away, irritated that you had seen it so easily. More irritated that he had given you something to see.
Your voice softened by one degree. Not enough for anyone else to hear. Enough for him.
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
You studied him for a second.
He wished you would stop. He wished you would keep going until you found everything and put him out of his misery.
“You get anything?” Bucky asked.
“He mentioned a closed briefing last month. Defense liaison, two private security contractors, and someone from a humanitarian foundation that does not appear on any of the public schedules.”
“Valentina?”
“Maybe. Not directly. But adjacent enough that I want the guest list.”
Bucky’s shoulders eased a fraction. Information helped. Work helped. Work gave him somewhere to put the jealousy other than his teeth.
Bucky kept his hand at his side. He wanted to touch his ring and refused to let himself. “I meant what I said at the retreat. You can do what you want.”
Your mouth tightened.
He hated that too.
“But?” you asked.
“No but.”
“I’m trying to help you find the sentence.”
For a second, the room almost fell away. He could tell you. Not all of it, maybe. Not New Orleans. Not here. Not in a corridor with donors fifteen feet away and a military liaison who had smiled too long somewhere on the other side of the archway.
But something.
He could tell you that he hated watching Vale touch your arm. He could tell you that he didn’t want anyone else.
“Just be careful,” is what he landed on.
Something in your expression closed.
“Of course,” you said.
He knew he had taken the wrong turn, but he could not find the road back fast enough.
“I don’t mean—”
“No, I know what you mean.” You lifted your drink slightly, smile returning with too much polish. “No reporters, no donors, no lobbyists. I’m careful, Barnes.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
That should have ended it. It almost did. You stepped slightly away from the wall, as if preparing to return to the room, and Bucky felt the chance slipping.
Then you paused.
“Relax, hotshot,” you said. “If I were looking for something discreet, which I am not, I would pick someone less obvious than a man in uniform at an event with six photographers.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Your expression flickered. “For what?”
“For making it your problem. I don’t want to be that guy.”
“What guy?”
“The one who says yes and then punishes you for taking him at his word.”
“Bucky, I don’t—” You stopped, which was rare enough to catch him completely. “I… I don’t have anyone in mind. I’m not actively looking.”
He did not move.
You looked at your drink. “For the record.”
“For the record,” he repeated.
You both stood there caught in all the words that weren’t being said.
You didn’t have anyone in mind. Neither did Bucky. He wanted to say it then: that he didn’t want to use the loophole at all. That he just wanted you. There was no one else.
He could feel the sentence forming, simple and plain.
Before he could say anything, a woman from the embassy staff appeared at the edge of the corridor, looking relieved to find you.
“There you are,” she said. “Mrs. Barnes, General Vale was hoping to introduce you to Minister Armand before he leaves.”
You nodded. “Of course.”
The staffer disappeared back into the room.
You stepped closer, just enough to make it look from the ballroom like an affectionate aside between spouses. Your shoulder angled toward him. Your voice dropped.
“I’m going to talk to him because he has information,” you said. “Then I am going to complain about him in the car ride home.”
“You don’t need my permission.”
“I know that.” You looked at him, something unreadable passing behind your eyes. “That’s why I’m telling you, not asking.”
Then you walked back into the ballroom.
Bucky stayed in the corridor for a moment, watching you cross toward Vale and the minister. You did not look back immediately. You did not need to. Halfway across the room, you lifted your hand slightly and touched your earring, the tiny signal you used when you wanted him to know you had eyes on exits and everything under control.
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Warnings: Mild Violence. Period expected misogyny.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.8k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She dragged an empty wooden crate across the floor, the scrape of wood against concrete sharp in the quiet warehouse. When she sat, she left a careful gap between them, close enough to talk, far enough to watch his face.
Not because she thought he'd hurt her. If he'd wanted that, he'd had hours alone with her already. But she needed distance to read him properly, to catalogue every micro-expression and tell.
Needed to figure out what, exactly, she'd just fed and cured and lied to a policeman for.
"Alright, Mr. Barnes." She laced her fingers together in her lap, spine straight. Professional. "I think we need to have a frank conversation about where you actually came from."
His jaw shifted. A muscle jumped near his ear. "I told you-"
"You told me you're a knight who came here through a magic ring." She kept her voice gentle, the tone she used with customers who were difficult but not deliberately rude. "And I'm trying very hard to be understanding, but you have to see how that sounds."
"I am aware," he said quietly, "how it sounds."
The resignation in his voice caught her off guard. He sounded tired.
She studied him, trying to catalog the pieces that didn't fit.
The vocabulary. Nobody spoke like him unless they were performing, and he did it too naturally, even when he was startled or off-balance. That took education. Years of it.
A professor, maybe. Before the war.
Except professors were bookish men with ink-stained fingers and reading glasses, who got winded on staircases and couldn't lift a sack of flour without wheezing.
This man was not that.
This man's shoulders tested the seams of that linen shirt every time he breathed, and had calloused hands.
An enthusiast, then. One of those men who took historical recreation seriously. Joined societies, learned swordplay, commissioned authentic reproductions.
That would explain the clothes, the boots, and the strange belt with its reinforced straps.
It would even explain the confusion with modern objects, if the war had... broken something, sent his mind retreating into the safer world of his obsession.
She'd heard of that. Men who came back believing they were still in the trenches, or still dodging things that had stopped falling years ago.
Why not a man who believed he was a knight?
"You were in the war," she said.
He blinked. "Which war?"
"The war," she repeated. "World War II.”
"I know nothing about that war."
Her stomach did something complicated.
"You... don't know World War II."
"No."
She sat back slightly.
Amnesia could do strange things. She knew that. Trauma could erase memories, create gaps, make a man forget his own mother's face.
"What about… Hitler?" she tried, her voice careful. "Roosevelt? Eisenhower?"
Each name landed with the same blank incomprehension.
He wasn't pretending; his expression was genuine.
"Alright," she said slowly. "What about... England? You know England?"
"Of course I know England." His shoulders stiffened. "I'm not an imbecile."
"I didn't say you were. Who's the king of England?"
"Henry of Monmouth." No hesitation. "Son of Henry Bolingbroke."
She stared at him, her hands gone still in her lap.
That was... specific.
The kind of detail a professor would know, certainly. Or an enthusiast with an encyclopedic knowledge of the period.
"Henry of… Monmouth," she repeated.
"Yes."
"Not Queen Elizabeth."
"Who?"
"Queen Elizabeth. The Second."
He looked at her with perfect, uncomprehending silence.
"A queen," he said finally. "Reigning. Not beside a king."
"That's right."
“You don’t think a woman can hold a country together.”
“I think a country is held together by men willing to bleed for whoever wears the crown,” he said, leaning forward slightly, as if the point mattered enough to close the distance for. “And such men are not moved by right alone. They want coin, land, fear, favor, God, glory… something. A queen may rule, yes. But every lord who doubts her will call that doubt reason, and every lord who wants more than he is owed will call it principle.”
“That’s almost progressive of you, Mr. Barnes.”
"I am simply experienced in how quickly men forget their oaths when it's convenient." Something flickered behind his eyes, brief and unreadable, gone before she could name it. His jaw clenched around whatever it was, and he didn't offer it to her.
She let the quiet be for a moment, then circled back to the part that actually mattered.
"Who's your king? Now, I mean. Currently."
He lifted one eyebrow, as if she'd asked him what color the sky was. "Well. I told you, the king of England."
"I asked you who the king of England was, not your king. Didn’t see you as one." She blinked.
"I am a knight of the Realm." Said slowly, and he straightened as he said it, shoulders pulling back like the title still meant something even here.
She studied him properly now, turning the new information over. It explained nothing and complicated everything.
"You don't sound English," she said.
His brows drew together, that particular brand of offense she was starting to recognize. "My speech is perfectly proper."
"I'm not saying it isn't proper. I'm saying it's not-" She gestured vaguely with one hand, searching for the word. "You don't sound like an Englishman. You sound like-"
Like nothing she could place, was the honest answer. Not quite American, not quite anything she'd heard from the newsreels or the actors who played dukes in the pictures. The vowels were wrong. The rhythm was off.
"I assure you, wench, there is nothing wrong with my diction."
The air between them went very still.
"I beg your pardon?"
He paused, reading something in her face that made him go very still, the same stillness she imagined he used right before a fight.
Her voice had dropped to something soft and dangerous.
"What did you just call me, you inconsiderate piece of-"
"But you are," he cut in, baffled, hands lifting slightly, palms out in a universal gesture. "How else would you have me address you?"
Her mouth fell open. Heat crawled up her neck.
"Something polite would be a fine start."
"I was not impolite."
"You called me a wench."
"Yes."
"That is not polite."
"It is not an insult."
"It absolutely is."
His frown deepened, not with anger this time, but with concentration. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing like he was working through a puzzle with missing pieces.
"It means a young woman," he said slowly, his hands opening wider as if to count off points in an argument he was now losing. "You are a woman. You are not old. I made no accusation beyond the obvious."
She stared at him.
He stared back, and now he looked genuinely wrong-footed. His weight shifted slightly on the crate. The set of his shoulders had gone uncertain.
"I never thought," he added, the words coming slower now, more careful, "that I would live to meet a woman offended by being called young."
For one second, her hand twitched in her lap.
Then she inhaled through her nose, long and deliberate.
"Mr. Barnes."
"Yes." His posture changed: spine straighter, chin tucked just slightly. He'd learned that tone meant something was coming.
"Do not call me that again."
He considered this. His jaw worked, muscle jumping beneath the skin. She could see the struggle play out across his face ,pride pulling one way, survival pulling the other.
"As you wish," he said at last.
"Thank you."
A pause. The warehouse settled around them, the distant drip of water from a pipe somewhere in the back.
And then, because apparently he couldn't help himself, his head tilted. His mouth opened.
"But for the sake of accuracy-"
"No."
His mouth shut.
"And do not call any other woman that either," she added. "Unless you have a particular fondness for being slapped."
His brows drew together, and something in his expression suggested he was filing this away with real seriousness. Useful intelligence, not a reprimand he needed to absorb.
"This century is very particular."
"You have no idea."
He let that sit, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders, though his jaw stayed set in the particular way of someone who still believed himself in the right and had simply decided the argument wasn't worth the cost of continuing it.
She watched him for a moment. Watched the stubbornness, watched him go quiet again, and felt the conversation circle back, unbidden, to the question she hadn't actually answered yet. The one underneath all the others.
What are we going to do with you?
He had -technically- no family. No household. No money she'd seen, no papers, no anything that would let him walk into a rooming house and rent a room for the night without someone asking questions he couldn't answer. He didn't know what a dollar looked like. He'd nearly died crossing a street that had a stop sign on it.
He could not survive a week alone in this city. She was fairly certain he couldn't survive an afternoon.
His alternatives, if he really had no one, were bad. A precinct cell. A ward. Some institution that wouldn't ask whether his story was true so much as whether it was inconvenient, and either answer would end with him strapped to a bed and explaining himself to men with far less patience than she currently had.
She thought of the flinch on the sidewalk.
That decided it, more than the king or the dates or any of it.
She exhaled slowly, already regretting the sentence before she'd finished thinking it.
"Mr. Barnes."
"Yes." He asked, wary now.
"How many of your people live here? In this city, I mean. Anyone you could go to."
"None." Flat. No hedging, no attempt to dress it up.
"Right." She pressed her lips together, She pressed her lips together, snapping a loose splinter from the edge of her crate under her thumbnail."And you have no money that would mean anything here, no papers, no notion of how anything works, and you nearly got flattened by a car within five minutes of standing on a sidewalk."
His chin lifted, and he opened his mouth, presumably to defend the car incident, his jaw already set, and she lifted a hand to stop him.
"I'm not finished."
He closed his mouth, though not without making her wait a beat for it, as if closing it on his own schedule rather than her command. A tiny, huffed breath escaped his nose, sharp with annoyance.
"So here's where we are," she said, and hated, faintly, how reasonable she was about to sound about something so spectacularly unreasonable. "You can't go anywhere. You can't be left anywhere. And the only people who'd take an interest in a man who thinks cars are-" She stopped herself. "Well. The only people who'd take interest are exactly the people you do not want taking interest."
His expression had gone very still.
"What are you implying?" His voice had dropped, low and careful, no irritation left in it now.
She took a breath.
"I think," she said carefully, "that for the time being, it would be sensible for you to come stay with me."
He blinked once, slow, like he was making sure he’d heard the words right.
"Your home," he said.
"It's a few blocks from here. It's not big, but it has another little bedroom that was occupied until two months ago." She crossed her arms. "It's the only option that doesn't end with you in a cell or a ward, so."
He studied her for a long moment, and she could see him working through it methodically.
"Who else lives there?" he said. "What relatives?"
"None." She said simply.
His brow creased slightly. "Servants, then."
She huffed a short, dry laugh at that.
"No servants."
The crease deepened. He seemed to turn the information over again, searching for the piece he was missing, and when he spoke again, there was a faint reluctance to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted answered.
"...Husband?"
"No husband."
"This plan is improper."
She rolled her eyes so hard it was nearly audible. "Here we go."
"A woman, alone, inviting a man into her home, with no one else present-"
His gaze dropped, just briefly, to her lips before he dragged it back up to her eyes.
She noticed. It wasn't the first time he did that.
"Mr. Barnes." She held up a hand. "I live alone. I have lived alone for four years now, and the world has not ended yet."
"It is not done."
"It's done plenty. It's just not talked about plenty." She shrugged. "It's not exactly admired, sure. If my father were alive, he'd have an opinion. The ladies at church would have more opinions. But nobody's going to drag me out into the street over it. A woman living alone doesn't get burned for it anymore, metaphorically or otherwise."
He did not look reassured by this. If anything, his jaw set harder.
"All I'm saying," she went on, "is that it's not ideal, but it's not the end of the world either. What would be the end of the world is if you were wandering this city alone for another five minutes. So." She spread her hands. "We just need a story. Something that holds up better than cousin from up north."
He was quiet for a moment, jaw tight, visibly weighing decorum against the plain, undeniable reality of his situation. When he finally spoke, it was with the air of a man conceding a point he still didn't agree with.
"A story," he repeated slowly.
"Not family," she said. "I thought about it, but it won't hold. I've got an old lady two streets over who knows every branch of my family tree better than the family does, and if she so much as hears the word cousin, she'll want to know which side, whose son, why she's never heard the name. It'll fall apart in a week."
"You said that already. To the officer."
"I panicked. It was the first thing that came out of my mouth, and it's already on borrowed time." She shook her head. "We need something that doesn't put you inside the family, just close enough to it that nobody questions why you're suddenly attached to me."
He waited, watching her think, arms loosely crossed, which she found oddly easier to do with him quiet than when he was arguing.
"I could say… I'm employing you," she offered. "Heaven knows the shop could use the extra hands, lifting and deliveries and all that. But a woman hiring a man she's never met before, taking him into her home on top of it-" She made a face. "That's not believable either. It's not even wise, frankly, even though it's exactly what I'm doing."
"Then what." His voice was calm, no impatience in it.
"We merge them." She sat up a little straighter. "Something like... you're the son of a friend of my uncle's. Out east, far enough that nobody local would know the family to dispute it. Your father wrote ahead, asked if I could help you find work and a place to land while you got settled in the city."
His eyes narrowed slightly, thinking it through.
"And if someone asks the name of this uncle, this friend?"
"Then we'll have an answer ready before anyone asks the question." She tapped her fingers against her knee. "It just needs to be boring enough that nobody wants to follow up. Nobody interrogates a dull story. They interrogate interesting ones."
A pause. He glanced at her sideways, something almost wry settling into the line of his mouth.
"I am, apparently, an interesting story," he said dryly.
"I have to admit," she said, "that you are the single least boring thing that has happened to me in years."
----
Bucky looked at her, and for a moment, he said nothing.
There were several ways to answer that. Most of them, unkind.
Least boring.
It was not her fault, exactly. She had meant it lightly, or as lightly as a woman could mean anything after finding a wounded stranger in her stockroom, lying to a city guardsman for him, feeding him, tending his face, and then offering him a place beneath her roof with the practicality of someone discussing bad weather.
But the words settled poorly all the same, a low weight behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the wound there.
To her, perhaps, he was strange. A problem. A curiosity dropped through the ceiling by whatever god had run out of better things to do.
To him, this was his life.
Or what remained of it.
His room above the cooper's shop. His armor left beside a cold hearth. His prize chest with the coins. The estate he had meant to rebuild, as if enough work could make a ruin into a home and a man into something other than what captivity had left of him.
All of it was gone.
Not destroyed, or stolen. Not even lost in any ordinary sense.
Simply elsewhere.
Hundreds and hundreds of years behind him, if she was to be believed.
If the calendar was to be believed.
If the things outside, the light without flame, the clothing, the speech, the queen ruling England, the glass and wires, and horseless carriages were all to be believed.
He had more questions than there were saints to hear them.
But questions did not put food in a man's belly. Questions did not give him coin, shelter, papers, allies, or a road back to where he belonged.
The woman across from him might.
That was the difficulty.
She sat on the overturned crate with her arms folded, her mouth set in a way that made it clear she expected an argument and had already prepared to be irritated by it.
There was soil on one sleeve. A smear of dust near the hem of her skirt. Her painted lips had held their color through the entire catastrophe of the morning, which continued to seem unreasonable and... distracting.
He found himself tracking the small movements of her mouth when she spoke and the way her bottom lip caught briefly on her teeth when she was thinking, before he caught the direction of his own attention and dragged it back where it belonged.
Focus.
The room smelled of cut stems and damp paper, sweet rot under something green, nothing like the smoke and tallow he knew. It should have unsettled him more than it did. Instead, it was her voice that kept pulling him back, low and certain, cutting through everything else like a familiar sound in a foreign field.
People did not take in strangers for no reason. They did not endanger their reputations, lie to men in uniform, and offer spare bedrooms out of the goodness of their hearts unless there was something wrong with them, something wanted, or something hidden underneath.
He had learned that lesson well enough. Kindness was rarely free, and mercy even less so.
"What do you gain from this?" he asked, leaning forward slightly, elbows finding his knees.
Her brows drew together slightly.
"What?"
"This arrangement." He kept his voice even, though something in him stayed braced, waiting to hear the price named. "My staying in your household. Working in your shop. This story you are building around me."
"I'm not building-"
"You are." He watched her face as he said it, the way her chin had lifted half an inch, almost daring him to push further. "You seem to have taken care of the situation and threaded some narrative. You seem good at it."
That stopped her.
A little.
Not because the words were flattering. They were not meant to be. A person could be good at lying for a great many reasons, most of them unpleasant.
Her expression shifted, offended first, then thoughtful despite herself, her arms tightening around her body.
"I am trying to keep you out of trouble."
"Why?"
"Because if you haven't noticed, you are in trouble."
"That is not an answer."
"It is a perfectly good answer."
"It is a charitable answer." His hand tightened once over his knee before he made it relax, the motion deliberate, the way he might force open a fist mid-fight. "Charity is what people name a thing when they would rather not name its price."
She stared at him. He had said too much, perhaps.
No. Not too much. Enough.
"So what do I gain, you want to know?" she repeated.
"Yes."
"A scandal, probably. More work. A great deal of inconvenience. The pleasure of explaining traffic laws to a man who thinks bicycles are sorcery. Possibly an ulcer."
"I do not know what that is."
"Lucky you."
For the first time since she had mentioned the spare room, something like amusement tried to move through him.
He did not permit it far.
She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees now, close enough that he caught the faint warmth of her body, and soap and something floral from the shop clinging to her skin.
"Look," she said. "You want a price? Fine. The price is that you work. You do what you're told when you're in the shop. You carry crates, sweep, make deliveries once I can trust you not to get lost, and keep your opinions about my clothes and my lack of chaperone to yourself."
A muscle in his jaw shifted. His gaze dropped, briefly, to the offending hem of her skirt, then back up.
"It remains improper." He said it flatly, arms crossing over his chest.
"It remains none of your business." She matched the posture, her own arms tightening around herself, chin tilting up to hold his gaze.
"If I am under your roof," he said, his voice dropping low rather than rising, "your reputation becomes my business." He uncrossed his arms, and the linen of his sleeves brushed against his skin as he leaned forward, closing the gap between them by the width of two hands. Close enough to see the flecks of color in her eyes, the slight flare of her nostrils.
Her mouth opened. Closed. The quick inhale of breath was audible in the quiet warehouse.
There. He still had some ground beneath his feet, then.
"I may not understand this place." He weighed each word before speaking it, refusing to let her impatience rush him. "But I understand that a woman's name can be damaged by a man's presence. That has not changed. You said so yourself."
Her eyes searched his face.
He let her, holding still, giving nothing away on purpose.
"I will not be the cause of that," he added.
He was many things. Some of them worse than she knew. But he was not that.
Her expression softened, and the change in her face made his own shoulders tense. Softness was dangerous. It made men careless, made them reach for things they had no right to take.
"My point is-"
"The point is," she cut in, “that if we both manage to behave decently in front of the neighbors-"
She stopped.
His eyebrows rose. The slow tap of his boot against the floor ceased instantly. He went utterly still, letting the silence stretch.
Heat flooded her cheeks, quick and sudden. She glared at the floor, angry with herself, before transferring the glare to him.
"Not that we would behave indecently out of sight," she said, the words tumbling out quick and uneven. "Obviously. I- if we behave decently. In general. Everywhere. At all times." She bit off each syllable, her arms crossing tight over her chest, hands gripping her own elbows as if she could physically squeeze the sentence back into nothing.
"There should not be a problem with that," he agreed, his voice dropping a fraction, unhurried and thick with a sudden, dark amusement he couldn't entirely swallow.
"Exactly."
"But there may be... talk," he finished, steering them back to the danger he saw.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
"Yes," she said. "There may be. People talk. People always talk. They talked when I decided to live alone after my father died, when I kept the shop instead of looking for a husband, and they'll talk if I take in a stray cat. I can't live by people's imagination."
"I am not a cat."
"No." She looked him over. Her gaze moved from his broad shoulders down to his scuffed boots and back up to his face. "You are much less convenient."
Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
She pointed at him before it could become anything, putting the line back where it belonged. "You'll help in the shop, carry deliveries, stay out of trouble, and sleep in the spare room. That's the arrangement. Boring, practical, and temporary."
Temporary.
Of course, it was needless to say.
He would find his footing. He always had. Could earn coin, acquire what he needed, find his way back or -if God and all his saints had truly abandoned him-find a way forward.
But not today.
Today, he had no coin that meant anything here. No horse, no blade, no armor. The clothes on his back were torn and bloodstained, and he could smell the sweat and dirt on himself. His ribs were a constant, grinding ache every time he drew breath. The cut on his face throbbed dully where she had cleaned it.
He had nothing, except this woman, with her sharp tongue and her poorly-concealed softness, offering him a place to land as if that were not an absurdly reckless thing to do.
He straightened slightly, ignoring the pull of bruised muscle along his side.
"I accept," he said.
Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
Relief. Quickly hidden, but not quickly enough.
"Good," she said. "That's… good."
"I am in your debt."
"No, you-"
"I am," he repeated.
His voice came out firm enough to stop the protest before it could gather momentum. She closed her mouth, but the objection remained in her eyes.
He extended his hand across the narrow space between them, palm open, offering what little he had left to offer. His word. His obligation.
She looked down at his hand, then back up at his face. Then she placed her hand in his.
Her palm was warm and smaller than his, but not fragile. There was work in it, a faint roughness on her skin from whatever this century asked of a woman who kept her own roof and business.
He closed his hand around hers with care, then bent his head and pressed his mouth to her knuckles.
The kiss was brief. Formal. The way a knight acknowledged a debt to a lady, the way oaths were sealed.
Her breath caught. He heard it, a small, sharp inhale that made the space between them feel suddenly smaller.
But she didn't pull her hand away. She went still instead, her hand resting in his, her skin warm beneath his mouth, and for the length of one heartbeat, the gesture became something less simple than it should have been.
He knew better.
He did.
She had offered him shelter, not an invitation. Terms, not softness. And yet his body, treacherous and exhausted and starved of gentleness, noted the warmth of her hand as if it were a thing worth remembering.
His lips lingered a moment longer than strictly necessary, and his thumb brushed once -accidentally, or perhaps not- against her pulse point.
When he lifted his head, her eyes were wide, fixed on his face with an expression he couldn't quite read. Surprise, yes. But not alarm.
That was the part he noticed, and he shouldn’t have noticed.
He released her slowly, letting her hand slip from his grip by degrees. His fingertips trailed against hers at the last, a final, improper accident neither of them commented on.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Her hand dropped to her lap, where it closed once into the fabric of her skirt before smoothing flat again.
"You're welcome," she murmured.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the slant of afternoon light, as the smell of foliage and broken soil surrounded them.
She cleared her throat, the sound small but deliberate.
"Right." She stood, brushing her palms against her skirt in a quick, nervous gesture. "We should probably go. You need to get cleaned up, and I need to find you something to wear that won't get you arrested for vagrancy."
His ribs ground out a complaint sharp enough to darken the edge of his vision, but he ignored it. There would be time to hurt later. Or there would not. Either way, standing was required first.
"Lead on, then."
She nodded once, already turning toward the door. But her hand -the one he'd kissed- stayed closed loosely at her side, fingers flexing once before going still.
Bucky looked away before she could notice him noticing.
Beyond the door waited the shop, and beyond the shop, the street. The roaring carriages, the wires in the sky, the glass-eyed windows, the women walking with bare calves as if the world had always allowed it.
He drew one careful breath.
Then another.
And forced himself to cross the threshold after her.
The social hierarchy of State University was rigidly defined, and you, existed comfortably near the bottom of the food chain.
Not out of malice or exclusion, but entirely by your own design. You were a psychology major, armed with an arsenal of color-coded highlighters, an endless reservoir of empathy, and a bright, easy smile that people often described as blinding. You liked quiet corners in the campus library, cheap coffee from the ancient machine in the student union, and minding your own damn business. You were the girl who held the door for strangers, the one who sent study guides to the entire class before midterms, the literal embodiment of campus sunshine.
‘James Buchanan Barnes’ Bucky to anyone who didn't want their teeth kicked in, was the exact opposite.
Business major. Star wide receiver. He walked across the campus quad like he owned the concrete, usually sporting a scowl that could curdle milk.
He was aggressively handsome, notoriously cocky, and perpetually pissed off.
Where you blended into the background, Bucky demanded attention without even trying. Girls practically threw themselves at him at frat parties, and guys cleared a path when he walked into a room. He was a force of nature, entirely wrapped up in his own arrogant bubble of football, business frat networking, and whatever casual hookups he entertained on the weekends.
You two existed in completely different universes. You shouldn't have even been on his radar.
And yet, you were.
You had absolutely no idea how it happened, mostly because you hadn't done a single thing to try and catch his eye. There had been no dramatic, rom-com collision in the hallway where he helped you pick up your dropped textbooks. There was no witty, sassy retort at a party that put him in his place.
It was a rainy Tuesday. You had been sitting in the student union, laughing hysterically at a terrible joke your friend Sam Wilson had made, sharing a box of overly sweet, powdered donuts. Bucky had walked in, soaking wet, his broad shoulders tense and his expression downright murderous after getting into a screaming match with the head football coach. He had scanned the noisy room, his icy blue eyes practically daring someone to look at him wrong.
And then, his gaze snagged on you.
You were glowing, practically radiating warmth in the dreary, fluorescent-lit room, wiping powdered sugar off your chin with a bright, unbothered laugh. You hadn't even glanced his way, entirely captivated by your conversation with Sam.
But from that day forward, the grumpy, untouchable football star had developed a new, agonizing fixation. You didn't know it, but Bucky had spent the last three weeks watching you. He noticed how you bit the cap of your pen when you were stressed. He noticed the oversized, ridiculously soft sweaters you wore. He noticed that you were too fucking nice to everyone.
Which brought him to his current, deeply pathetic predicament.
You were sitting cross-legged on top of a desk in the empty Psychology 301 lecture hall, tossing a crumpled-up piece of loose-leaf paper into the trash can while Sam paced the front of the room, complaining about your abnormal psychology professor.
“I'm telling you, the man is a sadistic fuck!” Sam groaned, aggressively rubbing his temples. “He assigned three chapters in a single night. Who the hell does that?”
“He just wants us to actually read the syllabus for once, Sam…” you laughed, swinging your legs off the edge of the desk. “It's really not that deep. Just skim the case studies, you'll be fine.”
“Bullshit!” Sam countered, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You're just saying that because you already color-coded the entire textbook, you psycho.”
You giggled, reaching out to shove his shoulder playfully. “I can lend you my notes if you stop whining.”
Before Sam could accept the offer, the heavy oak door to the lecture hall suddenly slammed open, hitting the adjacent wall with a loud, violent thwack.
You jumped, instinctively clutching your notebook to your chest, while Sam merely let out a long, deeply suffering sigh, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.
Bucky Barnes stood in the doorway, looking entirely out of place among the posters of brain anatomies and motivational Freud quotes. He was wearing his standard uniform, a tight black henley that stretched obscenely across his broad chest and did nothing to hide the ridiculous bulk of his arms, dark denim jeans, and his trademark scowl.
“Barnes…” Sam said, sounding thoroughly exhausted. “What the actual fuck are you doing in the nerd wing? Did you get lost looking for the weight room?”
Bucky didn't immediately answer. His jaw ticked, the muscles jumping beneath his skin. His icy blue eyes swept over the room before landing squarely on you. He stared, unabashed and intense, taking in the way your cardigan had slipped off one shoulder and the way your hair was pulled up in a messy, haphazard clip. The sheer intensity of his gaze made your breath hitch.
“Came to pick you up.” Bucky finally grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.
Sam barked out a harsh laugh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Pick me up? We didn't have plans, you cocky bastard. And since when do you walk four blocks out of your way, past the business building, to escort me to the cafeteria?”
“Changed my mind. I'm fucking hungry now,” Bucky snapped, stepping fully into the room. He walked with a heavy, deliberate swagger, closing the distance between the door and where you were sitting. He stopped just a little too close to your desk, his imposing frame casting a shadow over you. “Are you coming or what, Wilson?”
“You walked here?” you asked softly, unable to help yourself. You were polite by nature, and the sheer, unspoken hostility rolling off Bucky made you want to defuse the tension in the room. “You came all the way to the psych building... just to get Sam?”
Bucky's gaze snapped back down to you. Up close, you could see the faint smattering of freckles across his nose, a sharp contrast to his intimidating aura. The absolute ferocity in his eyes softened for a fraction of a second, though his posture remained rigidly defensive.
“Yeah. Problem with that, sunshine?” Bucky asked, his tone dropping an octave, slipping into something dangerously close to a purr.
Sam snorted loudly, clearly catching onto the absolute bullshit flowing out of his friend's mouth. “Right. Sure. You're just such a caring, devoted friend, Bucky. Tell me, did you suddenly develop an interest in cognitive behavioral therapy, or did you just want an excuse to stare at Y/n again?”
“Shut the fuck up, Sam!” Bucky growled instantly, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look away from you, though. His eyes dropped momentarily to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Get your bag. We're leaving.”
“I don't know…” you chimed in, a teasing, innocent lilt to your voice as you smiled up at the grumpy giant standing in front of you. “Sam and I were actually going to head to the library to study. Unless you wanted to join us, Bucky? I have extra highlighters.”
Bucky looked at you like you had just offered him the moon. He swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at your bright, welcoming smile. For a guy who was used to people cowering or throwing themselves at his feet, your genuine, sweet offer seemed to completely short-circuit his brain.
“I don't highlight shit…” he muttered, though the bite was entirely gone from his voice. He shifted his weight, leaning one large hand on the desk right next to your thigh. “But... I guess… I could sit in the library. If Wilson shuts his mouth.”
That single, bizarre library session became the catalyst for an entirely new reality. What started as Bucky reluctantly sitting at a study table, glaring at a textbook he wasn't even reading while you and Sam reviewed psychological disorders, quickly evolved into a routine.
It didn't take long for Steve Rogers to get dragged into the mix. Steve was the golden-boy quarterback, Bucky's best friend since childhood, and a guy whose polite, gentlemanly demeanor matched your sunny disposition perfectly. You and Steve clicked instantly. You bonded over your mutual love for old diner coffee and your shared exasperation regarding Bucky and Sam's constant bickering.
Natasha and Wanda didn’t need any introduction, they had introduced themselves in style and brutal teasing.
However, Steve and Sam saw right through Bucky's tough-guy act immediately.
They could literally see him falling for you in real-time, watching as the notoriously untouchable campus god tripped over his own ego every time you walked into a room. They knew exactly how pathetic he was being, but they allowed it. Mostly because they genuinely liked you, and partly because watching James Buchanan Barnes mentally short-circuit over a sweet, sweater-wearing psychology major was the funniest shit they had ever witnessed.
Slowly, almost seamlessly, you and Bucky actually became friends.
You started having basic interactions that didn't involve him grunting with passion. He would hold the door for you, buy you your overly sweet vanilla lattes without you even asking, and sit next to you on the bleachers during the team's open practices.
You thought he was just warming up to you. You thought the grumpy exterior was finally melting to reveal a fiercely loyal friend.
You were completely oblivious to the fact that internally, Bucky was screaming every single time you flashed him that blinding, affectionate smile.
You were also entirely unaware of the lethal, terrifying glares he shot at anyone who dared to look in your direction. In Bucky's intensely stubborn, territorial mind, you were already his. You just didn't know it yet. Cute.
If a frat brother so much as glanced at your legs when you wore a skirt, Bucky would stare the guy down until he practically wet himself and sprinted in the opposite direction. He was a possessive menace, guarding you like a fiercely protective dragon hoarding its most precious treasure, all while hiding behind the guise of being ‘just a friend.’
Until the dam finally broke.
It was a crowded Thursday afternoon in the main dining hall. The air was thick with the smell of cheap fried food and the deafening roar of hundreds of college students. Bucky, Sam, and Steve were crammed into a booth near the back. Bucky was aggressively sawing at a notoriously tough piece of cafeteria chicken with a dull, serrated steak knife, his jaw clenched as he listened to Sam complain about an upcoming sociology paper.
Then, Bucky looked up.
Across the dining hall, near the soda fountains, you were standing with a guy from your abnormal psych study group. The guy, some generic, khaki-wearing asshole named Bradley was leaning in way too close, laughing at something you said and casually resting a hand on your shoulder.
The steak knife in Bucky's hand suddenly halted its downward motion. His icy blue eyes darkened, locking onto Bradley's hand like it was an active explosive device.
“Who the fuck is that?” Bucky growled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, guttural register.
Sam paused mid-sentence, following Bucky's murderous gaze. He took one look at the scene playing out by the soda machines and immediately burst into a loud, obnoxious laugh. Steve just sighed heavily, burying his face in his hands.
“That's Brad,” Sam said, highly amused. “He's in her study group. Looks like he's making a move, too. Good for her. Guy has a trust fund, I hear.”
Bucky's knuckles turned stark white around the handle of his knife. The muscle in his jaw ticked so violently it looked like it might snap. “She's not going out with fucking Brad.”
“Why not?” Sam challenged, leaning across the table with a wicked, shit-eating grin. “He's nice. He's smart. And, oh yeah, she's single. Because somebody is too much of a cowardly bitch to do anything about his massive, pathetic crush!”
“Shut the fuck up Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his eyes never leaving Bradley's offending hand. “She's my girlfriend. He needs to back the fuck off before I break his fingers.”
“Newsflash, Barnes!” Sam clapped his hands loudly right in front of Bucky's face, forcing him to blink and look away. “She is not your girlfriend! You haven't made a single fucking move! You just sit around glaring at people like a constipated gargoyle. If you want her to be yours, you have to actually use your words and ask the girl out!”
Steve peeked through his fingers, offering a supportive, if exasperated, nod. “He's not wrong, Buck. You're driving us all insane. Just ask her out. She likes you.”
“You're goddamn right she likes you!” Sam hyped him up, slamming a palm on the table. “You're Bucky fucking Barnes! You're the star wide receiver! You have abs that make girls weep! Go over there, claim your woman, and tell Khaki Brad to take a hike. Be a man, Barnes!”
Fueled by a lethal combination of blazing jealousy, Sam's aggressive over-hyping, and his own raw, unfiltered possessiveness, Bucky stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped backward. He didn't say a word. He just locked his eyes onto you and started marching across the cafeteria like a man on a mission.
He moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, cutting through the sea of tables. Students instinctively scrambled out of his way, parting like the Red Sea as the notoriously grumpy football star stomped past them.
You were mid-laugh, politely trying to inch away from Bradley's overly enthusiastic personal space, when you felt a sudden, massive shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop, and a shadow fell over you.
You turned around, the smile freezing on your face.
Bucky was standing right behind you. His chest was heaving slightly, his broad shoulders squared, and he was looking at Bradley with an expression so violently hostile it belonged in a war zone, not a college cafeteria.
Bradley gulped loudly, immediately dropping his hand from your shoulder and taking a rapid step backward. “U-Uh... hey, Barnes.”
Bucky didn't even acknowledge the guy's existence. He stepped deliberately between you and Bradley, effectively boxing you in against the counter with his massive frame. He looked down at you, his chest rising and falling heavily, his icy eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“You.” Bucky said, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Me. Tomorrow night. Dinner. Seven o'clock.”
You blinked, completely stunned by the aggressive, out-of-nowhere ambush. You looked up at him, your mouth opening slightly in surprise, before your gaze drifted downward.
There, clutched tightly in his right fist, knuckles white with tension, was a cafeteria steak knife. He was pointing it vaguely in your direction as he demanded a date.
You stared at the knife. You stared back up at Bucky's intense, demanding face. It was literally a scene pulled straight out of Bates Motel.
“Bucky…” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of utter disbelief and nervous amusement. “Are... are you threatening to stab me if I say no?”
Bucky blinked, his expression faltering. He looked down at his own hand, completely oblivious until this exact moment that he was still gripping the dining hall cutlery like a weapon. The terrifying, possessive aura shattered instantly, replaced by a violent flush of scarlet that crept up his neck and flooded his cheeks.
“Fuck!!!” Bucky choked out, panicked. He scrambled to drop the knife onto the nearest counter with a loud clatter, instantly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The big, bad, untouchable campus god suddenly looked like a terrified, mortified puppy. “No. Christ, doll, no. I forgot I was holding it. I swear to god I wasn't… I'm not going to…”
Across the room, you could hear the distinct sound of Sam Wilson wheezing, completely dying of laughter, practically falling out of his booth while Steve tried to hide his own laughter behind a napkin.
You looked at the dropped knife, then back at Bucky, who looked like he wanted the linoleum floor to open up and swallow him whole. Despite the aggressively weird, vaguely terrifying delivery, you knew this boy. You knew he bought you your favorite coffee. You knew he softened his voice only for you. You knew he was an absolute idiot.
A slow, bright smile spread across your face, bringing the sunshine back into the room.
“Okay…” you said gently, reaching out to lightly wrap your hand around his tense bicep.
Bucky's head snapped up, his eyes wide and hopeful. “Okay?”
“Yes Bucky!” you giggled, rising up on your tiptoes to press a soft, quick kiss to his flushed cheek. “I will go to dinner with you tomorrow night at seven. But please, leave the cutlery at home.”
Bucky let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders. A slow, incredibly rare, genuinely boyish smirk finally broke through his grumpy exterior, transforming his entire face. He leaned down, his forehead practically resting out of the dining hall in terror.
“Deal, sunshine.” Bucky murmured, his voice finally soft, dipping low just for you. “Just you and me.”
The fallout from the cafeteria incident was immediate and relentless. Unbeknownst to you, Bucky was currently pacing the length of his shared apartment's living room, aggressively dragging his hands through his dark hair while Sam and Steve sat on the sofa, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
“I'm just saying, man, serial killer chic is a bold strategy for a first date!” Sam cackled, tossing a grape into the air and catching it in his mouth. “Are you taking her to a nice Italian place, or are we burying a body in the woods?”
“Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky snapped, his voice tight with genuine panic. He stopped pacing and practically collapsed into the armchair, dropping his head into his hands. “Christ, I am such a fucking idiot. She looked terrified for a second. I practically held her hostage.”
“She said yes, didn't she?” Steve pointed out, trying and failing to hide a small, amused smile behind his coffee mug. “She kissed your cheek, Buck. She likes you.”
“That doesn't matter!” Bucky groaned, peering through his fingers with a deeply agonized expression. “It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Outside the slightly ajar apartment door, your fiercely protective best friend, Natasha Romanoff, had paused with her hand hovering over the doorknob. She had come to drop off a borrowed textbook for Steve, but hearing Bucky's frustrated, booming voice, her protective instincts flared. She immediately pulled out her phone, hitting record just in time to capture his agonized confession.
“It was a fucking mistake asking her out...”
Natasha’s blood ran cold. Her jaw set into a lethal, furious line. She didn't stay a second longer, immediately ending the recording and spinning on her heel to march right back down the hallway to find you. She wasn't going to let some arrogant, emotionally stunted jock play games with your heart.
Because of her abrupt departure, Natasha entirely missed the second half of Bucky's desperate, self-loathing rant.
“...with a goddamn knife.” Bucky finished, rubbing his face aggressively. “I sounded like a possessive, jealous caveman. I wanted to do it properly. I wanted to take her somewhere nice, buy her flowers, and actually ask her like a normal, functioning human being. Not ambush her while wielding dining hall cutlery because some guy in khakis got too close to her. If I fucked this up before it even started, I swear to god...”
Across campus, you were sitting on your bed, happily sorting through your closet to find the perfect outfit for tomorrow night. Your heart was fluttering with a giddy, nervous excitement. Bucky Barnes the grumpy, untouchable Bucky Barnes, was taking you on a date.
The door to your dorm flew open, hitting the wall with a loud bang. Natasha stood in the doorway, her expression a terrifying mix of fury and sympathy.
“Nat? What's wrong?” you asked, the smile slipping from your face as you dropped a floral sundress onto your mattress.
“I am so sorry, babe…” Natasha said softly, walking over and sitting beside you. She didn't soften the blow, she wasn't the type. She just handed you her phone and pressed play.
You watched the short, out-of-context clip. You heard the exhaustion and regret in Bucky's voice as he declared asking you out was a ‘fucking mistake’. The words hit you like a physical blow to the chest. The bright, sunny warmth that usually radiated from you snuffed out in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight.
Your vision blurred with hot tears as you handed the phone back, your throat entirely closing up. He didn't want this. He had only done it because of the pressure from Sam, or maybe out of pity.
While you were quietly shattering in your dorm room, Wanda Maximoff was currently terrorizing the boys.
She had been sitting with you and Natasha when the video was shown, and while Natasha stayed to comfort you, Wanda had marched straight to the business frat house, her eyes practically glowing with pure, unadulterated rage.
She kicked the door to the boys' apartment open, stepping inside like an avenging angel. Bucky, Sam, and Steve all jumped, startled by the violent intrusion.
“You are a pathetic, cowardly piece of shit, Barnes!” Wanda hissed, crossing her arms.
Bucky blinked, completely blindsided. “What the hell are you talking about, Wanda?”
“Y/n is crying her eyes out right now because of you!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the walls. “Natasha showed her the video. The one where you told your little frat bros that asking her out was a mistake! You broke her heart before you even took her out, you asshole!”
All three men paled simultaneously. The blood completely drained from Bucky's face, his heart stopping dead in his chest.
“Video?” Bucky choked out, standing up on shaking legs. “What fucking video? I didn't… Wanda, I didn't mean it like that!”
“Save the bullshit!” Wanda spat, though Steve immediately intercepted, stepping between them.
“Wanda wait, you're missing the context…” Steve pleaded, his polite demeanor replaced by sheer urgency. “He said it was a mistake asking her out witha knife. He was beating himself up for being a jealous idiot and not doing it romantically! Where is Natasha?”
Ten minutes later, the three massive football players and Wanda cornered Natasha outside the library. Bucky looked like a man on the verge of a literal heart attack, his chest heaving, his blue eyes wild and desperate.
“Where is she, Nat?” Bucky demanded, his voice cracking.
“I'm not telling you!” Natasha snapped back, unintimidated by the three giants looming over her. “You hurt her.”
“Because you didn't listen to the whole goddamn sentence!” Sam yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “He was saying he wanted to buy her flowers, you psycho! He's obsessed with her!”
Natasha faltered, her fierce glare softening into a look of horrific realization. “I... I didn't know that. I only heard the first part. I was just looking out for her.”
“Where. Is. She?” Bucky growled, entirely out of patience, his entire body vibrating with the need to find you and fix the catastrophe.
“She went for a walk to clear her head…” Natasha admitted quietly. “Towards the old science building.”
Bucky didn't wait. He took off sprinting across the campus, his lungs burning as he scanned the pathways for any sign of you. He had to explain. He had to tell you that you were all he thought about, that asking you out was the only good, right thing he had done all year.
But timing had never been Bucky's strong suit.
You were walking back toward your dorm, your eyes red and puffy, clutching your cardigan tightly around yourself to ward off the evening chill. You just wanted to crawl into bed and forget the arrogant, stupid football player who had made you feel so completely worthless.
You turned the corner near the quad, and you stopped dead in your tracks.
There was Bucky. But he wasn't alone. A girl, a blonde cheerleader you recognized from his usual crowd, had him cornered against the brick wall of the student center. Her hands were tangled in his shirt, her body pressed flush against his, and she was leaning in, trying to aggressively make out with him.
The remaining pieces of your heart shattered into dust. It made perfect sense now. He regretted asking you out because he belonged with girls like her. Not a quiet, boring psychology major who studied too much.
A choked, muffled sob escaped your lips.
The sound was tiny, but to Bucky, it might as well have been a gunshot. His head snapped in your direction, his icy blue eyes locking instantly onto your tear-streaked face. In an instant, his expression shifted from deep annoyance to absolute, unadulterated horror.
He had literally just been jogging past the building, desperately looking for you, when this girl had ambushed him, throwing herself at him completely unprompted. He had been trying to push her off without being overly physical, but the moment he saw your heartbroken face, all restraint vanished.
“Get the fuck off me!” Bucky roared, forcefully shoving the girl away from him so hard she stumbled backward.
But it was too late. You had already turned around, running away into the darkening campus as fast as your legs could carry you, leaving Bucky standing alone, screaming your name into the night.
For the next three days, you made it your absolute mission to avoid James Buchanan Barnes like the plague.
You skipped your usual coffee shop, took the long way around the science building, and hid in the darkest, dustiest corner of the campus library. You were heartbroken, embarrassed, and determined to never look at his stupidly handsome, grumpy face ever again.
The problem was, your friends were absolutely not going to let that happen.
The combined forces of Natasha, Wanda, Sam, and Steve had formed an impenetrable, highly aggressive coalition dedicated to fixing the catastrophic mess Bucky had made.
They knew the truth, that Bucky was completely, hopelessly obsessed with you and entirely innocent regarding the cheerleader ambush and they were thoroughly exhausted by the mutual, agonizing pining.
But before they could orchestrate their master plan, Natasha and Wanda had to deal with your current state of absolute denial.
You were pacing the small floor space of your dorm room, aggressively clutching a throw pillow to your chest. Natasha was sprawled casually across your bed, munching on a bag of pretzels, while Wanda sat cross-legged on your desk chair, watching you with deep amusement.
“I don't even care!” you lied through your teeth, your voice completely lacking its usual bright, melodic tone. You scowled, trying to mimic Bucky's signature glare. “He's a jerk. I can be a bitch. I'll just be rude to him if I see him. I'll destroy his ego. I am a very intimidating person when I want to be.”
Natasha let out a loud, sudden snort, nearly choking on a pretzel. She covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, ruthless laughter.
“I'm serious, Nat!” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I can be extremely rude.”
“Oh, sweetie, no you can't.” Natasha wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. “You literally apologized to a doorframe yesterday when you bumped into it. You are the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy. You don't have a single rude bone in your body.”
“I do too!” you argued stubbornly, your cheeks puffing out in frustration.
Wanda smiled gently, her eyes dancing with affection. “You're too cute to be intimidating, babe. If you really think you can be a badass, rude bitch... prove it. Say the word 'fuck'.”
You froze. You blinked at Wanda, then at Natasha, who was now grinning like a shark. You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders. You opened your mouth, fully intending to drop the F-bomb with all the venom of a hardened criminal.
“F-F... fudge,” you squeaked out.
Natasha completely lost it, rolling onto her back and cackling at the ceiling, while Wanda just cooed at you. You dropped your face into your hands, groaning loudly. You couldn't do it. You were fundamentally, molecularly comprised of sunshine, highlighters, and politeness. You couldn't even swear properly, let alone destroy the campus's most intimidating football star.
Accepting that you couldn't rely on being cold and aloof, you finally let your guard down, opening the door for your friends to begin their relentless, wildly inappropriate matchmaking campaign.
It started with attempt number one, ‘The Hilarious Closet Trap.’
Sam, deciding that forced proximity was the only logical solution, texted both you and Bucky to meet him in the athletic department's equipment room. The moment you both stepped inside the tiny, windowless space, Sam slammed the heavy metal door shut and locked it from the outside.
“Work your shit out!” Sam had yelled through the metal.
Unfortunately, Sam had miscalculated the lighting situation. The bulb was dead. It was pitch black.
Bucky, absolutely terrified of accidentally touching you or stepping on your toes in the dark, pressed his back flush against the wall and stood as rigidly as a wooden board for forty-five agonizing minutes. He barely even breathed. You ended up sitting on a crate of footballs, softly asking him if he was having a stroke because he hadn't moved a single muscle. The tension was entirely unbroken.
Then came attempt number two, ‘The Chaotic Coffee Spill.’
Steve Rogers, bless his heart, tried to be a wingman. He coordinated a ‘casual’ run-in at your favorite off-campus coffee shop.
Steve's brilliant plan was to literally shove Bucky into you in line so Bucky would have to pay for your drink. Instead, Steve tripped over his own massive feet, violently shoving Bucky directly into a waiter carrying a tray of four iced macchiatos. Bucky was drenched in sticky espresso and milk, standing in the middle of the café dripping like a wet, furious cat, while you politely handed him an entire stack of napkins.
Attempt number three was purely chaotic.
Wanda decided to hack the library's private study room booking system. She arranged for you and Bucky to be double-booked in a tiny, soundproof glass room during finals prep.
The plan was for him to finally use his words. Instead, Bucky sat across from you, sweating profusely, staring at his sociology textbook upside down. He was so incredibly stressed out by your presence that he spent an entire hour aggressively sharpening the same pencil until it was nothing but a tiny nub of graphite, never uttering a single syllable.
Attempt number four was hilarious again.
Natasha decided subtlety was dead. During a massive group lunch in the quad, Brad the khaki-wearing guy from the cafeteria, walked by and waved at you. Natasha immediately stood up and ‘accidentally’ tripped Brad, sending him sprawling into the dirt, all while looking expectantly at Bucky to swoop in and act like an alpha male to protect your honor.
Instead, Bucky looked horrified by Natasha's casual violence, and you spent ten minutes checking Brad for a concussion while Bucky glared at a nearby squirrel in utter defeat.
And finally, attempt number five, ‘The Perverted Sabotage.’
Sam was out of patience. He snuck into the laundry room while you were washing your clothes and stole a pair of your lacy, extremely delicate black underwear. He then shoved them directly into the front pocket of Bucky's gym bag with a note that said, ‘Return this and ask her out. Don't be a little bitch.’
When Bucky found them in the locker room, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. He marched across campus, his face so violently red he looked like a stop sign. He cornered you outside your dorm, entirely unable to make eye contact, sweating bullets as he pulled the tiny piece of lace from his pocket using only his thumb and index finger, holding it out to you like it was radioactive material.
“Sam is a dead man,” Bucky had choked out, his voice a full octave higher than normal. “I am so sorry. I didn't look at them. I swear to god, I didn't look.”
You had snatched them back, your own face burning hot enough to fry an egg, before bursting into uncontrollable, hysterical laughter at the sheer, traumatized panic in his eyes.
“I’m going to burn them!”
“You definitely should!”
That ridiculous, highly inappropriate underwear incident finally shattered the ice. You couldn't stay away from him after that. The tension broke, and you both slipped back into a comfortable, albeit heavily charged, friendship.
You sat together at the library. You shared lunches. You talked. And true to form, Bucky immediately resumed his role as your personal, terrifying guard dog. While you were busy being sweet and polite to everyone you met, Bucky stood slightly behind you, leveling death glares at any male student who dared to linger in your personal space for more than three seconds. He was still entirely, internally convinced that you were his.
But the air still needed clearing, and it finally happened on a quiet Friday evening.
You were sitting together on the bleachers of the empty football field, the stadium lights casting a soft, golden glow over the turf. Bucky had brought you a vanilla latte, and you were sitting close enough that the warmth radiating off his massive frame completely chased away the autumn chill.
“Bucky…” you started softly, tracing the rim of your paper cup. “We never really... talked about it. What happened.”
Bucky went completely still. His broad shoulders tensed, and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his icy blue eyes completely stripped of their usual grumpy armor. He looked vulnerable.
“The video…” you clarified, your voice barely above a whisper. “When you said it was a mistake asking me out.”
Bucky let out a long, ragged sigh, dropping his head to look at his hands. “Sunshine, you have to believe me. I never meant it the way it sounded. Natasha didn't record the whole thing.” He turned his body toward you, his expression agonizingly earnest. “I said it was a mistake asking you out with a goddamn knife. I was beating myself up because I acted like a possessive, unhinged caveman. I wanted to do it right. I wanted to ask you out beautifully, and instead, I terrified you.”
You blinked, processing his words, “You... you were mad about the knife?”
“Yes!” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I looked like a serial killer! And then... then you ran away later, and I saw your face.” His voice cracked slightly, the memory clearly torturing him. “That girl outside the student center. I didn't want her. I swear on my life. She cornered me. I was literally running across campus looking for you to explain the video when she grabbed me. I shoved her off a second later. I don't want anyone else.”
You stared up at him, your heart doing a wild, violent gymnastics routine in your chest. The sheer desperation in his eyes, the absolute honesty in his gravelly voice, it completely washed away the last lingering remnants of your heartbreak.
A soft, bright giggle bubbled up from your throat, breaking the heavy tension.
Bucky looked at you like you had lost your mind. “Are you laughing at me?”
“You were mad about the knife,” you repeated, a full, blinding smile breaking across your face. “Bucky, I knew you were holding the knife. I thought it was hilarious. You're just so... grumpy. It made sense to me.”
Bucky stared at you, absolutely mesmerized by the way the stadium lights caught the joyful crinkles around your eyes. A slow, deeply relieved smirk spread across his own face, and he let out a breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
“You're a menace, sunshine…” he muttered, shaking his head.
“I'm really not…” you beamed. “I couldn't even say the F-word when Wanda told me to.”
Bucky barked out a real, genuine laugh, the sound echoing across the empty bleachers. He shifted closer, entirely invading your personal space, his large hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck. His thumb brushed softly across your jawline, sending a shiver of pure electricity straight down your spine.
“Let's try this again…” Bucky whispered, his voice dropping to that low, purring register that made your knees weak. He looked incredibly nervous, a faint blush creeping over his cheekbones. The big, bad football star was stumbling over his words for you. “Y/n, L/n. Would you... would you do me the absolute honor of going on a date with me? No weapons. No screaming friends. Just me and you.”
You looked up into his icy blue eyes, entirely melted by the sweet, awkward sincerity radiating from him. Your own cheeks flushed deeply, and you nodded, a shy, flustered smile gracing your lips.
“I'd love to, Bucky…” you breathed.
He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was surprisingly soft, deeply tender, and completely opposite to his rough exterior. It tasted like coffee and sheer, undeniable relief. You melted against him, your hands coming up to grip the soft fabric of his henley, grounding yourself against his massive chest.
From that night on, the dynamic shifted permanently. You began officially dating, becoming the most infamous, wildly contradictory couple on campus. The Grumpy and the Sunshine.
You dragged him to quiet art exhibits and forced him to wear matching pastel scarves, which he complained about loudly but secretly loved. He carried your ridiculously heavy psychology textbooks, bought you endless pastries, and kissed you senseless against the library bookshelves when no one was looking.
The reality of dating James Buchanan Barnes was a masterclass in elemental physics. It was the absolute, undeniable proof that opposites didn't just attract; they collided, fused, and created something entirely indestructible.
You were the sunshine, undeniably bright, perpetually optimistic, and fundamentally incapable of being cruel. Bucky was the storm cloud, a notoriously grumpy, broad-shouldered cynic who operated on a baseline frequency of pure, unfiltered hostility toward ninety-nine percent of the human population.
But that remaining one percent? That was you. And the sheer, staggering contrast between how he treated the world and how he treated you was precisely what made the relationship so incredibly perfect.
It started in the mornings. You were a morning person, the kind of absolute psychopath who woke up with the sunrise, stretched with a smile, and hummed while making coffee. Bucky, predictably, despised the mornings with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns.
You were currently lying in the center of his massive, messy bed in his off-campus apartment. The morning light was just beginning to peek through the blinds, casting a warm, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You were already awake, tracing mindless, soothing patterns over the expanse of Bucky's bare chest. He was sprawled on his stomach, his face entirely buried in the pillows, one heavy, muscular arm thrown possessively across your waist to literally pin you to the mattress so you couldn't escape.
“Bucky…” you whispered softly, a fond smile playing on your lips as you nudged his shoulder. “Babe, your alarm is going to go off in ten minutes. You have morning weights with the team.”
A low, vibrating groan rumbled from deep within his chest, sounding more like an agitated grizzly bear than a college student. He didn't open his eyes. Instead, his heavy arm tightened around your waist, dragging you flush against his warm, hard side.
“Fuck the team…” Bucky mumbled into the pillow, his morning voice thick with sleep, gravelly, and unbelievably devastating. “Fuck the gym. I'm staying right here. If Steve wants me to run routes, he can come drag my dead body out of this bed.”
You giggled, the sound bright and musical in the quiet room. You shifted, propping yourself up on your elbow to look down at his messy, dark hair. “You're the star wide receiver. You can't just skip practice because your bed is comfortable.”
“It's not the bed that's comfortable, sunshine, it's you!” Bucky grunted. He finally shifted, turning his head to crack one icy blue eye open, glaring weakly at the sunlight hitting the wall. He looked thoroughly pissed off at the sheer concept of dawn. But then his gaze shifted to you. You were smiling down at him, your hair wild and sleep-tousled, wearing one of his oversized vintage band tees that swallowed your frame.
The absolute miracle of your dynamic happened instantly. The heavy, dark scowl that permanently resided on his features melted away like snow on a hot stove. The rigid tension in his jaw slacked. He let out a long, heavy sigh, rolling over fully to pull you down flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo.
“God, you're so fucking pretty it actually pisses me off…” he murmured against your skin, pressing a hot, lingering kiss to your collarbone. “How are you this cheerful before I've even had caffeine? It's unnatural, doll.”
“Someone has to balance out all your brooding…” you teased, running your fingers through the thick strands at the nape of his neck. “If we were both like you, we'd live in a cave and hiss at the mailman.”
“Sounds like paradise…” he grumbled, though he tipped his head up to capture your lips in a slow, deep, incredibly thorough morning kiss. His tongue slid smoothly against yours, entirely lazy but undeniably possessive, a silent reminder that before he went out to glare at the rest of the campus, he was entirely yours.
This was the core of your perfection. Your sunshine didn't irritate his grumpiness; it thawed it. And his grumpiness didn't dampen your sunshine; it protected it.
You were fundamentally a people-pleaser. As a psychology major, you were deeply empathetic, which meant you had a horrible habit of letting people walk all over you because you were simply too nice to tell them to fuck off. You would overextend yourself, tutor people who didn't deserve it, and agree to shifts at the campus library when you were already drowning in coursework.
Bucky became your shield. He was the ruthless, unforgiving barrier between your bleeding heart and the leeches of State University.
It was perfectly demonstrated later that same Tuesday. You were sitting at a small table outside the student union, desperately trying to finish a color-coded abnormal psych presentation on your laptop. You were stressed, chewing nervously on the cap of your pink highlighter, when a guy from your seminar, a notorious slacker named Greg, approached your table.
“Hey, Y/n” Greg said casually, leaning entirely too close to your screen. “Listen, I totally blanked on the case study analysis for Dr. Aris's class. You already did yours, right? Be an angel and just email me the file? I'll just tweak a few words. You're the best.”
You froze, the familiar, uncomfortable knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You had spent twelve hours on that analysis. You didn't want to give it to Greg. But the word ‘no’ always felt like a physical hurdle in your throat. You forced a tight, polite smile, trying to figure out how to gently let him down. “Oh, um... Greg, I actually haven't quite finished proofreading it yet, and Dr. Aris is running it through the plagiarism checker, so I don't think…”
“It's fine, just send the draft.” Greg pushed, completely ignoring your obvious discomfort, reaching out to tap the edge of your laptop. “Come on, don't be stingy.”
Before you could panic, a massive, heavily calloused hand clamped down on Greg's shoulder like a steel vice.
Greg gasped, his knees actually buckling slightly under the sheer force of the grip.
Bucky had appeared from the crowd like a heavily muscled phantom. He was wearing his gray sweatpants, a tight black hoodie, and a look of absolute, terrifying murder. He didn't even look at Greg right away, his icy blue eyes were locked entirely on your stressed, wide-eyed face, assessing your comfort level. Once he saw the relief wash over you, he slowly turned his deadly glare onto the boy squirming under his hand.
“She said no, you freeloading piece of shit!” Bucky growled, his voice so dangerously low it barely carried over the noise of the quad, but the absolute malice in it was undeniable.
“B-Barnes, man, chill out, I was just asking for a favour…” Greg stammered, his face draining of color.
“Do you have a hearing problem?” Bucky interrupted, his grip tightening until Greg actually whimpered. “She's not giving you her notes. If I ever catch you bothering her again, or trying to guilt her into doing your fucking homework, I'm going to snap your collarbone and feed this laptop to you. Are we clear?”
Bucky released him with a rough shove. “Then get the fuck out of my sight.”
Greg scrambled away so fast he nearly tripped over a trash can. Bucky watched him go, his chest heaving slightly with residual aggression, his jaw clenched tight. He was practically vibrating with the need to hit something. But then, he turned back to you.
You were looking up at him with a soft, deeply appreciative smile. You didn't scold him for being rude. You didn't tell him he overreacted. You knew exactly what he was doing. He was taking on the burden of being the ‘bad guy’ so your sunshine could remain untarnished. He was protecting your peace with his hostility.
You reached out, gently wrapping your small hands around his thick wrists. “Thank you, Bucky.”
Instantly, the terrifying campus god deflated. The murderous tension drained from his shoulders. He let out a long breath, pulling a chair right up next to yours, pressing his thigh flush against yours to ground himself. He leaned over and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I fucking hate people…” he mumbled against your hair, wrapping an arm around the back of your chair. “You shouldn't have to deal with assholes like that, sunshine. Just point them out to me. I'll handle it.”
“I know you will…” you giggled, leaning into his solid warmth, instantly feeling your own stress melt away. “But you can't go around snapping collarbones, baby. Steve will bench you.”
“Worth it!” Bucky grunted, snatching your pink highlighter and aggressively crossing out a typo on your printed notes just to be involved in whatever you were doing.
The reverse was equally true. While he protected you from the world, you were the only thing that protected him from his own dark, brooding mind. Bucky ran hot. He was easily irritated, incredibly stubborn, and carried the immense pressure of his football career and his demanding business major on his shoulders. When the world got too loud, too annoying, or too overwhelming, he didn't want space. He wanted you.
Friday night at the business fraternity's mid-semester bash was the ultimate proving ground for your dynamic.
The frat house was a chaotic, sweaty mess of pulsing bass, cheap beer, and screaming college students. Sam and Steve had dragged Bucky there under the guise of ‘team bonding’ and naturally, Bucky had refused to step foot inside unless you came with him.
Currently, Bucky was standing in the darkest corner of the living room, his arms crossed over his chest, his face set into a devastating, unapproachable scowl. He was wearing a dark henley, radiating an aura of pure ‘do not fuck with me’ energy. Several girls had tried to approach him, only to be met with a glare so cold they practically turned to ice and shattered.
He was absolutely miserable.
Until he saw you.
You were across the room, talking to Sam and a few other guys from the team. You were wearing a little black skirt and a soft, cropped sweater, holding a red plastic cup. You were laughing, that bright, musical sound that cut straight through the heavy bass of the music. You were literally glowing in the dim, neon lighting of the party, chatting easily, making sure everyone felt included, radiating an effortless, magnetic warmth.
Bucky watched you, entirely transfixed. Steve walked up beside him, handing Bucky a beer.
“You're staring, man…” Steve teased over the music. “You look like a total creep.”
“Shut up, Rogers,” Bucky muttered, his eyes never leaving your form. “Look at her. She's actually having a conversation with Jenkins. The guy has the personality of a wet napkin, and she's making him laugh. She's a fucking angel.”
Steve chuckled, patting Bucky's shoulder. “She balances you out, Buck. You need her so you don't turn into a complete hermit.”
“I know,” Bucky admitted softly, the absolute raw honesty in his voice surprising even himself.
Across the room, your eyes finally caught his. You saw him standing in the dark corner, looking miserable and incredibly handsome. You immediately excused yourself from Sam and Jenkins, weaving through the crowded dance floor, your face lighting up as you approached him.
The moment you were within arm's reach, Bucky's hands were on you. He completely abandoned his beer on a nearby table, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against his solid body. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling a massive, shuddering breath, completely ignoring the hundreds of people around them. He was hiding in your light.
“Hi, grumpy…” you teased softly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck, running your fingers through the hair at the base of his skull. You could feel the tight, coiled tension in his muscles starting to unravel the second he touched you. “Are you having a terrible time?”
“I hate everyone in this fucking house,” Bucky grumbled against your collarbone, his voice vibrating against your skin. “It's loud. It smells like cheap vodka and desperation. And Jenkins was looking at your legs.”
You laughed, a bright, soothing sound, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Jenkins was telling me about his golden retriever, Bucky. Stop glaring at people. You're going to give yourself a wrinkle.”
Bucky lifted his head, looking down into your bright, sparkling eyes. The absolute devotion and adoration in his icy blue gaze was staggering. The rest of the party simply ceased to exist. It was just him, grounded entirely by your warmth.
“Let's go home, doll…” Bucky murmured, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling you even tighter against him. His voice dropped into that dirty, explicit register meant only for you. “I want to get you out of this sweater. I want to take you back to my bed, lock the door, and spend the next five hours worshipping you until you can't remember your own goddamn name. Let me take you home, sunshine.”
Your breath hitched, your heart doing a violent flip in your chest at the dark, promising hunger in his eyes. The contrast was so sharp it was dizzying, the sweet, innocent sunshine of your personality completely engulfed by the dark, possessive, unapologetic intensity of his. You didn't hesitate. You nodded, your cheeks flushing a deep, pretty pink.
“Okay…” you breathed, “Take me home.”
Bucky's smirk was triumphant, utterly arrogant, and terrifyingly hot. He grabbed your hand, lacing his thick fingers perfectly through yours, and began dragging you toward the front door. He didn't say goodbye to Sam. He didn't say goodbye to Steve. He just parted the crowd with his massive frame and his lethal glare, shielding you from the chaos as he led you out into the cool night air.
That was the magic of the grumpy and the sunshine. You gave him a reason to tolerate the world, and he gave you a safe place to shine without ever being dimmed. It was chaotic, it was loud, and it was absolutely, undeniably perfect.
And naturally, your friends were always there, acting as your own personal, chaotic security detail. Sam and Steve continued to mock Bucky relentlessly about his protective nature, while Natasha and Wanda threatened to completely ruin him if he ever made you cry again. But they didn't have to worry. Bucky Barnes was entirely, utterly, and happily owned by you, his sunshine, and he was fully prepared to glare down the rest of the world to keep it that way.
Greek Myth AU | Demigod! Bucky Barnes x Nymph! Reader where Bucky has a forge near the woods where you live.
TW battle trauma, magical prosthetic metal arm, food, theft, grumpy x sunshine, son of Hephaestus! Bucky
Bucky Barnes hasn't gone to battle since he encountered the Hydra.
He still remembers the marsh and the screaming and the sound of teeth closing around bone. He remembers how the monster dragged him down into the mud by the arm and the whole world went white with pain. The poets say he fought bravely, that he stood his ground, that the son of Hephaestus didn’t break, even beneath the jaws of a beast older than most kings.
Bucky knows better.
There was nothing noble about it. There was blood in his mouth, poison in his veins and hands clawing uselessly at the wet earth underneath. And then there was pain, and then there was nothing.
When he opened his eyes, his father was standing over him in the red light of a fire.
Hephaestus made him a new arm.
What else could the god of the forge do to repay his son for running his errands? Console him? Talk to him? Say son, I’m proud of you and I’m sorry this happened? Ha!
No, gods aren't really known for their stellar parenting. Instead, his father built something out of it.
It was state of the art, if such a mortal phrase could be used for something made by divine hands. It was made of bronze and celestial iron, gold-threaded mechanisms beneath the plating, joints so fluid they moved like water. His father carved protective spells into the inner frame and fitted it to him so perfectly that Bucky could still feel heat, pressure, texture, weight of everything.
It didn't feel so different from the arm he had lost, and that made it worse.
Because men saw it and thought it was a miracle. Kings saw it and thought it was weapon. Heroes saw it and thought it was an advantage. They stared at the shining metal and forgot there had ever been flesh beneath it. They forgot a monster had taken something from him before his father gave anything back.
So Bucky stopped going to war.
He let other men chase glory while he stayed in Lemnos.
His father gave him the forge there, the greatest forge on the island, built deep into black volcanic stone where the heat rose from the earth itself. The whole place breathed fire. The walls glowed at night.
Or, at least, everyone said it did.
The son of Hephaestus in a forge, the man with the metal arm making metal things. Very poetic. People loved when suffering became useful.
And Bucky was useful. That much, no one could deny.
He made swords for kings who wanted their enemies to slain before sunset. He made armour for heroes who spoke of destiny as though destiny had ever once done the washing up after a war. He made arrowheads for hunters, axes for warlords, helmets for princes, daggers for queens who pretended they had no use for daggers at all.
His work was legendary. A blade from Barnes’ forge did not dull. A shield from Barnes’ forge did not crack. Chainmail from Barnes’ hands could turn aside a spear thrust, a lion’s claw, sometimes even a god’s temper.
Men came to him asking for things that could cut, pierce, crush, defend, maim, conquer, survive.
And Bucky gave it to them.
Because that was what all his hands were good for.
At least, that was what he believed.
And then you come in.
You are a wood nymph, Bucky realises, because no ordinary girl walks into a forge with leaves in her hair and moss on the hem of her dress. You look too kind for all the heat and smoke here, too green and alive for a room full of fresh weapon.
For a second, Bucky forgets to be rude.Then he remembers.
“Forge is closed,” he says.
You blink at the swords on the wall, the armour hanging from hooks, the coals burning bright enough to turn the whole room gold. “Oh,” you say with a frown. “I just… I heard you fix things.”
Bucky froze.
Nobody… has ever said it like that before.
They say he makes weapons. They say he forges armour. They don’t say fix, like his work made people happy.
You open your palm and show him a broken anklet, thin gold, little leaves dangling from the chain. “It caught on a root.”
“A root,” Bucky repeats.
“A rude one,” you say, as if you have a personal vendetta against the tree. You probably do.
He should send you away. He has a sword half-finished for a king and a shield waiting for Ares demigod. He doesn’t mend pretty little things for pretty nymphs with sunlight in their eyes.
But you’re looking at him like he can help.
So Bucky sighs, reaches for the anklet, and mutters, “Fine.”
Your smile blooms so quickly he has to look down.
It is the first time anyone has asked his hands to make something that wasn’t meant to hurt.
He pretends that doesn’t matter.
But the. you keep coming back.
At first, Bucky assumes it is coincidence. Wood nymphs probably break things all the time. You live in forests. Forests have branches, rocks, rude little animals with grabby mouths. So when you return three mornings later with a bent hairpin, he only grunts and takes it from your hand.
“Another root?” he asks.
“A bird,” you say.
Bucky huffs despite himself and fixes it in less than five minutes.
Then you come back with a clasp from your dress. Then a little bronze bell. Then a ring made of twisted copper that you swear belongs to a dryad friend, though Bucky notices it fits your finger perfectly when he gives it back.
You don’t have gold or silver, and Bucky knows that, so he insisted you don’t pay him. You said nonesense! And only ever pay him in flowers.
He’ll never admit it but it’s… sweet.
You gave him small white blossoms, bluebells, white thyme, and tiny yellow things you say grow near the river. Sometimes you bring fruit wrapped in leaves, because apparently you’ve decided he forgets to eat and apparently you’re right.
The first time, Bucky says, “This isn’t payment.”
You look genuinely worried. “Do you not like them?”
“No, I—” He stops, because saying I like them feels impossible and saying I like you feels too vulnerable. He looks down at the flowers in your hands, too bright for his forge, and mutters, “They’ll die in here.”
You smile. “Then I’ll bring more.”
And you do.
Soon there are flowers everywhere, tucked into old jars, hanging upside down from the rafters where the heat dries them beautifully. One little daisy sits in a crack on his workbench for three days before he realises he’s been carefully moving around it.
He tells himself he is only being polite.
Except he starts saving pretty scraps of gold and copper and stone because maybe you’ll bring him another broken little thing and maybe he can make it better than it was before.
You ask him to fix a chain, and he adds tiny leaves to it.
You ask him to mend a pin, and he shapes the end into a flower.
You ask him if he can make a clasp stronger, and he makes it so beautiful you stare at it with no thoughts for a full second.
Bucky looks away every time.
He’s not making pretty things because he thinks you’re pretty. That would be ridiculous. He makes swords for kings and armour for heroes. He doesn’t sit in his forge at night thinking about what different shades of gold would look like against your skin.
Ugh. Fine. He does.
One day, Bucky realises you have not come by in too long.
The forge feels too quiet without the little chime of your anklet, without you leaning over his workbench and asking if something hopelessly broken can still be fixed.
So he goes looking, until he realizes he doesn’t actually know where you live.
He asks a fisherman near the cliffs says he saw a wood nymph by the olive groves that morning. He asks an old woman carrying figs and says she thinks you keep to the trees by the river when you are upset, though she doesn’t explain how she knows that and Bucky doesn’t ask. A shepherd points him farther inland.
By the time Bucky finds you, he is already in a temper, but not at you. At the world, mostly. At whatever has kept you away. At himself for caring enough to come all this way.
Then he sees you, sitting by the riverbank with your knees drawn up, your face turned away, shoulders hunched so small The whole grove is green and dappled with afternoon light, lovely in the way nymph places always are.
You are crying.
Oh.
He clears his throat.
You look up, startled, and then your eyebrows softened when you see him. You are relieved.
“Bucky,” you say, and your voice wobbles.
He hates whoever caused that.
He comes closer. “What happened?”
You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand and laugh a little, embarrassed. “It’s silly.”
He waits.
You glance down at the grass. “I made a flower crown this morning.”
Bucky says nothing.
“I know,” you say quickly. “It sounds ridiculous.”
“It doesn’t.”
You look at him then, something in Bucky’s chest goes tight.
“I spent all morning on it,” you murmur. “I made it from river jasmine and clover and the little blue flowers that grow by the reeds. It was very pretty.”
He can imagine it.
You make a face that is halfway between misery and indignation. “A local river god stole it.”
Bucky blinks.
“He said it was the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time,” you continue, clearly offended all over again, “and then he just… he just took it. Put it on his own head and disappeared back into the water.”
For a moment, Bucky can only stare.
That little river bastard.
Bucky knows a little of what that’s like. He has spent his whole life making beautiful things only for someone else to walk away with them. At least, though, he’s beautifully compensated for it.
“Come to my forge in three days,” he says.
When he gets back to his forge, three men are waiting with commissions. And enough money to last him many months.
Bucky looks at all of them and says, “No.”
Then he shuts himself inside the forge and begins to make the most intricate thing he has ever made.
He bent gold into branches and shaped silver into tiny blossoms. He embeds blue stones like river flowers, set like dew. Each leaf was made by hand, each petal delicate beneath his metal fingers.
He has made a flower crown that will not wilt.
The, you come to his forge.
Bucky hears the anklet first, that soft little chime he has grown helplessly fond of. He pretends to be busy, pretends he has not spent three days thinking of you.
Then you step inside, and the forge feels warmer for reasons that have nothing to do with fire.
You have flowers in your hair again. Little white ones this time, tucked messily behind your ears, already wilting from the heat.
Bucky unwraps the crown after you say hi.
And it’s clear it’s not a crown for a queen. It’s not meant for a throne. It’s simply little piece of your grove, shaped by fire.
For a moment, you only stare.
Then your hands come up to your mouth. “Oh, Bucky,” you whisper.
“If the river god tries to take this away,” His chest goes tight. “Tell him a son of Hephaestus will come for him.”
You look at him like that is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to you.
Maybe, from him, it is.
You take it so carefully it makes his heart ache, setting it on your head with delicate fingers. Firelight catches in every petal, every leaf, every little stone, and Bucky forgets all the clever, gruff things he might have said to survive the sight of you.
You look like spring wandered into his forge and decided to stay.
You touch the edge of the crown, shy all at once. “Does it look pretty on me?”
Bucky’s answer comes without a filter. “Everything’s pretty on you.”
Oh, Bucky.
So you rise onto your toes and kiss him.
Bucky freezes because he’s not expecting it, startled still as stone, both hands hovering uselessly in the smoky air. But you are warm and gentle and careful with him, and when you start to pull away, he finally wakes up and chases another kiss.
His human hand finds your waist, his metal one touches your cheek.
He kisses you softer, deeper, like he is learning how to love again for the first time since the Hydra nearly killed him.
When you part, you look away shyly and rest your forehead against his chest. Bucky tries to ignore the patch of green growing by your feet magically, your emotions are bursting from the ground, but he can’t help but smile anyway.
The crown glimmers in your hair.
Bucky finally looks down at his hands, one flesh and one bronze, and thinks of every weapon he has ever made. All those years, he believed that that was all his hands were good for.
But you’re standing in his arms, wearing metal spring on your head, and for the first time in his life, he thinks maybe that was never true.
Maybe his hands can make beautiful things, too.
Maybe they were meant to hold you.
(You come back in a few days with a freshly made flower crown, of course. When it dries, he casts it in iron 🫶)
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 6.1k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
The street outside the shop wasn't like any street he had ever known: too wide, too clean, and yet unbearably loud despite the sparse crowd, cut through by monstrous metal carriages that moved without horses and coughed smoke into the damp morning air.
One passed close enough that the wind of it tugged at his tunic.
He started walking.
His gaze roamed over everything: the glass fronts of the shops, the painted signs, the wires strung between buildings like black veins against the grey sky. And the people.
Lord, the people.
Men in strange short coats and narrow hats. Women with bare legs, bare arms, painted mouths, walking alone as though the world had not lost its mind.
Another contraption rolled past him.
A man balanced on a device with two impossibly thin wheels, propelling himself forward with his own legs pumping at metal arms near the ground. No horse. No visible engine or magic. Just the man and the skeletal black frame beneath him, moving at a speed no human should manage on foot.
Bucky stopped dead.
The thing came at him with no reins, no visible means of being controlled beyond the rider's boots working those narrow metal arms. Its wheels were impossibly thin, its bell giving a sharp little trill that cut through the street noise like a thrown knife.
The rider leaned around him at the last possible moment, coat flapping, one hand lifted from the handlebar in furious accusation.
"Watch it, pal!"
Bucky turned with him, tracking the motion, the insult, the impossible narrow-wheeled thing as it shot past his shoulder close enough that he felt the brush of air against his sleeve. His boots moved half a step off the curb before his mind had decided anything useful.
A horn blared. A flat, mechanical scream that didn't belong to any animal he'd ever heard.
He turned back just as one of those horseless carriages -wide and green and shining like a beetle's carapace- bore down on him with two round eyes burning pale through the grey morning. For a heartbeat, he stood rooted to the ground, unable to make his legs obey.
Then, a hand closed around his left wrist.
The contact went through him like a struck bell, and his whole body answered before thought could intervene, muscles jerking in the direction of the grip, boots scraping over wet pavement as he stumbled backward.
Pain lit up his ribs, white and vicious. The green beast roared past close enough that its wind slapped cold against his face, horn still bellowing as the driver shouted something filthy through an open window and did not stop.
Bucky hit the edge of the sidewalk hard enough to jar his teeth.
The woman struck him in the arm a second later with her free hand. Not hard, exactly, but sharp enough to snap him back to his senses.
"What is wrong with you?"
He stared at the place where the carriage had been, watching it disappear down the street.
The traffic kept moving as if nothing had happened.
Another one followed behind it. Dark blue this time. Smaller. More of them farther down the road, parked along the curb like sleeping beasts, their windows reflecting pieces of the sky in impossibly clear glass.
His wrist was still held.
He looked down at it.
Her fingers were wrapped tight enough to blanch the skin beneath her own knuckles. She seemed to realize it at the same moment he did and let go at once, as if his skin had burned her.
Her mouth moved. Red. That impossible red, angry now.
"Do you have a special wish to die this morning?"
He heard the words. Understood them individually. Could not make them gather into meaning.
His hands were empty. He had no sword. No shield. No idea what kingdom this was, what laws governed it, what god had built machines to transport people without horses as though it were the most natural thing in the world, people walking past in their strange attire as if nothing remarkable had happened.
His chest worked once.
Then again.
The breath would not settle.
He tried to force it down into the place where his discipline lived. The old place. The trained place. The place that had carried him through broken ribs, frozen marches, cells too dark to measure time in, men asking questions with tools because words had failed to satisfy them.
It was there.
He could feel its shape, familiar as the weight of a sword, but he simply could not reach it.
The street stretched wide before him, slick and grey, full of motion. The wires overhead trembled in the wind. Somewhere nearby, unseen machinery thudded and clanged. A woman laughed. A dog barked. Another horn sounded in the distance, and his shoulders flinched before he could stop them.
----
She saw the flinch.
It was small, almost nothing, just the quick betrayal of his shoulders at the distant horn, but it made whatever else she had been about to say die behind her lips.
Her question was still there between them, and he had not answered it.
Not that he was ignoring her. Not exactly. Men ignored women in a variety of ways, and she had developed, over the course of owning a business and being alive in general, a fairly extensive catalogue.
This wasn't that.
This man was not ignoring her.
He was… not there. Not properly.
He stood six inches from her on the sidewalk outside her own shop, broad and filthy and absurd in those boots, and looked past her with eyes that had gone distant in a way that made the back of her neck prickle.
The color had drained from his face.
The bruise along his cheekbone looked darker for it, purple-black against the sudden pallor. The cut above his brow, which she had almost forgotten in the general catastrophe of him, had opened again somehow; a thin line of red slipped down toward his temple.
His body was trembling.
Not dramatically. Nothing anyone passing by would notice unless they were close enough to see the tiny, involuntary shiver running through his hands. Through his jaw. Through the tendons in his neck, standing out like rope under skin.
She saw it because she was standing too close.
Because she had grabbed his wrist and felt the shock.
Because for one terrible second, when the car had come at him, and he had simply stood there, she had known with absolute certainty that he was about to die in front of The Sweet Briar before the shop had even opened for the day.
Her own heart was still beating in her throat.
"You could have been killed," she said, quieter this time.
He did not answer.
His gaze flicked once to the street, then to the cars, then upward to the wires, then back to the place where the green car had disappeared around the corner. Too much. That was what his face said now, beneath the stubbornness, beneath the absurd severity of all that knight-of-the-realm nonsense.
Her anger lost its footing.
Damn him.
Damn him for being frightening, and rude, and possibly insane, and then standing there looking like a lost thing that had wandered too far from wherever it belonged.
"Mr. Barnes," she said carefully.
His eyes moved to her face. Not focused, at first.
She lifted both hands a little, palms angled toward him in what she hoped was a calming gesture.
"Listen to me," she said. "You need to come back inside."
His jaw shifted.
"No."
Of course.
Of course the man who had nearly been flattened by a sedan five seconds ago still had room in him to be obstinate.
She took a breath and counted to three.
"Fine. Stay out here. Get yourself killed. But do it after lunch hour, so at least my customers don't have to step over you to buy lilies."
Something passed across his face. A flicker. Not amusement, exactly, but something close to it. Then his attention cut past her shoulder.
She followed it automatically.
A patrolman was coming down the opposite side of Camden Street from the corner near Levinson's pharmacy, where the sidewalk opened into a clear view of the street in front of her shop.
He must have seen the bicycle swerve. Must have seen the car skim by close enough to make two women outside the bakery gasp into their gloves.
And now he was looking directly at her companion.
At the strange clothes. The long hair. The bruising on his face. The blood at his brow. The size of him. The way he stood there, pale and shaking and not quite oriented toward the world around him.
The patrolman adjusted his cap and crossed the street at an angle, long strides eating up the wet pavement with purpose.
Oh, wonderful.
Perfect.
Exactly what the morning needed.
She turned back to Mr. Barnes.
Something in him changed. The trembling did not stop, but it went underground, forced beneath a sudden hardening of posture. His shoulders squared. His chin lifted. The lost look vanished so quickly that if she had not been watching, she might have thought she'd imagined it.
A mask, she realized.
No. Not a mask.
An armor.
He didn’t have one, so his face became it.
"Don't," she said under her breath.
His eyes did not leave the approaching patrolman. "Don't what."
"Whatever it is you're about to do."
"I am doing nothing."
"You're standing like you're about to challenge the entire police department to single combat."
His gaze cut briefly to her, offended despite everything. "I don't know what that is."
"That," she said, pointing with one discrete motion of her head toward the uniform, "is a policeman. He keeps order. He asks questions. He carries a gun. And if you call him a knave or try to throw him to the floor, this morning is going to get much worse for both of us."
The word gun did something. His eyes narrowed slightly.
"A guardsman."
"Close enough."
"Yours?"
"What?"
"Is he yours?"
She stared at him. "No, he is not mine. I don't keep policemen."
The patrolman was halfway across the street now. She had perhaps eight seconds before he reached them.
Eight seconds to decide whether to tell the truth -which would sound insane- or lie.
This strange, injured man appeared in my locked stockroom. He says he's a medieval knight and believes I'm a witch. Oh, and he almost died because he doesn't understand automobiles.
Yes, officer, please take him somewhere kind.
But there was nowhere kind, and that was the problem.
She knew enough about the state institutions to know that. A man like him was not gently escorted to a warm bed and a sensible doctor. A man like this would get handcuffed if he startled the wrong person. A cell if he argued. A hospital ward, if someone felt charitable. An institution, if someone with authority decided his mind was more inconvenient than treatable.
The officer stepped up onto the curb.
"Morning, ma'am," he said, though his eyes stayed mostly on Barnes. "Everything all right here?"
She smiled.
It was not a good smile. It arrived quickly and had too many teeth, the kind of smile that fooled absolutely no one but was required by the social contract.
"Good morning, officer."
Barnes looked at her.
She felt it rather than saw it, the sudden sharp turn of his attention. Suspicious. Assessing. Probably wondering if she was about to have him arrested, detained, executed, or whatever else knights expected from guardsmen in impossible cities.
She kept smiling.
"Had a little scare, that's all."
The patrolman's gaze moved over the man beside her again, slow and professional, cataloguing details. "Looked like your friend here nearly stepped in front of a car."
Friend.
The word hung there, wrong and convenient.
Barnes's expression did not change, but she could feel his objection forming between his brows like a gathering storm.
She stepped on it before it could speak.
"My cousin," she said.
The patrolman blinked. So did the man beside her.
She did not look at him.
"My cousin," she repeated, silently kicking herself for the flimsy excuse even as she committed to it. "From up north."
The patrolman's brows lifted slightly.
"Up north."
"A little town near Mount Katahdin. Very remote, really. Hardly any roads to speak of."
Behind her, he drew a slow breath through his nose. She could feel judgment radiating from him like heat from a stove. She ignored it.
"He came in early this morning, he’s looking for a job, you see," she continued with a bright tone. "He's had a long trip and hardly slept. He’s a stubborn backwoodsman with no sense around traffic. He was bewildered by the view, and then that bicycle startled him, and- well. You saw what happened.”
"I saw him walk into traffic."
"Yes. He does that."
The patrolman squinted at her, and she immediately regretted having a mouth.
"I mean," she amended quickly, "he doesn't usually do that. Obviously. That would be very troubling as a habit. He's just tired. Disoriented. And he took a fall yesterday, so he's not entirely himself."
The officer's gaze went to the bruise on Barnes's cheek, then the cut above his brow, lingering there with professional interest.
"A fall."
"From a horse," she said.
That, at least, felt thematically appropriate.
Barnes's head turned very, very slowly toward her.
She gave him a look that she hoped communicated several things at once, including but not limited to: be quiet, I am saving you, and if you ruin this, I will personally murder you with a pair of pruning shears.
Miraculously, he said nothing.
The patrolman studied him for a long moment.
"That true, sir?"
His eyes moved from her to the officer.
A pause. Too long. Much too long.
Then, with grave reluctance, "I was unseated."
Her eyes nearly closed with relief.
The patrolman seemed to accept this, or at least failed to find the obvious hole in it quickly enough to press. Maybe it was too early in the morning for him, too.
"Looks like you ought to have a doctor look at that."
"He will," she said firmly.
"I do not require-"
"He will," she repeated, louder, and smiled harder at the patrolman. "As soon as I get him inside and settled. He also needs a change of clothing, as you can see. Can't have him walking around looking like he lost a fight with a hay wagon."
The officer looked between them, considering.
The moment stretched.
Someone across the street had stopped pretending not to watch. Mrs. Kaplan from the bakery stood with one hand on her door, eyes bright with the terrible appetite of neighborhood gossip that would fuel conversations for a week.
No.
Absolutely not.
She could not have this become a story before mid-morning.
The patrolman finally nodded once, seeming to decide the situation was odd but not dangerous.
"Best keep him out of the road, then."
"That is very much my plan."
The man's gaze flicked to Barnes one more time. "You take care, sir. City streets aren't forgiving."
He looked at the road, then back at the officer, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet and oddly sincere.
"No," he said. "They are not."
Something in his tone made the patrolman pause, a flicker of concern crossing his features. But then he simply tipped his cap to her.
"Ma'am."
"Officer."
He moved on, though not quickly. She watched him walk back down the block toward the pharmacy, glancing back once before he reached the corner.
Only when he had turned out of sight did she let the smile fall off her face like an abandoned coat.
He was staring at her.
"What," she said flatly.
His expression was unreadable again, which she was beginning to suspect meant he was feeling several things at once and had decided none of them were fit for public display.
"Your cousin," he said.
"It was the first thing that came to mind."
"From up north."
"It seemed plausible."
"It did not."
"Well, he bought it, didn't he?"
"Did he?"
She looked toward the corner where the patrolman had disappeared. Then at Mrs. Kaplan, who was still watching from the bakery window like a hawk spotting a rabbit. Then at the two women whispering near the bus stop. Then at him, standing there like a brawl in human form, bleeding gently onto the collar of his impossible shirt.
"Maybe," she admitted.
A horn blared somewhere down the street, and he flinched.
Small, contained and brutally fast.
But she saw it.
His jaw clenched afterward, as if he could trap the reaction between his teeth and kill it there.
She sighed, feeling what was left of her anger drain away and leave behind something uncomfortably close to pity. And the very reasonable desire to shove him back into the street herself and let nature finish what the sedan had started.
But beneath all of it was the fact of him: pale, shaking, hurt, completely unmoored, and looking at Camden Street as if it were a battlefield he'd stumbled onto without armor or weapons or any idea which side he was meant to be fighting for.
"Inside," she said.
His eyes narrowed.
She pointed at the shop door behind them.
"Now."
"I told you-"
"I lied to a policeman for you, Mr. Barnes, so unless you'd like me to call him back and explain that you are not, in fact, my cousin from up north, you are going to walk through that door, sit down somewhere that is not my begonias, and let me clean the blood off your face before Mrs. Kaplan decides to come over here and ask questions I cannot answer."
He stared at her.
For one second, she could almost see the refusal rise in him, proud and immediate and utterly stupid.
Then another car passed, and he did not look at it; that was how she knew it had frightened him. Then, he turned toward the flower shop without another word.
The bell above the door gave its bright chime as he stepped back inside.
She followed, locked the door behind them, and flipped the sign to CLOSED with more force than strictly necessary.
----
Bucky heard the bolt slide into place with a soft, final click.
A small sound. Ordinary, probably, to her. To him, it landed with considerably more weight. The sound of a cell door, a gate closing, an exit sealed.
He turned his head to her.
She reached up and drew down a strange fabric stretched between narrow wooden slats that clattered softly as it descended, stopping halfway down the window. Not a curtain, exactly. Something that rolled and caught on a mechanism he couldn't see.
He noticed everything, apparently, except the things that might keep him from nearly being killed by horseless carriages.
"Come on," she said and walked past him toward the rear of the shop.
There were, at present, too many questions in his head. They had gathered in his head like crows on a battlefield fence, black and loud and waiting for something to die.
So he followed.
The shop looked different from behind her.
That was not a thought he should have had.
It arrived anyway, unbidden and unhelpful.
Her skirt moved when she walked, a soft, hypnotic sway that drew the eye and then punished the man attached to it for having one. The fabric brushed the backs of her knees with each step, and below that -God help him- her calves were bare, the skin catching the morning light filtering through the half-drawn shade.
The sight shouldn't have affected him the way it did.
He'd seen far worse immodesty in camp followers, tavern girls who unlaced their bodices for coin, even a countess once who'd been shameless enough to receive him in his own chambers in nothing but a loose shift that left very little to imagination.
But this felt different somehow.
Deliberate in its casualness. Ordinary in its brazenness.
As if every woman in this godforsaken century simply walked around like this, and he was the fool for noticing.
He wrenched his gaze toward the nearest bucket of flowers with such determination that he might as well have been preparing to duel it.
Roses.
White ones, their petals just beginning to unfurl, with the faintest blush of pink at the heart of each bloom. Innocent. Chaste. Entirely safe to look at.
Unlike certain other things in this room.
She reached the back room and stepped aside, pointing toward a chair beside the worktable.
"Sit."
He looked at it with immediate suspicion.
The chair was made of metal. Thin silver legs bent in a precise curve, holding up a seat covered in some smooth green material that was neither leather nor cloth. It shone faintly under the light overhead, reflecting the ceiling in a way that seemed unnatural.
Bucky stared at it for a second too long.
"It's a chair," she seemed fit to clarify.
"I can see that."
"Wonderful. Then use it."
He should not have.
There were several reasons he should not have.
For one, it was unwise to place himself at a disadvantage in a room he did not understand, with a woman he did not know, in a century that seemed very committed to making a fool of him at every opportunity.
For another, it was utterly inappropriate.
There was no servant. No matron tucked into the corner with her embroidery and her sharp little coughs to remind them of propriety. No chaperone at all to lend respectability to the fact that this woman was about to put her hands near his face, possibly his body, while the two of them were alone behind a locked door.
A decent man would object.
A prudent man would leave.
He sat.
The metal chair gave a faint protesting creak beneath his weight but did not collapse, which was more than he had expected from something built with legs that narrow. The act of lowering himself was unpleasant. His ribs had apparently chosen this moment to remind him -in exhaustive detail- that they had been cracked before the universe had lost its mind and had not improved during the intervening catastrophe.
His breath caught despite his best efforts.
She noticed. Her gaze flicked down to his side, then back up, too quick to be called staring and too sharp to be accidental.
"You hurt your ribs?"
"No."
She gave him a look that suggested she had heard better lies from children.
He met it stubbornly.
A pause.
"Yes," he admitted.
"Thought so."
She turned toward a small wooden cabinet mounted low on the wall and crouched down. From inside, she pulled out a metal case. Small, rectangular, with a hinged lid and a painted red cross on the top.
A coffer, his mind supplied automatically, though it was made of metal rather than wood, and far too uniform in its construction to have been hammered by any smith he knew.
She set it on the worktable and flipped the latch.
The cross should have been reassuring.
It was not.
Inside were bottles, tins, folded cloths, strange implements he had no names for. She began sorting through them, and he watched her hands move.
Competent hands. Not delicate, though they looked as if they could be when they wanted to. She knew where things were, even in the disorder. She found a clean cloth, a small brown bottle, and a roll of white bandaging and set them on the table.
He cleared his throat and she glanced over her shoulder.
The words should have come easily. Courtesy did, when one was raised with enough of it beaten in by tutors and lords and the general expectation of civilized behavior.
He had thanked lords he despised, maesters who'd prodded at wounds, servants who'd brought water, boys who'd held horses, women who had done far less for him than lie to an armed city guardsman.
Still, it took him a moment.
"For what you said to the guardsman," he began carefully. "Outside."
Her hands stilled completely. She turned to face him, the cloth still held loosely in her fingers.
"The policeman," she corrected gently.
"The policeman," he repeated, the word still feeling foreign on his tongue. He met her eyes. "For that. You have my thanks."
Something in her expression softened. The wariness didn't disappear entirely, but it eased.
"You're welcome," she said simply.
She set the cloth down on the worktable and leaned back against it, her hands bracing on the edge behind her. The posture was less guarded than before.
"Though for the record," she added, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in her voice now, "you made that more difficult than it needed to be."
He shifted in the metal chair, wincing slightly as his ribs protested. "I said very little."
"You said it with the face of a man about to fight." She tilted her head, studying him.
“I was inquired by a law enforcement."
"You were asked whether you fell off a horse." She crossed her ankles, settling more comfortably against the table. The motion drew his eye briefly to those impossible shoes before he forced his gaze back to her face.
"I was unseated," he corrected with careful dignity.
She blinked at him for a moment.
Then her lips curved into something that was almost a smile, warm in a way that made something in his chest tug unexpectedly.
"Fallen, unseated…" she said softly, waving her hand.
The strange thing was, he almost wanted to explain. Wanted to tell her that it was not the same thing at all.
That falling could be clumsy, careless, the result of poor seat or a man who didn't know his business. Being unseated meant impact, skill, another man's force meeting yours at the exact angle required to take you from the saddle despite everything you did to prevent it.
There was dignity in the distinction.
But she was looking at him with something gentler than he'd seen from her yet. So he did not explain. He was, as she had said, trying not to make things more difficult than they needed to be.
Also, and more pressing, he was hungry.
The realization came with embarrassing force now that he was seated and no longer fighting for his life against bicycles and automobiles. He had not eaten since before the tournament.
Had meant to, after. Had meant to remove his armor, find bread and stew at the tavern down the street, and perhaps sleep for half a day if his luck could be persuaded toward mercy for once.
Instead, he had put on a cursed ring and been thrown into a florist's back room nearly six centuries from where he belonged.
His stomach gave a low, traitorous growl that echoed in the stockroom with all the subtlety of a church bell at matins.
The woman paused mid-motion.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Lord.
When he opened them, she was looking at him with something that might have been concern or exasperation or both.
"When did you last eat?"
He considered lying.
His stomach, apparently tired of his pride, made the answer unnecessary by growling again, louder this time.
She set the cloth down with a soft sigh.
"Right," she said. "Blood first. Food after."
"That’s not-"
"Mr. Barnes."
He stopped.
Her tone had changed. It was the voice of a woman who had discovered the exact amount of patience she possessed and found him standing at the far edge of it with his boots on.
"You are bleeding, you nearly got killed by a car, and I have already lied to a policeman before midday.” She gestured at the chair, less sharp than simply direct. "Sit still and let me clean that before you pass out and make this morning worse than it already is. Then, we'll figure out food."
He was opening his mouth to object-
"Please," she added, and something about her tone reached him. So he leaned back in the metal chair and said nothing.
She seemed to take that as victory.
Perhaps it was.
She stepped closer, and the air between them shifted. He caught her scent more clearly now: flowers, yes, but also something faintly powdery and sweet that he couldn't name. Soap, perhaps. Or some cosmetic concoction women of this time favored.
The cloth in her hand was damp; he could see the darkness of moisture against the white fabric.
He kept perfectly still.
She bent toward him, close enough that her breath would have touched his face if she'd spoken, and then her fingers touched his jaw.
The contact was brief, impersonal, the gesture of someone accustomed to arranging things precisely.
It went through him like a strike of flint.
His breath caught with the sudden, with the unwelcome awareness of how close she was. How warm. How the neckline of her dress sat just low enough that if he dropped his gaze even slightly-
He locked his eyes on the ceiling and kept them there.
"Hold still," she said quietly.
He was already still. Rigid as a man in armor, every muscle tense by the maddening fact that her thumb was resting just below his jaw, her fingertips cool against the edge of his beard.
The damp cloth touched his brow.
Cool. Clean. It stung where the cut was, a sharp little bite that he barely felt through everything else.
What he felt was her.
The bend of her body as she leaned in. The brush of her skirt against his knee. Brief, accidental, gone before he could react. The small crease of concentration between her brows as she worked, utterly focused, utterly unaware of what the simple act of touching him was doing.
She tilted his face slightly toward the light.
His jaw shifted under her hand, and the movement made her fingers slide -just barely- along the line of bone and muscle beneath his ear.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck.
This was absurd.
She was cleaning a wound. Nothing more. She had shown him no interest beyond the bare minimum of human decency, and even that had been grudging. She thought him mad, or damaged, or some combination of both. She had called him cousin to a lawman to avoid further inconvenience.
And here he sat, breathing too carefully, thinking about what it would feel like if those hands moved with intent instead of practicality. If they slid into his hair. If her thumb pressed just a little harder against his throat. If she leaned closer and-
Fuck.
He was acting like some green boy again.
Worse. He was acting like a man who hadn't been touched by anyone in far too long, and whose body had decided now -of all the godsforsaken moments- was the time to remind him of it.
The cloth moved to his cheekbone, gentler now, following the edge of the bruise.
"It's not deep," she said after a moment. "Won't need stitches. Just needs to be clean."
"I've had worse." He managed.
"I don't doubt it."
She stepped back, and the absence of her touch was immediate and disorienting. She studied her work, then reached for the brown bottle, uncorking it with a soft pop.
The smell hit him immediately. Sharp. Medicinal. Something that burned the inside of his nose and made his eyes water.
"This is going to sting," she warned.
"I can-"
She dabbed it on before he could finish.
It did not sting.
It burned like the fires of hell had been distilled into liquid form and applied directly to his face.
He did not move. Did not make a sound.
His hand, however, gripped the edge of the metal chair hard enough that he heard the frame creak.
"Sorry," she said, and she actually sounded it. "It's awful, but it'll keep it from getting infected."
He managed a nod, not trusting his voice.
She corked the bottle and set it aside, examining the cut again, and then stepped back fully, putting a respectable distance between them, and he could breathe again.
Then his stomach growled. Again. Loud and shameless.
She paused.
He watched something shift in her expression, watched her think. Her gaze went to the little corner table where the tin of those dried herbs sat, and her mouth pressed into a thoughtful line.
"I don't have much here," she said slowly. "It's a stockroom, not a kitchen. Tea and stale biscuits in some corner, mostly."
He opened his mouth to tell her it didn't matter, that he required nothing-
"Wait here," she said abruptly.
Before he could object, she was already moving toward the front of the shop, pulling a key from somewhere in her skirt and unlocking the door.
"Don't touch anything," she added over her shoulder. "And for God's sake, don't go outside again."
The bell chimed.
The door closed.
He sat alone in the stockroom, surrounded by buckets of flowers and incomprehensible objects, with no earthly idea where she had gone or whether she would return.
For a brief, ungenerous moment, he considered the possibility that she had simply gone to fetch the authorities after all. Left him here to be collected like a stray dog.
He could not have blamed her if she had.
But he stayed.
Partly because his ribs ached and his legs felt unsteady, and the metal chair, absurd as it was, held his weight. Partly because the door to the street terrified him in a way he was not prepared to examine.
And partly -mostly- because some quiet, exhausted part of him had decided to trust her, and he was too tired to argue with it.
Time passed. He did not know how much. Somewhere beyond the walls, the muffled sounds of the impossible city continued: horns, voices, the rumble of those horseless carriages.
Then the bell chimed again, and he heard the click of her heels through the shop. She reappeared through the storage door with a brown paper sack clutched in one hand.
"Here," she said, crossing to him and holding it out. "Eat this before you fall over."
He took it cautiously.
The sack was warm. And the smell…
God, the smell.
Something rich and savory drifted up from inside, meat and bread and something he couldn't identify, and his mouth flooded with saliva before he'd even looked inside.
He opened it.
Within was a strange construction: two thick slices of bread pressed together, and between them, slices of roasted meat layered with melted cheese, what appeared to be a cooked egg, and some green leaves he didn't recognize.
He turned it over, examining the oddity from several angles.
"It's a sandwich," she said, watching his confusion with poorly concealed amusement. "Roast beef. From the diner on the corner. You eat it. With your hands."
A sandwich.
He had never heard the term. Never seen meat and bread arranged in such a deliberate, portable fashion. In his world, meat was served on a trencher, or in a pie, or skewered over a fire. Not... stacked.
The smell did not care about his confusion, and his stomach growled a third time, traitorous and insistent, and he abandoned his examination in favor of simply eating.
The first bite was a revelation.
Warm bread. Tender meat, properly seasoned. The richness of the cheese, the unexpected softness of the egg, the crunch of whatever green leaves she'd called them.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the finest things he had ever tasted.
He ate with more control than he felt, forcing himself to chew, to pace himself, to not devour the entire thing in three bites like a starving animal.
She watched him for a moment, then turned away to give him privacy.
He was grateful for it.
When he'd finished -every crumb, every scrap, the paper sack reduced to a crumpled ball in his fist- he set it down carefully and cleared his throat.
She turned.
"Better?"
"Yes." His voice came out rough. "Thank you. That was..."
He didn't have words for what it was.
A sandwich, apparently.
"...generous of you," he finished.
She nodded, accepting it, and for a moment neither of them said anything.
The silence stretched, not quite comfortable but not hostile either. Finally, she crossed her arms over her chest in a way that was becoming familiar.
"So," she said. "What are we going to do with you, Mr. Barnes?"
He looked at her standing there in her scandalously short skirt and her impossible shoes.
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Summary: Y/N has always had the uncanny ability to know where Bucky and Steve are. After Bucky and Steve are declared dead in WWII, Y/N’s power reveals they are still alive. With the help of Peggy Carter, she goes in search of the boys.
Y/N sat in the makeshift waiting room, leg bouncing anxiously. Steve sat next to her, watching her. “Relax Y/N,” Steve said. “He’ll be fine.”
“I know but,” she sighed. “I just can’t imagine the pain he was in. Is in. “
“Howard’ll take care of it,” Steve reassured.
“At this rate we’re gonna owe Howard a whole baseball team.”
Steve’s mouth twitched, wanting to laugh but not wanting to agitate her more. “Does Bucky know yet?”
“Not yet,” Y/N said. “It seemed like too much the day we rescued him. And then there was the ship celebration, the SSR celebration, the general celebrations-“
“Everyone’s just glad the war is over.”
“I know, but it seemed like a lot. Plus I figured he’d want this done before he found out.”
The door opened, Howard striding out proudly. Y/N and Steve stood up, anticipating. “It was more work than I thought,” Howard explained, “but I think I did a damn good job.”
“A great job,” Bucky said, walking into the room. He rolled his shoulder, revealing a new black and gold arm. “I still miss flesh and bone, but at least this is more subtle than that monstrosity.” He shuddered.
Howard nodded briefly before perking up, switching the subject. “You guys going to the party at Buckingham Palace tonight?”
“The what at where?” Steve asked, wide eyed.
“The war’s over party at the palace,” Howard restated nonchalantly.
“How the hell did you get that invite?”
“Well you see-“
“Thanks but no thanks,” Bucky interrupted, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulders. “We need our rest.”
“We’re flying back to New York tomorrow,” Y/N clarified.
Howard shrugged, “Suit yourself.” He slung an arm around Steve, guiding him down the hallway against his will. Steve glanced back, mouthing help me.
“Come on Doll,” Bucky said, “We gotta pack.”
Everything in their suitcases, Bucky and Y/N stood in the bedroom of her London apartment, Y/N unwrapping Bucky’s wedding ring from the handkerchief she kept in her pocket. “I kept it safe, like you asked.”
“Good,” Bucky said, “I don’t know what I woulda done if I lost it.”
Y/N reached for his new hand, but Bucky pulled it away.
“Put it on my right,” Bucky instructed, placing his flesh hand in hers. “I want to be able to feel your love.”
“Okay.” Y/N slid the ring onto his right ring finger, recreating the scene from their wedding night. “Mr. Barnes,” she whispered as she removed her wedding ring, handing it off to Bucky.
Bucky placed it on her right hand. “Mrs. Barnes.” He leaned in for a kiss, but Y/N stopped him, pressing her palms flat on his chest and pushing away slightly.
“Bucky, there’s one more thing.”
Bucky’s brow arched in confusion. “What is it? You didn’t get hurt coming after me did you?”
Y/N shook her head. “No Bucky, this is a good thing I promise.” She smiled up at him, taking both of his hands and maneuvering them, placing them on her stomach, her hands resting on top of his.
Bucky gasped, understanding the gesture. “You mean?”
Y/N nodded. “Yes Bucky, I’m pregnant.”
Bucky’s mouth broke into a grin, his hands moving to her waist, holding her close. “Y/N I…..I….shit,” he chuckled, stammering with his words. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my life.”
******
She didn’t know what earned the bigger reaction, telling Bucky’s family they were married or telling them they were expecting. Needless to say, the Barnes’ were happy their dreams for Bucky and Y/N came true, doting on them. Y/N was about four months along, folding some baby clothes Rebecca had made to place in the nursery drawer when Bucky came up behind her.
“Bucky,” Y/N giggled as his kisses tickled against her neck. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I took the rest of the day off,” Bucky said. “I’m allowed to do that as the bosses’ favorite.”
“Second favorite,” Y/N corrected. “You know Peggy outranks you on Steve’s list.”
“Technically she outranks us all. Peggy was made director of the SSR today.”
“Really? That’s amazing!”
“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, placing another kiss on her skin, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
Y/N placed the onesie she was folding on top of the dresser. “Oh?”
Bucky moved, backing away and taking her hand. “Come with me.”
They found themselves outside of the familiar house, Howard and Jarvis leaning against a car up front. “What’s this?” Y/N asked.
“Your new home,” Howard said, handing Y/N a key. “For you and your growing family.”
Y/N turned the keys over in her hands. “Howard, you’ve done so much for us already, we can’t accept this.”
“It’s actually not a gift,” Howard clarified, tilting his head at Bucky.
Y/N turned, facing Bucky, a mischievous grin on his face. “Told you I’d buy us a house,” he said, referencing a promise he made to her when they were thirteen.
Y/N returned the smile, shaking her head fondly. “I distinctly remember you also saying you didn’t need a wife and kids?” She teased.
Bucky took her hands, guiding her closer to him as he leaned in. “I believe I said I didn’t need them because I have you.”
Y/N giggled, kissing her husband.
*******
Steve and Peggy swayed across the floor, looking radiant and in love. The wedding guests watched them in awe, except for Bucky, whose eyes were locked onto Y/N’s stomach. “You sure you’re okay?” He asked.
“Yes Bucky,” Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’ve asked me fifty times already.”
“Just making sure,” Bucky settled into his seat. “Doctor said any day now.”
“But not today,” she motioned with her head at the newlyweds. “Today is about them.”
Bucky finally turned his eyes to his best friend. “Steve’s happy,” he observed.
“Yeah, he deserves i-oh…..”
Bucky whirled his head around. “Oh?” He queried.
Y/N grabbed his arm, breath shaky. “Bucky, it’s time.”
Bucky went to rise but Y/N yanked him back down. “Not yet, wait till the song is ov-“
“What’s wrong?” Steve interrupted her, having saw Bucky’s unintentional swift movements in his peripheral.
“Nothing,” Y/N faked a smile.
“It’s happening,” Bucky said at the same time.
Peggy clapped her hands, taking control of the wedding as if it was a noisy war room. “Alright! Everyone clear a path. Move it! Steve! Get the car!”
“Are you kidding?” Bucky asked.
“It’s your wedding!” Y/N added.
“Are you kidding?” Steve replied.
“We wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Peggy exclaimed.
******
Bucky paced the waiting room, unable to sit still.
“Relax Buck,” Steve said.
“How can I?” Bucky snapped. “Y/N’s back there, all alone.”
“It’s tough,” Mr. Barnes interjected. “But it’s just how it’s done. I had to wait out here when you kids were born.”
“You don’t wanna be back there,” Howard chimed in. “My dad said when I was born, the doctor told him my mother was cursing up a storm. Said she never wanted to see his goddamned face ever again for doing this to her.”
Bucky stilled, thinking about the pain. His hands flew to his hair, fingers carding through wildly. “Oh my God, I did put her in this!”
Steve and Mr. Barnes facepalmed, whilst Peggy shot Howard a glare. “Thanks Howard for that wonderful commentary,” she said sarcastically.
“What if Y/N needs me?” Bucky asked. “What if somethings wrong? What if-“
“Mr. Barnes?”
Bucky straightened up, spinning on his heel and facing the nurse who stood in the doorway. “Yes?”
The nurse gave him a warm smile, side stepping so he could enter. “Right this way.”
Bucky tried hard to maintain his composure, following the nurse at a pace that was steady, not too quick to seem too worried but not to slow to appear disinterested. Finally she swung a door open, revealing Y/N lying in bed, worn out, but a loving expression on her face as medical staff hurried about.
Bucky forgot about appearances and rushed over to her, perching on the edge of the bed. “Hey,” he said, gently wiping the sweaty hair that stuck to her forehead away. “How are you doing?”
“Tired,” Y/N admitted smiling at him. “But so happy.” She glanced up, nodding at the nurse.
A nurse walked over with a bundle in her hands, “Congratulations Mr. Barnes, you have a daughter.” SHe lowered the bundle, revealing a tiny baby girl, swaddled on a blanket.
“A little girl,” Bucky said in disbelief. The nurse placed his daughter in his arms, adjusting his hands so held her correctly. Bucky gazed down at the baby, heart swelling. “Oh Doll,” he said, voice cracking with emotion. “She’s beautiful.”
“That’s not all,” Y/N said moving to take the baby from Bucky.
“What?” Bucky peered up, seeing another nurse with a bundle.
“Congratulations Mr. Barnes. You also have a son.” Another baby was placed in his arms, the nurses giggling at Bucky’s surprise.
“Twins?” Bucky asked, his eyes flashing between both his children.
“Mhmm,” Y/N hummed, staring at their children. “It was a surprise for me as well.”
“Little Buckies and Y/Ns,” Bucky said, recalling a conversation from their past. He turned his attention back to Y/N, admiring the woman who had been by his side his whole life. All this time Bucky thought Y/N was the finder, always finding him to save him from trouble. But the truth was, Bucky was a bit of a finder too; every time Y/N came for him, he found something too, his love for her.
summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife.
word count. 6.7k
warnings. mission shenanigans, sam and yelena are instigators, bucky is SO down bad it's giving me second-hand embarassment, mutual pining, denial, bucky is over protective
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Bucky had wanted to come.
That was the first problem.
Bucky Barnes, unfortunately, had developed a habit of wanting to come wherever you were most likely to be shot, stabbed, poisoned, emotionally cornered, or otherwise inconvenienced by the consequences of your own life choices. This was noble in theory, exhausting in practice, and completely unsuitable for the mission currently requiring you to hang upside down from the ceiling of a private records office in Arlington while Yelena ate cashews beneath you.
The facility was owned by a “strategic consulting firm,” which in Washington meant nothing and everything. The front office handled defense contracts, philanthropic partnerships, political risk assessments, and donor management. The locked archive beneath it, according to the files you had stolen from a very nervous man with a waxed mustache, handled something else entirely.
Names, movement logs, enhanced-person incident reports that had never been filed through official channels. Old Widow recovery routes. Contractor payments tied to three shell companies you recognized from Valentina’s orbit.
Bucky had read the first page of the briefing and said, “I’m coming.”
You had said, “No.”
He had said, “That wasn’t a question.”
You had said. “And yet it has been answered.”
Sam, sitting across the kitchen table with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who knew he had been invited to witness a fight rather than participate in a meeting, had said, “I’m gonna regret asking this, but why isn’t he coming?”
“Because,” you had said, taking the folder out of Bucky’s hand before he could glare the paper into confession, “this is a stealth retrieval, not a former-Winter-Soldier-and-sitting-congressman-breaks-into-a-contractor-basement situation.”
Bucky stared at you.
You stared back.
“You can’t be there. If something connects the site to the bill, or to Valentina, you need distance,” You said.
His jaw tightened.
“You’re going,” he had said.
“Yes.”
“That’s different?”
“This is the kind of thing Yelena and I were trained for,” you shrugged. “You’re the congressional sponsor of the bill that might expose her network.”
He had stayed behind. Barely.
Which was why your phone currently had several unread texts from him despite the fact that you were in the middle of a felony.
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
You inside?
11:34
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
Check in.
11:34
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
You good?
11:42
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
I can still come if you need me.
11:43
You had read all of them and answered none. Not because you were avoiding him, but because you were a professional.
“You know,” Sam said in your earpiece, voice low and warm and far too amused for a man sitting on a rooftop two blocks away, “for somebody who insisted Bucky stay home, you’ve checked your phone a lot.”
“I am monitoring external variables.”
“You are monitoring your husband.”
“Fake husband.”
From below you, Yelena stopped chewing.
You froze.
Yelena looked up at you from the floor, one eyebrow lifted.
Her black tactical suit made her blend into the shadows beneath the ceiling panel. A couple cashews fell out of her hand and onto the floor. She had found them in the security break room and claimed them.
“What did you say?” she asked.
You twisted your wrist slightly, keeping the bypass tool pressed to the sensor housing. “I said husband.”
“No.” Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “You said fake husband.”
Sam went silent in your ear.
You sighed through your nose. “Did I?”
“Yes,” Yelena said. “You did.”
“Could have been an accent issue.”
“You do not have accent.”
“Everyone has an accent.”
“Do not linguistics me.”
The tool in your hand beeped softly, the sensor light shifted from red to green.
“Good news,” you said. “Hallway’s clear.”
“Do not change subject.”
“We’re literally changing rooms.”
You swung down from the panel, caught the edge with one hand, then dropped lightly to the floor beside her. Your boots hit the tile with barely a sound. The hallway beyond the records office stretched dark and cold ahead of you, lined with doors requiring keycards, biometric access, or the kind of confidence only rich men and former assassins possessed.
Yelena did not move. She crossed her arms.
“You told me it was real.”
“I did not.”
“You let me think it.”
“She sounds pretty mad,” Sam exhaled in your ear.
Yelena smiled without humor. “I am not mad. Explain.”
“This is not the time.”
“We are in empty hallway after disabling security. Very good time.”
“There are patrols.”
“I will get rid of them.”
“We are on a clock.”
“I am efficient.”
You looked toward the camera you had looped two minutes ago. It would hold for another six before the system caught the irregularity. Behind the next door was the internal archive. Behind that, if the floor plans were accurate, a secure storage room. Somewhere inside it was a physical drive marked with an old Red Room routing cipher that had no business appearing in a D.C. contractor’s foundation file.
You needed to keep moving.
You also knew Yelena well enough to understand that she would stand in the middle of an active mission until sunrise if she decided the emotional injury warranted it. She was very principled that way.
Terrible trait.
“We got married by accident,” you said.
Yelena stared. Sam made a small noise through the comms.
“I need both of you to remain calm.” You said, pointing toward the door and starting walking.
“By accident,” Yelena repeated.
“Yes.”
“And you did not tell me?”
“I was going to.”
“When? Anniversary?”
You reached the keycard panel and crouched in front of it, pulling a narrow tool from your sleeve.
“Probably before then.”
“I would stop talking if I were you,” Sam advised.
“Excellent advice,” you said. “For both of us.”
Yelena crouched beside you, close enough that her shoulder nearly touched yours. Her face had gone still in the way it did when hurt moved under anger. People who did not know her might have missed it. You did not.
The keycard panel clicked.
“Door,” you said.
Yelena did not look at it.
“You told Sam.”
“Bucky told Sam,” you corrected.
“You could have told me.”
“I know.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Or the right thing. Hard to tell. Yelena’s mouth tightened. You pulled the door open and slid inside before she could say anything else.
The archive room was colder than the hallway. Rows of rolling shelves stood under dim motion lights, each marked with dull metal tags and coded labels.
You moved down the first row, counting shelves. “Sam, talk to me.”
For once, Sam sounded cautious. “You’ve got eight minutes before the lobby guard cycles back. Exterior’s clear. Van's still clean. No alarms on my end.”
Yelena followed behind you, steps silent. “You lied to me.”
“I omitted.”
“You omitted the fake part of fake marriage. Crucial part.” Yelena’s glare could have stripped paint. “And then you kept lying to me for two months.”
You found the shelf. Section 4-14. Private philanthropic filings. Contractor-linked donor records. Shell entity cross-references. It was exactly where the floor plan said it would be, which made you immediately suspicious.
You crouched and ran your fingers along the bottom edge of the shelf, feeling for a pressure switch.
There.
Tiny, under the metal lip.
“Trap?” Yelena asked, anger pushed aside by instinct.
“Silent alarm.”
She crouched beside you, all business now. “Lazy.”
You smiled despite yourself and pulled a wedge from your belt. “Hold this.”
Yelena held the shelf steady while you slid the wedge in, locking the pressure plate. Her shoulder brushed yours. For all her fury, she was exactly where you needed her.
That made the guilt worse.
You opened the file drawer and started searching.
“You could have told me,” she said again, quieter this time.
You did not look at her. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Several answers circled in your head. Because if you knew it was fake, you’d ask why I kept wearing the ring like it wasn’t. Because Bucky is the first good thing I have held and I do not know how to want him without ruining it.
You pulled a folder from the drawer. “Because it’s complicated.”
Yelena scoffed softly. “That is coward’s answer.”
“I hate to agree with her,” Sam started, “but—”
“Finish the sentence and I will make your shield into a serving tray.”
He stopped.
You flipped through the folder, scanning donor names, dates, routing codes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then—
Harrington Strategic.
You froze.
Yelena noticed at once. “What?”
“Shell reference.”
You pulled the page free and photographed it. Then another. The codes were old but not old enough. You slid the documents into a scan sleeve and closed the drawer, moving to the next drawer.
“We need the drive.”
“And real conversation,” Yelena said.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Yelena,” you sighed.
“You have fake husband, real feelings, and did not tell me. We are having conversation.”
You reached the secure storage door at the back of the archive. “I do not have real feelings.”
Sam snorted.
“Wilson,” you muttered under your breath in warning.
“I’m just saying,” Sam said. “I was in the car after the truth serum.”
Yelena’s eyes lit up. “What truth serum?”
You closed your eyes briefly.
Wonderful. Excellent. Perfect.
“Can we focus on the mission?”
“You were truth-serumed?” Yelena demanded.
“On accident.”
“Buck put it in her tea,” Sam supplied.
Yelena stared at you.
You kept working on the lock. “He thought it was peppermint extract.”
“Why was truth serum labeled peppermint extract?” Yelena asked.
“That’s not the point.”
“Oh, well okay then. What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
The lock flashed red.
You exhaled, adjusted the bypass needle, and tried again.
“She was telling him how handsome he is,” Sam answered.
You narrowed your eyes. “Wilson.”
Yelena’s smile spread slowly.
“Oh.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You think Congressman Sad Eyes is handsome.”
“I was drugged.”
Yelena leaned against the wall beside the secure door, arms crossed, her earlier anger rearranging itself into something more dangerous: delight.
“You like him,” she said.
“I do not like him.”
“Yes, you do,” Sam and Yelena said at the same time.
The door opened.
You stepped inside. “This is bullying.”
“This is family,” Yelena said.
“Family needs to be quieter on missions.”
The secure room was smaller, lined with locked metal cabinets. The air was even colder here, a preservation chill meant to protect paper, hard drives, and whatever else men with too much money convinced themselves they could keep forever.
You knelt and unrolled a thin tool kit from your sleeve.
Yelena crouched beside you. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Say you like him.”
“I like many people.”
“You do not.”
“I tolerate several.”
“You like him.”
“I like his house. It’s a very nice house.”
Yelena gave you a flat look. “You are in love with townhouse?”
“The water pressure is excellent.”
“Is water pressure why you stare at him when he opens doors?”
“I do not stare.”
“You do.”
“I have to look at him sometimes. He is large and often in the way.”
“You know, for a former assassin,” Sam said in your ear, “your defense strategy is weak.”
You looked toward the ceiling in disbelief that this was your team for this mission. “I should’ve let Bucky come.”
“No, he would be worse,” Yelena snorted.
“He would’ve spent the whole mission asking if you were okay every five minutes,” Sam said.
“He does that because he is neurotic.”
“He does that because he loves—” Sam stopped so abruptly you heard his teeth click.
The lock pick paused in your hand. Sam went quiet. Too quiet. Your pulse changed but you forced your hand to keep moving.
“Because he loves what, Sam?”
“Control,” Sam said quickly. “Mission control. He loves mission control.”
You looked back at the lock until the pins blurred.
You had spent three weeks pretending the truth serum incident had not happened. Three weeks sleeping beside Bucky in the dark, the space between you warm and impossible. Three weeks watching him read labels twice before making your tea. Three weeks since you told him you were friends and colleagues and nothing else.
There were many things you could survive. Guns and needles, a bullet through soft tissue. A fall from three stories if you landed well. You were not sure you could survive Bucky knowing you wanted him and being kind about not wanting you back.
The lock clicked open.
You removed the small black drive from the cabinet, along with a paper index card containing three shell company names and a private event schedule.
Yelena plucked the card from your hand. “These are spouse events.”
“What?”
“Here,” she tapped the second line. “Foundation dinner. Closed guest list.”
You took the card back.
She was right.
A private board reception. A donor retreat listed as “family attendance encouraged.” Not staff. Not aides. Not policy advisors.
Spouses.
Sam’s voice came through. “What is it?”
“Access,” you said.
Yelena’s eyes flicked to you.
You slid the drive into your jacket. “As chief of staff, I can’t get into half these rooms without raising questions. As his wife…”
You felt a slow, unpleasant thrill.
Yelena smiled. “Finally, marriage becomes useful.”
“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Sam sighed.
“Yes, she did,” Yelena argued.
“I did not,” you said.
“You did. You are wasting marriage on longing instead of using marriage to crush enemies.”
“I am not longing.”
Yelena gave you a look. “You’re longing.”
“Oh, she’s longing,” Sam agreed.
“I hate both of you.”
“Maybe,” said Yelena. “But you like him.”
You shut the cabinet harder than necessary.
Fine.
You turned to face her, and Yelena was wearing the expression of a woman who had decided she would rather be shot than leave this alone.
“Fine,” you said.
Yelena stilled.
“Yes, I like him.”
No truth serum or nausea this time.
Yelena’s expression shifted. The triumph softened almost immediately into something protective. Sam made no sound at all.
You continued before anyone could be gentle.
“It’s not serious.”
“Oh, come on,” Sam said.
“It isn’t.”
“You are stealing files while wearing his ring,” Yelena said, “and pretending not to check your phone every time he texts.”
“It is a crush,” you snapped. “That’s all. A stupid, inconvenient crush caused by proximity. We’re done here.”
You turned to the exit.
“You have feelings,” Yelena said.
“I have many feelings. Hunger. Irritation.”
“For him. For Bucky.”
You stopped at the secure room door. “That I can’t do anything about.”
The hallway was still beyond clear. Your camera loop had two minutes left. The guard pattern had changed slightly; you could hear footsteps somewhere above you, a little too quick. Not yet a problem. Soon.
“Why not?” Sam said.
You kept your eyes on the corridor. “Because we have to stay married.”
“That seems like opposite of problem,” Yelena said.
“It is a public arrangement tied to his career, his office, and his bill. If we complicate it and it goes badly, we still have to live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, and lie to every camera in D.C. until we can safely undo it.”
You moved into the hall.
“And besides, he doesn’t want me like that,” you added.
Sam made a sound that might have been physical pain.
“You are stupid,” Yelena said.
“I know what I mean.” You stopped at the corner, checked the reflection in the dark glass of a framed abstract painting, then waved Yelena back a step. “He is kind. That’s what you’re seeing. He treats me well because he treats people well when he thinks they’re his responsibility.”
Sam went very quiet on the comm.
“He opens doors because he’s from the forties,” you continued. He makes tea because he feels guilty. He looks at me like that because he looks at everyone he wants to protect like that.”
Yelena’s voice came low behind you. “Does he?”
You did not answer.
“You ever think,” Sam started, “you keep deciding what he feels because it keeps you from ever having to ask?”
You turned toward the camera above the hall and pulled a compact from your belt.
“You ever think maybe you talk too much?”
“Every day. Doesn’t make me wrong. Just sayin’.”
“You are always just saying. It is your most dangerous condition.”
A soft, red light at the far end of the hallway began pulsing. A silent alarm. Local system only, probably triggered by the guard’s vitals monitor or the camera loop ending sooner than expected.
Sam swore. “You’ve got movement upstairs.”
“How many?”
“Four. Maybe six. Coming down the east stairwell.”
Yelena rolled her shoulders. “Good. I was bored.”
You took the keycard from her and started moving. “Exit route B.”
“I’m moving to pick up,” Sam said.
A crash sounded faintly through the comm.
You closed your eyes for half a second. “Subtle.”
The next ninety seconds were blessedly simple. Men came down the stairwell with earpieces and tactical gear. You and Yelena removed them from the situation.
One would have a bad knee for a week. Another would wake up zip-tied to a pipe with his own belt.
You ran through the service corridor, past the bad lighting, through a stairwell that smelled like dust and overheated electrical wiring. The lock clicked open and the night air hit your face as you slipped into the alley. Cold, damp, full of exhaust and rain. The van sat at the curb, lights off. Sam had parked badly.
Yelena climbed in first, you followed. Sam sat in the driver’s seat and pulled away before the back door was fully shut.
You leaned back against the seat and pulled out your phone. There were new texts from Bucky.
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
Alarm? Sam stopped responding.
12:34
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
I’m coming.
12:36
Your chest tightened and you typed quickly: Mission complete. Do not come.
His reply came almost instantly.
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
You okay?
12:42
You stared at the words. Four letters, one question mark, and somehow the equivalence of a hand at your back.
You typed back: No one died.
The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾
That’s not what I asked.
12:43
You locked the phone and shoved it into your jacket.
D.C. moved past in blurred lights and government buildings, all stone faces and dark windows. Somewhere across the city, Bucky was probably standing in his kitchen, phone in hand, jaw tight, pretending he was not waiting for you to walk through the door.
Yelena watched you.
“You like being married to him.”
You closed your eyes. The words came before you could make them smaller.
“I like being married to him.”
The van went quiet.
You opened your eyes.
Sam looked at you through the mirror, no grin this time.
Yelena’s expression had softened in the way she hated showing. Her shoulder pressed against yours for one brief second.
They were silent for the rest of the ride, which was something you were grateful for. You didn’t really have the energy to talk about your complicated feelings for your congressman and husband. Your Bucky.
You would have to do better at scrubbing that last idea out of your head.
It wasn’t long before Sam pulled up outside the townhouse. You slid the door open, grabbed your duffel bag, and hopped out.
The townhouse waited ahead, warm light glowing in the kitchen windows and front hall, the living room lamp left on low. Bucky did that now. Left lights on when you were coming home late. Not every light, not enough to make the house look exposed from the street, but enough that you never had to walk in darkness.
You had noticed the first time. You had not mentioned it.
Behind you, the van did not leave. Sam stayed in the driver’s seat with both hands on the wheel, pretending he was not watching you over the dash. Yelena’s face turned toward the townhouse with the pointed interest of someone who had no intention of letting you escape the conversation just because the mission was over.
“You are going to tell him?” She asked.
You checked the street instead of looking at her. The block was quiet, mostly.
“About the mission?”
“About the other thing.”
“There is no other thing.”
Sam made a sound from the front seat.
You looked at him.
He looked straight ahead.
“Did you have something to say, Wilson?” You asked.
“I’m a vault.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Yelena crunched a cashew. “You admitted you like being married to him. You should tell him.”
“No.”
Sam sighed through his nose. “You really think he doesn’t feel anything?”
You looked toward the townhouse again.
The kitchen window was bright enough that you could see the vague shape of someone moving past it, broad shoulders, shirtsleeves, dark hair. Bucky.
Your chest did something embarrassing. You shoved it back down.
“I think Bucky is a decent man who has spent two months trying to make an insane situation less awful for me,” you said. “I think he is honorable. I think he would rather chew glass than make me feel unwanted in my own fake marriage. And I think if I tell him I have feelings and he does not have them back, he will be kind about it, which will be worse.”
Neither of them immediately answered.
Yelena’s mouth pressed into a line. Sam looked briefly down at the wheel, his fingers flexing once around it.
Sam said your name gently. “You don’t know unless you ask.”
“I know enough.”
“You’re making assumptions.”
Yelena looked past you again, toward the house. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion this time, but assessment. She had been doing that since the Red Room fell, deciding what might kill you and what might save you. Sometimes she got the two mixed up.
“You like him,” she said. “He makes you feel safe.”
Yelena leaned forward and pressed her forehead briefly to your temple.
The first time she had done it, you had nearly flinched hard enough to break her nose. Now you stood still and let her, because family was apparently just repeated exposure to the same dangerous person until your nervous system gave up and called it love.
“You will call me tomorrow,” she said.
“I have work.”
“You will call me tomorrow.”
You paused. “...yeah. Yeah, okay.”
She stepped back, then pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then at you. “Do not do anything stupid.”
“Text if you need anything,” Sam said from the front seat.
“I won’t.”
“I know. Text anyway.”
The van pulled away before you could answer, leaving you alone on the sidewalk with the cold air, the flash drive, and the deeply irritating knowledge that the two most meddlesome people in your life had somehow become a united front.
You unlocked the front door with your key.
That was still strange.
Your key. Not strange enough that you did not use it. Not strange enough that you had not started keeping it on your normal keyring instead of loose in the side pocket of your bag. But strange enough that every time the lock turned, some part of you remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
The house opened around you, warm and quiet.
It smelled like roasted garlic, cedar soap, and Bucky’s coffee.
You stopped in the entryway. Bucky was in the kitchen.
He stood at the stove in rolled-up shirtsleeves, tie gone, hair slightly mussed like he had run a hand through it too many times. There was a pan on the burner, something wrapped in foil on the counter, two plates already set out, and his phone lying face-up beside the cutting board.
He looked over the second the door opened.
His eyes moved over you in one sweep: face, shoulders, hands, jacket, knees, boots. Checking for blood, limp, shock, pain. Anything out of place.
You shut the door behind you.
“Stop scanning me.”
“You’re limping. You hurt?”
“No.”
His eyes dropped to your knee.
You sighed. “Slightly.”
“Shoulder too?”
You looked down at yourself. “How did you—”
“You’re holdin’ it stiff.”
“I hate your eyes.”
“No, you don’t.”
You went still for a fraction too long.
Bucky noticed. His expression shifted, and he looked back toward the stove like the burner required his full attention.
“Food’s almost done,” he said.
“You cooked?”
“You said you were gonna forget to eat.”
“I said that hours ago.”
“Still seemed likely.”
You toed off your boots by the door and hung your coat on the hook beside his. The motion was too familiar. Boot by boot. Coat on hook. Shoulder beginning to throb where the bruise had started to bloom.
You moved into the kitchen and leaned against the island while Bucky turned off the stove. He had made eggs, toast, roasted vegetables, and rice in a pan with garlic and something else that smelled too good for a man who had once considered protein bars a complete meal.
“You waited to eat?” you asked.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Wasn’t hungry yet.”
Lie.
Bucky carried a plate to the island and set it in front of you first. Then he reached past you for the drawer, pulled out a fork, and placed it beside the plate like this was a perfectly normal thing.
You looked down at the plate, then at him.
“What?”
“You made vegetables.”
“I know how to make vegetables.”
“You own seasoning now?”
His eyes narrowed. “You bought it.”
“Yes, but you’re using it. That’s growth.”
“Eat.”
“Bossy.”
“Chief.”
“Husband.”
He went still for half a second. Then the pan on the stove made a small settling sound, and both of you pretended the room had not changed.
You picked up the fork.
He sat beside you with his own plate, close enough that your knees nearly bumped beneath the island. For a few minutes, you ate without talking about anything important. That had become one of the stranger comforts of living together. The silence.
Bucky let you get four bites in before asking, “Flash drive?”
You tapped the inside pocket of your jacket.
“The archive was real,” you said. Shell references. Donor movements. Some contractor aliases that match the list from last week.”
Bucky’s face changed. The domestic softness didn’t vanish, but something else slid over it. Focus. Concern. The old soldier and the newer congressman meeting somewhere behind his eyes.
“Valentina?”
“Adjacent.”
“Were you seen?”
“No.”
He looked at your knee.
“Not by anyone who remained conscious,” you amended.
“Sweetheart.”
“I had everything under control.”
“You’re limping.”
“I can limp from many noncombat related causes.”
“Like?”
“Drama. A deep commitment to mystique. Or, really, really good se—”
“Alright.”
You couldn’t stop the smile that was pulling at your lips.
There it was. The rhythm. The easy one. The thing that made coming home dangerous because you did not have to force it. With Bucky, you could slide into a conversation already moving. You could say nonsense and he would meet it with that tired patience that somehow made you want to escalate.
Bucky set his fork down. “Can I see your shoulder?”
You rolled your eyes. “It’s minor.”
“Can I see it?”
You unzipped the top of your tactical suit just enough to pull the collar aside and show him the bruise high on your shoulder. The kitchen light caught the darkening patch of skin, already shifting purple around the edges.
Bucky’s face went still.
“Do not make that face,” you said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His eyes moved to yours. “May I?”
You handed him permission with a sigh and a nod.
His fingers touched your shoulder gently. He pressed lightly around the bruise, checking swelling, range, damage. It should have been clinical. His hands had done worse things than tend a bruise, and your body had survived worse things than being touched by a man who cared whether you hurt.
Still, your breath went strange.
He withdrew his hand. “You’re gonna be sore.”
“I know.”
“You should ice it.”
“I know.”
“You gonna?”
You smiled.
His mouth twitched. “That means no.”
Bucky stood, went to the freezer, wrapped an ice pack in a towel, and brought it back. You accepted it and pressed it to your shoulder. The cold bit through the towel, sharp enough to steady you.
Something in you softened. It had been doing that too often lately. You had learned to take hits without making them matter. Bruises were inventory. Pain was information. But Bucky looked at every mark on you like it was an argument with the world.
You looked down at the plate. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Acting like this is worse because it happened to me.”
“It is worse because it happened to you.”
Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth.
Bucky seemed to realize what he had said a moment after saying it. His expression tightened with caution.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. The house hummed around the silence: refrigerator, old pipes, the faint tick of the burner cooling on the stove. Your shoulder ached beneath the ice pack, but distantly now, like a complaint from another room.
Bucky’s eyes dropped to the bruise again, and you knew that if you let him, he would turn that mark into evidence against himself. You could see the shape of it forming. That familiar Barnes guilt, broad-shouldered and self-sustaining.
You set your fork down.
“I don’t mind getting hurt on missions,” you said.
Bucky’s gaze returned to yours immediately. “That’s not something you should say like its normal.”
“It is normal.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Bucky,” you sighed.
“No,” he repeated. “Getting hurt shouldn’t be the price of doing good. Not with you.”
You leaned back slightly against the island, ice pressed to your shoulder, tactical suit half-unzipped at the collar, body tired.
“I mean it,” you said. “I don’t mind. Not like that. I spent years being useful to the wrong people. I was good at it. I was very good at being terrible for whoever pointed me in the right direction.”
Bucky’s expression changed.
You should have stopped, but instead, you looked down at your hand, at the ring sitting there, and continued before the smarter part of you could shut the door.
“Now I get to choose where I point myself. I get to break into an archive and steal evidence from people who think enhanced bodies and scared kids with powers are inventory. I get to be useful on purpose, for something that might actually help someone.” You swallowed, irritated by the sudden roughness in your throat. “So I don’t mind a couple bruises. It’s fine. Almost comforting.”
Bucky was still beside you. You could feel him listening, not as though he was waiting for his turn to speak, but like every word had weight. Like he knew what it was to have your own history used against you and was careful not to become another hand on the scale.
You dragged your thumb against the condensation on your glass.
“It doesn’t make up for anything,” you said. “It doesn’t undo what I did. And I know what people say. I know I was conditioned and controlled and trained and handled and used. I know all the words. I’ve written half of them in memos for other people.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
You laughed once, but it had no humor. “There it is.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
You looked at him.
His face was open in a way he rarely let it be. Bucky Barnes was never fully unguarded but there was no performance in him now, no congressman, no public husband, no careful joke he could hide behind.
You tilted your head to the side, looking at him from a different angle. “Barnes, you don’t get to say that to me and not yourself. You’re doing the thing where grace applies to everyone in the room except you.”
“That’s not what I’m doin’.”
“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”
Bucky looked down at his hands.
“Steve once told me something similar,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the side of his ring. “He told me that what I did all those years wasn’t me. That I didn’t have a choice.”
Your chest tightened and you looked at him skeptically. “Did you believe him?”
Bucky was quiet for a moment.
“No,” he admitted. “Not then.”
He breathed in slowly, like he was choosing each word before letting it leave him.
“I wanted to. I knew he meant it.” Bucky’s mouth moved slightly, not quite a smile. “Didn’t mean I could carry it.”
You understood that too well. Belief offered from the outside could feel like a coat in the wrong size. Warm, maybe. But not made for your body. Not something you could move in.
Bucky looked up at you again.
“But now?” you asked.
His gaze held yours. “Now I think he was right.”
His words were quiet. Not easy. But there.
“I’m not defined by what they made me do,” Bucky said. “I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t get to wash my hands and say none of it touched me. But I get to decide what I do with the rest of my life.”
He looked down briefly at the flash drive sitting on the counter between you.
“I can do some good in this world.” He shrugged. “Maybe enough that the good is its own thing, not payment. Not atonement. Just good.”
Your throat ached.
Bucky’s hand rested near his glass, metal fingers still, flesh hand curled loosely beside it. The ring on his left hand caught the kitchen light.
He let out a breath.
“Maybe,” he said, “I can have some good too.”
Bucky said that last part quieter, like he wasn’t sure if he quite believed it yet. He said it like a man asking permission from an empty room.
You looked at him and felt something in you go unbearably soft.
“You deserve good things,” you said.
You had not planned to say it. You were not sure where it had come from. Maybe from the two months of watching Bucky Barnes act like goodness was something he was allowed to protect but never receive.
His face changed in increments. First surprise, then discomfort. Then something raw enough that he lowered his eyes before you could fully see it.
He cleared his throat. “Don’t know about that.”
“I do.”
His eyes came back to yours.
Then his phone buzzed on the counter. The moment fractured.
The screen lit up with a news alert from some garbage entertainment-politics site whose entire business model revolved around grainy photos and hastily made assumptions.
The headline read:
BABY BARNES? INSIDERS SPECULATE CONGRESSMAN’S SUDDEN MARRIAGE MAY HAVE BEEN A SHOTGUN WEDDING
The house went quiet.
“I’m sorry,” you said, pushing your plate away from you. “Apparently I’m what?”
Bucky picked up the phone, thumb moving over the screen. His expression shifted from confusion to irritation. You leaned closer despite yourself.
The article had three photos. One of you leaving the donor reception the night of the truth serum incident, hunched slightly forward, one hand pressed to your stomach while Bucky guided you toward the waiting car. Another of him helping you into the backseat. A third, zoomed and blurred beyond decency, of him standing at the curb looking worried enough to make any tabloid editor salivate.
Under the photos, the caption read:
Mrs. Barnes appeared visibly unwell while leaving an exclusive reception three weeks ago, fueling speculation that the couple’s sudden nuptials may have been prompted by more than romance.
You read it twice, then looked down at your stomach.
“Well,” you said. “News to me.”
Bucky did not laugh easily, and he certainly did not laugh loudly when tabloids were speculating about his fake wife. But his mouth cracked first, then his eyes, and then he turned his face away with one hand over his mouth.
“Oh, this is funny to you?”
“No.”
“You’re laughing.”
“‘M not.”
You picked up his phone and scrolled with one finger. “This is absurd. They cite an anonymous source who says I have been ‘glowing.’”
“You do glow.”
You stared at him.
He looked mildly alarmed by himself.
“I mean… you’re sweaty sometimes.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“That came out wrong.”
“I should hope so.”
He dragged a hand over his face. “I meant you look good.”
Your mouth hung open slightly. His ears went pink.
The tabloid headline seemed to glow between you like a cursed artifact.
“Right. Well.” You looked back at the phone. “Mia’ll kill it in the morning.”
The rest of the evening went on with the kind of absurd normalcy that made your life feel like a badly written cover story. You finished eating. Bucky took the plates. You dried them. Two former assassins doing dishes under warm kitchen lights.
You were putting away the last fork when Bucky said, “You should go upstairs.”
“Bossy.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Oh, just because I’m pregnant now I can’t take care of myself?”
He rolled his eyes at your joke, standing near the sink towel in hand. Not ordering or pushing, just reading you too well and giving you nowhere to hide.
Bucky said your name softly.
You sighed. “Fine.”
He smiled faintly, stopping in front of you and, without seeming to think about it, brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.
His fingers were warm against your temple. Your eyes dipped for half a second, your body leaning toward the contact in the automatic way tired bodies lean toward heat. He looked at you with a quiet kind of fondness that had become too common lately.
Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead.
His lips touched your skin like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You did good tonight,” he murmured.
You hummed something that might have been, “I always do,” but you were not sure it had words.
Bucky stepped back, gathered the towel, and turned to hang it on the oven handle.
You went upstairs because he had told you to, and because your body was beginning to remember it had spent the last several hours crawling through vents and fighting security. You changed slowly in the bathroom, peeling out of the tactical suit and leaving it folded over the hamper. There was a smear of dust along your jaw. You wiped it away with a damp cloth and stared at yourself in the mirror.
You looked tired. And bruised. And married.
The ring caught the light when you braced your hand on the sink.
That was when your mind, traitorous and apparently operating on a delay, replayed the kitchen.
His fingers at your temple. His mouth against your forehead.
You stood very still in the bathroom.
There had been no audience. No office staff, no reporter looking for a tender line to put below a photo. No donor needing reassurance that Congressman Barnes was stable, married, softened by domestic life. No reason to perform anything.
He had kissed your forehead because he wanted to.
But Bucky did things like that.
Did he?
Did he kiss his friends on the forehead? No. No, he did not. You had never seen him kiss Sam’s forehead, though the thought was so amusing your brain tried to seize onto it as an escape route. He did not kiss Peter’s forehead, or Mia’s, and you knew he wouldn’t even try to kiss Yelena’s forehead.
But you had been tired. He was taking care of you. He did that. He took care of people.
He made food and opened doors and checked locks. Bucky Barnes left lights on and walked on the street side. He was kind. That was all. It had to be all.
Because if it was not all, then you had a serious problem.
You gripped the edge of the sink. Your face in the mirror looked unimpressed with you.
“Shut up,” you whispered to it.
You thought of the van. Yelena’s forehead against your temple. Sam watching you through the windshield with that awful careful face.
You ever think you keep deciding what he feels because it keeps you from having to ask?
You hated Sam. You hated him and his ability to say one useful thing every three hundred jokes.
Summary: The bonfire was supposed to be harmless. One night, one invitation, one more reckless vacation decision before reality came calling. But Bucky’s hard to keep at a distance when he looks at you like that, asks before he touches, and makes every careful moment feel like something worth trusting. Between firelight, a first kiss, and one last proper date before he leaves, what started as a detour begins to feel dangerously close to a beginning.
Warnings/Tags: Second Chance At Love, Romantic Bucky Barnes, Explicit Sexual Content, Oral Sex (F Receiving), Consensual Protected Sex, Public Sex, Like 55 Consent Check-Ins, Emotional Vulnerability, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful: The Sequel
Word Count: 14.7k
Music:
Dress - Taylor Swift
Work Song - Hozier
Northern Attitude - Noah Kahan
Call It What You Want - Taylor Swift
Sweet Creature - Harry Styles
Talk - Hozier
Notes: hi hello!! This is part two of a three part series, part one can be found here! As mentioned before, this idea came from a TikTok I saw and festered in my brain. I’ve seen all the reblogs and comments for part one and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support! I hope you all love part two while I finish up part three. <3
The bonfire came into view slowly, then all at once.
At first it was only a glow, warm and orange against the deepening blue of evening, licking up beyond the curve of the dunes. Then came the shapes: silhouettes moving in front of the firelight, people gathered in small clusters with drinks in hand, beach chairs half-sunk into the sand, a cooler near a weathered wooden post, strings of battery-powered lanterns looped between two poles like someone had cared enough to make the whole thing feel inviting instead of thrown together.
The beach stretched wide and dusky around it, the ocean rolling black and silver a little ways beyond, waves collapsing softly against the shore. The sky hadn’t gone dark yet, not fully. It held on to the last bruised colors of sunset: lavender, peach, a fading stripe of gold at the horizon, and the fire made everything below it glow like some private little world carved out of the night.
You slowed without meaning to.
Beside you, Lena noticed immediately. “Still okay?”
You looked toward the bonfire.
You saw Sam first.
You knew it had to be Sam because he was standing near the food table with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d either organized everything or was loudly taking credit for it. He had a beer in one hand and was gesturing with the other while a blond man beside him, Steve probably, watched him with the patient exhaustion of someone who had heard this exact speech before and lost the will to interrupt.
Then your eyes moved past them… and there he was.
Bucky stood near the edge of the firelight, a little apart from the loudest part of the group, like he had tried to position himself casually and failed because every line of his body was angled toward the path you’d just walked down.
He was wearing dark jeans again, boots planted in the sand, and a faded navy shirt under an open gray button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, though the breeze had already started pulling a few strands loose. Firelight flickered over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark scruff along his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that vanished the second he saw you.
And then he smiled.
Not the careful half-smile from the terrace. Not the controlled, almost shy one from your texts.
This one hit him before he could hide it.
Open. Warm. Relieved.
Like he had, in fact, been staring at the entrance all night.
Your heart did something terribly inconvenient.
“Oh,” Tori whispered beside you. “He is absolutely gone.”
“Behave,” Lena murmured.
“I am observing.”
Jess leaned in on your other side. “For the record, that was a very good reaction.”
Mia hummed thoughtfully. “Supportively less suspicious.”
You tried to glare at them, but the effect was probably weakened by the fact that you could not stop smiling.
Bucky began walking toward you before anyone else seemed to fully notice your group’s arrival. He didn’t rush, exactly, but there was a purpose to it. A quiet intent that made your stomach flutter with every step he took. The firelight followed him unevenly, catching in his eyes when he came close enough to stand in front of you.
For one suspended second, neither of you said anything.
The sounds of the bonfire moved around you: laughter, music, the distant crash of waves, Sam’s voice saying something far too loudly about “optimal marshmallow technique.” Your friends had gone quiet in that very obvious way people did when they were pretending not to be listening.
Bucky’s gaze moved over your face, then dropped, just briefly, to the blue dress.
When his eyes came back to yours, he looked almost pained.
“Hi,” he said.
You smiled despite yourself. “Hi.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than was reasonable. “You look…”
His mouth closed.
You arched a brow, trying to save yourself from melting into the sand. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous, remember?”
That got him. His smile tilted, a little sheepish and a little devastating.
“Beautiful,” he said anyway. “You look beautiful.”
Behind you, Tori made a tiny sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.
Bucky’s eyes flicked past your shoulder and you felt him take in the group lined up behind you like a very pretty jury.
His posture shifted, not nervous, exactly, but respectful. Like he knew he was about to be assessed and had accepted his fate.
“You must be the protective friends,” he said.
Jess folded her arms. “Depends who’s asking.”
Bucky held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”
Jess looked at his hand for one theatrical second before shaking it. “Jess. Current stance: undecided.”
“Fair.”
Mia stepped forward next, smiling in a way that was friendly but sharp at the edges. “Mia. I hear Sam thinks I’m leadership material.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “He does. I should warn you, that’s how he recruits people into doing things he doesn’t want to do.”
Mia nodded approvingly. “Good to know.”
Tori shook his hand with far less subtlety, looking delighted. “Tori. I’m rooting for you, but quietly, because I was told to be suspicious.”
Bucky actually laughed at that, and the sound warmed something beneath your ribs.
“Appreciate the honesty.”
Lena was last. She stepped forward with her calm, steady gaze and took his hand. “Lena.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like he meant more than manners.
Lena studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You too.”
It was not an endorsement, but it wasn’t a warning shot either.
Progress.
Bucky turned back to you. For a moment, his attention settled so fully that the others seemed to fade around the edges.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”
His eyes dropped to the movement, then back to your face. “Can I introduce you around?”
“Sure.”
He hesitated for half a second, then held out his hand, palm open. Not grabbing. Not assuming, but asking.
You looked at it, then at him, and placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed gently around yours.
It was absurd, how immediate the warmth was. How quickly your body remembered him from the night before. Not just the shape of his hand, but the feeling of being given space and held carefully inside it.
Your friends noticed. Of course they noticed.
Jess’s eyebrows went up.
Tori silently clutched Mia’s arm.
Lena’s gaze softened again, just barely.
Bucky led all of you toward the main group, his thumb brushing once over the side of your hand.
Sam spotted you first.
“Well, well, well,” he called, grin already spreading. “Look who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting by the entrance.”
Bucky closed his eyes briefly. “Here we go.”
You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”
“I warned you.”
Sam came forward with a cooler confidence than anyone had a right to possess on sand, smile bright, eyes mischievous. “Sam Wilson. Food director, fire supervisor, emotional support extrovert.”
“Self-appointed,” Steve said, joining him.
“Incorrect. Democracy chose me.”
“No one voted.”
“Because they trusted my leadership.”
Steve sighed and turned to your group with a smile that was instantly calming, all polite warmth and old-fashioned steadiness. “Steve Rogers. Sorry in advance for him.”
“Never apologize for excellence,” Sam said.
Mia stepped forward at once. “Mia. I respect a man who knows his brand.”
Sam’s grin sharpened. “Leadership material.”
“I was told.”
“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, looking at Bucky. “I like them.”
Bucky muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
The introductions unfolded easily after that, helped by Sam’s complete inability to let anything become awkward. Steve was exactly as Bucky had described: respectable in a simple white shirt, quietly amused, the kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke but somehow missed nothing. There were a few others there too, friends of friends, relaxed vacation acquaintances whose names you caught and then immediately half-forgot because Bucky’s hand was still around yours and your brain had priorities.
And then there was Natasha.
She sat near the far side of the fire, red hair catching every flicker of flame like copper. She had one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand, and an expression that made it seem like she had already figured out everyone’s secrets and was politely waiting for the rest of you to catch up.
“Nat,” she said when Sam introduced her, standing to greet your group.
Her gaze moved over all of you with cool, clever interest. When Jess introduced herself with a flat, “Current stance: suspicious,” Natasha’s smile sharpened.
“Smart,” Natasha said.
Jess blinked once, caught just slightly off guard, and you tucked that away for later.
Then Bucky’s hand shifted gently around yours and your attention swung back to him like it had been pulled by gravity.
The evening opened around you after that.
Sam swept everyone toward the food table with the authority of a man who had indeed appointed himself director of hospitality. There were foil trays of grilled skewers, corn, chips, fruit, dips, a truly unnecessary number of marshmallows, and a cooler stocked with drinks. Someone had brought a portable speaker, currently playing something mellow and summery beneath the louder rhythm of conversations. The fire cracked and snapped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.
Bucky stayed close, but not too close.
That was the thing you kept noticing. He was attentive without hovering. Present without trapping you in his attention. He introduced you, made sure you knew where things were, asked what you wanted to drink, but never made you feel like the entire night had to orbit him.
When you chose a bottled lemonade from the cooler instead of alcohol, he didn’t comment beyond opening it for you when the cap stuck.
“You okay?” he asked quietly, handing it over.
“Yeah. I figured I’d take it easier tonight.”
“Probably smarter than whatever Sam’s mixing over there.”
You glanced over to where Sam was holding court beside a cooler while Mia inspected his drink-pouring technique with theatrical skepticism.
“What is he mixing?”
“Confidence and poor judgment.”
You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes warmed like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.
The two of you drifted closer to the fire, standing just outside the circle of chairs. Around you, your friends were settling in with surprising ease. Tori was already laughing at something Steve had said, though Steve looked faintly confused by how funny she found him. Mia and Sam had entered what appeared to be a competitive banter spiral over who was more qualified to manage the roasting sticks. Lena had taken a seat near the edge of the group, relaxed but watchful, though every now and then you caught her smiling into her cup.
Across the fire, Jess had somehow ended up beside Natasha, the two of them speaking low beneath the music. Jess said something that made Natasha’s mouth curve into a slow, approving smile, and you made a mental note to interrogate her later.
A gust of wind came off the water, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. You tried not to react, but Bucky noticed anyway.
“Cold?”
“A little.”
He glanced down at his open button-down, hand already moving toward it. “Here.”
“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He slipped it off anyway, leaving him in the navy shirt that pulled unfairly across his shoulders and chest. He held the button-down open, but paused before placing it around you.
“Can I?”
The question was soft. Almost too soft beneath the music and waves, but you heard it.
You swallowed. “Yeah.”
He stepped behind you.
For one second, his body was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your back. Then the shirt settled over your shoulders, warm from him, smelling faintly like cedar and soap and smoke from the fire. His hands lingered only long enough to adjust the collar so it sat comfortably, fingertips barely brushing your shoulders through the fabric.
Your breath caught despite your best effort.
Bucky stepped back around in front of you, watching your face carefully. “Okay?”
You nodded, fingers curling into the edges of the shirt. “Okay.”
His gaze softened.
From somewhere near the food table, Sam yelled, “BARNES, IS THAT YOUR SHIRT?”
Bucky’s eyes closed.
You bit your lip, smiling.
“Sure is,” Steve called before Bucky could answer, sounding far too cheerful.
Sam appeared delighted. “Look at him! Chivalry at the beach!”
“Sam,” Bucky warned.
“Man’s been here five minutes and already donated clothing.”
Mia lifted her drink. “That’s community service.”
Tori beamed. “We love community service.”
Jess called from beside Natasha, “We are observing community service.”
Bucky looked like he wanted the sand to swallow him.
You laughed so hard you had to tuck your face briefly against his sleeve, now draped over you. When you looked back up, his embarrassment had softened into something else entirely.
He was watching you laugh.
Not smiling at the joke. Not glancing toward Sam or the others.
Watching you.
As if the sound had reached into him and turned some hidden light on.
Your laughter faded slowly.
The fire popped between you.
Bucky’s voice lowered. “Worth it.”
Your cheeks warmed. “Being mocked by your friends?”
“Making you laugh like that.”
Oh.
You looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand near your feet.
He let you have the moment, not pushing, not filling the space with another line. That almost made it worse. The quiet sincerity sat there between you, glowing.
Eventually, you lifted your eyes again. “You’re doing very well for someone who promised to disappoint me a little.”
His mouth tipped. “Night’s still young.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Only if Sam offers you something called a Wilson Special.”
You glanced over to Sam, who was now dramatically demonstrating something with a marshmallow while Mia heckled him.
“Noted.”
The next hour passed like something out of a life you hadn’t thought you were allowed to step into yet.
You roasted marshmallows badly.
Bucky roasted his perfectly, which you immediately accused him of doing just to be annoying.
“You’re too good at that,” you said, watching him turn the stick with patient precision.
“It’s a marshmallow.”
“It’s suspicious.”
“Everything is suspicious to your group.”
“Correct. We’ve been through a lot.”
His expression softened just slightly, but he kept his tone light. “Then I’ll try to look less competent.”
“Too late. You’ve revealed yourself as a man with fire-adjacent skills.”
“That going in my file?”
“Jess is probably keeping one.”
Across the fire, Jess lifted her cup without turning around. “I am.”
Bucky leaned closer and murmured, “That woman hears everything.”
You laughed and his smile lingered as he turned back to his marshmallow.
The two of you ended up sitting side by side on a blanket someone had spread near the edge of the fire circle. Not alone, exactly, but apart enough that the conversation around you blurred into something softer. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. Your knees were bent, toes buried in cooling sand, and Bucky sat close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever either of you shifted.
Each accidental touch felt less accidental than the last.
He asked you questions.
Real ones.
Not the easy vacation small talk of where are you from and what do you do tossed out like filler, though those came too. He asked what you loved about your work. What kind of things made you laugh when you were having a terrible day. Whether you were the type to plan every detail of a trip or pretend you were spontaneous while secretly knowing the restaurant menu three days in advance.
You told him more than you meant to.
That you liked knowing people were safe because of you, even in small ways. That your friends teased you for being stubborn but usually meant it as a compliment. That you loved mornings in theory but not in practice. That you bought books faster than you read them. That you used to make playlists for every important era of your life, but lately you hadn’t known what to call this one.
He listened like every answer mattered.
And when you asked him things in return, he answered with that same careful honesty you were beginning to associate with him.
He told you he liked quiet mornings. Old movies. Good coffee. Long walks when his head got too loud. He told you Sam had dragged him into the trip because he’d been “getting broody again,” and when Sam overheard that, he yelled, “I said emotionally unavailable hermit, not broody!”
Bucky threw a bottle cap at him.
You laughed until your side hurt.
He told you Steve had been his best friend for so long that they’d practically grown up under each other’s skin. That Natasha was the kind of friend who knew too much and used it with surgical precision. That he wasn’t always good in crowds, but he was trying to say yes to things more often.
“To bonfires?” you asked.
“To people,” he said.
The answer quieted you.
Firelight shifted over his face, softening the strong lines, catching in the blue of his eyes when he looked at you.
“Is that hard?” you asked.
He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were clasped loosely between his knees, broad and scarred in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Not dramatically, not enough to invite questions, but enough to suggest his life had left marks.
“Sometimes,” he said. “I got used to keeping distance. It’s easier.”
You understood that more than you wanted to.
“Safer,” you said.
His gaze lifted.
You hadn’t meant to say it quite so softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “Safer.”
For a moment, neither of you looked away.
Then Sam yelled, “Who wants another hot dog?” and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh.
But it didn’t fully break. Not really.
It lingered.
In the way Bucky’s knee touched yours and stayed there.
In the way he passed you napkins before you realized you needed them.
In the way his eyes kept finding you across little interruptions, as though checking that you were still with him.
And you were.
That was the frightening part.
You were so with him.
At some point, the fire burned lower and the sky turned fully dark. Stars began to prick through overhead, faint at first, then clearer the farther your eyes moved from the lanterns. The beach stretched shadowy beyond the circle, the ocean a constant hush in the distance. People had shifted positions, some standing near the cooler, others sprawled in chairs, the conversations looser now.
Tori and Steve were debating something about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich. Mia and Sam had entered an alliance over music selection, which seemed dangerous for everyone. Lena was talking with one of Steve’s friends, relaxed enough that she’d stopped scanning for emergencies every few minutes.
Jess’s eyes immediately swept over you when you shifted closer to Bucky on the blanket, sharp and assessing. Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her cup, looking entirely too pleased by whatever she’d noticed and wisely choosing not to say a word.
Bucky glanced toward the water, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression… hesitation, maybe. Want, definitely. Carefully contained.
“Would you walk with me?” he asked.
Your heartbeat changed.
Not in alarm. Not exactly.
But awareness moved through you, bright and immediate.
Bucky seemed to sense the flicker of nerves, because he nodded toward the shore. “Just down there. Still in view. Unless you’d rather stay here.”
There it was again. The room to say no.
The space.
You glanced toward your friends automatically.
Lena was already looking at you. Of course she was. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky, then to the stretch of beach he had indicated. Still visible from the bonfire. Still public. Still safe.
She lifted her brows in a silent question.
You nodded once.
She nodded back.
Jess, still watching, gave you two fingers pointed at her eyes, then at Bucky.
Bucky saw it and lifted one hand in solemn acknowledgment.
You snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable.”
“I respect her methods.”
“That will help your file.”
“Good.”
You stood, brushing sand from the skirt of your dress. Bucky rose beside you and offered his hand.
You took it.
The two of you walked away from the fire slowly, leaving the loudest laughter behind. The sand grew cooler as you neared the water, firmer under your feet. You slipped off your sandals after a few steps, hooking them in one hand, and Bucky wordlessly adjusted his pace to match yours.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
It was not uncomfortable.
The night had deepened around you, vast and salt-scented. The bonfire glowed behind you, a warm blur of orange and gold. Ahead, the ocean rolled beneath the moon, dark and endless, white foam curling and vanishing over the shore. The wind moved through Bucky’s borrowed shirt around your shoulders, pressing it closer to your skin.
Your hand was still in his.
You were very aware of that.
“So,” you said eventually, because silence with him felt intimate enough to make you brave and nervous all at once, “do you often invite emotionally compromised women and their entire security detail to beach bonfires?”
Bucky huffed a laugh. “First time.”
“Lucky me.”
“Lucky me,” he said, and there was no joke in it.
You looked over.
He was watching the water, profile silvered by moonlight, jaw relaxed but eyes serious.
“You can’t just say things like that,” you murmured.
His gaze shifted to you. “Why not?”
“Because I might start believing you.”
He stopped walking.
So did you.
The bonfire was still visible in the distance, the group still close enough to be reassuring but far enough that their voices had softened into indistinct warmth. The waves moved beside you, rushing in, pulling back, leaving the sand shining around your bare feet.
Bucky turned to face you fully.
“I’d like that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
He seemed to realize how direct that sounded, because he looked down for a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. That came out…”
“Honest?”
His eyes came back up.
You tried to smile, but it wavered. Not because of him. Because something about his sincerity pressed gently against a bruise you were still trying to protect.
Bucky’s expression changed at once.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Too much?”
You shook your head quickly, then stopped because the truth was more complicated than that.
“I don’t know,” you admitted.
He didn’t move closer. “Okay.”
“I like it,” you said, and your voice sounded embarrassingly vulnerable in the open air. “That’s the problem.”
His face softened.
You looked out at the water because it was easier than looking at him. “I like how you talk to me. I like that you ask before you touch me. I like that you invited my friends instead of acting like they were in the way. I like that you’re funny in this dry, accidental way and that you get embarrassed when people call you out.” You swallowed. “I like that I wanted you to text me this morning.”
The confession hung there between you.
Your chest tightened immediately with the old instinct to take it back. To make it smaller. To laugh it off before he could hold it.
But Bucky did not look triumphant.
He did not look smug.
He looked almost unbearably gentle.
“I wanted to text you at seven,” he said.
You laughed under your breath, shaky. “You told me.”
“No.” He stepped one inch closer, then stopped. “I mean I had the message typed out. Sat there staring at it like an idiot because I didn’t want you waking up and thinking, ‘Great, the guy from last night is already too much.’”
You turned back to him.
His mouth pulled into a rueful half-smile. “Sam saw me deleting it for the third time and told me I was setting feminism back by overthinking a good morning text.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little at the sound.
“He may have had a point,” you said.
“He usually does. It’s annoying.”
The humor softened the moment, but only enough to make room for the rest of it.
Bucky looked at you carefully. “I know this is bad timing.”
You breathed out slowly.
“Maybe.”
“I know you’re hurting.”
Your eyes stung, sudden and unwelcome.
He continued, voice low. “And I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up on vacation and makes you forget everything for a weekend just so it hurts worse after.”
The accuracy of that fear made your throat tighten.
Bucky’s gaze stayed on yours, steady despite the vulnerability in his own expression. “I don’t want to be a distraction you regret.”
You looked down at where your feet had sunk slightly into the wet sand. A thin rush of water slid over your toes and pulled away again.
“I’m afraid of that,” you said.
“I figured.”
“But I’m also afraid of… not letting myself have anything good because he ruined so much.”
Bucky was quiet.
Your fingers tightened around your sandals. “That’s the part that makes me angry. That he gets to still be in my head. That even meeting someone who’s kind to me turns into this whole internal debate about whether I’m being stupid again.”
“You’re not stupid.”
The words came fast. Firm. Almost sharp.
You looked at him.
Bucky’s jaw had tightened, something protective flashing in his eyes before he visibly tempered it.
“You’re not,” he repeated, gentler. “Trusting someone who didn’t deserve it doesn’t make you stupid.”
You let out a small, humorless laugh. “My friends said that this morning.”
“Smart women.”
“They keep saying you’re making it difficult to stay suspicious.”
His mouth twitched. “Good.”
“I thought you respected their methods.”
“I do. Still want to pass.”
Something about that made you smile.
Bucky took another small step, close enough now that the wind lifted the ends of your hair against his chest. His shirt still hung around your shoulders. You wondered if he noticed the way you’d wrapped yourself in it, fingers tucked into the cuffs.
He definitely noticed.
His eyes dropped briefly, softening at the sight, before finding your face again.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m scared too.”
That surprised you.
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“Of what?”
His laugh was quiet and a little rough. “Right now? Saying the wrong thing. Moving too fast. Moving too slow. Looking at you too much.”
Your heart stumbled.
“I don’t mind that last one,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened, not in a way that felt heavy or demanding, but in a way that made the air between you feel warmer despite the ocean breeze.
“No?”
You shook your head.
The waves came in again, closer this time, washing over your feet and making you gasp at the cold. You instinctively stepped forward, away from the water.
Straight into him.
Bucky’s hands lifted automatically, catching you lightly at the waist.
You both froze.
His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Steady. Careful. He held you just enough to keep you from stumbling and no more, though your body had ended up close enough that you could see every shift in his expression.
“Sorry,” you breathed.
“Don’t be.”
His voice was low.
You should have stepped back.
You did not.
Your hands had landed against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Beneath your palms, he was solid and warm, his breath moving slow but not quite even. His gaze moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the moment without taking more of it than you wanted to give.
The fire was distant now.
The ocean was loud.
Your heart was louder.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked to your mouth.
Then back.
“Can I kiss you?”
The question was so soft it nearly came apart in the wind.
For a second, you couldn’t answer.
Not because you didn’t want it.
Because you wanted it so badly it frightened you.
And maybe he saw that too, because his hands loosened instantly at your waist.
“You can say no,” he murmured. “Or not yet. Or—”
“Yes.”
The word left you before fear could catch it.
Bucky stilled.
You swallowed, fingers tightening once against his shirt. “Yes.”
His expression shifted, something tender and stunned moving through his eyes.
Then he leaned in.
Slowly.
So slowly that it felt like a thousand tiny choices instead of one reckless one. He gave you every chance to turn away. Every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You rose slightly onto your toes, meeting him halfway because you wanted him to know this was not something happening to you.
It was something you were choosing.
His mouth touched yours softly at first.
A question.
A warmth.
Barely more than a press of lips, gentle enough that it made your chest ache. You had expected intensity from him. Expected the pull you’d felt since the terrace to finally spark into something overwhelming. But instead, the first kiss was careful. Almost reverent. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs still, his body held in check as though he was afraid one wrong move might break the fragile trust between you.
Your eyes closed.
Something inside you went quiet.
Not healed. Not erased.
Quiet.
You kissed him back.
That was when he exhaled, the sound low and unsteady against your mouth, and the kiss deepened by degrees. Still gentle, still restrained, but warmer now. More certain. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, holding you a little closer, and you let him. Your fingers moved up from his chest to the side of his neck, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your thumb, the way his pulse jumped under your touch.
He kissed like he had been wanting to all night and refusing himself until you gave him permission.
Like wanting you did not make him careless, like y tenderness could be its own kind of hunger.
The thought nearly undid you.
When you finally parted, it was only by an inch.
Bucky’s forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes stayed closed for half a second longer, like he needed it.
Then he opened them.
Blue. Soft. A little wrecked.
“Still okay?” he whispered.
Your laugh came out quiet and shaky. “Yeah,” you said, a wobbly smile playing on your lips.
His thumb moved once at your back. “Yeah?”
You nodded, and this time your smile steadied. “Still okay.”
The relief in his face was almost enough to make you kiss him again.
Almost.
From somewhere near the bonfire, Jess called, “You good?”
You laughed against Bucky’s chest, mortified and fond all at once. “That’s my emotional support menace.”
Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I respect her.”
“You should. She’s terrifying.”
“Noted.”
The moment might have broken under the teasing, but instead it only folded itself into something sweeter. Realer. Less perfect in the best possible way.
Bucky reached up and brushed a windblown strand of hair from your cheek. He moved slowly enough that you could have pulled back.
You didn’t.
His fingers lingered near your jaw for one soft second.
“I should walk you back before they organize,” he said.
“Probably.”
Neither of you moved.
His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lifted with visible restraint.
You smiled. “You’re trying to be a gentleman again.”
“Trying real hard.”
“And?”
His mouth curved. “In trouble again.”
Warmth bloomed beneath your skin.
This time, you were the one who leaned in.
The second kiss was shorter, smiling, softer at the edges because you were both laughing a little. But it still sent something bright through you, something frighteningly close to joy.
When you pulled away, Bucky looked at you like he was trying not to say ten things at once.
You slipped your hand back into his.
“Come on,” you said, tugging lightly. “Before Jess files a missing person report.”
He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.
The smile he gave you was quiet enough that no one else could have seen it from the fire.
But you felt it.
All the way back.
By the time you and Bucky made it back to the bonfire, something had changed.
Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could point to without sounding ridiculous. There was no announcement, no dramatic music cue, no sudden shift in the stars above the beach. The fire still cracked in the sand. Sam was still talking too loudly. Mia was still arguing with him like she had known him for years instead of hours. Steve still looked half-amused, half-concerned by everyone around him. Your friends still watched you with varying degrees of subtlety, which was to say none at all.
But something had changed anyway.
It was in Bucky’s hand around yours.
Before the walk, he had held you like he was asking.
Now, he held you like he knew you had answered.
Still careful. Still gentle. But different somehow. Warmer. More certain. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles as you neared the group, and the small movement lit through you with such ridiculous force that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.
Jess saw anyway.
Of course she did.
Her gaze dropped to your joined hands, then swept over your face with the precision of a woman collecting evidence. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first. She only lifted her cup to her mouth, eyes narrowing with that sharp, assessing affection you had come to both fear and rely on.
“You good?” she asked.
You tried for casual. “I’m good.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I am.”
“Never said you weren’t.”
Her mouth twitched.
Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her drink, looking far too amused by whatever she had pieced together and far too wise to say it aloud.
Bucky’s hand tightened around yours once, almost like he was trying not to laugh.
You gave him a look.
He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs protection.”
“You are.”
“From who?”
“All of them.”
His eyes moved over your friends: Lena watching calmly from her chair, Mia pretending not to grin while Sam whispered something in her ear, Tori practically vibrating with delight, Jess still wearing her best interrogator face.
“Fair,” he murmured.
You laughed softly, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.
It was brief. Barely a second.
But you felt it everywhere.
The rest of the night passed with a strange, glowing ease.
You sat beside Bucky near the fire again, close enough that your knee rested against his and neither of you pretended it was an accident anymore. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. At some point, he brought you another lemonade without asking, twisting off the cap before handing it over. Later, when Sam insisted everyone participate in what he called a “high-stakes marshmallow tournament” and what Steve called “Sam needing attention,” Bucky deliberately burned his marshmallow after your previous accusations about him of being too marshmallow competent.
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped yours.
“There,” he said, holding up the blackened, smoking disaster with quiet dignity. “Disappointing.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“You said expectations were dangerous.”
“I didn’t ask you to commit crimes against dessert.”
His mouth curved. “Can’t please you, huh?”
The words were innocent enough, but the look he gave you was most certainly not.
Heat rose in your face so fast that you turned toward the fire and took an aggressive sip of your lemonade.
Bucky’s quiet laugh landed near your ear.
“You’re terrible,” you muttered.
“I’m behaving.”
“Barely.”
“Trying real hard,” he said.
And there it was again: an echo of the beach, of his mouth close to yours, of his hands at your waist and the way he had asked before kissing you. The memory moved through you in a slow, warm wave, leaving you unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol (not that you had any anyways) and everything to do with the man beside you.
He knew it too.
You could tell by the way his smile softened when you dared a glance back at him. By the way his teasing gave way to that careful, intent look that made everything else fade at the edges.
The night ended late, though not nearly late enough.
People began leaving in small clusters, shaking sand from blankets, gathering coolers, extinguishing lanterns. Sam declared the bonfire an overwhelming success, despite Steve pointing out that Sam had dropped two hot dogs in the sand and almost set a napkin on fire. Mia immediately defended him on the grounds of “visionary leadership,” which only encouraged him.
Your friends lingered near the edge of the group, waiting without making it too obvious that they were waiting.
Bucky walked you back toward them, his hand still in yours.
“I should probably say goodnight before Jess starts timing us,” he said.
“She started timing us before we walked away.”
His gaze flicked toward Jess. “Yeah, that tracks.”
You smiled, but there was a small ache beneath it now. A tiny, premature grief. Because the night was ending. Because tomorrow was his last full day here. Because the morning after that, he would leave, and this fragile, impossible thing blooming between you had a deadline neither of you had chosen.
Bucky seemed to feel the shift.
His expression gentled.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You looked up.
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
The question landed low in your chest.
You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yeah.”
“Properly,” he added.
Your brow furrowed. “Properly?”
His thumb moved over your hand once. “A date. Not just running into each other. Not just standing around while Sam tries to burn down a beach.”
You laughed quietly, but your throat felt tight.
Bucky held your gaze. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to be some vacation distraction you regret. So let me take you out. Just us.”
Behind you, someone (Tori, probably) made the smallest possible sound of approval.
You ignored her with great effort.
“A proper date,” you repeated.
“If you want.”
That tiny caveat. That soft exit ramp.
Always there. Always given.
Your heart folded around it.
“I want,” you said.
Bucky smiled like you had given him something precious.
“Good.”
The word warmed you all the way back to the hotel.
And the next morning, when your phone buzzed at 8:03 a.m., you were already awake.
You had been awake for twenty minutes, lying on your back in the soft white bed with the curtains drawn against the early sun, staring at the ceiling while the room around you breathed with the heavy sleep of five women who had stayed out too late for the second night in a row.
Your lips still felt like they remembered him.
That was the problem.
Your body remembered too much. The weight of his shirt around your shoulders. The careful pressure of his hands at your waist. The salt air between you. The way he had kissed you like wanting you mattered less than making sure you felt safe with it.
You had spent so long being angry at yourself for missing signs, for trusting wrong, for loving someone who had made your love look foolish in hindsight. But Bucky’s gentleness had done something strange to the tender, defensive places inside you.
It hadn’t fixed them.
It had simply touched them without hurting.
Your phone buzzed again.
You grabbed it from the nightstand so quickly that Jess, half-buried in blankets in the next bed, mumbled, “Pathetic.”
You froze. “You’re awake?”
“No.”
You looked at your phone.
Bucky: Morning.
Then, a second message.
Bucky: I waited until eight this time. Personal growth.
Your smile spread before you could stop it.
You: Very respectful. Very restrained.
Bucky: Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been awake since six.
Your stomach flipped.
You: That sounds like a you problem.
Bucky: It is. You free this afternoon?
You bit your lip.
You: Depends what you have planned.
A pause.
Then:
Bucky: Lunch somewhere quiet. A walk through that little market by the marina if you’re up for it. Maybe coffee after. No pressure. No schedule. Just a proper date.
Your chest went soft.
Not dinner. Not drinks. Not something dimly lit and easy to blur into temptation, though God knew the temptation was already there. Lunch. A market. Coffee. Daylight. Time.
Something chosen.
Something intentional.
You stared at the message until Jess rolled onto her side and cracked one eye open.
“If you don’t tell me what he said, I’m going to assume he proposed.”
“He asked me out this afternoon.”
Jess’s eye opened fully. “Properly?”
You smiled down at the phone. “Actually, yes.”
That got the room moving.
Not quickly. Everyone was too hungover-adjacent and sleep-heavy for speed. But one by one, they surfaced: Lena sitting up with her hair in a messy knot and immediate concern in her eyes, Tori emerging from the pullout with a gasp when Jess said “date,” Mia stumbling in from the adjoining room wearing sunglasses and asking if anyone had died or fallen in love.
“Neither,” you said.
Jess pointed at you. “Debatable.”
You threw a pillow at her.
The morning became another debrief, though gentler than the one before. There was teasing, of course. There were threats of interrogation. Mia wanted to know what he had planned. Tori wanted to know if you had already picked an outfit. Jess wanted his last name again “for normal, non-criminal reasons.” Lena stayed quieter, watching you over the rim of her coffee.
Eventually, when the others got distracted arguing about whether you should wear the sundress from yesterday or something more casual, Lena nudged your foot under the table.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
You looked down at your phone, at Bucky’s last message.
Bucky: I’ll pick you up at two? Lobby?
You had already said yes.
“Nervous,” you admitted.
Lena nodded. “Good nervous?”
You thought about it.
The fear was still there. It would probably be there for a while, woven through anything new, anything tender. But beneath it was something else. Anticipation. Warmth. A little flicker of trust you weren’t ready to name but could feel anyway.
“Mostly,” you said.
Lena smiled. “Then go.”
So you did.
At two o’clock exactly, Bucky was waiting in the lobby.
Not at 1:58, pacing so visibly that you would feel guilty. Not late enough to seem casual. Exactly two. Standing near one of the wide windows overlooking the front drive, hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved linen button down in a soft blue-gray that made his eyes look unfair even from across the room.
He looked up when the elevator doors opened.
The second he saw you, his face changed.
It was beginning to become your favorite thing.
His expression didn’t break open as dramatically as it had at the bonfire, but it softened in that same helpless way, like whatever he had been thinking simply disappeared and left room only for you.
You stepped out of the elevator, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself: the simple sundress you had finally chosen, the sandals, the necklace resting at your collarbone, the way your pulse had gone quick at the sight of him.
Bucky met you halfway.
“Hi,” he said.
You smiled. “Hi.”
His gaze moved over your face, then down just briefly, respectfully, before returning to your eyes.
“You look beautiful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps being true.”
You had no defense against him when he said things like that so plainly.
You looked down, smiling. “You look pretty nice yourself.”
His mouth quirked. “Pretty nice?”
“I’m trying to keep you humble.”
“Good luck.”
There it was. That flash of dry humor, the little curl at the corner of his mouth. You laughed, and something in him eased at the sound.
He held out his hand. “Ready?”
You looked at it.
Then took it.
“Yes.”
——————
Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away from the busiest stretch of the beach, the kind of place with shaded outdoor tables, painted blue chairs, and bougainvillea climbing the wall in bright, impossible blooms. It overlooked a narrow side street that sloped down toward the marina, where sailboat masts cut thin white lines into the sky.
Bucky had chosen well.
Quiet, but not empty. Pretty, but not showy. Public enough to feel easy. Private enough that conversation could settle between you without being drowned out.
“I asked Steve for a recommendation,” he admitted once you were seated.
“You did?”
“Sam offered, but his first suggestion had bottomless rum punch and a mechanical shark.”
You paused with your water halfway to your mouth. “A mechanical shark?”
“Apparently.”
“That sounds incredible.”
Bucky stared at you.
You bit back a smile. “What?”
“I’m trying to take you on a respectful date and you’re telling me I should’ve chosen the mechanical shark.”
“I contain multitudes.”
His laugh was soft and startled, like you had caught it from him before he could guard it. The sound settled over the table, warm as sunlight.
Lunch stretched longer than either of you seemed to notice.
You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite foods. Worst vacations. Childhood trouble. The kind of music you could never skip. The little habits that made your friends love you and mock you in equal measure. Bucky told you stories about Steve with the kind of affection that made his teasing gentle. You told him about the time Mia got you both kicked out of a karaoke bar for arguing with the DJ about song order. He asked questions and remembered the answers. Noticed when you paused. Let silence exist without trying to conquer it.
At one point, your ex’s name came up. Not his actual name, because Bucky never asked for it, and you loved him a little for that, in a terrifying, premature, impossible way.
It happened because the waiter set down your food and said something about honeymooners getting a dessert discount if you were celebrating.
The words landed awkwardly.
The waiter realized it too late, face flushing as he stumbled through an apology, but you waved it off quickly.
“It’s okay,” you said, because it was. Mostly.
Still, a shadow moved through you.
Bucky waited until the waiter left before speaking.
“You don’t have to pretend that didn’t hurt.”
Your throat tightened. You looked at him across the table, at his steady face, at the way his hands rested near his glass but did not reach for you in public without permission.
“I’m okay,” you said.
“I believe you.”
That surprised you.
He continued, softer, “And I also think it probably still hurt.”
You looked down at your plate, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.
“It’s stupid,” you whispered.
“No.”
“It is. I don’t even want him anymore.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re not grieving what he broke.”
The simple accuracy of it made your chest ache.
You took a slow breath.
“I hate that he’s still here,” you admitted. “Not here here, but… in things. In words. In stupid assumptions from strangers. In the way I have to explain why I’m on a trip that was supposed to be for a wedding that isn’t happening.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I hate that for you.”
You laughed a little, shaky. “Me too.”
His hand moved then, slowly across the table, palm up.
An offering.
You placed your hand in his and he closed his fingers around yours.
“You don’t have to be over it for this to matter,” he said.
Your eyes lifted to his.
“This?” you asked.
The corner of his mouth softened, but he did not look away. “This.”
There was no mistaking what he meant. Not the lunch. Not the trip. Not the flirtation alone.
This thing between you. This fragile, sudden, inconvenient spark that kept refusing to behave like something casual.
Your heart gave one hard, hopeful thud.
“Bucky,” you said softly.
“I know,” he murmured. “Poor timing.”
“Maybe.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“But not bad?”
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you shook your head. “No. Not bad.”
After lunch, you walked through the market by the marina.
Colorful stalls lined the walkway, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze. There were handmade bracelets, linen shirts, jars of local honey, tiny watercolor paintings of the coastline, shells polished into jewelry, sun hats stacked in leaning towers. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, grilled fish from a nearby stand, and sugar from a cart selling warm pastries dusted with cinnamon.
It was easy with him.
That was what kept surprising you.
The date should have felt loaded after the night before. Heavy with expectation, tangled in all the things you were both not saying about him leaving in the morning. Instead, it unfolded with a sweetness that made you ache. Bucky bought a bag of candied almonds from a vendor and held it open for you without comment. You tried on a ridiculous oversized sun hat, and he looked at you with such solemn admiration that you nearly lost it.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking it’s a strong look.”
“You’re lying.”
“Absolutely.”
You laughed and put the hat back.
At another stall, you paused over a display of delicate bracelets woven with tiny glass beads. One was sea-blue, nearly the color of the dress you’d worn the night before.
Bucky noticed.
Of course he did.
You moved on without buying it.
Ten minutes later, while you were distracted by a shelf of painted postcards, he disappeared for exactly long enough to be suspicious.
When he returned, his expression was too neutral.
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Bucky.”
“Walked.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“Been told that.”
He held out his closed fist.
Your stomach dipped.
Slowly, he opened his hand.
The bracelet rested in his palm, tiny blue beads catching the afternoon light.
You stared at it.
“Bucky.”
His voice softened. “I saw you looking at it.”
“You didn’t have to buy it.”
“I know.”
That phrase again. Never defensive. Never trying to turn kindness into debt.
Just: I know.
He looked almost shy when he added, “Wanted you to have something from today that wasn’t complicated.”
The words went straight through you.
For a moment, you couldn’t speak.
Then you held out your wrist.
His eyes lifted to yours, asking silently.
You nodded.
He tied the bracelet around your wrist with careful fingers, his head bent, his touch light and focused. The moment was so small. So quiet. Just a man tying a bracelet beneath the shade of a market awning while strangers moved around you and gulls cried somewhere overhead.
But it felt enormous.
When he finished, his fingers lingered for half a second against the inside of your wrist.
Your pulse jumped beneath his touch.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his gaze flicked there, then up to your face.
The market noise seemed to fade.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
His voice was low. “You’re welcome.”
By late afternoon, the date had blurred into coffee, then a walk along the marina, then sitting side by side on a stone wall watching boats drift in and out of the harbor while the sun began to lean westward. Neither of you seemed willing to call it.
Not yet.
The hours had become precious, though neither of you said so.
Bucky’s flight left the next morning, while your group still had another day after that. There was a clock on this, ticking beneath every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand against yours.
And yet, somehow, the deadline made him more present, not less.
He did not rush. Did not push. Did not treat the day like something to consume before it vanished.
He simply stayed with you.
Fully.
When your phone buzzed with a message from the group chat around six, you glanced down to find a photo Mia had sent of herself, Sam, Tori, Steve, Lena, Jess, and Natasha crowded around a table somewhere, drinks raised, all wearing varying expressions of chaos.
Mia: Dinner acquired. We are alive. Suspicious levels currently moderate. Have fun, don’t be reckless. Actually be a little reckless. Lena says hydrated reckless.
Then:
Jess: Text me your location or I become a problem.
You smiled and sent back a quick update.
Bucky watched your face. “They okay?”
“They’ve adopted your friends.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Probably.”
His mouth curved. “Sam’s going to be impossible after this.”
“Mia too.”
“Good pair.”
You looked at him, amused. “Careful.”
“What?”
“You sound like a man trying to merge friend groups after one date.”
His expression shifted, like he’d been caught, maybe, then softer.
“Too much?”
You should have teased him.
Instead, you said, “No.”
The honesty startled both of you.
Bucky looked down, smiling faintly. “Good.”
Dinner happened almost accidentally.
A small place near the water. Outdoor table. Shared plates because neither of you could decide and Bucky claimed ordering half the menu was “efficient.” The sky turned gold, then rose, then a deepening blue. Lanterns came on around you. Your knees brushed beneath the table. Your bracelet caught the light every time you reached for your glass.
At some point, Bucky looked at it and smiled to himself.
“What?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking from your wrist to your face. “Just like seeing it on you.”
The warmth that moved through you then was dangerous.
Not because it was unfamiliar.
Because it felt like belonging to a moment you didn’t want to end.
After dinner, you walked again.
Neither of you made a decision about where to go. You simply followed the pull of the evening, through quieter streets, past shops closing for the night, past couples walking hand in hand and families carrying tired children back toward hotels. Eventually, inevitably, your feet found the path toward the beach.
The same beach.
The same stretch of sand.
The bonfire was gone now, the permitted fire pit cold and dark, the lantern poles bare. Without the crowd, without the music and laughter, the beach seemed larger. Softer. More intimate in its emptiness. The ocean moved under the moon just as it had the night before, steady and silver-edged, the tide whispering up the shore.
Bucky slowed when he realized where you were.
You did too.
For a moment, both of you stood at the top of the wooden path, looking down at the place where everything had shifted the night before.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
Your throat tightened.
You looked at him.
The moonlight softened his face, but not the concern in his eyes. He was already prepared to turn around. Already prepared to choose your comfort over nostalgia, over romance, over whatever he might have wanted from bringing you here.
You reached for his hand.
“Yeah,” you said. “It’s okay.”
You walked down together.
The sand was cooler tonight, the beach emptier. You slipped off your sandals and carried them in one hand, just like before. Bucky matched your pace, his hand warm around yours. No firelight this time. No friends watching from a distance. No laughter to soften the silence.
Just the two of you.
And the ocean.
You walked along the tide line until the lights from the busier part of the beach dimmed behind you. Not far enough to be hidden entirely, but far enough that the world felt hushed. Private. The waves rushed in close, foaming around your feet before sliding back into the dark.
Bucky stopped where you had kissed the night before.
Or close to it.
You knew because your body remembered.
He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
The whole day seemed to gather there between you. The date. The bracelet. The laughter. The quiet confessions. The knowledge of morning waiting too close.
“You leave tomorrow,” you said.
Bucky’s expression dimmed at the edges.
“Yeah.”
“I keep trying not to think about it.”
“Me too.”
The wind moved between you, lifting your hair across your cheek. He reached up slowly, brushing it back with the backs of his fingers.
“I had a good day,” he said.
You smiled, though it hurt a little. “Me too.”
“No.” His thumb grazed your cheek once. “I mean… I had the kind of day I’m going to think about when I’m somewhere else and probably make myself miserable.”
Your breath caught.
“That sounds awful.”
“It will be.”
“Bucky.”
His smile was small and aching. “Worth it.”
Something in your chest cracked open.
You stepped closer.
He watched you carefully, but there was want in his eyes now. Clearer than before. Not hidden, not denied, only held back by the thread of restraint he had kept between you from the start.
You were suddenly tired of restraint.
Not because you wanted him to stop being gentle.
Because you trusted the gentleness.
Because wanting him no longer felt like betraying yourself.
Because grief had taken enough from you, and standing barefoot in moonlit sand with a man who had spent the whole day choosing you carefully, you did not want to hand it this too.
You set your sandals down.
Bucky’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to your face.
Your voice came out soft. “Kiss me.”
He did not need to be asked twice.
Bucky stepped into you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours. This kiss was not the tentative question from the night before.
It began gentle because he was Bucky, because care seemed written into the way he touched you now, but the softness deepened quickly into something warmer. Hungrier. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the ocean rushed around your ankles and the wind wrapped around you both.
He made a low sound against your mouth when you kissed him harder.
The sound moved through you like flame.
His hand tightened at your waist.
Not enough to trap. Just enough to tell you he felt it too. The pull. The ache. The day’s worth of looking and wanting and waiting compressed into this one point of contact.
You broke away only to breathe.
Bucky’s forehead dipped to yours, his breath uneven.
“We should slow down,” he murmured, though he did not move away.
“Do you want to?”
His eyes opened.
The answer was there before he spoke.
“No.”
Heat curled low in your stomach.
“Then don’t,” you whispered.
His jaw flexed. “I need you to be sure.”
You looked at him beneath the moonlight, at this man who had asked at every step, who had held back not because he didn’t want you but because he wanted you safely, honestly, without regret.
Your fingers softened at his chest.
“I’m sure.”
Bucky went still.
For a second, all you heard was the ocean.
Then he kissed you again.
The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him against the cool night air.
You whispered his name against his mouth.
He answered by kissing you deeper.
It was like the careful dam he’d built between you finally gave way. Not in a crash, but in a slow, inevitable surge.
His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him with a soft sound that seemed to unravel something in his chest. He tasted like salt air and the faint sweetness of the candied almonds you’d shared and underneath it all, something warm and unmistakably him. The kiss grew hungry, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
Until the ocean reminded you it was there.
The tide rushed in around your ankles, colder this time, a sharp, startling bite that stole a gasp right out of you against his lips. Your toes dug instinctively into the sand as the water swirled and tugged, and Bucky reacted before you even finished flinching with one arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him like instinct had already memorized your balance.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, half shock and half delight, and he chased the sound with his mouth, smiling against you as the water pulled back again.
His forehead hovered close. “Cold?”
“A little,” you admitted, voice unsteady from more than the water.
His thumb brushed once at your hip, a quiet check-in. “Want to move back?”
You should have said yes.
The practical answer was yes. Away from the water. Back to dry sand. Back to the blanket that had been in the bag he’d brought, because apparently Bucky Barnes prepared for comfort and contingencies and possibilities he was too honorable to assume.
But the moonlight was silver across his face, turning his eyes dark and bright at once. The ocean softened around the edges of the night like a living thing. His hands were careful on your body, his mouth still warm against yours, and something about the tide washing over your feet made the moment feel less like standing on the edge of something and more like finally stepping into it.
So instead, you shook your head.
“No.”
Bucky’s brows drew together faintly, not displeased, just questioning. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to steer you. He simply watched you, waiting for you to lead the next step the way he had been letting you lead from the beginning.
You stepped backward.
Not away from him. Not really.
Toward the water.
The next wave slid up around your calves, tugging at the hem of your dress and you bit back a gasp at the cold. The fabric clung instantly, heavy and damp against your legs. Bucky’s grip tightened, instinctive and protective, as if he’d already decided he’d catch you no matter what.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but laced with wonder.
Your heart hammered hard enough you could feel it in your throat.
Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was the kind of thing you’d laugh about later, with sand in your hair and salt on your skin and the memory of him looking at you like this burned permanently behind your ribs.
But tonight had already become something you would remember forever.
And you wanted to remember all of it.
The moon. The water. The way he looked at you like he was afraid to want too much and unable to stop wanting anyway.
You took another step back, the water rising around your knees, and held out your hand like a dare.
“Come here.”
Bucky stared at you for a long second.
Then a slow, disbelieving smile touched his mouth, soft and dangerous, like surrender dressed up as amusement.
“You’re trouble,” he murmured.
You didn’t even try to deny it. You only lifted your hand higher. “You coming?”
His gaze dropped to your hand.
Then to the water.
Then back to your face.
Something in him shifted, like a careful internal debate ended, like the last thread of restraint snapped in a way that wasn’t reckless, just inevitable.
“Yeah sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “I’m coming.”
He followed you into the surf.
The ocean curled around his boots first, then his calves, darkening the denim at his legs. His shirt clung at the hem where the water splashed up, and you watched him take another step without hesitation, as if the cold didn’t matter. As if the only thing that mattered was you.
You backed farther into the shallow water, laughing softly when another wave pushed against your thighs and made your dress cling cool and heavy to your skin.
Bucky caught up to you in two strides.
His hands found your waist again
“Still okay?” he asked.
You nearly broke apart right there.
Even now. Even here. With the ocean around you, your dress soaked at the hem, and the heat between you making every breath feel fragile and bright… he still asked. Still offered you the choice. Still held himself back by the same thread of care that had undone you from the beginning.
You reached up, water dripping from your fingers as you touched his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.
“Still okay.”
His eyes closed for half a second, like the words landed somewhere deep.
Then his mouth was on yours.
The kiss hit differently in the water.
Less polished. Less careful around the edges. The ocean moved around you both, pressing you together and pulling away again, making balance something you had to share. Your hands slid up his wet shirt, fingers curling at his shoulders, while his arm locked securely around your back to keep you steady. The tide surged against your thighs, and Bucky used the momentum to draw you closer, his breath breaking against your mouth when your body met his.
You kissed him harder.
He answered with a sound that disappeared into the rush of the next wave, muffled and ruined against your lips.
The water rose and fell around you, dark and silver, soaking the skirt of your dress. Bucky’s shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the hard breadth of him beneath your palms. Salt gathered on your lips. His hair came loose in the breeze, damp strands brushing his forehead, and when you pushed them back, he looked at you like the touch had ruined him.
“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice rough yet the question beneath it was gentle, careful as ever.
Everything in you trembled.
The ocean whispered around your legs. The shore waited behind him, the sand pale beneath moonlight. Somewhere far away, the rest of the world existed: hotels, flights, friends, mornings, consequences.
Here, there was only Bucky.
Only his hands holding you above the pull of the water.
Only the knowledge that wanting him did not feel like losing yourself.
Your thumb brushed over the line of his jaw. “You.”
His breath caught.
“You,” you said again, quieter, letting the word carry everything you couldn’t explain. “This. I don’t want to be afraid of wanting this.”
His expression changed. Not into triumph, not into impatience.
Into something reverent.
Something careful and starving all at once.
He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that made the cold water feel distant, the kind that warmed you from the inside out until the night felt liquid around you. His hands slid over your back, your waist, the wet fabric of your dress, never taking more than you gave, yet making it clear with every restrained touch how badly he wanted to.
You rose onto your toes, arms winding around his neck, and the movement shifted your balance.
The next wave came in stronger.
You gasped as it hit, and Bucky caught you instantly, one arm banding around your waist, the other bracing at your back, lifting you just enough that the water couldn’t pull you under. Your laughter broke into the kiss, startled and breathless, and his followed, low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or completely undone by you.
“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep making it hard.”
Your smile faded slowly.
So did his.
The air between you changed again, thicker, quieter, charged in a way the ocean couldn’t wash out.
You were close enough now that every breath brushed his mouth. Water streamed from the hem of your dress. His shirt was wet beneath your hands. His eyes moved over your face, down to your lips, then back up again, and the want there made your knees feel unsteady in a way the ocean had nothing to do with.
“Bucky,” you whispered.
His forehead came to rest against yours.
“I know,” he breathed.
You closed your eyes, heart beating too loud. “I don’t want to stop.”
His hand flexed once at your back, not pushing, just holding.
“I need you to be sure.”
You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.
At this man who had turned your ruined bachelorette trip into something that felt dangerously like a beginning. This man who asked, and asked, and asked again, not because he doubted you, but because he respected your answer too much to assume it.
You kissed him softly, then said against his mouth, “I’m sure.”
Bucky’s breath left him unevenly.
For a moment, he only held you there in the surf.
The water moved around both of you in cool, insistent pulses, but Bucky’s body was warm and solid against yours, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid the tide might steal you away. He was taking the words in, your quiet, trembling confession that you wanted this, that you wanted him, and memorizing them. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the slight tremor that ran through him.
Then he bent his head and kissed your shoulder through the damp strap of your dress in a slow press of lips that made your eyes flutter shut.
The kiss lingered, warm and salt-tinged, his beard rasping gently over wet skin and sending shivers racing straight down your spine.
He didn’t rush. His mouth traced the curve of your shoulder, then lower, following the line where fabric met flesh. One broad hand slipped beneath the strap, easing it down with a care that made your chest ache, baring one breast to the cool night air and the occasional spray of the tide.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look.
Moonlight caught on the droplets of water sliding over your skin, tracing the swell of your breast and the tight peak of your nipple. The raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath you had left, but there was something else there too… wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”
Then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent against cool skin. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, devastating strokes before he sucked it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated straight through you.
His hand cupped and kneaded the other breast through the soaked fabric, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple until you arched into him with a soft, broken cry. Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as pleasure sparked sharp and bright through the chill of the water.
He lavished you with attention, switching sides, sucking and licking until your knees truly threatened to give out and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm locked around your waist.
The tide kept surging, waves lapping higher against your thighs, but the cold barely registered anymore. All you could feel was him: the solid heat of his body, the scrape of his beard, the low groans vibrating from his chest every time you gasped his name. Your hands roamed desperately over his wet shirt, tugging at the fabric, needing more of him.
As if he sensed it, Bucky lifted his head.
For a moment he simply looked at you.
Water glistened on your skin beneath the moonlight. Your dress clung to your body, soaked through from the surf. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, blue eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to awe.
“God,” he murmured again, almost to himself.
Then he was kissing you.
Not gentle this time. Not tentative.
His mouth found yours with a hunger that had been building all night, all day, maybe from the moment he’d seen you standing on that restaurant terrace. You felt it in the way his hands tightened at your waist, in the rough exhale he swallowed from your lips, in the way he kissed you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and needed the reassurance of touching you to make it true.
Your arms wrapped around his neck immediately, pulling him closer. The ocean swirled around your legs, the wind tugged at your hair, but everything else disappeared beneath the rush of him.
Bucky made a low sound against your mouth.
Then, suddenly, he straightened.
In one fluid motion he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips as he lifted you clear of the deeper pull of the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs with firm, possessive strength. The movement pressed you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal evident even through his soaked jeans, and a fresh wave of heat flooded your core.
His mouth never left yours.
Not as he turned, carrying you back through the surf toward the dry sand. Not as another wave crashed against his legs and sent spray up around you both. Not as he walked with steady, determined steps, boots sinking into the wet packed sand before hitting the softer dry stretch.
The kiss stayed deep and devouring, tongues sliding, breaths shared, salt and heat and desperate want mingling between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his dog tags pressed cool against your chest through his shirt, your soaked dress clinging to both of you like a second skin. Every step rocked your bodies together in the most delicious friction.
By the time he reached the blanket he’d laid out earlier, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, bodies trembling with restraint that was rapidly fraying. He lowered you onto it with aching gentleness, never fully breaking the kiss until you were settled beneath him, the soft fabric warm against your back compared to the cool ocean air.
Bucky hovered over you, eyes searching your face even as his hands trembled slightly at your waist. “Still okay?” he rasped, the question threaded through with the same care that had defined every moment with him.
You cupped his face, his cheeks warm beneath your palms, and pulled him back down. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, deep and consuming. His hands worked the soaked dress up and off you completely, peeling the clinging fabric away until you lay bare beneath the moonlight and his gaze.
He drank in the sight of you, scarred hands tracing reverently over your curves, learning every dip and swell as if committing it to memory.
You reached for his shirt. He helped you tug it off, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. His dog tags caught the silver light as they settled against his skin. Faint scars crossed his flesh, and you traced them with gentle fingers.
He shivered under your touch, leaning down to kiss a slow path down your body: collarbones, the valley between your breasts, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach.
When he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders holding you open, he looked up at you once more for permission.
At your nod, his mouth found your core.
The first broad stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, drew a broken cry from your throat. He savored you like something precious, humming in pleasure at your taste, the vibration sending fresh waves of heat spiraling through you.
He explored every inch with devastating patience: circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, dipping lower to taste you deeper, then back up with firm, rhythmic strokes.
One thick finger slid inside you, curling just right against that sensitive spot, and you clenched around it with a gasp. He added a second, pumping them steadily while his mouth focused on your clit with steady, relentless attention.
The sensations overwhelmed you: the cool night air on your heated skin, the distant rush of waves, the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your thighs trembling around his shoulders.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips rolling against his face as you chased the edge. The sounds were obscene and intimate: the wet slide of his fingers, your breathless moans, the distant crash of waves. “Bucky—oh fuck—”
He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue relentless. The orgasm crashed over you suddenly, white-hot and life-changing.
You shattered with a cry that the ocean swallowed whole, back arching, thighs clamping around him, inner walls pulsing rhythmically around his fingers. He worked you through it gently, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing strokes, kissing your inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through you.
Only when you went limp did he kiss his way back up your body. Soft, soothing presses to your hip, your belly, the curve of your breast until he reached your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, hands roaming his back, pulling him closer. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh and you reached for the button of his jeans with eager fingers.
Together you worked them open, shoving the wet denim and his boxers down. He was beautiful in the moonlight, thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head glistening with arousal. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and he hissed, hips jerking into your touch. “Careful,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Been thinking about you all day.”
You smiled against his neck, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He reached for his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet with steady hands. You watched, arousal spiking anew, as he rolled it on with careful fingers. Then he settled over you again, the blunt head of him nudging your slick entrance. One hand braced beside your head while the other cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.
“Eyes on me,” he whispered.
You met his gaze, moonlight turning his blue eyes silver-dark. The intensity there made your breath catch, but it wasn’t just hunger… it was something softer, something that wrapped around your heart and held it gently. He nudged forward, the thick head of his cock parting you, and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch.
The stretch was exquisite. Your body yielded to him with a delicious burn that melted into fullness, the thick heat of him sinking deeper until your walls fluttered around every ridge and vein. He moved with impeccable control, watching your face the entire time, pausing when your breath hitched so you could adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, a low, broken sound escaped him.
“Fuck…” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your lips. “You feel perfect. So warm. So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, and rolled your hips experimentally. The movement dragged him against that sensitive spot inside you and pulled a soft moan from your throat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenching.
“Move, Bucky,” you whispered. “Please—I need you.”
At that whispered plea, he began to thrust.
At first it was slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate glide that made you feel every inch. The wet sound of your bodies joining mingled with the distant crash of waves and your shared, shaky breaths. His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, perfect strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
You met him thrust for thrust, hips lifting to take him deeper. The dog tags around his neck swung gently with every movement, cool metal occasionally brushing the heated skin between your breasts. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle beneath warm skin. Every time he sank into you, your inner walls clenched around him, and every time he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.
Bucky’s control began to fray.
He shifted the angle slightly, rolling his hips so the head of his cock dragged against that perfect spot with every thrust. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, circling faster. “That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me feel you. God, you’re so beautiful like this, taking me so well.”
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs trembled around his hips. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds spilling from your lips. He kissed you through them, deep, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed your moans and gave you his in return.
The world narrowed to the slide of him inside you, the press of his body over yours, the cool metal of his arm against your temple when you turned your head, the warm weight of his other hand between your legs, and the endless, rhythmic crash of the ocean behind you.
You felt it building, bigger and deeper than before. Your walls started to flutter around him in warning.
Bucky felt it too. His rhythm grew a little harder, a little faster, hips snapping with more urgency even as he kept his thumb moving in those tight, perfect circles. “Come for me,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again so you couldn’t look away. “Let me feel you come, want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
The words, the eye contact, the way he filled you so completely… it all crashed over you at once.
You came with a broken cry of his name, back arching hard off the blanket as ecstasy tore through you in long, pulsing waves. Your inner walls clamped down around him rhythmically, fluttering and squeezing as pleasure rolled through your entire body. Your thighs shook around his hips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at his arms, at anything you could reach. For a few endless seconds the only thing that existed was him: inside you, around you, holding you through it.
Bucky followed you seconds later.
A guttural groan tore from his chest as your orgasm triggered his. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, the thick length of him pulsing inside the condom as he spilled. His whole body trembled above you.
His arm locked, holding his weight off you even as the other clutched your hip like he never wanted to let go. He kept moving through it with small, shallow thrusts that prolonged both your pleasure, until the last aftershocks faded and he finally stilled, still buried inside you.
For a long moment neither of you moved.
You stayed joined, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. His forehead rested against yours. The cool night air kissed the sweat on your skin, but Bucky’s body heat kept you warm. Sand clung to your hair, to the damp places where your bodies met, to the inside of your thighs, small, gritty reminders that this was real.
Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you. You made a soft, reluctant sound at the loss, and he kissed it away before reaching for the condom. He disposed of it quickly and efficiently, then pulled you straight back into his arms, settling on his side so he could tuck you against his chest.
He dragged his discarded shirt over both of you like a blanket, the fabric still faintly damp but carrying his scent. One arm curled securely around your back, hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine, fingertips occasionally brushing through your hair to dislodge bits of sand.
You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Your leg slid over his hip, keeping as much of you pressed to him as possible. The aftershocks still rippled through you in gentle waves, and every time your body gave a little tremor, Bucky’s arms tightened around you.
For a long time, neither of you spoke.
You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear.
Steady.
Real.
Morning waited somewhere beyond the horizon, unavoidable and cruel. In a few hours, the sky would lighten. The world would return. There would be bags to pack, friends to meet, transportation to catch, goodbye pressing sharp and necessary at the edges of everything.
You tried not to think about it.
Bucky’s hand stilled against your shoulder.
“I don’t want to leave,” he said.
Your eyes closed.
There it was, the thing both of you had been walking around all day.
“I know.”
His chest rose beneath your cheek with a slow breath.
“I keep telling myself to be reasonable,” he said. “That this is fast. That we met two nights ago. That you’re still dealing with everything he did, and I shouldn’t make it harder by acting like this is simple.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him.
His face was turned toward the stars, jaw tight, eyes bright in the moonlight.
“But?” you whispered.
His gaze found yours.
“But nothing about this feels simple,” he said. “And I don’t want to insult it by pretending it does.”
Your throat tightened.
Bucky shifted slightly, rolling toward you so he could see you fully. His hand came up to touch the bracelet at your wrist, thumb brushing over the tiny blue beads.
“I meant what I said,” he continued. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”
“You’re not.”
The answer came quickly. Clearly.
His eyes searched yours.
You swallowed hard. “You’re not.”
Something in his expression broke open, quiet and vulnerable.
“I don’t know what happens after tomorrow,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to be… whatever this is, with everything still messy. I don’t know how to not be scared.”
“You don’t have to not be scared.”
A sad little smile touched your mouth. “That easy?”
“No.” His thumb moved over your wrist. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
The words settled into you with almost painful tenderness.
You looked at him, at the man who had appeared in the wreckage of a trip that was supposed to hurt and somehow made it feel like the beginning of something instead. The man who had met your broken edges with patience instead of pressure. The man leaving in the morning, looking at you like distance was already an enemy he intended to fight.
“You barely know me,” you whispered.
Bucky’s gaze did not waver.
“I know enough to want to know the rest.”
Your breath caught. He lifted your hand, pressing his mouth softly to the inside of your wrist, right beside the bracelet.
The kiss was gentle. Devastating.
“I’ll call,” he said. “I’ll text. I’ll come see you, if you want me to. You can take all the time you need. You can tell me to slow down. You can tell me when it’s too much.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not walking away from this just because morning came too soon.”
Your eyes stung.
“Bucky.”
He moved closer, forehead resting lightly against yours.
“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he whispered.
The words broke something open in you.
Not the old wound. Not the grief. Something beneath it. Something tender and terrified and alive.
You kissed him because you did not know what else to do with the feeling.
Soft and slow this time. Like a promise neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt anyway.
Above you, the stars burned quietly.
Beside you, the ocean kept moving.
And for the first time since everything fell apart, tomorrow did not feel like an ending.
$ log - bucky barnes has been filing debrief reports on your shared missions since day one. thorough ones. he thinks he’d been private; instead you've been receiving every single one!
$ warn --sfw --fluff --cutie-jealous!bucky --bucky-has-a-crush
$ wc -w 2.1k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
The SHIELD debrief portal had a lot of options Bucky didn't care about.
CC, BCC, Priority flag. Read receipts, etc. He'd clicked through all of them once when Fury made the whole team migrate to the new system. He'd retained exactly what he needed: Subject line. Body. Attach file. Send.
BCC he'd figured out on his own. Blind carbon copy, so his copy. B for Bucky, obviously, the logic was airtight — you hit BCC, put your own address in, and you got a private duplicate that nobody else could see or trace. His personal record, similar to a filing cabinet that lived in his email.
What the portal's onboarding documentation would have explained, had he read it, was that BCC worked the other way. You put other addresses in BCC. Addresses you wanted to receive the email invisibly, without the main recipient knowing.
What the portal's backend had also done, automatically and without asking anyone, was flag your email address to receive copies of any SHIELD documentation in which your name appeared more than four times.
Bucky's reports averaged twelve.
He didn't know any of this. He hit send, opened his own BCC copy, read it over once with a quiet satisfaction of reviewing something he was privately proud of, and closed his laptop.
The first one arrived on a Tuesday.
You were in the common room with your phone, half-watching something on the TV and not really tracking it, when the notification came through. SHIELD internal. Debrief document, your name in the subject line, sender ID: AGT-J.B.BARNES-2245.
You read it once, then you read it again.
Asset demonstrated exceptional situational awareness during the extraction sequence. Threat neutralisation was efficient and tactically sound.
Of additional note: asset's decision to reroute through the east corridor rather than the designated path resulted in the successful retrieval of secondary intelligence that would otherwise have been lost. This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. Recommend continued field partnership.
This was not a lucky call. This was good instinct. You put your phone face-down on your knee, then picked it up to read it again.
Nobody had ever put that in writing before.
You were smiling before you'd fully registered. It was the kind you had to press your lips together to keep reasonable, and you looked up at the TV without seeing it and thought, huh.
Across the room, Bucky watched your face do something he didn't have a word for and felt a pull in his chest he chose not to examine.
You were on your phone a lot. He'd noticed. But, he wasn't keeping track or anything. So, he looked back at his coffee.
The second report went out three weeks later, after the Rotterdam job.
Bucky wrote it the same night, still in the post-mission quiet when everything felt slower and more honest. You'd been good in Rotterdam. Better than good. You'd held a position under pressure that most people would have abandoned and you'd done it without being asked.
You hadn't mentioned it in the debrief at all, just moved on like it was nothing, and it was very much not nothing.
He wrote the report, and he did so carefully. He added a line he took out, then put back in, then reworded three times:
Asset shows consistent pattern of underreporting her own contributions in verbal debrief settings. For accuracy of record, this document reflects observed field performance rather than asset's own account, which trends toward omission.
He looked at that for a while. Then he hit send, BCC'd himself, and closed the laptop.
You got it during breakfast.
Sam watched you pick up your phone mid-bite, watched your expression shift into something soft and private and a little delighted. He watched you put the phone screen-down with the careful precision of someone protecting something.
"Good news?" Sam said.
"Mm." You picked your fork back up. "Just — yeah. Good news."
Sam looked at you. He then looked across the kitchen at Bucky, who was reading the newspaper with the focus of totally not listening into the conversation.
Sam looked back at you, but he said nothing. He was mentally storing all these signs.
Bucky noticed you were doing it more.
The phone thing and the quiet smile. The way you'd look up from whatever you were reading with this expression like something had settled right in you. Then you'd put it away carefully, like you were folding something you wanted to keep.
He'd assumed it was texts. Someone's texts. Someone who made you look like that on a random Thursday morning over coffee, and he sat with that for approximately forty-five seconds before deciding he didn't want to think about it anymore.
He opened his laptop that evening and pulled up the debrief for the Lisbon job. Standard stuff, you know, like routine retrieval.
Except you'd done this thing mid-mission where you'd talked down a civilian who was about to make everyone's life significantly harder, just calm and steady and completely unbothered. It had taken maybe ninety seconds and saved the whole operation two hours minimum. Nobody had commented on it. It was the kind of thing that disappeared into the noise.
He started typing.
He wrote the standard sections firstL objectives, timeline, outcome. Then he got to the additional notes field, which SHIELD technically used for anomalies and escalations, and which Bucky had been using for other things.
Asset's interpersonal management under pressure warrants specific notation. The civilian stabilisation in the market was executed without backup, without prior briefing, and without any apparent increase in the asset's stress response.
It is the opinion of this agent that this represents a skill set that is both rare and consistently undervalued.
He was adding a final line — something about recommended commendation, which he'd never put in a report before, and which he also chose not to examine — when the chair next to him scraped back and Steve sat down.
Bucky tilted the laptop slightly away, reflex.
"Working late?" Steve said.
"Report."
"Which one?"
"Lisbon."
Steve glanced at the screen anyway, as he had no sense of boundaries that Bucky hadn't explicitly built a wall around. He read exactly enough to go very still in the way that meant he was trying not to have a reaction.
"That's very thorough," Steve said.
"I'm a thorough person."
"You recommended a commendation."
"They earned it."
Steve opened his mouth, and Bucky closed the laptop.
"The report," Bucky said, "is classified."
"It's an internal debrief document —"
"Goodnight, Steve."
Steve stood up. He walked out of the room at a completely normal pace.
Steve found Sam in the gym the next morning. He looked up from the bench press, while Steve held out his phone. Sam read the screenshot — received at 11:43pm, the text reading just you need to see this with no other context — and set the bar back in the rack.
They looked at each other.
"Do they know?" Sam said.
"They don’t know."
"Does he know?"
Steve's expression answered that. Sam picked the bar back up. "We're not telling either of them."
"Absolutely not."
"This is the most entertaining thing that's happened in six months."
"I know."
"Your best friend is writing this person love letters and filing them with SHIELD."
"I know, Sam."
You'd started saving them.
Not in a folder or anything organised. Just — you hadn't deleted them. You'd read the Lisbon one four times. On the fourth read you'd hit the consistently undervalued line and had to put your phone in your pocket and go do something with your hands for a while.
Someone on the team was writing these. Had to be. The mission details were too specific, the access too internal. Someone who'd been in Rotterdam, in Lisbon, on the extraction job in February.
You were running the list in your head while you made coffee, not really tracking the room, when you said out loud: "Do you think it could be an analyst? Like someone in the documentation department who just — sees the same names a lot and —"
"No," said Bucky, from the table.
You turned around. He was eating cereal and looking at his phone. He didn't look up.
"I mean, it's possible though, right?" you said. "They review everything. They'd have context."
"Analysts don't do field commendations. That's agent-level sign-off." He turned his phone over. "Whoever it is has been in the field with you."
You stared at him. Nonchalantly, he ate his cereal.
"That," you said slowly, "is actually really helpful, thank you."
"It's a logical deduction."
You turned back to the coffee maker. You were smiling again. You could feel it.
Behind you, Bucky looked at the back of your head with the expression of a man who had just realised he might have a problem.
The fourth report was the one that got away from him.
It was after the Geneva job, which had gone sideways in three different directions and then come back together.
It was entirely because of a call you'd made that Bucky was still thinking about four days later. It wasn't even a dramatic call. That was the thing. It was quiet and fast and so precisely right that he'd had trouble focusing for the rest of the op.
He sat down to write the report and he wrote the standard sections and then he got to additional notes and he just — kept going.
He wrote about the Geneva call. He wrote about Rotterdam again, because he'd been thinking about it. He wrote:
This agent has now worked alongside asset in eleven field operations. Pattern of observation across this period leads to the following assessment: asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.
This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.
Then, because Geneva had also produced something worth noting — genuinely, this part was professional — he added:
Of additional commendation: asset developed a partner communication system mid-mission, Geneva operation. Implemented in under thirty seconds, zero errors.
Examples: "wrong floor" for abort, "you owe me coffee" for stand down. Effective. Recommend standard adoption.
For the record, the coffee was never collected.
He read that back. He sent it before he could think about it differently. BCC: himself. B For Bucky. Private and safe.
You got it during movie night.
You felt your phone buzz, glanced at it, saw the sender ID, and made a decision in real time to read it right now that you would later question.
Asset is the kind of person who makes every operation better by being in it.
You made a very small sound that you hoped nobody heard. Sam definitely heard it.
This is the conclusion of eleven data points and one agent who has been paying attention.
You were smiling so hard your face hurt and you were staring at your phone like it had personally done something kind to you. You were going to need a moment, you were going to need just a —
You kept reading.
"Wrong floor" for abort. "You owe me coffee" for stand down.
You stopped smiling. You read that back.
Those were yours. The system you'd built in a Geneva stairwell in thirty seconds because you'd looked at Bucky and done the math on how the next hour was going to go.
You'd whispered the whole thing to him while checking the corridor and he'd said got it and that had been that. You hadn't written it down. You hadn't told debrief. Nor, had you mentioned it to anyone because it had felt like — it had just felt like a thing between the two of you.
For the record, the coffee was never collected.
He'd put that in a SHIELD report. You looked up.
Bucky was looking at the TV with his arms crossed, jaw slightly set. The specific stillness of someone who had decided in advance that they were going to look at the TV and they were going to keep looking no matter what.
You looked at him for a long moment, realisation configuring in your head. He didn't look back. You looked down at your phone, then back up at Bucky.
Sam looked at Steve, who just looked at the ceiling, avoiding any stray gazes. Nobody said a word.
You locked your phone, very carefully, and put it face-down on your knee. On screen, something exploded.
Summary: What was supposed to be your bachelorette trip becomes a girls getaway after your fiancé’s betrayal leaves you single, heartbroken, and unsure how to move forward. But when the trip is non-refundable and your friends refuse to let him ruin one more thing, you find yourself along the coast, trying to laugh through the ache. Then you meet Bucky Barnes: quiet, careful, unfairly handsome, and somehow exactly where you need him to be.
Warnings/Tags: Cheating Ex-Fiancé, Cancelled Wedding, Heartbreak, Post-Breakup Grief, Self-Doubt After Betrayal, Alcohol/Hangover References, Anxiety Around New Romance, Protective Friends (Original Characters), Flirting, Romantic Tension, Bucky Barnes Being Dangerously Respectful
Word count: 10.9k
Music:
I Can Do It With A Broken Heart - Taylor Swift
Feather - Sabrina Carpenter
Ocean Eyes - Billie Eilish
Begin Again - Taylor Swift
Kiss Me - Sixpence None The Richer
Delicate - Taylor Swift
Notes: hi hello!! This is going to be part one of a three part series!! I will link each part together once they’re all posted, I’ve been working on this for a while after being inspired by a TikTok a few months ago and well… I’ve really flushed it out for sure 😅 I hope you all love this as much as I do!
The hotel suite was beautiful in the kind of way that felt almost offensive.
All white linen and gauzy curtains that shifted with the ocean breeze, polished tile cool under bare feet, a wide balcony overlooking water so blue it barely looked real. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket on the counter that none of them had opened. Matching gift bags still sat in a neat row by the door where they’d dropped them on the first day, each one stuffed with things that had been chosen months ago, back when this trip had meant something else. Back when the cheap satin sashes and heart-shaped sunglasses and ridiculous little ring-shaped drink stirrers had been funny instead of cruel.
Someone (Mia, probably) had turned the sash around so the glittering BRIDE TO BE faced the wall.
You stood in front of the bathroom mirror with one earring in, one hand braced against the counter, staring at your reflection like she belonged to somebody else.
There was nothing objectively wrong with the girl in the mirror. Your makeup was soft and glowy, your hair falling in careful waves over one shoulder, your dress the color of sea glass and cut just enough to make all your friends whistle when you’d stepped out earlier. You looked exactly like the kind of woman who should’ve been on a bachelorette trip in a beach town with four of her closest friends, buzzing with excitement, cheeks warm from laughing too much, texting her fiancé blurry selfies with the caption miss you already.
Instead, you looked like a woman who had learned, six weeks ago, that the man she’d nearly married had been sleeping with someone from his office for almost five months.
You still remembered the way the apartment had smelled that day. Coffee gone cold. Laundry detergent. The sharp citrus of the dish soap because you’d been standing at the sink when the messages lit up his iPad one after another, stupidly ordinary in their cruelty. You still remembered how your body had gone cold first and then violently hot, like your skin didn’t know how to hold what had just happened. You remembered him trying to explain. Trying to cry. Trying to touch your arm.
You remembered saying, very quietly, “Don’t.”
That had been the end of it.
No dramatic reconciliation. No begging worth hearing. No grand speech that fixed the unforgivable fact of it. Just the sick collapse of a life you’d already started arranging furniture in.
The venue had been canceled. The dress returned. Some deposits lost, some salvaged, some too humiliating to deal with until later. The bachelorette trip, however, had been stubbornly, stupidly non-refundable.
So your friends had done what best friends do when your life explodes in your hands. They had shown up with snacks and wine and righteous fury. They had boxed up his things while cursing creatively. They had taken your phone when you were at your weakest and blocked his number for you. And when you’d tried to tell them you didn’t want to go on the trip anymore, that it would be embarrassing, pathetic, that the whole thing would feel like one big neon sign flashing she got cheated on, they’d looked at you like you’d lost your mind.
“He ruined a relationship,” Mia had said flatly, stuffing sandals into a suitcase for you because you’d been too numb to pack. “He does not also get to ruin a beachfront villa.”
So here you were.
A former bride on what had become, through sheer force of friendship and denial, a girls’ trip in denial.
There was a knock on the bathroom door before it pushed open an inch. “You decent?”
“Depends on who’s asking.”
Lena slipped through the gap, already dressed in a red wrap dress that made her look like trouble in the best possible way. She took one look at your face in the mirror and softened. “Hey.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
“Liar.”
You laughed, but it came out thin. Lena stepped behind you and rested her chin lightly on your shoulder, both of you looking at your reflections.
“You don’t have to go out tonight,” she said. “We can stay in. Order room service. Watch terrible reality TV. I’ll even let Jess pick the movie and you know what a sacrifice that is.”
From the other room, right on cue, Jess yelled, “I heard that, and for the record, my taste is immaculate.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Lena squeezed your shoulder. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” You swallowed. “I just… I don’t want this trip to become some sad little memorial service to my canceled wedding.”
“It won’t.”
“It already kind of is.”
“It was,” she corrected gently. “The first night was. Yesterday was weird because we all kept almost saying things and then not saying them. But tonight?” She lifted one brow in the mirror. “Tonight, we get drunk, dance badly, and remind you that your life didn’t end because one mediocre man had the self-control of wet cardboard.”
You barked out a real laugh at that.
“There she is,” Lena said softly.
You looked down, blinking hard. “I hate that I’m still this upset.”
“Of course you’re still upset.”
“It’s been weeks.”
“And?”
“And I should be…” You gestured helplessly at yourself, mascara wand still clutched in your fingers. “Better.”
Lena’s voice went very quiet. “You were going to marry him.”
That landed in the room with all the weight you’d been trying not to feel.
Not just date him. Not just love him. Marry him. Build a life with him. Wake up next to him for years and years and years, and trust that the future you were stepping into was solid beneath your feet. He hadn’t just cheated on you. He’d made you question your own memory, your own judgment, your own ability to know when you were loved honestly and when you were being made a fool.
Lena turned you gently on the stool until you were facing her. “You do not have to be over it on anyone’s schedule,” she said. “Especially not yours.”
Your throat tightened. “I really, really hate crying with mascara on.”
“So don’t cry.” Her mouth curved. “Come let me put obnoxious lip gloss on you and tell you how hot you are.”
From the bedroom, Mia called, “We are going to miss the dinner reservation if you two keep having a feelings summit in there.”
“And I’m starving,” Tori added.
“Tragic,” Jess deadpanned. “Thoughts and prayers.”
Lena held out a hand. “C’mon.”
You stared at it for a second, then took it.
The restaurant was loud in the pleasantly expensive way only vacation places seemed to perfect.
Warm lights strung across the open-air terrace cast everyone in gold. Music drifted from somewhere near the bar, something upbeat and rhythmic that mixed with the crash of distant waves and the low murmur of a hundred overlapping conversations. The air smelled like salt, grilled meats and citrus, sunscreen, and the faintest hint of tequila.
Your table overlooked the marina, all bobbing lights on black water. Your friends had done what they did best: formed a protective wall of normal around you without making it obvious. Nobody mentioned him. Nobody made pitying faces. They just ordered too many appetizers, argued over cocktails, stole bites off one another’s plates, and dragged you into conversation until the tension in your shoulders slowly, almost reluctantly, began to loosen.
By the second drink, you were laughing more easily.
By the third, Mia had somehow gotten the whole table ranking celebrity breakups by messiness.
“Absolutely not,” Jess said, pointing with a french fry. “Public cheating scandals are bad, yes, but nothing tops a man leaving his wife for a woman he met while making a movie where they play soulmates. That is psychotic.”
“That is unfortunately a classic,” Tori agreed.
Lena tilted her head at you. “Your thoughts, wounded party?”
You swirled your drink, pretending to consider it deeply. “I think men should have to apply for licenses before speaking to women.”
“Renewed annually,” Mia said.
“With references,” Jess added.
“And an essay portion,” Tori said.
You grinned. “Minimum one thousand words.”
The table erupted, and for one soft, golden moment, it almost felt easy. Not fixed. Not fully healed. But easy enough to breathe inside.
Then a group at the bar started cheering over some birthday shot ritual, and the sound hit you wrong—too close to celebration, too adjacent to the thing this trip was originally supposed to be—and the air seemed to thin.
It was sudden, stupid, and so incredibly unfair.
You set your glass down too carefully.
Lena noticed first because of course she did. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said, already halfway out of your chair. “I just need a second.”
Nobody tried to stop you. Another kindness. Mia only squeezed your wrist as you passed, and Jess said, “Text if you need me to come glare at strangers.”
You slipped away before they could see your face fully give you away.
The terrace opened into a quieter walkway that curved along the side of the restaurant toward the beach access path. The noise softened there, blunted by wind and distance. A line of palms swayed overhead, their fronds whispering against the night. Somewhere below, the tide moved in and out with steady, indifferent patience.
You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking until the music and voices behind you were little more than a blur.
This was the part no one told you about heartbreak, how it could ambush you in the middle of a good moment. That you could be laughing one second and then wrecked the next because someone popped champagne two tables over or because a song came on or because your brain remembered, without your permission, what was supposed to be happening instead.
You pressed the heel of your hand briefly to your sternum like it might steady the ache there.
“Not your night either, huh?”
The voice was low and rough-edged, threaded with something almost like humor. Not invasive. Just there.
You turned.
He was leaning against the white stucco wall a few yards away, one boot braced behind him, a beer bottle loose in one hand.
Your first ridiculous and entirely involuntary thought was that he looked unfair.
Not just handsome. Plenty of men were handsome. This was something more disruptive than that. Tall in a way that made the space around him seem smaller, broad-shouldered, dressed simply in dark jeans and a black henley with the sleeves shoved to his forearms. There was silver at one wrist from a watch, dark hair pushed back carelessly, a beard that softened the hard lines of his jaw only enough to make you wonder what he looked like clean-shaven and then immediately resent yourself for wondering that at all.
But it was his face that kept you there a second too long.
Something in his expression was watchful, steady. Not the eager opportunism of a man who’d spotted a woman alone and decided to try his luck. He looked like someone who knew what it was to need air.
His gaze flicked once to your face, then away again with deliberate politeness. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine.” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I was just…”
“Escaping?”
A faint laugh caught in your throat. “That obvious?”
He took a small sip from the bottle. “You’ve got the same look I do.”
“And what look is that?”
“Like if one more person asks if you’re having fun, you might throw yourself into the ocean.”
You stared at him.
Then, to your own surprise, you laughed. Really laughed. Sudden and bright and helpless enough that you had to press your lips together after. The man’s mouth tipped at one corner, not smug, just pleased to have earned it.
“Okay,” you said. “That was kind of funny.”
“Kind of?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
His eyes, startlingly blue even in the low light, settled on you again. “Too late.”
There it was. Chemistry. Not a spark. Not a flicker. A live wire.
You felt it in the curious little pause after your laughter faded. In the way the air between you changed shape. In the way he seemed perfectly still and yet somehow entirely attentive.
He straightened off the wall and held out his free hand, not too close, not presumptuous. “Bucky.”
You blinked at the name, then smiled despite yourself. “Bucky?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“No, I like it.” You slid your hand into his. “It just surprised me.”
His hand was warm and much larger than yours, his grip gentle in a way that made your pulse misbehave. He repeated your name quietly after you gave it to him, like he was testing the shape of it.
It should not have affected you as much as it did.
“So,” Bucky said, easing back half a step but not too far, “what are you escaping from?”
You should have lied.
You almost did. Almost said a loud table or too many margaritas or my friends are insane. Something light. Easy. The kind of answer that kept things shallow and safe.
Instead, maybe because he was a stranger and therefore safer than anyone else in the world for the span of a few minutes, you said, “This was supposed to be my bachelorette trip.”
His expression changed instantly.
Not dramatically. Not with that terrible exaggerated pity people wore when they thought they were being compassionate. It was subtler than that. A stilling. A sharpened attention.
“Supposed to be?” he asked carefully.
“I caught my fiancé cheating.” You looked out toward the dark line of the water. “The trip was non-refundable.”
For one beat, he said nothing.
Then: “He’s an idiot.”
The answer was so immediate, so certain, that your head turned back to him.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Don’t need to.”
That should not have made heat rise behind your ribs. It absolutely did.
You huffed a quiet laugh and looked down at the tile. “My friends agree with you.”
“Smart women.”
“They are.”
He tipped the beer bottle lightly toward the restaurant. “They the ones keeping an eye on you from inside?”
You glanced back through the open terrace and immediately spotted them. Four women pretending very badly not to watch from across the restaurant. The second Lena realized she’d been caught, she gave a tiny, unapologetic wave.
A smile tugged at your mouth. “Yes.”
“Good.”
Something about the way he said it made you look at him again. “Good?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders lifted in one small shrug. “You got your heart broken. Means anybody with sense oughta be cautious with you for a while.”
There was no flirtatious edge to it. No but I’m different tucked inside. Just simple, grounded truth.
That, more than anything, disarmed you.
“You always this honest?” you asked.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good impression.”
“That your plan?”
“Wasn’t, originally.”
“And now?”
His gaze met yours full on, and there was something devastatingly direct in it. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’d like to keep you talking.”
Your breath caught. Just a little. Enough to annoy you.
You folded your arms loosely. “That a line?”
“Not a very polished one.”
“No.”
“I can do worse, if it helps.”
You laughed again, and this time he smiled properly.
Lord. It changed him completely.
The seriousness in his face didn’t disappear, exactly, but it warmed, the corners of his eyes creasing, the whole effect unexpectedly boyish for someone built like he could carry furniture by himself. It made him look less like a man leaning in the shadows and more like someone you could picture grinning across a kitchen table at midnight.
Dangerous thought.
You cleared your throat. “So what are you doing out here, Bucky?”
He looked down at the bottle in his hand. “Friend’s birthday dinner. Too many people, not enough exits.”
“Ah. Fellow escape artist.”
“Seems that way.”
“Your friends keeping tabs on you too?”
He angled his head toward a table farther inside, and you followed the motion.
Three people were watching him with absolutely no shame.
The first was a broad-shouldered blond man who looked like he’d been carved out of old-fashioned decency and stubbornness, one arm hooked over the back of his chair, his expression calm except for the faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth. Beside him sat a man with an easy grin and warm, assessing eyes, leaning back like he was enjoying a show he fully intended to heckle later. He caught your eye and lifted his glass in a quick, charming salute that made Bucky mutter something under his breath.
And next to them was a woman with red hair and a smile sharp enough to cut glass, watching the entire exchange with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had already figured out the ending and was waiting for everyone else to catch up.
“Yep,” Bucky said dryly. “Like a zoo exhibit.”
“You say that like you’re not talking to a woman currently being monitored by a four-person committee.”
“Fair point.”
The night wind lifted a strand of hair across your cheek. Without thinking, you tucked it back, suddenly aware of your bare shoulders, the dip of your dress, the fact that you’d come out here to have a small private breakdown and instead found yourself flirting with a stranger who looked like he’d stepped out of some absurdly specific fantasy.
You should probably go back inside.
That was the sensible thing. The smart thing. The emotionally mature thing, even.
Instead you heard yourself say, “So what happens now?”
Bucky’s brows drew together faintly. “Now?”
“You’ve made me laugh during my dramatic escape moment. That’s a high-risk move. What’s your follow-up strategy?”
His mouth twitched. “Well. Could offer to buy you a drink, but it looks like you’ve already got one.”
“Very observant.”
“Could ask you to dance.”
You blinked.
Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, the live music had shifted. Slower now. Not fully slow, but smoother. The kind of song people swayed to more than danced.
Bucky watched your face carefully, like he was making sure not to crowd you.
“Or,” he added, “I could just stand out here with you a while. Whichever you’d rather.”
There it was again. That carefulness. That unexpected, almost old-fashioned gentleness. Not pushy. Not performative. As though your comfort mattered to him on instinct.
It had been a long time since anyone’s instinct had felt like care.
You looked at him for a long second.
Then you said, “You know what? Ask me properly.”
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by something warmer. He set the beer bottle down on the ledge beside him, took one step closer, and held out his hand.
“Would you let me have this dance?”
Oh.
That was unfair too.
You stared at his hand, then at his face, then at the hand again. Somewhere behind you, your friends were absolutely losing their minds in silent, collective suspicion. You could feel it from here.
And maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was ridiculous. Maybe it was too soon and too strange and too much for a woman still nursing a cracked-open heart.
But maybe, too, life did not wait for perfect timing to offer you something tender.
You put your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours with quiet certainty.
He led you back toward the edge of the terrace where there was just enough room between tables for dancing if people were willing to be a little shameless about it. You were very aware, suddenly, of everything. The warmth of his palm, the nearness of his body as he turned to face you, the curious glances from strangers, the way your friends had all gone rigid at your table as though witnessing a wildlife event they didn’t dare interrupt.
Bucky’s hand settled at your waist with measured care, like he was asking permission even after you’d already given it. Your free hand came to rest against his shoulder, and the solid heat of him beneath the thin fabric of his shirt nearly short-circuited your brain.
“Still okay?” he asked quietly.
You looked up.
He was serious again, gaze fixed on yours, all the humor gentled into something steadier.
The question wasn’t about dancing. Or not only about dancing.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still okay.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and drew you a fraction closer.
The music wrapped around you soft and low. Beyond him, lights blurred against the marina, gold melting into black water. A breeze moved through the terrace, carrying salt and jasmine and the faint clink of glasses. His hand at your waist was warm, anchoring without pressing. He moved like someone who knew exactly where his body was in space and was making damn sure it never overwhelmed yours.
You hadn’t expected that either.
“You’re good at this,” you murmured.
“Dancing?”
“Making a woman feel like she’s the only person in the room.”
Something in his expression shifted. Deepened.
“Maybe,” he said, “that’s because right now you are.”
Your pulse stumbled so hard it was almost embarrassing.
“Bucky.”
“Too much?”
You should’ve said yes.
Instead you smiled helplessly and shook your head.
His thumb moved once against your side. Barely there. Enough to send a tiny shiver through you anyway.
At your table, Lena looked one second away from marching over with a clipboard and a background check.
You caught sight of her over Bucky’s shoulder and snorted.
“What?”
“My friends are conducting a silent tribunal.”
He glanced discreetly, then huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, I see that.”
“They mean well.”
“I know.”
“They’ll probably interrogate me later.”
“That so?”
“Oh, absolutely. They’ll want to know your full name, your social security number, whether you’ve ever hurt a woman’s feelings, your stance on emotional availability—”
“Got good answers for most of that.”
“Most?”
He looked down at you, mouth curving. “Might fail the social security one.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.
The song shifted again, your bodies swaying almost lazily now, and there was suddenly very little space between your laughter and silence. Not awkward silence. The charged kind. The kind that gathers. That asks.
You became aware, with startling clarity, of the roughness of his hand at your waist. The clean smell of soap and cedar and maybe something darker underneath. The exact shade of blue in his eyes. The fact that if either of you leaned in even an inch, everything about this moment would change.
Your breath slowed.
His did too.
He looked at your mouth once. Quick enough that you could have pretended not to notice.
Instead, because apparently heartbreak had destroyed your self-preservation along with everything else, you said softly, “You’re very intense.”
Bucky exhaled a quiet laugh. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t say I hated it.”
That landed.
He went very still, his eyes on yours.
From somewhere far away, you could hear your friends collectively combusting.
But Bucky didn’t move closer. Didn’t presume. He just watched you with that impossible, careful attention, as though he understood exactly how fragile first steps could be when somebody else had already broken the ground beneath you once.
It made your chest ache in a whole new way.
“You know,” he said, voice low enough that only you could hear, “I was gonna be a gentleman.”
“Were you?”
“Tryin’ to be.”
“And now?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth and back. “Now I’m thinkin’ I’m in trouble.”
For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, the ache in your chest loosened around something other than grief.
Something bright. Warm. A little terrifying.
Hope, maybe.
Or at least the beginning of wanting something again.
You tilted your head. “That sounds like a you problem.”
His smile was slow and devastating. “Could be.”
The song ended. Neither of you stepped back right away.
Applause rose around the terrace. Glasses clinked. The spell should have broken.
It didn’t.
“You should probably get back to your friends,” Bucky said at last, though it sounded like the suggestion cost him something.
“I probably should.”
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was for one beat longer, two, before he let go.
The loss of warmth was immediate and ridiculous.
You took half a step back, tucking hair behind your ear mostly so you had something to do with your hands. “This was…”
“Yeah,” he said softly. “It was.”
You searched his face. “Are you going to ask for my number?”
One dark brow lifted. “Would that be okay?”
The fact that he still asked nearly undid you.
You smiled. “Yes.”
By the time you made it back to your table, your friends looked like a panel of judges moments away from delivering a verdict.
Jess leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “Well?”
Mia shoved a glass of water into your hand. “Before anything else, hydrate.”
Tori was openly staring over your shoulder toward the bar. “He’s hot.”
“Thank you, Tori,” Lena said, not taking her eyes off you. “Can we focus?”
You sat down slowly, aware that your face felt warm. Warm enough that all four women immediately noticed.
Mia gasped. “Oh my God.”
“What?” you demanded, already defensive.
“You like him.”
“Shut up.”
“You do,” Jess said, sounding delighted and skeptical all at once.
“It was one dance.”
“One very charged dance,” Tori said.
Lena leaned forward, expression gentler than the others. “Are you okay?”
The question quieted everything.
You looked down at the condensation sliding down your water glass. At the tacky ring-shaped stirrer someone had stuck in your untouched second cocktail. At your own hand, where his warmth felt like it had somehow lingered.
And then you looked back up at your friends.
For the first time since the world had tilted sideways, the answer didn’t feel complicated.
“Actually,” you said softly, a little stunned by it yourself, “I think I am.”
—————————
The first thing you became aware of was the light.
Not soft morning light. Not gentle, poetic, new day, new beginnings light.
Aggressive light.
Bright, merciless, tropical sunlight poured through the thin gap in the curtains like it had personally been sent to punish you for every tequila-based decision you’d made the night before. It sliced across the hotel room in one golden blade and landed directly over your closed eyelids, dragging you reluctantly back into consciousness one miserable degree at a time.
You made a sound that was not quite human and rolled onto your stomach.
Something crinkled beneath your cheek.
You opened one eye.
A silver sash lay half-under your face, the sequins catching the light in tiny, hateful flashes.
Not the BRIDE TO BE sash. Thank God. That one had been shoved into the back of Lena’s suitcase after the first night with a solemnity usually reserved for disposing of cursed objects.
This one said HOT GIRL DETOUR in glittery pink letters.
You stared at it for a long second, trying to piece together when exactly it had entered your life.
Then the memories began filtering in.
Dinner. The terrace. The music. The boy at the wall with the blue eyes and the unfair smile.
Bucky.
Your heart did a small, humiliating thing.
Then came the rest of it. The dance. His hand at your waist. Your friends staring like government officials observing an unidentified flying object. The way he’d asked for your number like he genuinely cared whether you wanted to give it. The brief, warm press of his fingers around yours before he’d let go.
Your hand moved before your brain fully caught up, patting blindly over the bedspread until you found your phone wedged dangerously close to the edge of the mattress.
You squinted at the screen.
9:47 a.m.
Three notifications from your group chat.
One missed photo drop from Mia.
One reminder from the airline app you had no emotional capacity to deal with.
No text from Bucky.
Your stomach sank in a way you immediately hated.
It was stupid. Completely, embarrassingly stupid. You had met the man less than twelve hours ago. He did not owe you a good morning text. He did not owe you anything. A dance, a conversation, a charming little moment on vacation… it could remain exactly that. A moment. Not every nice thing had to become something. Not every man who looked at you like he wanted to keep you talking was secretly the first chapter of a love story.
Still.
Your thumb unlocked the phone anyway, as if perhaps the text might be hiding somewhere beneath the wallpaper.
Nothing.
You dropped the phone onto the mattress and turned your face into the pillow with a groan.
From the other bed, Jess rasped, “If you’re dying, do it quietly.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at her.
Jess lay on her back in the exact position she must have fallen asleep in, one arm flung over her face, mascara faintly smudged beneath one eye, still wearing one earring and none of her dignity. Her hair had become something of a structural event overnight. Beside her on the nightstand sat three empty water bottles, a half-eaten bag of salt and vinegar chips, and a pair of heart-shaped sunglasses with one lens missing.
“You look incredible,” you croaked.
“Don’t flirt with me,” she muttered. “I’m vulnerable.”
Across the room, a mound of blankets shifted on the small pullout sofa. Tori emerged from it slowly, blinking like a newly unearthed creature seeing daylight for the first time.
“Why is the sun yelling?” she whispered.
“Because you ordered a round of shots called ‘The Bad Decision’ at midnight,” Jess said without moving.
Tori frowned, then seemed to consider this. “That does sound like me.”
The bathroom door opened, and Lena stepped out already wearing sunglasses indoors, an oversized T-shirt, and the expression of a woman held together by sheer moral superiority and electrolyte packets.
“Alive?” she asked.
“No,” Jess said.
“Emotionally?” Lena asked, looking specifically at you.
You groaned and flopped onto your back. “Why are you all like this?”
“Because last night you danced with six feet of emotionally available jawline,” Tori said, pointing weakly from the pullout. “And now we require updates.”
“There are no updates.”
That got Jess to remove her arm from her face.
Lena stopped halfway to the mini-fridge.
Tori sat upright too quickly, winced, and clutched her head. “Ow. Also—what?”
You held up your phone with a miserable little shake. “No text.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Jess said, “I knew it. Men are disappointing in every climate.”
Lena shot her a look. “Jess.”
“What? I’m not saying we send him hate mail yet. I’m just saying I had one eyebrow raised from the beginning and she knows it.”
You pulled a pillow over your face. “Can everyone please stop acting like he promised me a dowry and then disappeared at sea?”
“No,” Tori said immediately. “Because he had vibes.”
“He did have vibes,” Lena admitted, though reluctantly.
“Very intense, careful, ‘I chop firewood but also ask about your feelings’ vibes,” Tori continued.
“That’s a suspicious combination,” Jess said.
You peeked out from beneath the pillow. “How is that suspicious?”
“Because men should not be allowed to be both hot and emotionally attentive. It’s how they get past security.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “That is, unfortunately, not entirely wrong.”
You sat up slowly, wincing when your head objected to the movement. “He could just be busy. Or asleep. Or also hungover.”
“Or gathering references for the essay portion of his license to speak to women,” Tori said.
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Then your smile faded as your eyes drifted back to your phone.
You hated that you cared.
That was the worst part. Not the lack of text. Not the uncertainty. Not even the tiny, uninvited sting of disappointment.
It was caring at all.
After everything with your ex, you’d promised yourself that you were done handing pieces of yourself over too quickly. Done making excuses. Done mistaking sparks for safety. Done letting a man’s attention feel like proof of your worth.
And then Bucky had smiled at you once under terrace lights, and here you were the next morning, hungover and freshly pathetic, staring at your phone like a teenager.
Lena’s expression softened when she saw your face.
“Hey,” she said, quieter now.
You shook your head before she could continue. “I know. I know it’s dumb.”
“It’s not dumb.”
“It is,” you insisted, throat tightening with irritation at yourself more than sadness. “I met him last night. I had one dance with him. I’m not—” You stopped, pressing your lips together. “I’m not spiraling over some guy not texting me by breakfast.”
Jess was quiet for once.
Tori looked down at the blanket in her lap.
Lena crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, careful not to jostle you too much. “You’re not spiraling over him,” she said gently. “You’re bracing.”
That hit too close.
You looked away.
Lena lowered her voice. “There’s a difference.”
The room softened around that. The obnoxious sunlight, the scattered shoes, the sequins, the water bottles, the stale scent of perfume and salt air and last night’s cocktails… it all seemed to go still for a second.
“I just don’t want to feel stupid again,” you said.
It came out small enough that you wished you could grab the words and shove them back into your mouth.
Jess sat up slowly, suddenly much less sarcastic. “You were never stupid.”
You gave her a look.
“No,” she said firmly. “Absolutely not. He was a cheating little sewer rat who made choices behind your back. You trusting the person you were going to marry does not make you stupid.”
“I missed so much.”
“You didn’t miss anything,” Lena said. “He hid things.”
Tori nodded, eyes earnest despite the disaster of her hair. “And now your nervous system is doing that cute little thing where it thinks every silence means danger.”
“That is unfortunately very accurate,” you muttered.
“Which is why,” Jess said, reaching for a water bottle and pointing it at you like a gavel, “we are maintaining cautious optimism at best.”
“Supportively suspicious,” Tori added.
“Exactly.”
You laughed weakly. “Supportively suspicious.”
“That’s our official stance,” Lena said. “We liked him. We are willing to admit he seemed sweet. We are also prepared to ruin his life if necessary.”
“Balance,” Jess said.
“Healthy,” Tori agreed.
A knock sounded at the connecting door from the room Mia had taken with Tori originally, though clearly room assignments had become more of a suggestion than a rule after midnight.
“Is everyone decent?” Mia called.
“No,” Jess yelled.
The door opened anyway.
Mia entered wearing linen pants, a bikini top, and sunglasses pushed into her hair, looking far too fresh for someone who had absolutely been the reason the group had ended up singing along to early 2000s breakup songs in a bar called The Tipsy Pelican at one in the morning.
She carried an iced coffee tray like an offering from the gods.
“I come bearing caffeine and judgment,” she announced.
Tori made a reverent sound and crawled toward her.
Mia handed out drinks, then took one look at your face and narrowed her eyes. “He hasn’t texted.”
“How did you know?”
“Because you look like you’re trying to be chill about not being chill.”
Jess snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”
You accepted your iced coffee with a glare. “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” Mia said, sitting cross-legged at the foot of your bed. “You hate uncertainty. Which is reasonable, because uncertainty recently kicked in your front door and stole your wedding registry.”
You took a long sip. “That metaphor got away from you.”
“It did, but I stand by the emotional truth.”
Lena reached over and squeezed your ankle through the blanket. “We’re doing brunch at eleven-thirty. You have time to shower, hydrate, and stop checking your phone every eighteen seconds.”
“I am not checking it every eighteen seconds.”
Your phone lit up.
All five heads turned toward it.
You froze.
The screen showed only a weather alert.
Jess inhaled through her nose. “The universe is tacky for that.”
You grabbed the phone and turned it face down. “Nobody is allowed to perceive me until brunch.”
Unfortunately, being perceived was the primary hobby of your friend group.
The next hour unfolded in a haze of showers, shared concealer, dry shampoo, and the particular kind of fragile laughter that came after a night out with people who knew exactly how much fun to push on you before it became too much. The suite slowly transformed from disaster zone to controlled chaos. Jess found her missing earring inside one of Tori’s shoes. Mia discovered a video of herself dramatically toasting “to women with standards and men who fear God,” which none of you remembered but all of you agreed was thematically strong. Lena made everyone drink water before she would allow a single person to leave.
You tried not to check your phone.
You failed six times.
No text.
By the time you reached the brunch place, some breezy little café with white umbrellas, blue tile, and a view of the beach, you had almost successfully convinced yourself that it was fine.
Almost.
The hostess led you to a corner table outside. The morning had softened into something kinder by then, the sun higher but less cruel, the sea flashing silver beyond the low dunes. Around you, other vacationers nursed bloody marys and iced coffees, sunglasses hiding the universal evidence of poor evening choices.
You slid into your chair, grateful for the shade.
Mia immediately opened the menu and said, “I need potatoes in a spiritual way.”
“I need eggs,” Tori said.
“I need silence,” Jess muttered.
“You need toast,” Lena told her.
“I need justice.”
You were smiling down at your menu when your phone buzzed against the table.
Once.
A real buzz this time.
Not a weather alert.
Not the group chat.
A single notification slid across the screen.
Unknown Number: Morning. This is Bucky. I was trying to wait until a respectable hour, but I’m starting to think I may have overcorrected.
Your entire body went still.
Unfortunately, your friends saw everything.
Mia gasped so loudly that the woman at the next table glanced over.
“Oh my God,” Tori whispered. “Is it him?”
You snatched the phone up, but it was too late.
Lena leaned in. “Read it.”
“No.”
Jess put her sunglasses down her nose. “Read it, or I will climb across this table and take your phone.”
“You are in no physical condition to climb anything.”
“Try me.”
You held the phone to your chest for one last second, cheeks already warm, then read the message aloud.
There was a collective pause.
Then Tori pressed both hands to her heart. “That’s cute.”
Mia looked deeply conflicted. “That is… unfortunately a good text.”
Jess narrowed her eyes. “Respectable hour, huh? Clever. Takes accountability without groveling.”
Lena pointed at Jess. “Do not sound impressed. It weakens our position.”
“I’m analyzing the enemy.”
You stared at the message, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the ridiculous smile fighting its way onto your face.
Bucky had texted.
Not at some lazy afternoon hour that said he’d remembered you as an afterthought. Not with a boring hey or a performative line. He’d apparently been overthinking the proper time to reach out, which was either wildly charming or dangerous to your fragile little heart.
Possibly both.
You typed, deleted, typed again.
You: Good morning, Bucky. Respectable hour is subjective, but I appreciate the restraint.
You stared at it.
“Too much?” you asked.
Mia leaned over. “Perfect.”
Jess nodded. “Dry, mildly flirty, not desperate.”
“Thank you for grading my trauma texts.”
“Anytime.”
You hit send before you could lose your nerve.
The reply came faster than expected.
Bucky: For the record, the restraint was difficult.
Tori made a sound like she’d been wounded.
You pressed your lips together, but your smile won.
You: That’s a bold confession before noon.
Bucky: I’ve been awake since seven trying not to make a bad impression.
You read that one silently first, and something warm unfurled in your chest before you could stop it.
Lena’s face softened when you showed them.
“Okay,” she said. “That’s… kind of sweet.”
“Kind of?” Tori demanded.
“Supportively suspicious,” Lena reminded her.
“Right. Sorry.” Tori straightened. “Suspiciously sweet.”
You huffed a laugh and typed back.
You: Seven? That’s either disciplined or alarming.
Bucky: Little of both, probably.
You: Honest answer. Dangerous strategy.
Bucky: Worked last night.
You stopped breathing for half a second.
Your friends, fully shameless now, leaned so close that the waiter arrived with water and visibly reconsidered whether he wanted to get involved in whatever ritual was occurring at your table.
“Can I start you ladies with drinks?” he asked.
“Five mimosas,” Mia said immediately.
Lena lifted one finger. “Four mimosas and one coffee.”
Jess pointed at herself. “Coffee is for me. I’m recovering from an incident.”
The waiter smiled politely and fled.
You looked back at your phone.
You: Did it?
A few seconds passed. Then:
Bucky: I got your number, didn’t I?
Your cheeks went warm.
Mia slapped the table softly. “Oh, he’s good.”
Jess grimaced. “Annoyingly.”
Lena took a deep breath. “I am trying so hard not to approve.”
“He’s making it difficult,” Tori whispered.
You typed under the table this time, not because they couldn’t still see you smiling, but because you needed at least the illusion of privacy.
You: You did. Though technically I may have prompted that.
Bucky: I was getting there.
You: Were you?
Bucky: Eventually.
You: Very smooth.
Bucky: Never claimed to be smooth. Just interested.
Oh. There went your pulse again.
You stared at the words for too long. Interested.
Not you’re hot. Not last night was fun in the kind of noncommittal way that could be said to anyone after anything. Just interested. Like he was naming a fact instead of tossing bait into the water.
Lena studied your face. “Good text?”
You handed her the phone without speaking.
She read it. Her expression betrayed her before she could stop it.
Mia snatched the phone next. “Oh, damn.”
Jess took it last, eyes moving across the screen with reluctant focus. “Hmm.”
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Jess.”
She handed it back. “I hate that I don’t hate him.”
Tori beamed. “Progress!”
You were about to reply when another message came through.
Bucky: Also, I should probably say this before I accidentally imply otherwise: I know last night was a lot. I’m not trying to rush you into anything. I just liked talking to you.
The table went quiet.
For a moment, even Jess didn’t have anything sarcastic to say.
Your throat tightened, but not in the awful way it had the night before. This was different. Softer. More dangerous in its own right.
Because there was something excruciatingly disarming about being handled gently when you’d gotten used to flinching.
You swallowed and looked down at your lap.
Lena reached over beneath the table and squeezed your knee.
“You okay?” she murmured.
You nodded.
Then you typed carefully.
You: I liked talking to you too.
You hesitated, then added:
You: And dancing with you.
His reply came a moment later.
Bucky: Good. I was hoping you’d say that.
Then another:
Bucky: My friends are doing a beach bonfire tonight. Nothing fancy. Food, drinks, music, probably Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. You and your friends would be welcome, if you want to come.
You blinked and the words seemed to rearrange themselves twice.
Bonfire. Tonight. You and your friends.
Not come meet me alone. Not ditch your group. Not a late-night, half-vague invitation that carried all the wrong implications. He had invited all of you, directly and comfortably, as if he understood exactly who the gatekeepers were and had decided not to sneak around them.
You slowly lowered the phone.
Four faces stared back at you.
“What?” Mia asked.
“He invited us to a beach bonfire tonight.”
There was an immediate eruption.
“Us?” Tori squealed.
“All of us?” Lena asked.
Jess’s eyes narrowed. “Interesting.”
Mia grabbed your phone. “Let me see.”
You handed it over, half-laughing, half-terrified. They passed it around like a sacred document.
Tori looked delighted. “That’s so cute.”
Lena looked thoughtful. “Inviting the whole group is good.”
“Strategic,” Jess said.
“Respectful,” Lena countered.
“Could be both.”
Mia was already reading the message again. “Sam pretending he knows how to make a fire better than everyone else. That’s funny.”
You took your phone back. “We don’t have to go.”
All four of them looked at you like you’d suggested spending the evening watching tax law seminars.
“Excuse me?” Tori said.
“I mean, we just met them.”
“Correct,” Jess said. “Which is why we go as a group, remain supportively suspicious, and gather data.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
Lena folded her arms, still considering. “Where is it?”
You typed.
You: That sounds fun. Where would it be?
Bucky: North end of the beach, past the public pier. There’s a permitted fire pit area. Starts around seven, but people drift in after.
You showed them.
Mia nodded slowly. “Public place. Group setting. Reasonable time.”
Jess pointed a finger. “We are not getting murdered at a permitted fire pit.”
“That’s reassuring,” Tori said.
“Statistically.”
“Less reassuring.”
You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead, but you were smiling. “You guys, it’s okay to say no.”
Lena looked at you carefully. “Do you want to go?”
The question quieted the table again.
You looked down at the phone. At Bucky’s name, well not even his name yet, technically just an unknown number you hadn’t saved because saving it felt somehow too intimate and too hopeful at the same time.
Did you want to go?
Yes.
That was the terrifying part. You wanted to go. You wanted to see him again. You wanted to find out whether last night had been a trick of good lighting and grief and tequila, or whether that strange, warm tug in your chest meant something real enough to follow for one more evening.
You wanted to hear his laugh again.
You wanted to watch him try to be smooth and fail with charm.
You wanted to stand near him in the firelight and find out whether his hand would brush yours, whether he’d ask before touching you again, whether he’d look at you like he had on that terrace.
And because you wanted it, fear immediately rose up behind it.
“I don’t know,” you said softly.
Lena’s expression didn’t change. “That’s not what I asked.”
You exhaled, staring at the table.
Then, barely above a whisper, you admitted, “Yes.”
Tori’s whole face melted.
Jess sighed like the universe had personally inconvenienced her. “Then I guess we’re going to a bonfire.”
Mia lifted her mimosa as soon as the waiter set it down. “To questionable but potentially excellent vacation decisions.”
Lena clinked her glass against Mia’s. “To staying together as a group.”
Jess added, “To background checks conducted in real time.”
Tori raised hers last. “To hot men with manners.”
You laughed, cheeks aching with it, and lifted your water because you were still not confident your body would tolerate champagne yet.
“To supportively suspicious friends,” you said.
They all drank to that.
You typed back before you could overthink it.
You: We’re in. But fair warning, my friends are protective and nosy.
His reply came almost immediately.
Bucky: Good. Protective friends are usually right to be protective.
Your chest squeezed again.
A second message followed.
Bucky: And my friends are nosy too, so it’ll be fair.
You smiled down at your phone.
You: Should I be worried?
Bucky: About Steve? No. About Sam? Maybe.
You: That sounds like something someone says right before Sam becomes a problem.
Bucky: He’s already a problem. But he’s mostly harmless.
You: Mostly?
Bucky: Emotionally exhausting, occasionally loud, very committed to making me look stupid in front of pretty women.
You read the last two words three times.
Pretty women.
Mia saw your expression. “What did he say?”
“No.”
“Read it.”
“No.”
Jess leaned across the table. “Oh, it’s good.”
You held the phone away from them, laughing. “I’m allowed to have some private dignity.”
“Not on this trip,” Tori said.
You typed:
You: Pretty women plural? Should I warn them?
There was a longer pause this time.
Then:
Bucky: Woman. Singular.
Your stomach flipped clean over. You put the phone facedown on the table and covered your face.
The girls exploded.
“What?” Lena demanded.
“What did he say?”
“You can’t react like that and not tell us.”
“That’s illegal.”
You dragged your hands down your face, laughing helplessly as they snagged your phone to read what was said.
Tori actually squeaked.
Mia slapped Lena’s arm repeatedly. “I’m sorry, I know we’re suspicious, but that was hot.”
Jess stared at the ocean like she was wrestling with herself. “I hate men.”
“No, you don’t,” Tori said.
“I hate that one might be doing well.”
Brunch became, from that point forward, less of a meal and more of a strategic council.
There were pancakes and omelets and potatoes that Mia described as spiritually restorative. There were iced coffees and mimosas and a second round of water under Lena’s watchful eye. There was an extremely serious discussion about what one wore to a beach bonfire when one was trying to communicate effortless vacation goddess without looking like one had spent three hours spiraling in front of a mirror.
“You need something breezy,” Tori said, stabbing a piece of fruit with unnecessary intensity. “But not too sweet.”
“Why not too sweet?” Mia asked.
“Because she already has the wounded-heart thing going on. We need hot, not tragic.”
“I am sitting right here,” you said.
“And we love you,” Tori replied without missing a beat.
Jess took a sip of coffee. “No white.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
“White reads bridal adjacent. We’re not doing that.”
You grimaced. “Agreed.”
“Black?” Mia suggested.
“For a beach bonfire?” Lena made a face. “She’ll look like she’s attending a seaside funeral.”
“I could be,” you said. “For my engagement.”
“Too soon?” Tori asked.
You considered it.
Then you shrugged. “No, actually. That one was funny.”
Your friends cheered with the kind of disproportionate enthusiasm only best friends could manage over one mildly dark joke.
It felt good.
That was the strange thing. The day began to unfold around you, and it felt good. Not untouched by pain. Not miraculously healed because a handsome stranger had texted you before brunch. But there were pockets of light again. Little ones. Enough to notice.
After brunch, the five of you wandered through the streets near the beach, drifting in and out of boutiques and tourist shops with woven bags, linen dresses, handmade jewelry, oversized hats no one needed, and candles that all claimed to smell like some variation of ocean, coconut, or emotional rebirth.
Bucky texted again while you were holding up two dresses in a shop mirror, one coral and one deep blue.
Bucky: Sam wants me to ask if your group has dietary restrictions. Steve wants me to clarify that Sam is asking because he’s in charge of food, not because this is a trap.
You laughed out loud in the dressing area.
Lena, who was sorting through a rack of cover-ups, looked over. “Bucky?”
You nodded, reading the text aloud.
Mia, from somewhere behind a display of straw hats, called, “Tell Sam we appreciate the trap transparency.”
You typed:
You: No restrictions. Mia says thank you for the trap transparency.
Bucky: Sam says Mia sounds like leadership material.
You: She is. Fear her.
Bucky: Noted.
Then, after a beat:
Bucky: What are you doing today? Besides letting your friends interrogate my text etiquette.
You snorted.
You: Shopping. Possibly being bullied into buying something for tonight.
Bucky: Bullied?
You: Affectionately.
Bucky: Good. I’d hate to have to defend you from a sundress.
Your smile went soft before you could stop it.
You: You think you could?
Bucky: Against the dress? Probably.
You: Against my friends?
Bucky: Absolutely not.
That one you showed the group.
Jess nodded once. “Self-aware. Good.”
“He knows his limits,” Lena said.
“Green flag?” Tori asked.
“Don’t get greedy,” Jess replied.
In the end, you did not buy the coral dress.
You tried it on and stared at yourself in the boutique mirror, trying to decide whether it was cute or whether you were simply drawn to anything bright because your life had been so gray lately. It fit well. It made your skin look warm. It would have been perfect in another mood.
But the deep blue one made you pause.
It was simple, soft, the kind of dress that moved with you instead of clinging too tightly. Thin straps. A low back. A skirt that floated around your thighs when you turned. It wasn’t trying too hard. It didn’t feel like armor or costume or some desperate attempt to prove you were fine.
It just felt like you.
When you stepped out of the dressing room, your friends went silent.
Your stomach dipped. “Bad?”
Lena’s expression softened. “No.”
Mia pressed a hand to her chest. “Absolutely not bad.”
Tori clasped her hands together. “Beach bonfire Bucky is going to walk into the ocean.”
Jess considered you with the seriousness of a museum curator. “That’s the one.”
You looked back at the mirror.
For a second, you tried to see yourself the way Bucky had seemed to see you the night before. Not discarded. Not humiliated. Not some tragic almost-bride carrying around the wreckage of a man who couldn’t love her correctly.
Just a woman in a blue dress on vacation.
Pretty.
Interested.
Maybe even beginning again.
You bought the dress.
The afternoon slipped by in that slow, sun-soaked way vacation days did, stretching and melting until time felt less like a schedule and more like a suggestion. You went back to the hotel with shopping bags swinging from your wrists, changed into swimsuits, and spent a few hours by the pool, where Jess fell asleep under a hat, Tori befriended a retired couple from Michigan, and Mia kept ordering things with pineapple in them while claiming the fruit made them medicinal.
You alternated between reading half a page of a book you were not absorbing and texting Bucky.
He did not overwhelm you. That was what you noticed. He didn’t send message after message demanding your attention. He let conversations breathe. He answered when you answered. He flirted, yes, but carefully, with enough sincerity beneath it that you never felt like he was performing for a reaction.
At 2:13 p.m.:
Bucky: Sam has now asked twice if matching shirts would make the bonfire more festive.
You: Please tell me you said no.
Bucky: I said hell no.
You: Strong leadership.
Bucky: Steve said I should compromise.
You: Did you?
Bucky: I compromised by leaving the room.
At 3:02 p.m.:
You: Important question: is this bonfire casual casual or “everyone says casual but somehow looks beautiful” casual?
Bucky: I’m wearing jeans. Sam will probably dress like he’s hosting a lifestyle show. Steve owns three shirts and somehow looks respectable in all of them.
You: That answered nothing and yet told me so much.
Bucky: Wear whatever makes you comfortable.
Then, a moment later:
Bucky: But for what it’s worth, you looked beautiful last night.
You stared at that one so long your screen dimmed.
You tapped it awake, read it again, then let the phone rest against your chest.
The pool noise moved around you. Laughter, splashing, the hum of conversation, Mia arguing with Jess about whether SPF 30 was enough, Lena reminding Tori to reapply said sunscreen. Everything ordinary. Everything sunlit.
You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses.
A compliment should not feel like this. It should not make your ribs ache. It should not make you feel both shy and seen, both happy and terrified. Your ex had called you beautiful plenty of times. Automatically, sometimes. Lazily. As punctuation. Like saying it meant he’d done the work of loving you.
But Bucky had said it like he remembered.
Like he had thought about you after you left.
You typed back slowly.
You: Thank you.
That felt too small, so you added:
You: You didn’t look so bad yourself.
His response took thirty seconds.
Bucky: That was smooth.
You: I’m capable of growth.
Bucky: Proud of you.
The laugh that left you was soft and stupid and impossible to hide.
Jess lifted her hat with two fingers. “You’re giggling.”
“I am not.”
“You are. It’s disgusting.”
“Let her giggle,” Tori said, floating nearby with her arms draped over the edge of the pool. “She deserves vacation giggles.”
Mia pointed at you with her pineapple drink. “Vacation giggles are legally protected.”
Lena watched you from beneath the brim of her hat, her smile small but tender. She didn’t tease. She didn’t need to. Her expression said enough.
Careful, but happy for you.
By late afternoon, the sky had started to soften around the edges.
Everyone returned to the suite with that pleasantly tired, sun-warmed heaviness that made the idea of getting ready feel both exciting and impossible. For a moment, you all stood in the middle of the room surrounded by bags and damp towels and half-finished coffees, silently assessing the amount of effort required to transform yourselves into bonfire-ready women.
Then Mia clapped her hands once. “Okay. We have two and a half hours. Nobody panic.”
Jess walked past her toward the bathroom. “I call first shower because I am emotionally the oldest.”
“You are emotionally a Victorian ghost,” Lena said.
“Exactly. Respect your elders.”
The room became chaos again.
Music went on, not too loud at first, then louder after Tori found a playlist called Post-Breakup Beach Goddess Energyand declared it fate. Dresses were pulled from bags. Makeup bags exploded across the counters.
Someone opened the champagne that had been glaring at everyone from the ice bucket since arrival, and though nobody drank more than a glass, it felt symbolic. Less like celebrating a wedding that wasn’t happening. More like reclaiming the trip from everything it had been meant to mourn.
You sat on the edge of the bed in a robe while Lena curled a piece of your hair, your phone resting facedown beside you.
“You’ve been calmer this afternoon,” she said.
You met her eyes in the mirror. “Have I?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t feel calm.”
“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But you feel less like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
You looked down at your hands.
That was true, maybe. Not fully. The fear was still there, tucked beneath your ribs like a blade you couldn’t quite put down. But it had dulled a little throughout the day. Bucky’s steady presence on the other end of your phone had not fixed you (God, you hated the idea of being fixed by anyone) but it had given your nervous system something new to consider.
Maybe interest didn’t always have to feel like a trap.
Maybe attention didn’t always come with a hook buried inside it.
Maybe a man could be eager without being careless.
Lena finished one curl and moved to the next. “You know we’re going to be annoying tonight.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Good. Because if he gives me even one weird vibe, I’m pulling you into the ocean as an emergency evacuation tactic.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It’ll look spontaneous.”
You laughed, then your phone buzzed.
Lena’s eyebrows rose.
You picked it up.
Bucky: Do I get to tell you I’m looking forward to tonight or is that too much pressure?
Your smile came before you could stop it.
You: You can tell me.
Bucky: I’m looking forward to tonight.
A second message came right after.
Bucky: Maybe more than I should admit.
Your pulse warmed.
You: That was almost smooth again.
Bucky: Damn. I’m improving too fast.
You: Careful. Expectations are dangerous.
Bucky: I’ll try to disappoint you a little when you get here.
You laughed.
You: Please don’t.
Bucky: I won’t.
The simplicity of it landed harder than any clever line could have.
You stared at the screen until Lena gently tapped your shoulder with the curling iron, safely closed, but still enough to make you look up.
“Hey,” she said softly. “Breathe.”
You did.
In. Out.
The girl in the mirror looked different than she had that morning. Not because of the makeup, though Mia had done something glowy and unfairly effective with highlighter. Not because of the hair, though the loose waves softened around your face beautifully. Not even because of the blue dress waiting on the hanger behind you.
She looked different because she didn’t look quite so haunted.
Still bruised, yes. Still cautious. Still carrying the ache of betrayal in places no one else could see.
But not empty.
Not defeated.
By the time the sun began sinking toward the horizon, the suite was full of perfume, music, and the frantic final rituals of women getting ready together. Tori kept losing her lip gloss. Jess changed shoes three times before deciding comfort was sexier than blisters. Mia delivered a solemn speech about how everyone should eat something before drinking near open flames. Lena packed a small purse with the energy of someone preparing for both a party and a tactical extraction.
“Water bottle,” she said, dropping one in.
“Phone charger.”
“Mini sunscreen.”
“It’ll be dark,” Jess said.
“You can still burn if you’re spiritually vulnerable.”
“That is not science.”
“Band-Aids,” Lena continued.
Mia looked over. “Are you packing snacks?”
Lena paused.
Everyone stared at her.
She unzipped the purse again and added two granola bars.
“Leadership,” Tori whispered.
You stood near the mirror, smoothing your hands over the blue dress.
It really was the right one. The fabric skimmed over you lightly, catching movement every time you shifted. Your shoulders were bare, your skin still warm from the afternoon sun, your hair loose down your back. You had chosen simple earrings, a thin bracelet, sandals that wouldn’t sink too badly into the sand.
You looked like someone going to a beach bonfire because she wanted to.
Not because she was proving a point.
Not because she was running from pain.
Because she wanted to see a man with blue eyes and a careful smile again.
That was all.
That could be enough for tonight.
Mia came up behind you in the mirror and rested her chin on your shoulder, echoing Lena from that morning. “How are we feeling?”
“Nervous.”
“Good nervous or bad nervous?”
You thought about it.
“Both.”
“That’s allowed.”
Jess appeared on your other side, holding a tube of lip gloss. “For the record, if he turns out to be awful, we leave immediately and I personally throw sand at him.”
“Noted.”
Tori joined the cluster, already beaming. “But if he’s wonderful, we also support that.”
Lena stepped into view last, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “We support you. That’s the actual thing.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked at all of them reflected around you, your ridiculous, loyal, fiercely loving little army, and for a second the ache of the canceled trip shifted into something else. Because this was still not the bachelorette weekend you’d planned. It wasn’t the beginning of married life. It wasn’t the pretty, predictable future you had thought you were walking toward.
But it was yours.
The laughter. The grief. The hangovers. The group texts. The blue dress. The man waiting somewhere on the beach, probably pretending not to be nervous while his friends gave him hell.
All of it.
Yours.
Your phone buzzed one more time as you were slipping it into your purse.
Bucky: No pressure, but Sam just asked if I’m going to stare at the entrance all night until you arrive. I said no. I may have lied.
You bit your lip against a smile.
You: We’re leaving now.
His reply came almost instantly.
Bucky: Good.
Then, after a few seconds:
Bucky: I’ll be the one trying not to stare.
You looked up from your phone, cheeks warm.
“Well?” Jess asked.
You slipped the phone into your purse. “He says he’ll be the one trying not to stare.”
Tori made an ungodly noise.
Mia pointed toward the door. “Move. We are not wasting that line standing in a hotel suite.”
The five of you spilled into the hallway in a cloud of perfume and nervous laughter, the door clicking shut behind you. Downstairs, the lobby glowed gold with early evening light. Outside, the air had cooled just enough for the ocean breeze to raise goosebumps along your arms.
The walk toward the beach felt longer than it probably was.
The sky had turned peach and lavender at the edges, the last of the sun melting low behind rooftops and palms. Sandals slapped softly against pavement. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dunes, you could already hear faint music drifting on the wind. Laughter too. The distant crackle of something that might have been fire.
Your friends walked around you in loose formation, still joking, still teasing, still making it impossible for fear to swallow the whole moment.
But beneath their voices, beneath the rustle of your dress and the rush of waves beyond the dunes, your heart beat hard and bright.
You crested the wooden path toward the beach.
A warm orange glow flickered ahead, just out of full view.
And somewhere beyond it, waiting in the firelight, was Bucky.
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✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you and Bucky hate each other, so it's not unusual for him to act cold around you. but this is differant. this is... feral. and you're starting to wonder what's wrong✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, enemies to lovers, ragebating Bucky Barnes, emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (dry humping, manhandling, bucky's feral, emotional sex, dry orgasm, truly foul dirty talk, hyperspermia, pussy eating like crazy, fingering, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, mean!bucky, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 11.1k✦
✦Author's Note: i'm so normal about sex pollen✦
It doesn’t bother you. If you tell yourself enough, you’re really going to believe that it doesn’t bother you.
But he’s everywhere.
There isn’t a corner of the damn building without Bucky Barnes. You go to the kitchen and he’s there making a sandwich, watching you move around the counter like he thinks you’re going to bite him. In the gym he’s at the weights and the punching bags, and you try to ignore him but he grunts and moans and you think he’s doing it on purpose. the living area he takes over the TV and watches whatever he wants to catch up with the times. No matter how politely you ask him to switch to something else, he always tells you to just wait. Then you try, but he’s spread out on the couch until your knees have to bump, and your face gets all hot, and you have to stomp away before you start acting on all your stupid thoughts.
Because it’s not just Bucky’s eternal presence and stubbornness and smirking that burrows under your skin. It’s that you like it.
That when you’re next to him on the couch, all you can think about is that place where your body’s connect. He’s warm. Tall and warm. Your skin tingles at the contact point, and whenever he shifts it’s like you’re being shot up with a drug.
“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”
You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”
“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“
“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”
Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m not-“
“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.
“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.
“Congratulations.”
You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-
Get a fucking grip.
“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”
Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.
You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.
It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.
“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.
That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.
You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.
As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.
Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.
The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.
“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.
Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.
You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.
“I was busy.”
“Too busy for your job?”
“It’s not my job-“
“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.
“Have you been carrying that around all day?”
“That doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it really does-“
Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“
“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“
“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“
“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”
“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”
Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.
But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.
“Why’re you skipping.”
You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.
“I have a date.”
“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.
“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.
Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.
“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”
“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.
“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“
The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.
“What’s-“
“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.
“No, he’s not-“
“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”
Then he’s gone.
And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.
You just need to know what the fuck that was.
There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.
He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.
You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.
And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.
“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.
You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.
At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.
“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”
He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.
The mission is over.
Two days early.
Your jaw tightens.
Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.
Something went wrong, and they have to come back.
You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.
But they’re back early.
And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all.
You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.
Maybe they really did just… Finish early.
You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.
Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.
“You need to go, Buck-“
“I’m fine-“
“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“
“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“
Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.
He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.
His hand is hot.
Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.
He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.
“Hi.” You whisper.
His throat bobs. “You’re back.”
“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“
“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”
Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.
“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.
He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.
“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.
“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“
“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.
He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.
“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”
Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.
“How was your date?” He grunts.
“Bucky-“
“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.
The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.
You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.
Get a fucking grip.
“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”
And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.
But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.
“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”
Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.
Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.
Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.
You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.
“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.
You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.
“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”
Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.
That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.
You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.
Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.
He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.
You somehow—just barely—fight it.
“Why can’t I access these files.”
Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.
“Barnes-“
“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”
You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“
“Steve should change that.”
God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.
“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”
Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.
“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”
You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.
And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.
You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.
Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.
Instead, you find Bucky.
He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.
You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.
“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.
He just nods.
You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.
“You want hot chocolate?”
A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.
And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.
His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.
Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.
“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”
You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.
But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.
You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.
That he wants to be here.
Near you.
He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.
Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.
It’s almost a moan.
You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.
But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.
You feel almost sick.
It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.
His fever is building again.
You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.
When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.
You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.
If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘
But it is Bucky.
And he’s never going to make anything that easy.
You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.
“Hi.” You say lamely.
He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“
“Bucky, are you-“
“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.
You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.
But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.
“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“
“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”
You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.
And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.
“Bucky-“
“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”
You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.
But you do go right to Steve.
“What happened on the mission.”
Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.
“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“
“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”
Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“
“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”
You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”
Steve sighs. “Is it you?”
“Yep.”
He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.
“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“
“I really don’t care.”
“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.
You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.
“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“
“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.
“No, you just won’t tell me-“
“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“
“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“
“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”
“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.
“I know how it sounds-“
“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“
“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”
You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole.
“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Steve-“
“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”
You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.
“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”
Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.
“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“
You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.
And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.
“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”
You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”
Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”
You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.
But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.
“What are the symptoms?”
Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”
Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”
“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”
“But- Bucky-“
“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”
“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”
Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”
“Before or after the mating?”
Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“
“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”
“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“
Steve says your name plainly. You blink.
“What-“
“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”
You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.
“Steve-“
“I didn’t say anything-“
“Yes, you did-“
“Nope.”
You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”
Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.
“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”
This is a bad idea.
Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.
But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.
After you fix this for him.
If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.
Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and move to Indonesia.
But if he doesn’t turn you down…
You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.
“Fuck off, Stevie-“
“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response.
Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.
He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.
His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.
You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.
“You shouldn’t be here-“
“Steve said you need me.”
You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-
“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.
“I- I made him.”
He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”
“I was worried about you-“
“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“
“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”
Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.
“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.
“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“
“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”
He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.
“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“
“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”
He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“
“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.
“Who says?”
“You’re an ass to me-“
“You’re an ass to me.”
“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”
Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.
“Me neither.”
You nod. “But…”
“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”
You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.
“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“
Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.
It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.
Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.
You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.
“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”
And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.
But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.
You didn’t know you could want him more.
“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”
For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.
Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.
“You- You got no idea, do you?”
Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“
“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”
And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.
“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.
“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”
“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”
He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.
“Didn’t you?”
You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“Bet I imagined more.”
And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.
You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.
“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”
You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.
“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”
Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.
You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.
“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”
He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.
“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“
Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.
“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“
He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.
Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.
You can’t have that.
“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”
Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.
“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”
You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.
“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”
He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“
You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.
“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.
“How?”
“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“
His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.
“You think this is funny?” He rasps.
You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”
He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.
“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“
“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.
He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“
Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.
There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.
A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.
Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.
“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.
Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.
Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.
You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.
He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.
“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.
And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.
“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.
You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.
Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.
“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”
You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.
Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.
“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”
You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.
You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.
“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”
And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.
So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.
Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.
“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”
You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.
“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”
He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.
“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”
You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.
Permission to go further.
His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.
“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”
In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.
A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.
Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.
“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“
“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“
His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.
Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.
“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”
He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.
“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“
Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.
He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.
Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.
You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.
“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”
You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.
“Aren’t you?”
“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“
“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”
You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.
“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“
He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.
And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.
“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“
The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.
Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.
He’s jerking off while he eats you out. He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.
Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.
Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.
“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“
Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.
You don’t want to.
With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.
“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“
Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles
“Good girl.” He coos.
You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.
“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.
You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.
“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.
But you’re at an advantage.
Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.
You want him to give in.
So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.
Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.
His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.
“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”
You almost beam. Yes, please.
Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.
He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.
“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”
If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.
But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.
The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.
“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“
Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.
He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.
You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.
“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“
His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.
That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.
Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.
“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.
He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.
“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“
“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“
Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.
And he’s not even done.
The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.
You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.
He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.
You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.
Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.
“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.
You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.
“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”
You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.
They’re blue again.
“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.
He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.
“I’m back.”
You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.
You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.
He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.
God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-
Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.
He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-
“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”
Oh.
Or that. That’s nice.
You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.
Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.
“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”
You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.
“Yeah. I’m staying.”
✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
wc: +7.6k
warnings/tags for this chapter: THIS WORK IS +18 MDNI. Fluff. Smut. Siblings banter. Good parent Bruce Wayne. Praise kink, fingering, p in v, oral sex, aftercare.
Beta read by @w1nter-fairy @buckysdecaflove
AO3 | Navigation | Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Laughter.
That was the first thing that Bucky registered when he opened his eyes the next morning. You had woken him up a few hours after you went to sleep — after, well, you know — whispering that your family was back and that you were going to join them as they had their early breakfast before they went to bed. He had stayed in your room, still blessed out of the night you had shared.
When you came back, you were snuggling when you told him you told him all about that night's impromptu mission, finally at ease since they were fine. Fortunately, everything had gone according to plan; it had taken time, but finally they had succeeded with no harm to any of the family.
Before he fell asleep again, he returned to his room to avoid getting caught in your room, and of course, minutes later, you followed him and fell asleep for a few more hours with him. He had teased you, but still lifted the covers so you could crawl into his bed and cuddle with him.
Bucky reached for his phone. It was a little bit past noon, so that meant that lunch would be ready soon. He got up and got ready for the day.
After his shower, he went out of his room, finding that the more he walked down the hallway, the louder the laughter and chatting became.
“Good evening, Mr. Barnes. Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, if you want to take your seat.” Alfred greeted him as soon as he stepped inside the dining room.
“Thank you, Al.” Bucky flashed him a smile before walking towards the seat next to you.
“Oh, sleeping beauty is finally up!” Jason said with a teasing smile as soon as Bucky sat down between him and you.
“Leave him alone, Jay.” You said, leaning into Bucky. “Hi, baby.”
“Hi, sweetheart.” Bucky looked at you with a dumb smile, leaning his forehead against yours and making you giggle.
“Oh my God, they are being disgusting again,” Cass mumbled from her seat; however, there was no sharpness to her words like they used to be. Either way, you ignored her.
Bucky watched from the corner of his eye as Bruce turned away and took the opportunity to give you a quick kiss on your lips.
“Hello, family!” Dick announced his arrival, earning a chorus of hellos from everyone at the table. “Hey, sis, I wanted to ask you something.” He said, taking his seat next to you.
“What is it?”
“The strangest thing happened in my room. I noticed when I went back to my room last night, every frame that I had hung up on my wall had fallen — it wasn't like that when we left. Any idea what could have caused?” Dick asked.
Your mind quickly went back to last night. Bucky behind you, drilling into you over and over again. The headboard hitting the wall repeatedly, in unison with his movements. The same wall that you shared with your older brother.
No fucking way.
You did everything in your control to school your reaction.
“That’s so weird.” You said, frowning, to sell your confusion.
Bucky, next to you, looked as if he wanted the earth to swallow him, and you couldn't blame him, but, goddamn it, if someone looked up the definition of guilty in the dictionary, his current face would appear right next to it.
"Well, if you find something, tell me. I'll have to replace all my frames since they broke.” Dick said, and then took out his phone to do the purchase.
You smiled at him and shifted in your seat, your elbow discreetly hitting Bucky square in his side, making him huff.
“Sorry, baby, ‘m still getting used to my strength, I’ll have to be more careful.” You mumbled.
He nodded.
“Yeah, I agree,” Bucky said, keeping his eyes on his empty plate to hide his blush.
Some minutes later, and after Bucky finally recovered, Alfred stepped into the dining room, announcing that lunch was ready. The whole family got up, plate in hand, to serve themselves.
“Oh, Miss Wayne, I found this in the mail after our talk this morning,” Alfred said when you stepped inside the kitchen.
Bruce tensed, still on high alert after weeks of overseeing your safety. “Is it safe?” Your father mumbled.
“Yes, it is, Master Bruce.” Alfred nodded and passed you a folded note.
Your eyes scanned quickly what it said, at first your face dropped, but then a big grin appeared in its place.
“No fucking way, he didn't.” You muttered, covering your smile with your hand.
“What does it say?” Jason asked, taking a peek over your shoulder. “No way.” Jason smiled widely once he got to the final sentence, taking you by the shoulders and shaking you. “Oh my God!”
“What? What? Share it with the fam!” Dick exclaimed, looking over his shoulder from the stove.
“Dear Batsy,” You began to read out loud. “It breaks my heart to inform you that I won't be able to make it to this year's Christmas dinner. Kara needs some assistance off the planet — yes, again, I will tell you everything once I’m back.”
“He'd better do,” Bruce muttered.
“Unfortunately, I couldn't say goodbye to you in person without disturbing your sleep. I hope you and your family can forgive me, and I wish you all can enjoy the surprise I left as an apology. Hopefully, you all have your ice skates ready. With love, Clark.” The moment you finished reading, you heard the squealing of your siblings.
“Before everyone asks, yes, your skates are ready and lined up. I even found a pair for Mr. Barnes.” All of you cheered at Alfred’s words. “Now, eat before it gets cold, and then we can all go out and see Mr. Kent's surprise.”
The kitchen got loud with excitement, everyone walked back to their seat, full plates in hand, ready to eat and spend the whole afternoon outside. One by one, everyone retired to their rooms to change into warmer clothes.
The moment Alfred opened the door that led to the back patio, you and Jason were the first to run out, with your skates in hand, towards the now frozen lake.
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you can catch me,” Jason said, sliding through the ice once he had his skates on. "I win if I take out your scarf!"
“Hey! I’m not ready!” You exclaimed, rushing to tie your skates, and quickly got up and began chasing him.
At an unhurried pace, the rest of your family walked to join you. Bucky couldn't hide his smile while watching you. You were laughing, face flushed because of the cold, your bright scarf dancing in the air behind you as you chased your brother.
Bucky was a few feet away from the lake when he saw you tackle Jason from behind after faking a turn.
“That’s my girl.” He said under his breath.
He was the last one at the edge of the lake when you began to skate in his direction. Once you were close enough, you reached your hand.
“Come on, baby!” You exclaimed, making grabby hands towards him.
“Is it a bad moment to tell you that I don't know how to skate?”
Your jaw dropped.
“I’m just kidding!” He laughed at your expression, and he stepped into the ice, smoothly skating towards you. "I used to go with my family to the Rockefeller Center."
“Ha ha so funny.” You said sarcastically, taking the hand he was offering, and started skating side by side.
“So, the bats like to skate?” He asked, looking at the way everyone, including your father were having the time of their lives.
“Yes, you can say that. It began with Bruce training us for a different environment during winter — on the ice, with snow, rain, you name it — then after training, he would let us mess around. Eventually, we started doing it just for the fun of it.” You said with a nostalgic smile.
“That explains how easy you tackled Jason.”
You laughed. “Yeah, it does. I have tons of experience; he's faster now, but I still managed. Each year he tries.”
After circling the ice, you guided Bucky to the middle, where the family was reunited, and an improvised showcase of figure ice skating was taking place.
Cheering, laughing, and several falls later, Cass and Damian skated out of the lake, by instinct you followed them with your eyes, curious about what was going on.
“— sure the snow is soft enough.” You heard Cass saying as she kneeled next to Damian.
“Let me check,” Damian mumbled, cupping his hands and grabbing a fistful of snow.
“Oh no,” you whispered, and quickly took Bucky’s hand, moving both of you away from the center.
A beat later, a snowball hit Dick square in his back. Cass was holding her belly, laughing hysterically at your older brother’s face.
“Who is in for a good old snowball fight?” Damian shouted.
“You know the rules!” Bruce exclaimed, looking at Dick. "Two teams, the last one standing wins."
You leaned towards Bucky, “Since Damian hit Dick, that means both of them are captains.” You whispered.
Dick grinned. “Jason, you’re with me.”
Jason rotated his shoulders, warming up to throw, and moved next to him.
“Hey, Bucky! You’re with us!” Cass shouted.
“Did she just—” Bucky said, wide-eyed.
“Uh-huh, I…” You were equally shocked.
“She called me Bucky.” He whispered, voice quivering with emotion.
You nodded. “Yes, she did.”
“Hurry up, Barnes!” Cass said next.
You gasped.
“She knows my last name,” Bucky choked.
“Go, go!” You said with your eyes teary-eyed, pushing him towards your younger siblings.
Dick then called your name.
“We need to be balanced, sorry Sparrow.” Your brother said when you glided next to him.
“I would've done the same, big bro.” You shrugged, even if you were bummed down at not being paired with Bucky.
“And, since apparently Cass is already with Damian, Duke, you’re with us.”
“Father, with us!” Damian said with a grin.
Dick leaned towards you. “Wh—”
“Steph!” You called out. “Moves fast, smaller target, too.”
Dick nodded.
Cass whispered something into Damian’s ear.
“Duke!”
“Tim!”
Both Damain and Dick called out at the same time.
“Get down.” You heard Dick shouting as he threw another ball, giving you enough time to hide behind a mound of snow that he and Jason had made in record time.
“Your boyfriend is really good at this, sis,” Steph told you, landing next to you as she dodged a snowball. “Can he stay longer now that the snow is on its point?”
“I can ask.” You smiled to yourself, working on making snowballs for Jason and Dick to throw.
“We need to move,” Tim said, getting cover. “They are surrounding us.”
You looked over your shoulder, towards the line of trees.
“Dick, Jay, keep cover, we need to make them follow us to the trees, then we strike from a higher point.”
“Copy that. Go, we got this.” Jason said between his teeth, eyes frantically moving around to locate everyone on the other team.
You gave your siblings a sign and, keeping low, you all rushed to the back, running between the trees until you found one that could be climbed and with packed branches enough to cover you on top.
“Dick?” Jason asked, kneeling to pick more snowballs.
“Yeah, bro?”
“Have you seen Bucky?”
The question sent alarms in Dick’s mind. He had hidden behind the mound when Bruce and Bucky shot from opposite sides, and when he had peeked, he had only managed to hit Bruce; Bucky was nowhere to be found after that.
Dick cussed under his breath.
”I don't know, Damian, Cass, and he are the ones still on the game, we should —”
Two snowballs hit consecutively, one dead on Dick’s chest, and another one on Jason’s side.
Damian and Cass laughed in unison.
“You’re out!” Cass exclaimed, but just as she said it, a snowball hit her from behind.
“I can say the same!” Steph, exclaiming, hid on top of a tree, one of her purple boots picking out from the foliage, giving away her position.
Damian rushed to the line of trees, dodging Steph’s attempts to hit him; her cry that followed a couple of minutes later confirmed that she was out, too.
Now it was Damian and Bucky against Tim and you.
Contrary to your siblings, instead of running straight, you had turned to the right, surrounding the lake area, in an attempt to circle back and attack them from behind.
You had been running for a few minutes when you heard Tim and Damian bickering, their cries in unison only meant that they had downed each other.
You didn't know who was left now, you tried to strain your hearing to pick up any other fight or chatter, but you were met with silence; only the sound of nature surrounded you.
You could see the back of the manor now, just behind the greenhouse, and just as you left the safety of your cover, you heard something behind you. Instinct took over, so you bolted, wanting to create enough distance for you to be able to get down to pick some snow and throw it.
Tempted, you tried to look over your shoulder, but it was too late. You felt a pair of hands around your waist, tackling you and bringing you to the ground.
“Bucky!” You shrieked mid-laughter, as he made you roll down a few times in the snow until you were on your back, with him over you.
Bucky looked down at you with a bright smile, his cheekbones flushed due to the cold. You were still laughing, with a similar state of your skin, your scarf had come undone, resting bright against the snow. Your hair formed a halo around your head.
Maybe your carefree nature at home had begun to rub off on him.
Maybe it was his fascination with seeing you so full of joy.
But the words spilled out of his mind without him realizing.
“God, you have no idea how much I love you.” He mumbled, removing some snow that had found its way to your cheek.
Your laughter didn't cut off abruptly; it just became quieter, swiftly dying down to just a sparse giggle and some shaking of your shoulders.
“You do?” You asked.
He frowned at your words, and then realization hit him. You felt him tense over you; the panic was evident in his eyes, and you were sure what was going on in his mind.
“It’s okay.” You scanned his face. Your voice was tender, barely above a whisper. “I love you too.”
Another giggle escaped you.
“Oh my God, I’ve been biting my tongue because I thought you would think I was rushing things, —" You lifted one of your hands, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Bucky Barnes, more than you can imagine.”
His blue eyes got teary-eyed, just as yours did.
“You do?”
You let out a wet laugh.
“I do.”
And then he leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose with yours.
“I love you even more, Miss Wayne.”
He closed the distance between you, his body melting against you. You parted your legs to accommodate him more comfortably.
The kiss was tender, his lips dancing against yours, his tongue teasing the near the seam of your lips, asking for permission, and when you granted it, pulling him closer as his tongue brushed yours, you felt your heart burst into fireworks.
Reality downed to you.
This man loved you.
He had seen your worst.
He had seen your inner demons torment you from the moment he met you.
And he had decided to stay with you. Not to fight them, but to support you during your own battle, ready to jump in to help if you ask for it. Respecting your stubborn nature.
Your partner.
In every sense of the word. Both on and off the battlefield. Your teammate. Your friend. Your equal.
He was patient with you, even though you sometimes snapped at him. No matter how many times your stubbornness pushed him away, he had fought against it.
He had chosen to stay. He had chosen not to let you go. He had chosen to love you.
Bucky had chosen you.
Happy tears left your eyes that got quickly brushed off by his touch.
Time ceased to exist with him close to you, and you didn't care; you let yourself be.
You let yourself be loved.
“We should get inside, it's getting colder, I don't want you to get sick,” Bucky said.
“We don't know if I can get sick yet.” You tried to chase his lips and pull him down to you, but he braced his arm to not fall.
“I know, but I wouldn't be okay knowing that you got sick because of me.”
“Fine, but we’re getting extra cuddle time tonight, got it?” You said.
“Got it.” He kissed the tip of your nose, got up, and then offered his hand and pulled you up.
Both brushed off the snow and, holding hands, walked back to the house. You were a few feet away from the door when you remembered something.
You let go of his hand with the excuse of fixing your appearance, and when he turned away, you knelt.
A beat later, Bucky felt something hitting his back.
“What the —?” He turned around and found you kneeling in the ground, shoulders shaking with laughter and brushing the snow out of your hands. “What was that?”
“I won!” You exclaimed.
Bucky frowned. “Didn't the game end when I caught you?”
“It was a snowball fight, baby.” You shrugged, getting up to walk to him. “And a snowball never hit me.”
You smiled triumphantly.
Bucky shook his head, chuckling. “I guess you're right.”
“I usually am, get used to it.”
Just when you crossed the back door of the greenhouse, he pushed you against the wall and kissed you deeply. You shivered against him, heat pooling quickly inside you.
“You’re so evil.” You breathed out, choking on a moan, when he tugged your scarf softly, undoing it to leave kisses on your neck. “You know we won't have alone time until much, much later.”
“That's why I need to work with the time we have.” He said against your skin.
A few minutes later, just as your hands found their way under his shirt, you had to pull away, hearing steps and voices approaching.
“Fuck,” you groaned, leaning your head back against the wall.
“We will continue later.” He promised, and after kissing your cheek, he pulled away from you and guided you back to your family, curious to learn how the winning team celebrated.
Turns out, winning anything inside the Wayne household meant purely bragging rights, unless a bet had been made, and the power to say they have the final word whenever a decision had to be made. The family reunited in the common room, chatting and spending the day inside, drinking hot chocolate and cookies.
The domesticity in your house always caused Bucky whiplash. It was hard to believe that the same people who fought over which movie to pick and for a good spot in front of the large TV were the same people who kept the city safe every day.
Later that night, once you had made Duke believe that it was his idea to take care of Titus during the night, you received Bucky inside your room.
Now, in your bed, things escalated quickly. What had started with talking while cuddling had turned into soft touches; his hand had traveled from its grip on your waist to your thighs, and under your clothes.
Bucky had you on your back, with him next to you, lying sideways as he devoured your mouth and had his hand under your panties, his fingers working you up.
“Jesuschrist.” Your head thrashed back as he shifted his hand, two fingers inside you, with the heel of his hand grinding against your clit with a rhythm that was sending you closer and closer to your climax.
“Want me to stop?” You grabbed him by the neck with a hand, forcing him to look at you.
“I’ll kill you if you do that.” You threatened.
He chuckled and then muffled your cries with his mouth when you came around his fingers.
“My beautiful girl.” He mumbled as you pushed him to be on his back, and straddled him, lining up your socked panties over his bulge.
You rolled your hips, grinding against his covered cock and enjoying the way his heavy-lidded eyes looked at you.
“Do you wanna ride my cock? Be a good girl and fuck yourself while I watch?”
You nodded.
“Then do it, baby. It’s yours.”
You shifted and pulled his boxers down, freeing his leaking cock. Not wanting to take more time, you pulled your panties to the side and guided him into you.
Both moaned each other's name as he pressed into you.
“Fuck, you feel so good. So wet and tight. Just for me, right, baby?”
“Yes,” you croaked, bracing yourself on his naked chest as you started rolling your hips once you adjusted to his length. “Only for you.”
“That's it, sweetheart, make yourself feel good.”
“Bucky.” You whimpered.
"You're doing so good, baby. That's it…" He groaned, throwing his head back on the pillow, only to return his eyes to you in a beat. "You look so gorgeous, bouncing on my cock."
His hands sneaked under your shirt, taking it off and leaving you only in your panties. He pressed a palm on your back, making you lean in so he could wrap his mouth around one of your nipples, switching after a few moments to the other one.
"God, I can't get enough of you." He mumbled, grabbing you by the hips and aiding you. "You feel so good, I can stay the rest of my life buried in your pussy and die like a happy man."
You let out a breathless laugh.
"Has anyone told you that you're very vocal during sex?" You asked. "Don't get me wrong, I love it, it's just…"
He bucked his hips up, reaching deeper inside you, and made you moan loudly. Your hand shot up quickly, trying to keep quiet.
"You were saying?"
"Jesus, Bucky, we have to keep it quiet.” You whimpered.
“I thought you said this room is soundproof.” He said, his eyes going from your eyes to your parted lips.
“It is.” You pressed your lips to keep another moan in. “But better be safe.”
“What do you suggest, baby?”
You stared down at him, grinding your hips and making him shudder.
“Let me ride your face.”
His eyebrows shot up, his surprise shifted quickly to a smug smile.
“You want that baby? Do you want me to eat you out as you ride my face?” He asked, while his hands caressed your hips.
You nodded.
“C’me here.” He grabbed your face and pulled you down, kissing you as he kept bucking his hips up. When he let you go, he lifted your hips off his cock and kept you steady as you bracketed his head with your thighs.
“My perfect girl, I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He muttered, his hot breath made you almost choke on your own spit. “Get lower, baby, I can take it.”
Looking up at you, he held your legs open, spreading you over his mouth, then he buried his tongue between your folds.
“Oh, fuck.” You cried out, your hands shooting forward to grip the headboard to keep you upright.
You kept your eyes on him, jaw slack as he encouraged you to ride his face, rolling your hips with precise movements to make your mind spin. The moment he began sucking your clit, you had to press your mouth on your forearm to stop yourself from moaning too loud.
“Just like that, keep doing that.” You whispered, voice wrecked.
He moaned against you; the vibration made you jerk your head back, lost in the feeling of him. You kept one hand on the bed frame, while the other found its place resting over his metal hand, treading your fingers with his to ground you.
Behind you, he started to stroke his cock, bucking his hips to fuck himself into his fist.
“You’re so good.” You let out, feeling your thighs trembling as your climax sent a shudder all over your spine. “So fucking good, Bucky.”
You kept whispering praises between some unintelligible gibberish. When you came back into your body, you looked over your shoulder, noticing how he was gripping his cock, keeping himself from coming.
Still trembling, slightly overwhelmed, you lifted your hips and went back to straddle his hips. He had his eyes closed, body taut, just on the verge of his orgasm.
“Can I…” You said, hovering just behind his cock.
He nodded.
You took over, replacing his fist with your pussy, sliding over it for a few seconds, and then, when you pushed back, you felt him slip inside you.
Bucky groaned your name, and before any other sound could come out, you leaned over him, muffling his cries in your mouth. He cradled your head to deepen the kiss.
He braced his feet on the mattress, and with his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you flush against his chest, he pistoned his hips up with force, fucking you deep with a fast pace as he chased his climax.
“I love you.” You chanted between kisses, “I love you.”
He whimpered your name, and with a groan that resembled “I love you,” he came.
Once he regained control of his body, he carried you to your bathroom, and then he placed you down on the counter. He turned and readied a warm, bubbly bath.
“You okay, baby?” He asked as he cleaned you up with a warm cloth.
“Perfect.”
He picked you again and let you step first into the bathtub; he followed, sitting behind you with you between his legs and your back against his chest.
“Do you think anyone heard?” He asked after a few minutes.
You chuckled, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “God, I hope not.”
He echoed your laugh, and kissed your cheek. “I will try to be less vocal then.”
“Don’t. I like it.” You side-eyed him. “It helps me know you're enjoying it as much as I am.”
“As long as you do the same.”
You giggled. “Believe me, you make it easy.” You closed your eyes.
“Good.” He kissed your shoulder.
His hands underwater, caressed you, grounding and reminding himself that you were in his arms, and that you loved him.
Both stayed in a peaceful silence, just enjoying the tender moment after such an intense rush.
“I think —” You stopped, opening your eyes, and wetting your lips. “I think I’d like to come back to New York after the holidays.”
Bucky blinked behind you. “Are you sure?”
You nodded.
“I was offered a spot in the New York Bulletin days before you arrived, actually, that offer and others had been sitting on my desk since I resigned.” You stared at the ceiling. “I’d like to say yes. It's a good offer, flexible hours, hybrid, I won't be chained to a desk, allowing me free time to follow leads. It's based in New York, so I’ll be close to you and some of my friends. I… I miss my job, my formal one. It's part of who I am as well, so I think it's time.”
“Baby, that's great!” He exclaimed with a big smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
You smiled, lip trembling, but relieved that you had finally shared it.
“I was talking with Alfred this morning, before lunch." You continued, more relaxed now. "I’ll have to talk with my father first, but near the Avengers Compound, there's a property that we already own. It's stupidly close.”
Bucky stayed silent, tracing figures in your wet skin, noticing the caution in your voice. He knew that tone; you were voicing whatever you had been rambling in your mind.
This was your future you were talking about. Big decisions that implied you setting roots elsewhere.
You sighed.
“I could build my own place. Alfred suggested that I could do my own Sparrow Nest there, too. Have my own team…”
Oh.
You felt the hitch in his breath.
“I love working with the Avengers, but, their approach is not the same as mine.”
You tried to move forward, put distance between you and him, fear creeping back at his stillness, but he anchored his hand on your waist.
“It’s okay.” He mumbled in your ear. “Please, keep telling me. Don't shut down.”
You took a deep breath, and he let you shift until you were slightly turned towards him.
“You know me. You have been out there in the city with me. Do you see Iron Man or Captain America stopping a robbery or rescuing cats from the trees?” You asked. “While the Avengers try to save the world, I’d like to keep the city safe. Offer what I can, as my father taught me.”
“You’ll need a team.” He said matter-of-factly.
“I know, eventually, I can start asking Peter, he’s already covering Queens, and maybe in Hell’s Kitchen—”
“I’d like to join you.” He said firmly.
Finally, you met his eyes.
“Bucky, I can't make you choose between Steve and me. The Avengers —”
He shook his head.
“You’re not making me choose. I—”
It was his turn to be vulnerable.
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time, actually.” You took his hand, underwater. “I’ve been jumping from war to war, I just don't want to be a soldier forever. Patrolling with you showed me another side of this, closer to the people we want to help, and I want to explore it before I decide to retire definitely.”
You nodded.
“Of course, if that's what you need, I respect it.” You smiled at him. “Besides, you have shown yourself to be an amazing trainer. I’m sure we can make it work.”
He smiled, he lifted one of his hands and cupped your cheek, you leaned into his touch.
“Thank you for trusting me.” You said, and then you kissed his palm.
“I can say the same.” He pulled you closer and kissed you.
2 YEARS LATER
Turns out building a paramilitary infrastructure underground and a mansion over it was quicker than you thought, especially having access to the appropriate resources. You had thought that the only hiccup in the whole plan was going to skim over the fact that it was on your property, but the moment you added Bucky and his Avenger status to the mix, it made it easy.
Tony sulked for months, arguing that he could offer a better tech, but he shut up the moment Bruce showed him a similar but upgraded setup like the one at the Batcave.
You had moved in a few months ago. Even though there were parts of the house that were still being worked on under Alfred’s supervision, he had also been preparing an old friend of his — Niles — so he could help you in your new home. Niles had a similar background to his, which meant that he was more than capable of also aiding the team of vigilantes.
The past year and a half, you had been working with the Avengers, staying at the compound as the construction started, balancing preparing a small team to protect the city, and adjusting to your new job. Training and team drills had to be done until you were confident enough to start coordinating shifts.
Bucky.
You.
Peter.
Yelena.
And Nina.
Nina had been added to the team by pure coincidence. A couple of months ago, during one of your routine patrols, you had met another runaway mutant, and after a talk, he had agreed on you taking him to the X-Mansion.
Nina had cornered you on your way out, and after telling you she had heard that your team was an X-Men ally — something you had made sure to inform Professor X the moment you came back to NYC — she had asked for an opportunity to join you.
“Are you sure?” You had asked. “You have higher chances to join the X-Men since you already study here.”
“I’m sure. I told you I wanted to join you when we met. That hasn't changed.” Nina said without leaving room to doubt.
You looked at her and then gave her a curt nod.
“Text me your schedule. If I find a way to make it work around your classes, consider it done.”
She hugged you, and over her shoulder, you saw Charles, who was staring at you with a satisfied smile. You squinted your eyes at him.
I knew that you mentioned her on purpose early. You said in your mind, calling back to your early conversation, where he had been listing every improvement that Nina had been showing up since you brought her there years ago.
I told you she was ready. She has been training for this moment since she got here. He responded. I know she is in safe hands with you, and she knows it too.
I won't fail her, nor you.
Believe me, I know so. Have a safe trip back home, Miss Wayne. I’ll be waiting for the wedding invitation.
You blushed as you let go of Nina and watched her walk beside Charles back inside the mansion.
Bucky had proposed on your first day in the new house, something simple and romantic, as he had come to learn that it was your personal preference — the grand gestures were reserved for your public persona only, since Miss Wayne had a reputation to keep. The ring rested for now in a chain tucked under your shirt, since both had decided to keep it a secret until everything in the house was complete.
For now, only Bruce and Steve knew. And once you told them, in pure Wayne nature, a betting pool started with the question of who else would find out about the engagement without the help of anyone who already knew.
“Honey, did Yelena confirm you if she wanted to come live here too? She told me that she was still thinking about it last week.” Bucky asked when he found you in the common room, sitting on the large couch with Alpine in your lap, with a book in hand, after you had come back from a visit to the Compound after your office hours.
“She told me she wanted to stay at the compound at least a few months more, she wants to make up for the years she was apart of Nat.” You responded, lowering your book when he approached.
“You were right then.” He chuckled, leaning in to kiss you.
“I’m always right.” You said with a smile.
“Oh, believe me, I know.” He took the book from your hands when you passed it and put it on the coffee table.
“Did Alfred and Niles let you go already?” You asked, petting Alpine.
Bucky nodded.
“We finished setting up the security update that Bruce sent. They stayed to wait for Babs to connect them to the Batcave.” You shifted so he could sit next to you, but instead, he picked up Alpine from your lap. “Sorry, Al, but I want to cuddle with mommy, and I can't do that if you’re in the middle.” He said to her face and then placed her on the floor.
Bucky then took you in his arms and sat with you across his lap.
“Happy now?” You asked.
“Much better.” He hugged you, and buried his head in your neck, taking a deep breath of your perfume. “I missed you today. How was the interview? Did your lead tell you everything you needed?”
You nodded. “Almost everything, he lied about some stuff but I have enough to write the article.”
“What gave him away?”
“Heartbeat and he was stuttering. I don't get why they get into shady business if they can't lie to save their asses.”
“Getting bored?” He asked, noticing the irritation in your voice.
“He made it so easy, Buck.”. You whined. “But good news, I have a new case for us.”
“That’s my girl.”
He squeezed your leg and then lowered himself onto the couch, lying down so you could spread over him. You shifted into a comfortable position, falling into the familiar position.
You continued talking about your day, with your chin propped up over his chest to keep your eyes on him. One of his hands caressed your back up and down, while the other was tucked under his head.
It was still early; in a few hours, you would have to go downstairs to the Nest — since the name had stuck — and oversee Yelena, Nina, and Peter patrolling on their own. Even though this new house, as well as the Nest, was run by FRIDAY, you still didn't feel comfortable delegating comms completely, which meant that you were back in the chair monitoring everything.
You relaxed in Bucky’s arms, feeling safe and protected. Once you were back in New York and your new work started, he had also made this moment part of your routine. Hearing you rant and yap about what happened during the day, and him telling you the same about his while he held you over his chest.
Eventually, once you were caught up with everything, the hands started to wander, as they usually did. It started innocently, his hand on your back brushing against your waistband. Your fingers that had been tracing figures on his chest as he talked, slowly moved to touch his jaw.
And then the kisses started, it was always unclear who initiated them, but in a fast second your lips found each other with a magnetic attraction. His hand fully groped your ass now, briefly lowering to grab your thigh and forcing you to straddle him, opening your legs more to allow some friction between the two.
His other hand found its place under your untucked blouse, touching your back, waist and making its way up your breast.
When things got even more heated, the grinding began. A jerk of his hips. A roll of your hips. A breathless moan between kisses.
You sat straight on his lap, ready to move to the next step of removing your clothes, when you froze.
A beat.
“You heard that?” You whispered, barely audible to a non-enhanced individual.
His metal hand squeezed your thigh once.
Yes.
Another sound came from outside.
He sat straight, almost knocking you out of his lap if he hadn't held your back steady. Both were now with your heads turned to the front door.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You were off his lap in record time, without looking you pulled out a knife from under the couch.
You kept your breath steady, straining your hearing.
Someone was outside your home. That was for sure. Something that should have been impossible since the house was far from the main road and consequently, far from the fence and the gate.
No alarms had gone off, not even FRIDAY. The thought of having your house hacked made your stomach drop.
You didn't have to look behind you to know that Bucky had silently rushed to the kitchen exterior door, on his way to circle the house and position himself behind the unknown threat. Under your panic, you reminded yourself to tell Bucky that you had been right about planning drills for circumstances like this.
The knocks resumed when you got to the door. And placing the most charismatic mask that you could conjure, you opened the door with a smile, holding the knife behind your back.
“Jaime?” You almost choked on your saliva when you saw him outside.
“Miss Wayne! Thank God you're home!”
In front of you, under the light of your porch, stood an older version of your friend, Jaime Reyes. The teenager who had been helping you keep an eye on your family and Clark using the articles of the Daily Planet and several magazines.
“How did you know that I lived here?” You asked, careful to keep the warmth in your voice.
There was no way he was a sleeper agent of HYDRA. Right?
The grip on your knife tightened.
“Scarab told me.” He replied, and then the weirdest thing happened: he turned his head over his shoulder and muttered under his breath. “Hey! She's a friend, I told you we can trust her. That's why we are here, remember?” He returned his eyes to you, flashing a smile. “Sorry, I know you'd get mad, but I needed your help, well, Sparrow’s help, so Scarab tracked you down, and this was the —”
“Sparrow?”
“I know you're her.”
“Jaime, I think you—”
“Don't lie to me. I know as a fact that you are her. I,” you saw him doubt for a second. “Scarab hacked into your comms the other night… I recognized your voice.”
Okay, you had tons of questions, but you had to start with the first one that had been running through your mind.
”Who’s Scarab?”
Just as you asked, you saw Bucky positioning himself over his shoulder. Even if you made the effort of not following him with your eyes, it was as if Jaime had sensed him, because the next thing you knew, he was moving.
“Careful, Miss Wayne!” He exclaimed as he turned around, covering you with his body.
In a blink, his body was covered by a blue-and-black insect-like exosuit. Jaime lifted his arms, which had become energy blasters.
“Jaime! Don’t” You cried out, throwing yourself on his back and making him miss by an inch. The knife clanked as it hit the ground.
“Scarab! Stop!” Jaime said, stopping the sharp leg that came out of his back from piercing your skull.
“You have a lot to explain.” You said, looking at Jaime once he retracted his helmet.
“Yeah, I know,” he said, sheepishly.
Bucky approached carefully, tracking Jaime with his eyes as he positioned himself by your side.
“Long time no see,” Bucky told him, recognizing him from that morning he had taken you to the Daily Planet, before HYDRA attacked. “Are you okay, baby?” He mumbled to you.
“I’m okay.”
“Aww. I have forgotten he's your boyfriend. My apologies, I should have considered the possibility that you would get defensive. Scarab tends to override my control if there's danger.”
“You don't have full control.” You pointed out.
“Correct.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Most of the time I do, though.”
“Why are you here?” Bucky asked.
“I heard you're forming a team. I want to learn how to be a better hero, and what better way than with you two? Keep the city safe as you do.” Jaime said, and then he clasped his hands together in front of him. “Please, I promise I will train so hard and make you proud.”
You could feel Bucky staring at you, waiting for your decision.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“Get inside, to the right, there's the common room, first you need to tell me more about,” you gestured to his exosuit, “all of this.”
“That’s a yes?”
“Get inside the house, Jaime.”
“Wah! Thank you! You won't regret it!” He rushed to you, hugged you, and then he rushed inside the house, leaving both of you outside.
Bucky kept his lips in a tight line, entertained by the whole interaction.
You gasped, realizing something.
“Oh my God, I’m turning into my dad.” You said, horrified.
Bucky chuckled, putting his arm over your shoulder and side-hugging you. “At least they have already outgrown the Robin mantle — only young adults for now. No kids. And so far, none of them call you Mom, that we know of.”
“Bucky!” You buried your face in your hands.
“I’m joking.” He laughed and then kissed your temple. “But think about this, they are 4, enough to let us train before we start working on filling every room with our own children.”
You turned to see him.
“Let’s get married first, can we?”
“I know, baby, as we planned. For now, just… practicing.” He said, pulling you close by your hip.
“Practice raising them?” You feigned innocence.
“That, and making them, of course.”
You snorted when he leaned in and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“You really have a dirty mind, Bucky Barnes.”
“All your fault, Miss Wayne, you corrupted me. I was a good old 40’s innocent guy.” He bit your neck.
“Mhm, right.” You cradled his face. “I love you.” You whispered.
“I love you more.” He kissed you and then wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you up, walking blindly until he was at the doorstep, a snapshot that mirrored your first kiss.
Hand in hand, you walked back inside, closing the door behind you.
The future was uncertain, especially with your lifestyle, but one thing was sure — you had the best partner that you could have wished for. Someone who would have your back in every context and, more importantly, someone who loved you reciprocally,
Not because you were Miss Wayne, Batgirl, Sparrow, or the soldier you were raised to be, but because you were you.
And you loved him back as well — the Avenger, the hero, the Sergeant, the soldier, the survivor, your partner.
Every version of you.
Every version of him.
Loved.
Fin.
a/n: pictures taken from pinterest only for aesthethic purposes, dividers made in canva by me.
Thank you so much for reading! I'll miss these two so much, so don't get surprised if one day I come back to this AU for some one-shots or drabbles. (If anyone has any requests, my asks are open! I'll do my best!)
To those who stayed chapter by chapter, thank you so much! I couldn't have done this without you. Reading your comments, feedback, or just seeing your user in my notifications helped me a lot, and kept me motivated to keep writing!
I hope you enjoyed their journey as much as I did. I love you so much
- Bubu
if you liked it, feel free to leave a like, rb, a comment, or an ask! I'd love to read your thoughts!
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summary. After a late-night in New Orleans, Congressman Bucky Barnes and his chief of staff wake up legally married. An annulment should be simple, but unfortunately, nothing about their lives is simple. With Bucky's reputation on the line and her past threatening to resurface, staying married starts to look like the safest option. It's only supposed to be temporary. Public appearances, a convincing story, and a quiet divorce once the headlines fade. But fake marriage is harder when everyone else believes it. Especially when Bucky is already in love with his wife.
word count. 7.3k
warnings. politics, Bucky hasn't realized Peter Parker is Spiderman, fake marriage setup, friends with questionable boundaries, references to the Red Room and Hydra but nothing graphic, lots of jokes about Bucky's age, reader is a little mean but Bucky is exactly where he wants to be
masterlist | series masterlist | last chapter | next chapter
“Is this thing on?”
“Yeah, camera’s rolling.”
Bucky cleared his throat, adjusting his tie slightly.
He caught a look from you sitting beside him, and immediately let go of the tie, opting instead to rest his arm behind you on the loveseat you were both situated on. You had spent time adjusting his tie before the interview started, and he could see the annoyance behind your eyes as he undid your work.
“Are… are the both of you ready?”
The journalist asked, getting the both of you to pull your gaze away from each other and focus on the camera. Bucky tried for a smile that came across as more of a grimace.
“Yes, we’re ready.” You offered her a bright smile. “Tessa, was it?”
“Tessa Grant.” She nodded, turning to look into the camera facing her. “This afternoon I’m here with Representative Barnes and his wife to talk about congressional life, their recent nuptials, and the Enhanced Persons Protections Act the congressman is sponsoring.”
The journalist launched into more information about Bucky and his first term in office, then introduced you. She read off her cue card the backstory you had provided for her: you grew up in Switzerland, the daughter of diplomats, had returned to the U.S. to attend an Ivy League school, and had eventually met Bucky when you started working on his congressional campaign.
And maybe that could’ve been the life you had if it wasn’t for the Red Room and wasn’t for Valentina, but you tried not to think about that. You settled into Bucky’s side.
“Well, on behalf of the network,” Tessa said, “I’d like to extend my congratulations on your recent wedding. I was personally surprised when I heard the news, I don’t think anyone knew you were seeing anyone, Representative Barnes.”
“Uh, thank you, thank you.” Bucky shifted uncomfortably next to you, you considered if a well-placed jab to his ribs would snap him out of it. “Yeah, we’re… we’re a pretty private couple.”
Tessa gave him a tight smile. “Yes, I can imagine. We’re grateful the both of you made time for this interview. How did the two of you meet?”
The question pulled a real smile from your lips.
The first time you had met Bucky, he wasn’t Bucky at all.
You had met the Winter Soldier about a decade ago when you were on a mission in Manila. You had been deployed to destabilize the local government, and the Winter Soldier had been sent to do the same. You both had different methods in mind to do so.
You never forgot the blue of his eyes, cold and lifeless, hardly containing any man at all. So entirely different from the blue eyes staring down at you now, a smile tugging up at the corners as he recalled the first time he could remember you.
Shortly after Manila, S.H.I.E.L.D. had fallen in D.C., and not long after that, Dreykov’s Red Room fell out of the sky. You didn’t see the Winter Soldier—you didn’t see Bucky—until years later, when Valentina handed you a folder containing details for your next operation.
And you recognized those blue eyes again. No longer a husk of a human, but definitely tired. You read his profile, a former Hydra operative running for Congress. A former weapon trying to do some good in the world. Something twisted in you.
“Well, I had been working a job I wanted to get out of. Paid well, wasn’t the most fulfilling,” you admitted. “And then I came across Bucky’s campaign. I liked his message. I liked him.”
“Was hardly a campaign ‘fore she came along,” Bucky admitted. “Knew I wanted to make a change, didn’t have an idea in hell of how to do it.”
“Oh, it was a trainwreck,” you agreed.
He chuckled, something like admiration glinting in his eyes as he smiled down at you. “Yeah. Didn’t stand a chance of winning until she came around and whipped us into shape. Owe it all to her, really.”
“All the help in the world wouldn’t have made a difference if voters didn’t genuinely like you. Don’t sell yourself short,” you nudged him playfully.
Tessa smiled at the exchange between the two of you. “So how long have you been together?”
You stared at Bucky for a second, silently trying to remember what you had agreed upon earlier.
“Depends what you mean by together,” he answered. “We’ve been together for years now. She’s been beside me through campaigns, hearings, bad hotel coffee, worse polling.”
You softened despite yourself.
“Guess somewhere in all of that, I realized I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Wouldn’t want to. She’s my best friend.”
You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face, despite the fact that you knew you’d be hearing from Sam about that “best friend” comment later.
“And your elopement in New Orleans last week?” The journalist asked.
“Ah, well, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible,” Bucky said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Did you… Did you just quote When Harry Met Sally?”
“Yeah, sweetheart,” he smiled. “You said you liked the movie, had to see what all the rage was.”
“I-I…” You stared at him incredulously. “When did you even have the time to watch that?”
He shrugged.
“So the wedding,” prodded Tessa, “wasn't just some kind of spontaneous accident?”
“Spontaneous, yes. Accident, no.” Bucky said.
“Oh, me and my dreamboat have just been incredibly happy, y’know?” You squeezed his hand a little harder than necessary. “And we’re also incredibly happy to be given this opportunity to talk about the bill the congressman is sponsoring.”
Beside you, Bucky’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles where your hands were joined together.
“Yes, of course,” Tessa said, glancing down at the card in her lap before looking back up. “The Enhanced Persons Protections Act. Representative Barnes, you’ve been very clear that this bill is one of the central priorities of your first term. Could you explain what it would do?”
The question steadied him. Bucky never liked talking about himself, but the work was different. He leaned forward slightly, his hand still holding yours.
“It protects people who’ve been treated like assets instead of people,” he said. “Enhanced people, but also former operatives, people with abilities they didn’t ask for. The bill creates clearer legal protections against forced recruitment, unlawful testing, coercion, and unauthorized experimentation.”
“You’ve spoken before about your own history making this issue personal.”
“It is personal,” Bucky said.
You watched his profile rather than the camera. His jaw was relaxed, but his eyes were not. There was always a point when interviews turned toward his past where the room seemed to forget he was sitting there.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles again in a grounding way. You did not know if he was grounding himself or you.
“Too many people have been used by governments, private groups who figured no one would stop them,” Bucky continued. “This bill is a declaration that we will not accept that.”
This was Bucky Barnes, with his crooked tie and his competence, and his stupid, steady voice that said things like that and made you remember why you had stayed with his campaign in the first place.
You had been sent to him once. Valentina had handed you the file with his picture clipped to the front and smiled like she’d given you a gift.
It should have been easy. Former assassin turned congressional candidate. Men with guilt complexes were usually easy, you found the wound, pressed your thumb into it, and waited for them to bleed.
Except Bucky had looked at you across a folding table in a half-empty campaign office and asked what you thought of his veterans’ housing plan.
He didn’t ask you about your resume, or your story, or why someone like you had appeared in his life with a perfect cover.
And you had given him your honest opinion on the housing plan. And he had given you a pen with the instructions to “fix it.”
“Well,” Tessa said, pulling you back into the room, “critics of the bill have argued that it creates too much federal oversight. That it may make private security firms or contractors hesitant to work with enhanced individuals at all.”
“Good,” you said. “If a company’s business model depends on exploiting enhanced individuals without oversight, then hesitation seems like a healthy first step.”
Tessa turned slightly toward you. “So you see this as an accountability bill?”
“I see it as a very basic don’t-put-people-in-cages bill,” you replied.
Bucky made a sound beside you.
You looked up at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You made a sound.”
“Usually I’m not supposed to say ‘cages’ on camera.” He shrugged.
“I’m not an elected official, your rules don’t apply to me.”
His expression warmed. You realized too late that you were smiling at him.
You were smiling at him the way you smiled when he found you in the hallway after a long vote and silently handed you the tea he pretended not to remember you liked. The way you smiled when he stood in front of a room of powerful men and refused to make himself smaller for their comfort.
You turned back to Tessa. “He needs correcting. Every now and then.”
“And what does Mrs. Barnes need?” Tessa asked.
Your spine tried to leave your body. Mrs. Barnes. You kept your expression pleasant through what could only be described as an internal systems failure.
You opened your mouth to answer but nothing came out. Deeply off-brand.
“She needs people to listen to her the first time,” Bucky said, filling the silence.
You looked up at him. He wasn’t looking at Tessa, he was looking at you.
“She’s usually already figured out the problem,” he continued. “Most folks just waste time making her prove it.”
Tessa leaned forward slightly. “Do the two of you ever find it difficult to separate the personal relationship from the professional one?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Tessa looked delighted. “And why is that?”
“Congressional offices are terrible places to have feelings,” you said. “But the work hasn’t changed. We trusted each other before any of this was public. The marriage didn’t create that, it just made people notice.”
The second the words left your mouth, you regretted them. They were true.
Tessa gave you a softer smile. “That’s a beautiful way to put it.”
“I’ll deny saying it if you make it sound sentimental.”
“We have it on camera.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Too late now, sweetheart,” Bucky leaned in closer, his voice low enough that the microphone might catch it but the crew probably wouldn’t.
Sweetheart.
He had called you that earlier. You had nearly blacked out from irritation. Or something similar to irritation. Something in the same district as irritation.
The interview went on. Tessa asked about the bill again, about the coalition behind it, about why some members were hesitant to support it. Bucky answered most of those questions. You corrected him twice when he understated his own work and once when he tried to say the bill had “a few” bipartisan sponsors.
“It has seventeen,” you said.
“Seventeen is a few.”
“Seventeen is not a few. Three is a few.”
“Fine.”
“Say coalition.”
“No.”
“Say coalition for the camera.”
He looked directly into the lens. “Coalition.”
“Good job, hotshot.” You patted his knee.
Bucky’s ears went faintly red.
Tessa asked if marriage had changed his perspective on public life.
Bucky took a moment with that one. Not too long, just long enough for you to feel him choose his words carefully.
“Maybe,” he said. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to keep parts of my life separate. Public, private. Past, present. Work, home. I don’t know if that always works.”
He was looking at Tessa, but his hand was still holding yours.
Bucky continued. “Sometimes the people who know you in one part of your life are the reason you can stand in the other parts.”
You hated that he could say something like that without sounding like he had rehearsed it in a mirror. You hated that you knew he had not rehearsed it because Bucky Barnes would rather walk barefoot across Legos than prepare an emotionally vulnerable answer for television. You hated that the answer landed somewhere under your ribs and stayed there.
Tessa let the silence sit for a moment, then smiled. “That sounds like a good place to end.”
The red camera light went off. Tessa unclipped her microphone with a pleased expression that made you deeply uneasy. You released Bucky’s hand, standing to smooth your dress.
“Tessa,” you said, offering your hand. “Thank you for your time.”
“Thank you.” She shook your hand, then Bucky’s. “You two were wonderful. The bill portion was strong, but the two of you together? There’s a warmth there. It will help people see a different side of him.”
“Yes,” you said. “That’s the hope.”
When you entered behind Bucky, silence rippled across the bullpen.
The office had a rhythm on normal days. Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. Someone near the kitchenette swearing under their breath because the coffee machine was broken again. Mia saying, “No, absolutely not,” into a phone like she was sentencing someone. Papers moving. Shoes against carpet.
Today, all of it stopped.
Bucky stepped through the doorway first, one hand still near the small of your back from where he’d guided you through the hallway outside. He dropped it before anyone could read too much into it. The whole staff looked up at once.
Legislative aides. Press assistants. The district team.
And Peter Parker.
Bucky’s eyes landed on the kid without meaning to.
Peter stood near the copier with a stack of constituent letters in his arms, shoulders lifted nearly to his ears, eyes too wide behind his earnest little face. There was always something off about that kid. Bucky had seen Peter catch a falling stapler from across a desk once without looking. He had also watched the kid nearly trip over a trash can immediately afterward.
Behind him, you walked into the middle of the office, dropped your bag on the nearest empty chair, and looked around like you were daring the room to make a sound.
“Everyone,” you announced to the room, “if we could gather for two minutes.”
The staff gathered in clusters. Legislative aides near the conference table, press hovering by Mia’s door. Priya from constituent services holding a mug she had not taken a sip from. Oliver pretending not to look directly at your rings.
“I know this is personal news in a public office,” Bucky said, “so I’ll keep it simple. We’re married.”
Peter raised his hand.
Bucky ignored him.
“We wanted to tell you ourselves. The timing got away from us, and I know that puts this office in a strange position.”
Beside him, you did not move. He could feel how carefully still you had gone, as though if you held yourself together tightly enough, no one would see where the lie met the truth.
He wanted to reach for your hand.
He did not.
“Our expectations do not change,” you added. “We are still focused on the bill, the district, and the people this office serves. Our official statement is that the congressman and I are grateful for the kind words, we value our privacy, and we remain focused on the work.”
Peter raised his hand higher.
Bucky stared at him.
The kid lowered it halfway, seeming to reconsider the whole concept of having an arm, then lifted it again like he had committed to the bit and now had to die there.
You looked at him. “Yes, Peter?”
“Is,” Peter began, his eyes moved from you to Bucky, then back to you. “Is congratulations allowed?”
The sharpness in your eyes softened and you offered Peter a smile.
“Yes,” you said. “Congratulations is allowed.”
Peter nodded, very seriously. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, kid.”
A few staffers murmured congratulations. Priya smiled warmly. Oliver whispered something to the press assistant beside him until Mia turned her head one inch in his direction and killed the thought in his mouth.
Then Elise from scheduling said, “Honestly, I think we’re all just happy for you. I mean, we were surprised. Obviously. But not… that surprised.”
You went very still beside Bucky.
“Not that surprised?” You asked.
“I mean, respectfully,” Peter said, trying to help, “you do fix his tie a lot.”
Both you and Bucky stared at him.
And because Peter Parker didn’t know when to put down the shovel, he continued.
“I mean, he lets you fix them. Which seems like a trust thing. Not a romantic thing. I mean, maybe romantic now. You’re married. Congratulations again.”
Tomas, clearly emboldened, added, “You also know his coffee order.”
“I know everyone’s coffee order,” you said.
“No, you don’t,” Mia said, not looking up from her tablet.
“Traitor.”
“Alright, well that’s probably enough of Q&A time for now,” Mia said, her tone shifting. “We have a veterans’ group arriving in ten minutes, the congressman has a call with Senator Alvarez at two.”
Peter raised his hand again.
Bucky looked at him. “Yes, Peter?”
“Sorry, just for clarity, if someone asks if we’re happy for you, can we say yes?”
Bucky tried not to smile.
You failed first.
“Yes, Peter,” you said. “You can say you’re happy for us.”
Peter smiled. “Great. Because I am.”
Bucky had expected scrutiny or awkwardness. Maybe suspicion. He had prepared for the sharp edge of it. He had not prepared for people being happy or for his staff looking at the two of you and deciding this made sense.
“Wonderful. Emotional moment concluded,” you announced. “Back to work.”
The staff scattered, the office resuming its rhythm. Phones rang again, someone typed too loudly. Peter finally delivered the letters to Priya’s desk, nearly colliding with a chair, caught the chair before it fell, then pretended that had not happened.
“Stop glaring at the intern,” you said beside Bucky.
“I’m not glaring.”
“You absolutely are.”
“There’s something off about him.”
“He’s just a kid,” you shrugged.
Bucky turned to you, narrowing his eyes. “You know something.”
“I know many things.”
“About Parker. You hired him.”
“I hire a lot of people.”
“What do you know?”
You gave him a pleasant smile. “I know we have a veterans’ group in eight minutes and if you keep staring at Peter like that, people are going to wonder why you’re beefing with the intern. Pick on someone your own age, why don’t you, Barnes?”
Bucky huffed in annoyance, but a slow smile spread across his features. “Y’know, speaking of age…”
“What,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “did you leave your dentures somewhere, Optimus-past-his-prime?”
“Optimus…?” Bucky looked confused.
Your mouth formed a little ‘o.’
“You haven’t seen Transformers, have you?”
“I’ve been a little busy, with the Russian brainwashing and everything, sweetheart,” he rolled his eyes.
You scoffed. “You think you’re special, Gandalf?”
“Alright I think—and I understand that reference—we’re getting away from my point. You remember what you said to me in New Orleans?” Bucky asked.
You made a face.
“I said a lot of things, and I definitely don’t remember them all. I have to assume two of those words were ‘I do,’ so I guess that’s something.”
He shook his head. “Not that. You were telling me that no one would believe I’m your boyfriend because I’m too old. Said you were too ‘youthful.’”
You nodded. “Sure, sounds like me.”
A smug grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he nodded at the staffers. “I just want to make sure you know that you were just proven wrong. The staff had no problem believing I’m your husband. I guess I am a spring chicken after all.”
You opened your mouth to respond with something sharp and witty, but no words came.
“They’re here,” Mia called from her office.
Bucky nodded, stepping away from you and walking to the front of the office to greet the veterans’ group.
He stopped halfway, turning back to you.
“And one more thing, chief?”
You met his gaze. “Hm?”
“Gandalf was an incredibly powerful wizard. The Dwarves of Durin’s Folk never would’ve been able to retake Erebor without him.”
He shot you a cocky grin and continued on to the front of the office.
You scowled at his retreating form.
“Fuckin’ nerd.”
The jeweler was exactly the kind of place you expected Bucky Barnes to know.
It was tucked into a side street in Georgetown, behind a dark green door with a brass handle polished so thoroughly you could see your own distorted reflection in it. There was no flashy sign out front, no diamonds glittering in the window. Just a small gold plaque that read Feldman & Sons and a narrow window displaying one antique watch, a strand of pearls, and a sign that said “By Appointment.”
“This looks like a place where old money comes to buy its blood diamonds,” you muttered.
“They don’t sell blood diamonds.”
“You asked?”
He glanced at you. “Yes.”
You turned to him.
He looked back, annoyingly calm.
Of course he had asked. Of course James Buchanan Barnes had made sure his fake-marriage ring upgrade did not involve exploitative mining practices. Of course he had probably researched the place, called ahead, and asked careful questions.
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re very prepared for a man who accidentally got married.”
His face did something small, there and gone.
“I like being prepared.”
You looked back at the green door.
You could handle a chapel ring. A cheap little silver thing from a rotating display case between a plastic bouquet and a brochure for the Jazz It Up package. That ring had been ridiculous. Temporary. An object with an exit strategy.
This place had insurance policies and probably used words like “heirloom” seriously. You did not like it.
Bucky looked at you. “We don’t have to do this.”
You snapped your eyes to him. “Excuse me?”
He lifted one shoulder. “If you don’t want to.”
“Oh, I want to. I just want to complain a bit while doing it.”
“That’s different?”
“That’s marriage.”
His mouth twitched.
You pointed at him. “Do not look pleased. I’m using the word as a legal category.”
“‘Course.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you sound agreeable, but your face is smug.”
“I have a smug face?”
You nodded. “You have many faces. I’m building a database.”
He reached around you and opened the door.
“Always the gentleman,” you said.
“It’s polite.”
“It’s very 1940s.”
“Been told.”
You stepped past him into the shop. “Thanks, Captain Chivalry.”
He sighed behind you.
The inside of Feldman & Sons smelled faintly of lemon oil, old wood, and cold metal. Glass cases lined the walls, each one carefully lit from within. Nothing sparkled aggressively. Everything gleamed with restraint. Rings sat in velvet trays like they were waiting to be chosen by people who knew how to pronounce all the French words on a wine list.
There were antique brooches, men’s watches, signet rings, tiny gold lockets, and diamond bands that looked as if they had survived better-dressed wars than the one currently being waged in your chest.
An older man stepped out from the back room almost immediately.
He had silver hair, rimless glasses, and the composed expression of a person who had seen enough engagement panic to become immune to it. His suit fit beautifully, in the way that made you suspect his tailor knew family secrets.
“Congressman Barnes,” he said warmly.
Bucky nodded. “Arthur.”
Of course he knew his jeweler by first name.
You looked at Bucky. He ignored you.
“And Mrs. Barnes,” Arthur turned to you, his expression softening to something respectful without becoming familiar.
“A pleasure to meet you,” you said brightly.
Arthur smiled. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Are they?” You asked.
Bucky said your name under his breath, his tone laced with amusement.
Arthur’s smile deepened. “I’ll say they are.”
Arthur gestured toward a seating area near the back. Two chairs sat before a glass-topped consultation table. A tray had already been arranged there, covered with a dark velvet cloth.
Already arranged.
Bucky had called ahead.
You sat first, because standing there would look suspicious, and because Bucky remained beside your chair until you did.
Arthur took the chair on the other side of the table and folded his hands.
“I pulled a few options based on what Congressman Barnes mentioned over the phone,” he said.
You turned to Bucky. “You mentioned things?”
“He asked what you might like.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing strange,” Bucky said. “Or too showy.”
He was right.
“And that you’d probably prefer something with a little history.”
Also not wrong.
Bucky Barnes knowing things about you was not new. He knew your coffee order, the way you hated having your back to open doors, how you kept snacks in your desk drawer but forgot to eat them, which donors made your jaw clench, and which jokes meant you were actually upset.
You leaned back in your chair. “Fine. Proceed, Arthur. Show me the tasteful evidence.”
Arthur lifted the velvet cloth, and for a second, you forgot to be sarcastic.
There were maybe a dozen of them. Some gold, some platinum, some with diamonds arranged in clean lines, others with sapphires or small emeralds or filigree work delicate enough to make you worry about crushing them in your fist.
Arthur began explaining Edwardian settings, old European cuts, mine cuts, platinum bands, hand engraving, restoration work. You listened with half an ear, because you were good at listening while pretending not to.
Arthur slid a ring with a halo of tiny diamonds around a center stone toward you.
You tilted your head. “I don’t know… it just has third-wife energy. Maybe for one of my next marriages?”
Bucky stifled a laugh.
“I see,” Arthur said with a nod.
Arthur then handed you a thin gold band with small stones.
You tried it on. It looked wrong on your hand. Pretty, yes, but wrong. Like something that would apologize after being stepped on.
“No,” you said. “It would not survive me.”
Bucky’s eyes dropped to your hand, then back to your face. “No?”
“No.”
Arthur moved the next ring into the center of the tray.
It was smaller than some of the others, but not timid. A central diamond set low, not raised like it needed to be shown off. Old cut. Softer than modern stones, catching the light in flashes rather than fire. On either side, tiny sapphires were tucked into the setting, dark enough that they looked nearly black until light hit them.
And when light did hit them, they were the exact same shade of blue as—
No.
No, you were not going to think about that.
“What’s this one?” You asked.
“Old European-cut diamond, with sapphire accents,” Arthur informed you. “The engraving is original, though worn. It’s been cleaned and checked, but not over-restored.”
“Not over-restored,” you repeated.
“No, some pieces lose character if you try to make them look new.”
You picked up the ring, turning it once, watching the light move across the worn detailing. There were tiny imperfections in the metal, softened by time. It looked like something that had survived being loved.
You slid it onto your finger before you could talk yourself out of it.
It fit. Of course it fit. You stared at your hand, your fingers flexing once. The sapphires flashed.
Beside you, Bucky did not move. You could feel his stillness, but you did not look at him because if you looked at him, you would have to name whatever was happening in the air, and you had survived too long by refusing to name things until absolutely necessary.
Arthur smiled faintly. “It suits you.”
You swallowed.
Then lifted your chin. “Well, obviously.”
Bucky’s voice came lower than before. “You like it?”
You looked at him then.
Big mistake.
His eyes were on you now. Blue, steady, unreadable in that infuriating way of his. There was something behind them you didn’t know how to hold.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” you said. “I’m capable of liking beautiful things.”
“I know,” he said softly.
You cleared your throat, looking down at the ring again. “It might be too expensive.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It’s covered.”
“By who?”
“Me. Are you done?”
“No. I’m just warming up.”
Bucky sighed. “We need rings.”
“We need rings,” you agreed, “we don’t need to put a down payment on something that could have an ancestral curse.”
His mouth twitched. “Ancestral curse?”
“It’s from the 1910s, anything could have happened.”
“We do inspect for structural damage,” Arthur said gently.
“I am speaking spiritually, Arthur,” you replied.
“Ah.”
“You want to look at more?” Bucky asked.
You looked down at the tray, and suddenly every other ring looked like someone else’s life.
“No.”
The answer came too fast.
“But don’t look too pleased about it,” you added.
“Can’t be pleased my wife likes her ring?”
Your breath caught. You hated how easily he had said it.
You looked toward Arthur. “Do you have men’s rings? Preferably something for a man whose personality is stuck in the stone age?”
“Of course,” Arthur said. “I pulled a few options for Congressman Barnes as well.”
“Excellent,” you said. “He doesn’t get to be financially noble alone.”
“You don’t have to buy mine,” Bucky said, turning to you.
“Oh, I absolutely do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t–”
You leaned closer and smiled. “Husband.”
He stopped. Good. Effective.
You continued sweetly. “Are you denying your wife the joy of gift-giving?”
“You are enjoying this too much,” Bucky muttered.
“I enjoy very few things in life. Let me have this.”
Arthur returned with another tray of men’s bands. Gold, platinum, brushed metal, darker finishes. Some plain, some engraved, some too modern, some too delicate. Bucky tried on a few, but you could tell he wasn’t overly impressed with any yet.
You picked up a simple band with a narrow engraved line around the center. It was solid without being showy. Clean. Old-fashioned. It looked like him. Steady. Understated.
You handed it to him.
“Try this one.”
Bucky took it.
His fingers brushed yours.
He slid the ring onto his left hand, looking at the ring, then at you.
“Well?”
You tried to summon a joke, but for once, it came late.
“It’ll do.”
His eyebrows lifted. “That’s all?”
You shrugged.
After being given the green light for both rings, Arthur took them to a different counter to wrap them up. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms.
“You didn’t have to say yes,” Bucky said after a minute.
You turned to face him.
“To the ring?” You asked.
“To any of this.”
You felt your body go still. There it was, the thing under the thing.
“I know,” you said.
You drummed your fingers lightly against your knee, adding, “the old rings looked ridiculous.”
“They did. Probably best that we have rings that don’t look like they came with a free souvenir cup.”
You snorted. “That was almost funny.”
“I try.”
“Do you?”
“With you.”
You stared at him.
He seemed to realize what he had said only after it was too late, his eyes shifting away.
Bucky had expected you to complain more.
He had prepared for it, actually.
Not because you were unreasonable, but because moving into his townhouse had seemed like the kind of thing you would resist on principle. It was one thing to wear a ring in public, one thing to sit beside him in an interview and smile like the marriage had been a private choice, one thing to let the office believe the story because the alternative was worse.
Moving in was different. Closets, toothbrushes. Your shoes by his door next to his. Your books on his shelves. Your life occupying space in his.
Bucky had expected a fight, he had not expected you to walk through the front door of his townhouse, stop in the entryway with a box balanced against your hip, and go silent.
You were trying not to show it, but Bucky had learned you too well for that. Your shoulders lowered the smallest amount. Your eyes moved over the space with the quick, precise assessment you gave every room you entered.
The townhouse was not grand. Narrow, brick-fronted, with creaky stairs and too many built-ins. But it was solid, and significantly nicer and safer than your apartment. Better locks, no alley-facing bedroom window. No lobby where anyone with a clipboard and confidence could talk their way inside.
“Okay,” you said.
Bucky shut the door behind him. “Okay?”
You set the box down on the console table and walked deeper inside, slow enough that he knew you were trying not to seem impressed.
“This is irritating.”
He leaned back against the closed door. “My house?”
“Your house being so nice.”
His mouth tugged despite himself. “Sorry.”
“You should be.”
You glanced around the living room, taking in the dark wood floors, the fireplace, the bookshelves, and the deep green couch Sam had bullied him into buying.
“This severely undermines my moral position,” you said.
“What moral position?”
“That moving in with you is a sacrifice.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Is it?”
You looked back at him, eyes narrowing. Bucky held up both hands. You turned away, but not before he caught the small curve at the corner of your mouth.
“It’s inconvenient,” you shrugged, stepping into the living room and running a hand along the back of the couch. “But materially? This is a significant improvement.”
Bucky picked up the box you had abandoned and carried it toward the stairs. You had packed quickly, which meant very little had been labeled in ways a normal person would understand. This box had DESK/FILES/KNIVES? written on the side in black marker.
He paused at the bottom of the staircase and looked back at you.
“Knives?”
You waved him off. “It’s an old box.”
The townhouse had been quiet for years. Too quiet, sometimes. After everything, he had wanted quiet. He had wanted a place where no one came through the door unless he let them in, where the walls stayed where they were, where the furniture did not move unless he moved it. A place that belonged to him, because for a long time nothing had.
But quiet could turn on a man. The house had a way of making his own breathing sound too loud. A way of stretching night into something flat and empty. He had gotten used to it, or told himself he had. He cooked badly in the kitchen, read reports in the living room, slept poorly in the bedroom, and let the place stay clean because clean was easier than lived-in.
In the space of ten minutes, you had placed two boxes in the hallway, a coat over the banister, your bag on the entry table, and a pair of sunglasses beside his keys.
He carried the box into the bedroom and set it near the dresser. The room felt different with your things in it, even boxed. Warmer.
He looked at the bed and made himself look away.
You were not really his wife. Not like that.
By the time he returned downstairs, you were in the kitchen, opening cabinets. Of course you were. You had your blazer sleeves pushed up and the expression of a woman conducting an inspection that would end badly for someone.
You opened one cabinet, stared inside, then slowly closed it. You opened another. Closed it. Opened the pantry. You went very still.
He braced himself.
“Barnes?”
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
“My pantry?”
“No.”
“It is.”
You stepped aside so he could see.
Coffee. Protein bars. Peanut butter. A few cans of soup. No cereal. No snacks that could be described as anything other than fuel. A small box of tea that Sam had once left behind.
You gestured to it like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.
“Y’know we don’t have to ration anymore, right?”
“It’s food.”
He smiled despite himself and reached for one of the smaller boxes near the doorway. This one was labeled KITCHEN/NO KNIVES :(, which worried him more than the knife box. He opened the box. Tea, mugs, a small jar of honey. Two mismatched bowls. A tiny bottle of something labeled in a language he didn’t recognize.
You gave him a small smile, helping to unpack the box.
There it was again: the strange, sharp brightness of having you in his space. You made the air move. You made the kitchen feel less like a room he used and more like a room where things might happen. Arguments, coffee, bad jokes. You opening cabinets and declaring war on his grocery habits.
“I can clear a shelf,” Bucky said, putting the tea on the counter.
Your fingers paused around the mug you were unwrapping.
“A shelf?” You said.
“For your tea.”
“I don’t need a whole shelf.”
“I’ll clear a shelf.”
Bucky opened the pantry and started moving things. Coffee to the top shelf. Protein bars into a basket. Soup to the back. He could feel you watching him, though you pretended to be busy unwrapping mugs. This was his home, and he was shifting his things around so yours could fit.
Behind him, you said, quieter, “You don’t have to rearrange everything.”
He kept moving the coffee. “I know.”
“It’s your house.”
He looked over his shoulder. You were standing by the counter, one mug held in both hands. It was chipped on the handle. Blue. He had seen it on your desk.
“Our cover’s better if it looks like you live here,” he said, turning back to the pantry before you could read him too closely. “Which shelf?”
“One I can reach without climbing.”
“That eliminates a third of them.”
You scoffed, coming up beside him and arranging boxes immediately. He leaned one shoulder against the cabinet and watched you take over. You looked comfortable. Not fully.
You were still too aware of the room, still clocking exits and windows, still moving with the restless caution he knew came from training neither of you liked to name too often. But under it, there was relief. He could see it in the small things. The way you did not flinch when the pipes creaked. The way you left your bag on the chair instead of keeping it looped over your shoulder. The way you had not once asked about the locks, probably because you had already approved them.
“You like it,” he said.
You did not look at him. “Like what?”
“The house.”
You shrugged. “The bathroom is excellent.”
“Glad it passed.”
“The closet is also acceptable.”
“Acceptable?”
“Don’t get cocky. Your living room only has one decorative pillow.”
“It has two.”
“One of them is lumbar support.”
“I like that pillow.”
“That’s because you’re elderly.”
He rolled his eyes. You caught it and smiled, pleased with yourself.
That smile did something to him. It always did, but here, in his kitchen, with your tea on his shelf and your ring catching the light as you moved boxes around, it was worse. Harder to ignore. The whole day had been a long exercise in pretending that every ordinary thing was strategy. The interview. The office. The jeweler.
The lies sat next to the truth so neatly that sometimes he had trouble seeing where one ended. You were moving in because the marriage needed to look real and because your apartment was terrible and his house was better. You were not moving in because he wanted you here.
The house hummed quietly around you. Refrigerator, pipes, distant traffic outside. Your box of tea sat in his pantry. Bucky did not know what to say.
You saved him from trying.
“Well,” you said, turning back to the counter and lifting another box, “that ends today. You’re going to own snacks.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It is. That’s why people enjoy it.”
He stepped closer and took the box from you before you could lift it.
You frowned. “I had that.”
“I know.”
You crossed your arms. “You know, the chivalry thing is going to get old.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It might.”
“It won’t.”
He carried the box upstairs.
Your bedroom–his bedroom, no, the bedroom–was next. That was the part he had been avoiding in his head, which was useless because the bed was not going to become less obvious through neglect.
You stood near the closet, looking inside with the same expression you had given the pantry, though softer this time. He had cleared half of it before you arrived. More than half, technically. His suits had been pushed to one side. The drawers on the left were empty. The top shelf had space for whatever you kept in those alarming little bags you never let anyone touch.
You looked at the empty side, then at him.
“You did this already?”
He set the box down. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“Before the interview.”
You stared.
“I knew we’d probably need to move fast,” he said.
“You cleared a lot,” you said.
“I don’t need much.”
You passed him on your way out of the closet, close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. He did not move. Neither did you, not for half a second. Then you continued into the bedroom, scanning the space like you could avoid the bed by sheer force of will.
Bucky watched you notice it.
The bed was made. Neatly, because he had made it this morning before leaving, before the interview, before the office, before rings, before you walking through his front door.
You put both hands on your hips.
“Well,” you said.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe. “Well?”
“We should discuss the sleeping situation.”
“Couch is fine.”
“No.”
He blinked.
You turned toward him. “Absolutely not.”
“I don’t mind.”
“That’s because your relationship with discomfort is alarmingly intimate.”
“It’s one night.”
“It won’t be one night.”
Of course you were right. If you were moving in, if the building staff saw you, if anyone in the office dropped something off, if the public marriage had to survive more than a week, the couch would not work.
More than that, Bucky knew you. You would not let him sleep on the couch in his own house. Not because you were sentimental, but you wouldn’t let him accuse you of elder abuse.
“You take the bed,” he insisted.
You stared at him. He recognized the expression. Wrong answer.
“Barnes.”
“What?”
“You are not being exiled from your own mattress because of a fake marriage we drunkenly wandered into.” You walked to the left side of the bed and put your hand on the pillow. “I’ll take this side, you’re okay with the right?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not going to stare at the ceiling all night like a haunted portrait?”
“I can’t promise that.”
You sat on the edge of the bed and bounced once, testing the mattress.
“This is a very good bed,” you said. “It’s further incentivizing me to stay in this marriage.”
He snorted. “Could be worse reasons.”
“You’re being very agreeable today,” you observed.
He moved toward the door. “I’ll bring up the rest of the boxes.”
Bucky turned and walked downstairs, stopping for a moment at the bottom, hand on the banister, and let himself listen. Not for threats or movement outside.
For you.
Moving around upstairs. Opening a box. Muttering something about his closet. Laughing once under your breath at your own joke.
Bucky looked toward the living room, where your bags sat beside his keys and your coat hung over the arm of the couch. One of your shoes had tipped onto its side near the entry table. Your sunglasses were still beside the bowl where he kept loose change.
Bucky picked up the next box and carried it upstairs to his wife.
Pairing: Farmer!Bucky x Popstar!Reader
Summary: When life keeps you apart from your rugged farmer boyfriend, Bucky Barnes, you start imagining the worst. Especially with how secretive Bucky has been acting lately ...
Small sequel to Don’t Wait For The Sky To Clear
Tags/Warnings: return of Bucky in a Stetson, yer, talk of processing farm animals, implied mutual masturbation and phone sex, no use of y/n, some miscommunication (Bucky being deliberately obtuse, Sam not helping)
Word Count: 4.6k
You didn’t recognise the silver car parked out front. The silver car parked in your spot. The silver car you’d never seen before parked outside the farmhouse in your spot.
You cut the engine and closed your eyes, taking a long, deep breath.
Yes, coming to the farm was your escape. Yes, that Bucky rarely entertained visitors meant you were alone in a way you could never be back in the city.
You briskly told yourself that your immediate ire over seeing someone at Bucky’s farm was purely disappointment at delaying the peace and freedom you hoped to find here in his arms, but it was only a temporary setback and you would find that perfect bliss soon enough.
Those calming thoughts froze like ice in your veins and tasted like ash on your tongue when you mounted the three wooden steps of the verandah only to find Sarah Wilson stepping out the screen door. The smile on her face was wide, satisfied, like a cat who got the best cream, as her eyes took you in.
“Hey there, darlin’,” came that familiar drawl from somewhere behind her. “Wasn’t expectin’ you?”
Bucky stepped out, the shadow of his Stetson failing to hide the colour high on his cheeks or his eyes darting between you and Sarah like he didn’t know how to handle the situation before him.
Deep breath. “I thought I’d surprise you,” you said, struggling to keep your voice even. You turned to the other woman with a tight smile. “Hey, Sarah. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Hey, Princess,” she returned with a happy grin, and suddenly the sweet nickname the Wilsons had for you felt less like an endearment and more a cruel jibe. Sarah waved the papers in her hands. “I was just sortin’ some business with your beau, but I think we’re done for the day. Right, Barnes?”
Bucky stood, hands on hips, eyes taking in the two of you with his mouth pulled into a grim line.
He cleared his throat. “Right.”
Sarah’s smile was bright as she made for her car. “See you around!”
Bucky took two steps to stand even with you, his arm curving around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple as Sarah waved out the window of her car and turned for the property drive.
As the dust settled and her car disappeared from view, Bucky turned your body toward his and tucked you against his chest. You breathed deep, taking in his scent, the farm, and the quiet air.
“Not that I’m complainin’,” he started, cocking his head to peer down at you. “But I kinda enjoy yer usual way of tacklin’ me to the floor the moment you step foot up here.”
He crooked a finger under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes squarely.
“Didn’t you miss me?”
His blue eyes were warm, soft and crinkled in the way he only ever looked at you, but you saw the flicker in the depths. The way his jaw still pinched tight.
He was worried. And not about your weak welcome.
You closed your eyes against his gaze and pressed your nose to his flannel shirt.
This was Bucky. Your Bucky. Your quiet man from the country who braved ruthless paparazzi and the overwhelm of the red carpet just to stand at your side.
“I wanted to surprise you,” you said again slowly, fingers curling into his shirt. “I didn’t expect you to have company.”
“Hm.”
The two of you stood together for a while longer, soaking in the feeling of holding each other after so long apart, the quiet of the late afternoon cloaking you both in its pull.
There was nothing to fear out here. Just the steadiness of the old farmhouse. The gentle calm of the land. The surety of the man in your arms.
Right?
“Come on,” he murmured, parting finally to swing open the screen door and lead you inside. “Had the butcher do up one of the steers. Just picked him up at noon.”
You nodded, feeling the farmhouse welcome you like an old friend in its warm embrace. Faded gingham curtains fluttered with a soft breeze. The kitchen counter was covered in styrofoam boxes, and stacked haphazardly on the dining table were some papers and Bucky’s meticulously detailed ledgers. He had digital copies, of course, but he always maintained that paper made more sense to him. It’s what Ma taught me, and it sticks, he’d said, and it had made you smile.
You didn’t feel much like smiling when he hurriedly cleared the pile away to the writing desk in the corner, locking them up like … like …
Well, like he was afraid you’d see them.
He quirked a brow at you when you very visibly shook your head, trying to dispel the thoughts seeping in like poison. You rubbed at your temple and Bucky rounded the table again, concern etched all over his face.
“Did y’want a bath?” He asked, eyes searching for a sign that would tell him exactly what was wrong so he could fix it for you. “A drink?”
But still you caught the way his eyes darted back to the writing table, double checking it was closed up.
“I’m fine,” you murmured, and that caught his attention.
Eyes zeroed in on you, unwavering, and he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Nah. Try again. What’s going on in that pretty head ‘f yers?”
You had always been honest with Bucky. It was never an agreement the two of you came to, never a conversation had about it, just a fact of nature. You’d never felt the need to be anything less than transparent with him, and you appreciated beyond measure that he was the same with you. It was a precious thing to you, a rare commodity in a world where lies and hidden agendas lurked behind every conversation Hollywood had. Bucky was the one beacon of truth in your life.
You worried your lip between your teeth before replying. “You looked a tad guilty when I found Sarah here.”
And there it was again. You saw the flash across his eyes before he avoided your gaze, saw the colour highlight his cheeks as he rubbed at the back of his neck.
“You surprised me, is all. Not often you appear unannounced at my door. Not anymore.”
Not since the week you met two years ago. You were too wary of your limited time and of interrupting his work and routine to be a nuisance like that.
But you’d missed him, dearly. Award nominations and the PR maelstrom that came with them had kept you busy, and then calving season had kept him completely occupied with his herd. This year alone you felt like you’d spent more time without him than with him, and it burned an ache in your soul so deep you’d taken the first opportunity you could to drive out.
But that ugly voice in your head, that one that was getting louder by the second, whispered a particular piece of poison that settled cold in your stomach.
It said, maybe he didn’t miss you that much.
You couldn’t let the lie take root. You couldn’t let it twist your mind against him. You only had to ask him for the truth, and he’d set you straight. You know he would.
“Why was Sarah here?”
The words were barely a whisper, so quiet you wonder if he heard them at all. But he did. You could see the gravity of your question weave through his mind, could see the wave of expressions across his face as your meaning and his reality played out before you.
“Darlin’, you ain’t got nothing to fear from Sarah Wilson.”
Tears slipped free before you could stop them.
A small wounded noise escaped Bucky as he pulled you into his arms again, one hand cradling the back of your head and the other wrapping tight around you.
“Honey,” he murmured against your temple, kissing your skin and your hair, and pressing his cheek against your head. “Sarah was here f’ business, just like she said. Farm business. You got me?”
You sniffed and nodded against his chest, but the sick feeling didn’t yet let you out of its hold.
Bucky’s metal hand swept soothingly up and down your back and he slowly rocked you in his arms.
“Farm business. That’s all. Couple changes I was thinkin’ of makin’ and needed a carpenter’s eye on things.”
He drew back only far enough to look you in the eye so you could not mistake his words. “I love you, you hear me? You. My popstar. My sweet darlin’ girl. Ain’t no one in the world competin’ with you.”
You drew in one shaky breath, then another. Your lip wobbled with a smile, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Okay,” you whispered, and he nodded once, sure his words got through to you, and pressed a brief kiss to your cheek.
“Now how about that beef? What’re you feelin’? Haven’t put any cuts away yet. Y’ got yer choice of …”
His voice slid over you like a wave as he stepped into the kitchen and begin sorting through the styrofoam boxes of meat, telling you in his gruff manner about the young steer he’d picked out and how the herd was looking as the calves grew stronger.
His Stetson sat beside him on the counter, a thin layer of dust paling the dark leather. You scooped it up by the brim and settled the hat over your head.
Bucky immediately stopped talking. Watching him watch you, you saw his jaw tighten as he looked you over, beautiful blue eyes flashing with something dark. Possessive.
“No one f’me but you.” It was barely a murmur, but it was there, plain as day in his stance and his gaze.
Finally the truth sank in, and you nodded, smiling up at him, your fears abated.
Mostly.
Later, lounging on the couch together, a thought occurred to you and you poked at his arm.
“Hm?” He shifted the notepad he was scribbling in to look at you.
“What changes were you going to make around the farm?”
Bucky’s brow furrowed. “What?”
You shuffled, lowering your book and turning to face him. “Earlier, you said you were working on farm business. You wanted to make some changes.”
He looked back down at the notepad and started scribbling again, and even without the warmth from the fire you swore you could see his cheeks darken. “Just some ideas I had. Don’t feel like gettin’ into it now.”
“Oh, sure.”
You looked back down at your book, but the words swum before your eyes and that cold feeling started to take root in your stomach again.
Weeks had passed. Months. Some days you could catch Bucky during normal hours, but here you were late on a Friday night at the recording studio, trying him one last time. You’d begged your manager to step away for just a moment, claiming an urgent call, but he only rolled his eyes and waved you off.
He knew urgent didn’t mean work related.
The dial tone taunted you, until—
“Bucky’s phone.”
That was not the voice you expected to hear. “Sam?”
“Hey there, Princess.”
“Where’s Bucky?”
“He’s cutting struts for the, uh, the … barn.”
You blinked. All those words made sense together, but the delivery gave you pause. “The barn?”
“Yup. Barn.”
“What’s he doing to the barn, Sam?”
“I-I don’t know, Princess, you know I’m no good with this cattle nonsense. I’m just a barman.”
“Don’t give me that tripe, Wilson. Are you telling me Sarah’s husband is the only man running your folks’ farm and you know nothing about its workings?”
“Don’t you go questioning my manhood now, missy, or we’ll be having some words.”
“I’d like to have some words with Bucky.”
He spluttered something that didn’t quite sound like words, and you weren’t even sure they were directed at you, before grumbling, “Not with that attitude you’re not.”
And he hung up.
You gaped down at your phone but had no time to react or process, your manager already reappearing at your side to usher you back into the studio. Just one more sound bite and you could all leave for the evening.
Miles away, Bucky winced as Sam passed his phone back to him.
“Yer gonna put me in the doghouse with that attitude, punk,” he grumbled, hoisting the planks of hardwood they’d been working on up over his shoulder. “Help me with this, would you?”
“… and then he hung up on me!” You finished your story, gesturing widely in a bewildered manner, and across from you Natasha rolled her eyes.
“That Sam has a wild streak,” she said, taking another bite of the meal before her.
“You haven’t even met him,” you say, shaking your head and looking down at your plate.
Natasha’s eyes widened. “You’re always talking about what those boys get up to out there,” she said around a mouthful of food. “Ain’t hard to figure him out.”
You were glad the restaurant had a more private area available tonight so you and Natasha could eat and talk in peace. Being able to freely talk about what was on your mind without it landing in the tabloids the next morning was a blessing.
You could see it now. ‘City Girl whines to Country Queen about her Bumpkin Beau.’
Poking idly at your meal, you sighed. “This is the first time in two years we’ve been so out of sync. I can’t catch even a moment with him.”
Natasha shrugged. “You know he’s got a lot on his hands with those calves and getting them ready for auction.”
“I know, it’s only— wait. I told you about that?”
Natasha shrugged again, eyes on her food. “Time of year for it anyhow.”
“Sure.”
Pushing food around your plate, you bit your lip and put down your fork. It was now or never. You had to speak the fear that was plaguing your mind. “I worry he’s had enough of me.”
A heavy snort and peeling laughter had you looking up at your friend, her obvious mirth pulling a smile from you even as your stomach turned in knots.
“Honey,” Natasha said, reaching across the table to rub your hand. “That man is smitten. Has been since the moment he laid eyes on you. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”
She turned back to her meal, shaking her head and chuckling softly again. “And he’ll prove it to you, I’m sure. Just you wait.”
Waiting. That was the hardest part, the insufferable waiting.
You hadn’t been to the farm in months, and with all the seasonal work left to do, Bucky couldn’t afford to be away at the moment either.
Sighing, you started on your food again. “Yeah,” you said, smiling wanly at Natasha. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Fuck, darlin’ you sound so damn sweet.”
His voice crackled over the phone but you couldn’t mistake that low gravelly tone. He was so close.
“Wish I was there to … to…”
He trailed off in a groan, and your answering gasp had him doubling down, his grunts and your moans building to a crescendo as you chased that high together.
You peaked first.
Your phone, forgotten, tumbled from your shoulder as your back arched, and from the muffled response on the other end of the call you knew Bucky fell apart right after you.
Panting, body flooding with warmth, you curled onto your side. A soft sound escaped you, one still full of longing. A little mutual play helped soothe the ache he’d started in you, but it didn’t quite fill the void in your heart where you missed him.
“Hmm, needed that,” Bucky drawled, back on the line, and you smiled at the satisfaction in his voice. “Need more though.”
“Yeah?” You asked, your voice small. “Need the real thing?”
His needy groan was nothing like the sounds he’d been making just moments before. “Fuckin’ right I do.”
“Maybe … next week?”
A pause. That was all it took for your stomach to swoop in fear all over again.
“Next week. Yeah … yeah, let’s do next week.”
“You sure, Sarge?” He didn’t sound sure.
He huffed out a chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, “Been a long time coming.” His voice was quiet, almost like the words weren’t meant for you, and suddenly next week couldn’t come soon enough.
You know you’d been gone a long time, longer than normal, but even you couldn’t mistake the sight that greeted you as you pulled up to the turn into the farm.
There was something unfamiliar on the horizon. You parked just outside the gates to Bucky’s main drive, and frowned.
Out there in one of the fields, a gentle hill that used to hold crops through spring and fed the cattle through the fallow years, sat a newly constructed building.
You stepped out of the car to swing the gate wide, checking the letterbox automatically as you did, and returned to slowly drive your car through, all the while taking in this strange new building on your boyfriend’s land.
Even at this distance you could tell it wasn’t another barn or pen. It was too domestic, with its beautiful large front window, small porch, and various satellite dishes and poles on the roof, all obvious signs pointing to a human dwelling.
Months of conversations, of cryptic words and misunderstandings came to a head, and you felt laughter bubble up out of you.
He’d been building. That’s what this was all about?
You ambled down the dirt drive, replaying every word that had twisted you up in knots. Bucky’s ‘farm business’ with Sarah—the owner of the hardware and supply store in town. Sam’s faux pax and cutting you off the call. Bucky’s late hours, later than normal even for a farmer, obviously spent working on this new project.
You passed the final post of the fence line and pulled into your spot in front of the farmhouse, and frowned.
Why the secrecy?
And what was the building even for, so separate from the main house?
You saw the kitchen light flicker on inside and found yourself smiling despite the questions circling your mind. Climbing out the car, you left everything behind as you ran across the yard and up those three steps to see him.
He met you at the screen door, pulling you in for a devastatingly thorough kiss.
“Hello,” you whispered, a little breathless. “What’s with the building out there?”
Bucky groaned, shaking his head. “You couldn’t wait five minutes?”
He kissed you again.
And again.
Moaning softly into his mouth, his hands crowding you against his body, you pressed a hand to his chest to try and stall the onslaught of attention.
“Missed you,” he mumbled against your mouth, barely letting his hold loosen, and you wanted to melt.
“Don’t keep me away so long again,” you said, your voice mock stern, and he shook his head, deep blue eyes searching yours.
“Never.”
Something in his eyes caught you. You looked closely, and found uncertainty clouding his gaze, a frisson of doubt through the love he held for you, and your breath caught.
“Bucky?”
He cleared his throat, kissing you thoroughly one last time before drawing back.
“You, uh, wanna see what I’ve been workin’ on, darlin’?”
You simply nodded.
You needed answers.
The four-wheeler stood nearby and Bucky took your hand, leading you over to the vehicle and hoisting you up on the rear. Firing the motor he ambled off.
You noticed now the main drive began to continue on, a new track leading straight up the hill to the little building perched there.
The noise of the motor meant you couldn’t pester him with questions, and so every bump in the track and the rumble of the vehicle had your nerves and your curiosity building like wildfire.
Finally parked out front, you hopped off the four-wheeler before Bucky even cut the engine and stared up in awe.
It was a miniature farmhouse. The little porch you’d seen from the drive in had two small chairs sat side by side, and next to you in the yard was a new firepit dug deep. You could just imagine being out here late autumn, sitting with Bucky, admiring the perfect view of the sunset and the farmhouse below by a roaring fire.
The walls were a faint yellow, just like the faded wallpaper inside the farmhouse proper, and it warmed your heart.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmured as Bucky stepped forward.
“Mhmm. Little surprise for you.”
Your eyes darted back to him. “Bucky … what is this?”
You’d never seen your strong, rugged farmer look so small. His shoulders hunched, Stetson as crooked as his tiny smile, and he jutted his chin out toward the building, urging you forward.
“Get inside and look.”
You climbed the three stairs up to the porch, delighting in the similarity with his family home, and swung open the screen door.
It was small, and quaint, the smell of fresh paint and inherent newness washing over you.
Immediately inside sat a tiny kitchenette and dining table with bench seats. A door disappeared ahead off into a room you could already spy a bed in, and another lead to a small bathroom. It was modest and comfortable.
But what caught your attention was the wide sliding doors that led to something from your wildest dreams.
A complete studio.
Your feet dragged you forward as you stared wide eyed at the room around you. Floor to ceiling foam and soft covers, a desk with monitors and two brand new PCs whirring softly beneath it. An empty guitar stand stood off in one corner, next to—
Your keyboard. The one he’d bought as a gift in the first year of your relationship, something for you to use and work from when you were staying on the farm. He’d moved it and set it up perfectly to the side.
Microphone stands and brand new headphones sat nearby, and you realised the walls were littered with power outlets all ready for strenuous use.
“This hill had the best signal around.” His voice was barely a rumble from behind you. “Satellite and mobile reception. Laying the lines for internet took longer than the whole damn construction.” He muttered something under his breath about fuckin’ telecomm companies, and you giggled despite yourself.
You touched a hand to the soft foam wall at your side, like feeling it would make your mind accept the reality before you.
“It’s soundproofed,” he said. “Had Nat check it all out.”
You whirled on him. “Nat? Natasha?”
His cheeks, if possible, burned brighter. “Needed to know it was good enough f’ you.”
You couldn’t close your mouth. You turned and turned, taking it all in again and again, agape.
“So… you can work from here. Take yer calls and meetings, record, play and sing as loud as you want.”
Your heart stuttered.
“It’s all quality gear, I made sure of it,” he said, taking your silence for hesitation.
“So, what you’re saying is—“ stepping toward him, you picked up first his metal hand then flesh one, clutching tight to his fingers and gazing up at him, “—I could stay here. With you. I wouldn’t have to leave.”
He cleared his throat once, twice, scowling when the words still caught, but you waited with bated breath, wanting to know exactly what he’d planned.
“Yeah. You can stay here ‘n’ work. I know you’d still have to head to the city. There’s things there yer needed for. But—“ he broke off, and for his sake you would swear against it until the day you died, but nothing could ever make you forget the way your strong, stoic farmer’s eyes misted over as he said the words, “But I want you to live with me. Be with me. On my family’s farm.”
He drew his metal hand away for a moment, keeping your left hand held tightly in his, and you closed your eyes as happiness overwhelmed you.
“Bucky, I would love to live with you,” you gushed. “It’s all I—“
You felt him shift and you opened your eyes to the sight of James Buchanan Barnes dropping to his knee in the middle of the studio he built for you.
“Darlin’, I don’t just want you to live with me,” he murmured, and your free hand rose to cover your racing breaths as he dug into his pocket and produced a beautifully fine piece of jewellery.
“My darlin’. My little popstar.”
You hiccoughed on a wild giggle.
Bucky swallowed hard, and you felt the tremor in the hand that held yours tight. “Ever since that storm blew you onto my property I knew you were somethin’ special. Didn’t even know then all the fanciness that went along with it, but you know that’s not what matters to me.”
His gaze on you softened, eyes warm and crinkling in that way you loved so much, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek.
“You’re brilliant. Kind. Goddamn sexy. And I don’t wanna spend another minute of my life wonderin’ when I can see you again.”
He took a deep breath, posture straightening below you, and his grip on the delicate little ring tightened.
“The whole world wants a piece o’ you, but I wondered if you might wanna do me the honour of bein’ just mine.”
You held your breath.
“Will you marry me?”
There was no hesitation on your part. No question, no thought in the world that was anything other than—
“Yes!”
Bucky Barnes rarely smiled. He’d perfected the art of communicating with his eyes alone, though sometimes you coaxed a crooked grin or two from him.
But this man before you, grasping your left hand with care and sliding his engagement ring onto your finger, was beaming. His rosy cheeks and mile-wide smile were brighter than you’ve ever seen, and he surged to his feet to pick you up and spin you around. Your laughter rang out, clutching at his shoulders and letting him twirl you about with glee, until he placed you back on your feet.
You stared up at him, then down at the ring on your finger glinting in the light from where it rested on his shoulder.
“What if I’d said no?”
He groaned. “Don’t. I drove myself buck wild debatin’ this whole thing.” He dropped his forehead to yours, murmuring, “Hated hidin’ it from you. Hated bein’ so busy doin’ somethin’ f’you I couldn’t even talk to you.” His accent was thick with emotion, and you pulled him down into your embrace, arms strong around his shoulders and your face pressed to his neck.
Home.
“I knew something was off,” you whispered, the months of fears completely drained away. All that was left was the truth. “I just didn’t know you would … that all this was …”
Choking up on your own emotions, you huffed out a breath as Bucky pulled you impossibly closer, crushing you to him like he never wanted to let you go.
“All f’you,” he mumbled, and you felt the hot sting of his tears against your face. “All yours.”
There were no cameras, no crowds, no witnesses to this singular perfect moment.
As if reading your mind, Bucky shifted in your arms. “I figure the wedding has to be a big affair,” he said gruffly, swiping at his face like he could hide the evidence. “What with you needing to invite half of New York and all. So I wanted this to be just … us.”
Just something simple and meaningful. Just Bucky.
Home. Your home, and Bucky’s, together.
Finally.
“What do you say we test out just how good the soundproofing is?”
His answering chuckle was wicked and low. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Synopsis : Y/N is twenty-two years old and lives a daily life that leaves very little room for anything other than responsibilities. She takes care of things, she works, she keeps going. One evening, with no specific plan in mind, she downloads a dating app. Not to find love, not to change her life just to fill the silence.
Word count : +7.9k
Warning : Complex family life, early responsibilities, emotional exhaustion. Sleep deprivation / anxiety (panic-like reactions), emotional restraint. Unstable family dynamics (sister tension, parent-related grief/absence). Slow burn. Themes of legal emancipation.
Author’s note : Thank you so much for reading 🥺🤍
The text refers to Alpine, but in this context, it is the name of Bucky's company, not his cat. Regarding Alpine (the cat), I don't know yet if I'm going to introduce her into the story.
P.S : English isn’t my first language, so please be kind if you spot little grammar mistakes, I’m doing my best ❤️ Also, just a reminder: please don’t repost, translate, copy or modify my work anywhere.
Join a Taglist: Leave a comment or send me an ask to be added to my
oneshots | series | all writing
August settled over New York with that oppressive, humid heaviness that made every movement feel slower, the air thick and clinging to the skin.
The streets lay as if asleep, weighed down by the heat, and by five o’clock in the afternoon, the Bushwick workshop felt like a balmy greenhouse where the fabrics soaked up the humidity and the scent of warm wood lingered everywhere. Y/N had got into the habit of rising early: half past six, seven at the latest, she would climb the three flights of stairs in the cool morning silence, hot coffee in hand, folded fabrics tucked under her arm. Those early hours were hers alone, the slanting light streaming through the large windows, skimming the shelves, lending the fabrics an almost living softness.
Nadia managed external communications from her small office next door. She only came in three days a week, but her touch was evident in every detail: clear briefings in the morning, short and precise messages, decisions made before anyone even had to ask. That morning, an email had arrived from Tokyo. Hana, who had been running Shizen for six years, had read Clara and Jana’s articles. She wanted to know if Thomas existed in materials that aligned with her own vision of sustainability. Nadia had replied with photos and a detailed description of the fabrics: raw linen from Williamsburg, bamboo silk from Lyon, natural horn buttons from Lisbon, and above all those perfect internal seams, invisible from the outside but so important.
Y/N read Hana’s reply around seven o’clock, sitting alone in the still-quiet workshop, her coffee set down beside her. Hana wanted three pieces to show to her clients. Y/N took a moment to let the weight of the request sink in, then replied herself, directly, with words that came from the heart. She spoke of what Thomas was really looking for: clothes made for those who looked beyond the surface.She sent the message and picked up her needle again, letting her hands find their familiar rhythm on the fabric. Around eight o’clock, the door opened with that soft sound she now recognised instantly. Bucky came in, two coffees in hand. He’d simply sent a message from the car:
I’m popping round if you’re up for it.
She’d replied yes without hesitation. He set the coffees on the table, came up behind her and slid his hands onto her shoulders, letting them linger there for a long time, warm and firm, gently massaging away the tension he could already feel beneath his palms. Y/N closed her eyes for a second, letting that familiar warmth run down her back. He leaned in, planted a slow kiss on the nape of her neck, then a gentler one just below her ear, his warm breath against her skin.
“There’s something about you this morning,” she murmured, turning slightly towards him, her hand resting on his.
He nodded, staying close, his body brushing against hers. He finally sat down on the wide sill of the middle window. She joined him at once, settling right up against him, her thigh pressed against his. He slipped an arm around her waist, drew her even closer, and planted a lingering kiss on her temple, then on her forehead, as he always did when words were slow to come. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her top, slowly caressing the small of her back with a tender, possessive gesture.
“The bad days are coming back a little,” he said at last, his voice low and calm.
Y/N rested her head against his shoulder, slipped a hand under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin. She remained silent for a moment, letting the touch speak for her. He tightened his arm around her, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles on her hip.
“Since when?” she asked softly.
“This week. Not like before… but they’re there. I’m not sleeping as well.”
She lifted her face towards him. He was already looking at her, with that gaze that always lingered a second too long, filled with the gentle intensity he reserved solely for her. He caressed her cheek, brushed her jaw, then kissed her slowly, a quiet, deep kiss in which their breaths mingled for a long time. When she pulled away, she remained close, forehead to forehead, her hand still resting on his bare skin beneath his shirt.
“You could have waited to tell me,” she whispered against his lips.
“No. I protect you better by telling you the truth than by hiding it.”
She smiled against his lips, kissed him again, more gently, just a tender touch that stirred a warm glow deep within her chest. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulled her close. They stayed like that for a long time, entwined on the windowsill, with the August heat streaming in through the open windows and Brooklyn going about its quiet business outside.They drank their coffee pressed close together, his fingers idly playing with hers. Later, when she picked up her needle again, he stayed in the workshop, present without disturbing her. From time to time, he would get up, bring her some cold water, tidy away a scrap of fabric lying about, or place a warm hand on her back as he passed. When he sensed she was starting to feel cold despite the warmth, he draped his jacket over her shoulders without a word, then kissed her on the temple, murmuring that she was working too hard.
They spoke little, but the silence was full: the way he always stood a little close to her, his lingering gaze, that gentle possessiveness that made her feel deeply cherished. When she turned towards him later that morning, he pulled her against his chest, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her head, simply holding her, for a long time, whilst the light changed in the studio.
“Next week, we could go to Staten Island,” she murmured against his neck, her lips brushing his skin.
“To see my parents?”
She nodded, sliding her hands under his shirt to feel his warmth.
“George will probably be showing Mila something in the garage. She’s got questions.”
He smiled, kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth – a longer, deeper kiss – before holding her a little tighter.
“He’ll have the answers. And I’ll need you there.”
She felt her heart tighten with tenderness. They stayed like that for a moment, entwined in the rising August heat, before he had to leave. He let her get on with her work, but not without one last kiss on the nape of her neck and a message ten minutes later:
“Have something to eat at lunchtime, I know you’ll forget. I love you.”
Y/N smiled, her heart warm, and carried on sewing with that lingering sensation of his hands on her, his mouth on her skin, that attentive presence that made everything feel softer.
The August heat continued to weigh heavily on the city over the following days, making the air even more stifling and the evenings seem to drag on. On Wednesday evening, Y/N sent a quick message to Rebecca from the underground: she’d pop round if she was there. The reply came almost immediately, simple and direct. When she pushed open the door to Rebecca’s flat, the familiar scent of plants and fresh coffee greeted her. Rebecca was waiting for her, two cups already set out on the small kitchen table. She gave her a brief hug, that frank, no-nonsense gesture that had become their way. They sat facing each other. Rebecca took a sip, looked at her for a moment in silence, then spoke without beating about the bush.
“Bucky told you about his bad days.”
Y/N nodded, her fingers clenched around her still-warm cup.
“Yeah. Tuesday morning, at the workshop. He turned up with coffees and told me almost straight away. ”
Rebecca gently set down her cup, a sad smile playing at the corners of her lips.
“He told you himself. That’s a huge step.”
Y/N felt a lump forming in her chest. She thought back to Bucky sitting on the windowsill, his hands lingering on her, that slow kiss on her neck just before he spoke.
“He said it wasn’t like it used to be. Less dark. But that it was still there.”
Rebecca looked at her for a long time, with that quiet frankness that was so characteristic of her.
“Before, he dealt with it all on his own until it became too much. He barely slept, forgot to eat, cancelled everything. He’d disappear to places where no one could follow him.”
Y/N listened without interrupting, picturing the Bucky of the past, the one she’d never known. Rebecca continued, her voice soft but firm:
“What brought him back to earth were the practical things. My father showing him an engine in the garage. My mother bringing him coffee without asking. Me sending him clinical cases because he liked problems that had solutions.”
Y/N thought of her own father in the workshop, of those internal seams he was checking one last time, of the way Bucky now came and sat beside her without speaking, just being there. Rebecca placed a light hand on hers for a moment.
“What you’re doing is good. Staying in the studio in the mornings. The sketchbooks. Staten Island next week. Concrete, practical things—that’s what works for him.”
Y/N felt a lump in her throat.
“What if the bad days last longer?”
Rebecca shook her head gently.
“Then you call me. He’ll see his therapist more often. We’ll manage it together. But that’s not the scenario here. It’s just something that comes back sometimes. The important thing is not to let it take hold.”
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the distant noise of the street. Rebecca continued, more quietly:
“He’ll tell you. He knows now. Do you trust him?”
Y/N replied without hesitation:
“Yes.”
“Then trust this too.”
They finished their coffees in the little kitchen full of plants. Y/N set off again on the Underground, those words still echoing softly in her mind. In the vibrating carriage, she took out her phone.
I went to see Rebecca.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know. She sent me a message to say you were there. How did it go?
Fine. She’s straightforward.
Always.
She told me some important things.
What were they?
Y/N hesitated for a second, then typed slowly.
That practical things work out for you. And that putting my name on the map is important. More than I thought.
The silence was longer this time. Then the phone vibrated.
Becca never exaggerates.
No, sweetheart. She never exaggerates❤️.
Y/N put her phone away and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the movement of the tube lull her. She thought of the child on the platform in Bucky’s notebook, of his name written on a worn page, of all those perfect inner seams made even when no one was looking.
The following Saturday, they set off for Staten Island. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers slowly stroking the fabric of her jeans. Every now and then he would squeeze gently, as if to remind himself that she was there. She placed her hand over his and intertwined their fingers.
“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked softly.
“Better than the nights before. Thanks to you.”
He brought his hand to her lips and pressed a lingering kiss there without taking his eyes off the road. Y/N felt that familiar warmth rising in her chest. She leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek, then on his neck, just below his ear, where she knew he liked it.
“Have you eaten this morning?” she murmured against his skin.
“Yes. I even took the time. Because I knew you were going to ask me.”
He smiled and slid his hand higher up her thigh, possessive yet tender. They stayed like that for a moment, silent, only the sound of the road and their mingled breaths. They arrived at ten o’clock. The blue door opened before they’d even rung the bell. Winnifred gave them all a long, warm hug. Mila headed straight for the garage with her notebook, barely saying a word.
“She’s getting straight to the point today,” remarked Bucky with a chuckle.
“As always,” replied Y/N.
Bucky stopped in the hallway and looked around the house.
Alpine came out of the kitchen and rubbed against his legs. He crouched down immediately, ran a hand over the cat’s back and stroked him long and slowly. Y/N watched him, touched. He looked up at her and held out his hand. She took it and he pulled her close, standing in the hallway, his arm around her waist, his nose in her hair.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes. And you?”
“Better now that you’re pressed up against me.”
He kissed her forehead, then another, slower kiss on her lips. Winnifred smiled from the kitchen without saying a word. Y/N went and sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden. The August heat caressed her arms. She took out her phone.
I'm in my parents' garden. Bucky's with his mum.
Lea replied quickly.
I know.
Bucky sent me a message from the car this morning. Is Mila in the garage yet?
Yes. She's already on the second question.
She'll have finished the twelfth before noon.
Y/N put her phone down and listened to the sounds coming from the garage: Mila’s clear voice, and George’s lower, calmer one. Bucky joined her a few minutes later. He sat right next to her on the bench, put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close against his chest. His hand slipped under her shirt, gently stroking her back.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“A bit.”
“Come here.”
He opened his jacket and wrapped her up in it with him, holding her tight. They stayed like that for a long while, his chin resting on her head, his fingers tracing slow circles on her skin.
“My father is going to answer his twelfth question,” he murmured.
“I know. And you, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine. Less heavy. Because you’re here.”
He turned her face towards him and kissed her gently, a slow, deep kiss that lasted a long time. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I love you,” he said simply.
“Me too, my love.”
At midday, they ate at the large table. Winnifred had cooked too much, as always. Mila had her notebook closed beside her plate. George was at the end of the table, Bucky next to Y/N, his hand resting on her thigh beneath the table, stroking her gently. George looked at Mila.
“You asked eleven questions this morning.”
“I have a twelfth one,” replied Mila.
“I know. You’ve looked at the notebook twice but you haven’t asked it.”
Mila nodded.
“I wanted to wait for the right moment. When people had eaten. The difficult questions are best asked afterwards.”
Winnifred smiled gently. Bucky squeezed Y/N’s thigh under the table. Mila took a breath.
“Question twelve. Do you have bad days?”
Silence fell over the table, not heavy, just respectful. George put down his cup.
“Yes.”
“How do you cope?” asked Mila.
“I go into the garage. I work with my hands. Practical things help.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook. George continued:
“Why are you asking that question?”
“Because Bucky has bad days sometimes and I wanted to know how his family cope with it, so I can understand what I can do.”
Another silence. George looked at Bucky, then at Mila.
“What you’re doing here is already something.”
“What?”
“Asking the right question at the right time. Trying to understand rather than fix things. That’s better than fixing them.”
Mila took another note.
“Why?”
“Because some things don’t need fixing. They need to be understood and left as they are.”
Bucky leaned towards Y/N and whispered softly in her ear:
“He told me that in the garage five years ago.”
Y/N turned her head slightly and kissed him on the jaw.
“And now he’s telling Mila.”
Bucky squeezed her hand under the table.
“Yes.”
Y/N slipped her fingers between his and squeezed them tightly. They stayed like that throughout the meal, hands clasped, knees pressed against one another. That afternoon, George showed them the engine running. Mila was focused, her notebook open. Bucky and Y/N stayed a little way back in the driveway. He stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“My father thinks of Mila between visits,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“He thinks of very few people like that.”
Y/N turned in his arms and kissed him slowly, tenderly, her hands on his chest.
“That’s good.”
“It’s really good.”
He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair, and they stayed like that for a long time, entwined
Léa returned from her work placement one Friday evening in late August. The flat smelled of fresh coffee and the simple dishes Y/N had laid out on the table. Mila was in her room, the door open, a notebook in her hand, present without being intrusive. When the front door opened at half past seven, Léa came in with her suitcase and her bag. She made the same gesture to put her things down, but something had changed in the way she occupied the space: she was more composed, more confident without being ostentatious. Mila came out of her room straight away.
“You’ve changed,” she said, watching her.
Léa set down her suitcase.
“How so?”
“The way you walk into rooms. You walk in like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.”
Léa smiled slightly.
“It’s Amira.”
Mila jotted something down in her notebook.
“What has she taught you?”
“To walk into rooms knowing why I’m there.”
Y/N watched them both in the hallway. She discreetly took out her phone.
Léa’s back.
Bucky replied almost immediately.
I know.
She sent me a message from the taxi. She says the work placement went well in the truest sense of the word.
In the truest sense of the word.
That’s what she said. How is she?
Mila says she walks into rooms like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing there.
It’s Amira.
At dinner, Léa spoke about the internship in small, precise details. She recounted the complex cases from the third week, the intellectual property lawyer who had praised her questions. Mila listened attentively.
“Did Nathan say that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a huge compliment.”
“That’s what Amira said too.”
Mila nodded.
“And what did you say?”
“Thank you.”
“Just ‘thank you’.”
“Yes.”
Mila smiled.
“That’s the right answer.”
Léa took a sip of coffee.
“Amira told me something on the last day. She said that NYU will give me the tools, but what I’ve learnt this summer is how to hold them.”
”Y/N looked up.”
“How do you hold the tools?”
“The difference between knowing a tool exists and knowing which hand to put it in depending on the situation.”
Mila chimed in straight away.
“It’s like pencils. I learnt the different thicknesses first. Then I learnt which one to use depending on what I’m drawing.”
Léa looked at her little sister.
“Yes. That’s exactly it.”
Y/N slipped her foot under the table and gently stroked Bucky’s ankle; he’d come straight from work. He responded by placing his hand on her thigh, squeezing it tenderly. Their eyes met for a moment, filled with that silent warmth. The next morning, Y/N arrived at the workshop at seven o’clock. Nadia was already there, having been on the job since July, with two coffees on the large table.
“Margot has confirmed September. She’s arriving on the fifteenth.”
“Right.”
“She wants to see the workshop and the pieces in production, not the finished ones.”
Y/N nodded.
“She wants to see how we work.”
Nadia smiled slightly.
“Yes. She says the way things are done says more than the result.”
Y/N thought of her father turning each garment over one last time. She picked up her needle. Later that morning, Nadia placed a sheet of paper on the table: a new article, by Diane Chen.
Y/N read it slowly, feeling something stir within her. When Bucky dropped by at the end of the day, he found her still hunched over the table. He approached silently, draped his jacket over her shoulders because she’d shivered slightly, then slipped his arms around her waist from behind. He kissed her neck, lingeringly, before whispering:
“You look tired, sweetheart.”
“A bit.”
He turned her gently, pulled her close and kissed her properly, a slow, deep kiss, his hands caressing her back beneath the fabric. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I’ve brought you something to eat. I know you’ve forgotten.”
Y/N smiled against his mouth.
“You know me too well.”
“It’s my job.”
He kissed her again, more gently, then stayed close by whilst she tidied up, his hand still on her back, possessive and tender at the same time.
Margot Lemaire arrived in New York on Tuesday morning, 15 September. She had asked to see Brooklyn first, not just the studio, as if she wanted to get a feel for the surroundings before forming an opinion of the place itself. Nadia had organised everything: a simple stroll through the neighbourhood, without a guide, just walking. Y/N was waiting for her outside the building at ten o’clock. Margot was younger than she had imagined, in her forties, with short, confidently grey hair, and that calm presence of someone who took exactly what she needed. They climbed the three flights of stairs. Margot entered the studio and did what everyone else did: she looked closely, slowly, in silence. She ran her hand along the shelves, organised by fabric weight, from heaviest to lightest.
“That makes sense,” she murmured.
She took the raw Williamsburg linen between her fingers, crumpled it gently, then let it spring back into shape.
“Did you find this one on your own?”
“Yes. For the trousers and part of the coat.”
“The colour can’t be replicated with dye.”
Margot laid the fabric back down carefully, almost reverently. She walked over to the large solid-wood table and ran her fingers over the old marks in the wood.
“A dressmaker used to work here. Marcus. He made stage costumes for Off-Broadway theatres. Mila looked up his name.”
Margot nodded, a small smile on her lips.
“ ‘Spaces have memories.”
She walked over to the wall displaying the sketches for the second collection, pausing at length over the jacket with the slit at the wrist.
“The second collection.”
“Yes. Not finished yet. Just directions. What we choose to show when we’re ready.”
Margot jotted something down in her notebook. Then she asked to see a piece that was currently in progress. Y/N took out the merino wool coat for Chicago and turned it inside out on the table. Margot took it in her hands, turned each sleeve inside out, and examined the inner seams in silence for several long seconds.
“Your father was a tailor.”
“Yes. He used to turn every garment inside out before handing it back. To check one last time.”
Margot looked up.
“My grandfather made shoes in Lyon. He used to check the inner seams of the lining. He said the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.”
Y/N felt a gentle emotion welling up in her throat.
“That’s exactly it.”
Margot laid the coat down carefully.
“Fond has been around for eight years because I’m looking for designers who’ve learnt that. Not at school. Through a way of working passed down through the generations. Thomas is what I’ve been looking for for three years.”
She took out her notebook.
“Three pieces to start with. The signature dress, the coat, and a jacket. If it goes well, we’ll talk about the second collection. Take as long as you need. I’d rather wait for something that’s just right.”
Nadia, sitting in the corner, discreetly took notes. Margot looked at her for a moment.
“Your assistant. ,Nadia. She keeps my schedule clear so I can sew.”
After the visit, they went for lunch at the little café on the corner. Sitting by the window, with the bustling Bushwick street behind the glass, the conversation flowed naturally. Margot spoke of ‘what we keep’, her shop’s slogan since day one. Y/N told her about George , who had checked the inner seams twice on the evening of the presentation.
“It’s the biggest compliment he gives: ‘It’s well made.’ Two words.” Margot smiled. “My grandfather used to say exactly the same thing.”
Y/N felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. She read Bucky’s message under the table.
Are you holding up okay?
I’ve been thinking about you all morning.
She replied straight away.
It’s going well. She really gets it!
He replied within seconds.
I know. I’m proud of you.
See you tonight, I’ll bring you some food. I know you’ll forget.
When Margot left, Y/N went back up to the workshop alone. She sat down at the large table, her hands flat on the worn wood, and breathed slowly. She thought of Marcus, of her father, of Margot’s grandfather, of Hana’s father. All those hands that had done things right. She picked up her phone.
Margot said yes. Three pieces for Fond Paris.
Bucky replied straight away.
I know. Nadia sent me a message when she left the workshop.
How are you feeling?
His grandfather used to make shoes in Lyon and would check the inner seams of the lining. He used to say that the foot could feel the difference even if the eyes couldn’t see it.
It’s Thomas.
Yes, sweetheart. It’s Thomas.
Your father would have liked Margot.
Yes. I think they would have understood each other without many words. People who’ve learnt the same things always understand each other.
Y/N put down her phone, turned off the light and walked down the three flights of stairs in the dark Bushwick stairwell. She could still feel the warmth of Bucky’s hands on her, even though he wasn’t there.
Lea started classes at NYU on a Monday in September. The night before, she had packed her bag using the precise method she’d worked out for herself: nothing extra, everything in its place. She slipped Muybridge’s book in last, like an anchor. Mila watched her from the doorway, a notebook in her hand, without saying a word.
“Do you have something to say?”
Lea asked without turning around.
“No.”
“You’re looking at me.”
“I’m watching.”
Lea closed her bag and turned around. Mila was there, calm.
“I’ll be back tonight,” said Lea. “Every night.”
“I know.”
A silence settled in. Mila paused.
“That’s not why I’m watching. “
“Then why?”
“I wanted to see how you put the important things away last.”
Lea looked at her bag, the book visible on top. She smiled softly.
“You saw.”
“Yes. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
“You said thanks right away.”
Lea laughed softly.
“I’m learning. ”
On Monday evening, Lea got home at 6:30 p.m.
Y/N was in the kitchen, and Mila was sitting at the table with her pencils. Bucky was already there, settled on the couch with the second notebook. He came over often on Monday evenings now, like a gentle routine that had fallen into place naturally. Léa set down her bag and sat down. Mila looked up.
“How did it go?”
“Good. The first day is mostly introductions. The real classes start on Thursday.”
“Did you meet anyone?” Mila asked.
“A few people. There’s Priya, who did an internship with a federal judge this summer. And Sam, from Portland, who worked for two years before coming here.”
Mila jotted something down.
“They have experience.”
“Yeah. But not the same kind as Amira. She taught me how to handle the tools. NYU will teach me how to choose the right ones.”
Mila nodded, satisfied.
“That’s a good sequence.”
Bucky, from the couch, spoke without looking up from the notebook, his voice calm:
“Priya and Sam. Do you have their numbers?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Lea looked at him for a moment. Bucky kept turning the pages, but you could tell he was really listening.
“Thanks,” said Lea.
“For what?”
“For saying ‘good.’”
“It makes sense.”
“No. It’s thoughtful.”
Mila chimed in from her notebook:
“She used the words.”
Lea sighed with a smile.
“I hear you, Mila.”
“I was just noting it down.”
Y/N slid her foot under the table and stroked Bucky’s leg. He immediately placed his hand on her thigh, squeezed it tenderly, then moved a little higher, possessive and gentle. Their eyes met. He gave her a small smile that said it all. The following week, on a Tuesday evening, Bucky came to the studio unannounced. When Y/N pushed open the door, he was already there, sitting on the ledge of the middle window.
She sensed right away that something was wrong.
“How long have you been here?” she asked, setting down her bag.
“An hour. Nadia gave me the key. She told me you’d need someone tonight.”
Y/N moved closer. She sat right next to him, her thigh pressed against his. He immediately wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his chest, her face buried in his hair.
“How are you?” she whispered.
“Not good tonight.”
She slid her hands under his shirt, stroking his back slowly, feeling the tense muscles.
“Since this morning?”
“Since yesterday. But tonight it’s worse. Images. Not nightmares… images during the day. Things I’ve experienced that come back without warning.”
Y/N lifted her head and kissed him gently, lingeringly, until he relaxed a little against her. He returned her kiss, deep and almost urgent, his hands clasping her waist.
“Have you talked to your therapist about it?” she asked against his lips.
“Next Thursday.”
“That’s in two days.”
He nodded. She kissed him again, more tenderly this time, then rested her forehead against his.
She picked up her needle again. Bucky stayed on the windowsill, right next to her. Every now and then he would get up, come up behind her, place his hands on her shoulders, massage her gently, and kiss the back of her neck. At one point he whispered,
“There’s one that’s been coming back for days. A hallway. The light… the way the floor echoed underfoot.”
Y/N set down her needle, turned around in her chair, and pulled him between her legs. She held him tight against her, his face against her stomach.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Not tonight. Thursday with her. But I wanted to tell you it was there.”
She stroked his back under his shirt.
“I know. “Thanks for telling me.”
He knelt in front of her, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her slowly, intensely, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, his hands on her thighs.
“It’s easier to say it now.”
“Than before?”
“Yes. Before, I kept it all inside. Now it’s still hard… but I can talk about it.”
Y/N kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, gently.
“You know I’m here.”
“Yes.”
“Not to fix things.”
“I know.”
“To understand.”
He rested his head on her lap for a moment. She ran her fingers through his hair. They stayed like that for a long time, in the silence of the studio, with only the distant sound of the street and their breathing. On Thursday, after her session, Bucky sent her a message.
It went well. She said that being able to talk about it before the session is progress.
Y/N replied right away, sitting at the big table.
Talk to me?
Yes.
Before, I’d come with everything bottled up inside. Now I arrive with things already named.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The hallway… she thinks we can work on that.
I wanted to tell you. I know.
Thank you. It makes sense.
It’s thoughtful.
Both can be true.
She smiled, her heart warm, and already imagined his hands on her tonight, his body against hers, the way he held her as if she were his anchor.
October had arrived, bringing with it that typical New York autumn light that makes everything seem sharper. The buildings looked more defined, the trees in the parks were ablaze with colour, and the light had shifted, becoming softer and more oblique. One Wednesday morning, Y/N finished the sixth order. The merino wool coat for the client in Chicago was ready. She laid it on the large table, turned it over one last time, and checked every inner seam with her fingertips, slowly, just as her father used to do. Everything was perfect. She took a photo of the seams and sent it to Nadia.
The sixth one is ready.
Nadia replied almost immediately.
I’ll get in touch with the client today about the delivery.
Y/N walks over to the middle window and glances down into the courtyard. Someone is hanging out the washing. The bike is still there. Everyday life in Bushwick carries on, undisturbed. Her phone vibrates.
The sixth coat is finished.
Bucky replies almost instantly.
I know. Nadia sent me a photo of the seams. How are you?
Fine. Really fine.
You’ve got that look on your face.
How can you tell I’ve got a certain look on my face from a text?
I know the way you say ‘really well’. When it’s just okay, you say ‘fine’. When it’s better than that, you say ‘really well’.
Y/N smiles, touched that he knows her so well, so deeply. She types:
This morning, it’s more than fine.
Why?
Because six coats are finished with impeccable stitching, Fond Paris, Shizen Tokyo, Rose & Root Portland, Margot arriving soon, Léa at NYU, Mila turning eleven… and you, my love, who’s feeling better.
Yes. It’s more than fine.
The following Friday, the newspapers were talking about Thomas in a different light. Sophie Park had published an article in a mainstream magazine: ‘Alpine and Thomas: when love runs the business’. Y/N read it on the tube at eight o’clock in the morning. The words stung her for a moment, like a sudden chill. She put her mobile away and looked at the people around her.
At the office, at midday, Camila popped in.
“Sophie Park?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to respond?”
“Yes. Straight away. Not to her, but to what she wrote.”
Camila sat down.
“Tell me what you mean.”
Y/N thought aloud.
“That I found the Williamsburg linen all by myself. That I learnt the inside seams from my father, long before I met Bucky. That Thomas’s philosophy was in my notebooks months before Alpine. And that Amira drew up a contract that protects Thomas, not the other way round.”
Camila nodded.
“And what about the relationship?”
“The relationship doesn’t explain the stitches. Both exist at the same time. Neither replaces the other.”
“That’s right.”
That evening, when Bucky arrived at the studio, he found her still bent over the table. He set a bag of food down on the corner, approached from behind and wrapped his arms around her.He kissed her neck, lingering there, then her shoulder.
“You’ve forgotten to eat,” he murmured against her skin.
“A little.”
He turned her round, held her close, one hand on her back, the other in her hair. He kissed her gently, then more deeply, until she relaxed completely in his arms.
“I’ve got you what you like. And then we’ll go home, and I’ll run you a bath.”
Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You think of everything.”
“I think of you. All the time.”
He kissed her again, tenderly and intensely at the same time, his hands sliding over her hips
Mila found out Y/N’s answer that Friday evening. Nadia had gone to the trouble of printing out the page so that Mila could touch it, feel it between her fingers. Mila stood rooted to the spot in the hallway, the sheet held out in front of her, her eyes fixed on it.
“The last sentence,” she said in a calm voice.
“Yes,” replied Y/N from the kitchen.
“It’s true.”
“Yes.”
“Sophie Park was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You replied straight away.”
Mila carefully folded the sheet of paper, first in half, then into quarters, and went to put it away in her special drawer, the one where she keeps the things that really matter. Y/N heard her open and close the drawer very gently. Léa came out of the kitchen with her coffee.
“She’s put it in the drawer,” remarked Léa.
”Yes”.
”That’s good”.
Léa took a sip.
“Amira sent me the article on Monday morning with just one note: ‘This is why we’ve been documenting everything from the start.’”
Y/N smiled.
“She’d planned it all.”
Léa nodded.
“That’s why we’re thanking her for the Muybridge notebooks.”
That weekend, Bucky arrived at the studio with a small, plain cardboard box. He set it down on the large table without saying a word, then approached Y/N from behind, wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Open it,” he whispered in her ear before kissing her neck.
Inside were spools of thread, a shade between white and beige, slightly warm, almost iridescent in the light.
“It’s a blend of silk and linen,” he explained softly. “A supplier in Kyoto. Hana recommended it to me. She says this thread ages well, that the stitching becomes more interesting over time. Like a patina.”
Y/N picked up a spool and twirled it between her fingers. Bucky stayed pressed against her back, his hands on her waist, stroking her gently.
“For the inner seams of the second collection,” she said.
“That’s what Hana thought. If the second collection shows what we choose to reveal, then these seams that improve with wear… that’s the foundation.”
He kissed her on the temple, then slipped a hand under her top to stroke her stomach very gently.
“Hana also told me that the three pieces would have their own presentation in Tokyo in November. A small gathering. Twenty people who’ll really be looking.”
Y/N turned in his arms and looked at him.
“I’ll be there.”
“I know. I’ve already told her you’d be coming. It was obvious.”
She kissed him slowly, deeply, her hands on his chest. He held her tighter, one hand on her back, the other in her hair.
“Mila’s going to want to come,” she murmured against his lips.
“I know. She’s already sent me three questions for Hana this morning.”
He kissed her again, more tenderly, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Nadia invited her straight away. She says that Thomas without Mila wouldn’t be complete.”
Y/N smiled, her heart full.
“Nadia really does understand.”
The following Tuesday, Bucky had a bad day. He wasn’t at the workshop as planned. Around seven o’clock, he messaged:
I’m staying in tonight. Not a good day.
Y/N put down her needle.
I’m coming over.
You don’t need to.
I know. I’m coming anyway.
On the tube to Dumbo, she sent a message to Mila.
I’m at Bucky’s tonight. Lea’s at home.
Mila replied quickly.
I know. Tell him Robert’s doing well.
When she arrived, he opened the door with that heavier look on his face. She went in without a word, took off her coat and went straight into the kitchen to make tea. She knew every cupboard by heart now. She brought two cups and sat right next to him on the sofa.
“The corridor came back this morning,” he murmured.
She set her cup down, slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around him. He buried his face in her neck, holding her tight.
“Did you ring your therapist?”
“Yes. On Thursday. She says it’s normal during times of change.”
Y/N stroked his back beneath his shirt, slowly, for a long time. He lifted his head, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with that gentle, almost desperate intensity, as if he needed to anchor himself to her. When he pulled away, he stayed close, forehead to forehead.
“You’re staying tonight,” she said.
“Yes.”
They stayed entwined on the sofa, his hands on her, possessive and tender, until the evening wore on and the weight seemed a little lighter.
On the Thursday after session, he messaged:
It went well. She says that being able to talk about it beforehand is already progress.
Y/N replied from the studio.
Talking to me?
Yes.
Before, I kept everything to myself. Now I come in with things I can put into words.
That’s good, my love.
Yes. The corridor… we can work on that.
November had arrived, a bitterly cold month, and this time, our destination was Tokyo. We set off on a Wednesday: Y/N, Bucky, Mila with her notebook full of questions she’d prepared especially for Hana, and Léa, who’d managed to secure four days off from NYU. On the plane, as soon as the lights went out, Bucky gently slipped his hand into Y/N’s. He brought it to his lips, kissed it tenderly, then held it close to him, his thumb stroking the back of her hand without ever stopping, like a soothing little ritual.
“Are you tired?” he whispered close to her ear.
“A bit, but too excited to sleep,” she replied.
So he drew her even closer, put an arm around her shoulders, and planted a gentle kiss on her temple, then another on her cheek, before finding her lips in the darkness of the cabin. It was a long, tender kiss, like a secret shared only between the two of them. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers and whispered,
“Get some sleep; I’m here, I’ll keep watch.”
In Tokyo, Hana was waiting for them at the airport. She was petite, precise in her movements, with a calmness that commanded respect. She greeted everyone, then looked at Mila with a gentle smile.
“I’m told you have some questions?”
“Seventeen, to be precise,” replied Mila, her eyes sparkling.
“Perfect. Let’s start in the car, then,” said Hana, opening the door.
And throughout the journey, Mila reeled off her questions one by one, like a thread she was patiently unwinding.
Bucky kept his hand on Y/N’s knee, gently stroking it with his thumb. Every now and then he would lean in to kiss her temple or whisper something in her ear, just for her. Shizen was small, bright and carefully organised. When Y/N saw her three pieces on display, she felt a lump in her throat. Bucky stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. ‘They’re beautiful,’ he murmured.
“You’ve done a lovely job, my love.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then held her closer to him. The presentation took place on Friday evening. Only twenty-two people, but they were really watching. Y/N stayed close to the wall. Bucky came over to her, slipped his hand round her back, under her jumper, caressing her skin with his fingertips.
“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.
“Fine. A bit nervous.”
“You’re perfect.”
He kissed her on the temple, then on the lips, a gentle but deep kiss, before staying pressed against her, his hand still on her back. Mila was talking to Kenji, a furniture designer who specialised in hidden joints. Bucky watched the scene and smiled. “She’s found her equal.” Y/N turned towards him. He pulled her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, one hand in her hair.
“I’m proud of you,” he murmured. “Of all this.”
He kissed her again, more lingeringly, as if they were alone in the shop. When he pulled away, he kept his forehead pressed against hers.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
On the last morning, Y/N went back to Shizen’s place on her own. As she left, she sent a photo of the coins to Bucky.
They returned to New York on a Sunday morning, still reeling from jet lag and the dull November light that bathed Brooklyn. Mila fell asleep in the taxi, her head resting against the window, her notebook clutched to her chest. Léa, meanwhile, kept her eyes open, serene, watching the city go by. Bucky was driving with one hand, the other resting on Y/N’s thigh, his fingers gently stroking the fabric of her trousers.
“You look tired,” he murmured, giving her a tender look.
“A bit. So do you. ”
He gently squeezed her thigh, then slid his hand towards her waist, caressing her with that constant attention that came so naturally to him.
“Have something to eat tonight. I know you barely touched the tray on the plane.”
Y/N placed her hand on his and squeezed it.
“All right. ”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it for a long time, without taking his eyes off the road.When they arrived at the flat, Mila woke up, went upstairs and rushed straight into her bedroom. Y/N heard her open the drawer where she kept her important things and carefully put her notes from Tokyo away.
A few minutes later, Mila came back out.
“I’ve put the notes from Tokyo in the drawer.”
“Right,” replied Y/N softly.
Mila paused for a moment.
“I’ve also got a question for George, now that I’m back.”
Y/N smiled.
“About the dovetail joints?”
“No. About something Kenji said. I want to check with George if it’s true in two different contexts. He said that the strongest joints improve with use. The wood tightens over time and becomes stronger.”
Y/N nodded, touched by her precision.
“That’s a good question. Send it to him tonight. ”
Mila looked satisfied and went back to her room. Léa came out of the bathroom, her face refreshed.
“Has Mila already sent a message to George?”
“Yes,” replied Y/N. “About joints getting better with use.”
Léa smiled.
“She’ll have a reply tomorrow morning at six forty.”
Bucky, who had just come up behind Y/N, slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck.
“Lea’s going to Priya’s tonight,” he murmured against her skin. “We’ve got the flat to ourselves for a while.”
Y/N leaned into him, feeling his warm hands on her stomach.
“Perfect. ”
That evening, Bucky stayed. Mila was already asleep, exhausted from the journey. In the quiet living room, they were alone with their teas. Bucky pulled Y/N onto the sofa and sat her between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand sliding under her jumper to gently stroke her stomach, the other running through her hair.
“The second collection… what are you thinking for the presentation?” he asked softly, his lips against her ear.
“Not Bushwick this time. Something different. Maybe Shizen.”
He kissed her neck, slowly, then moved up to her jawline.
“It’s an important decision. Take your time. ”
Y/N closed her eyes, savouring the warmth of his body against hers.
“Is Robert all right?”
“Nadia watered him while we were away. She said that the plants of someone who lives with Thomas deserve to be watered.”
Y/N smiled and turned her head to kiss him. The kiss was tender, then deeper, their breaths mingling for a long time. When they pulled apart, Bucky held her tighter, a possessive hand on her hip.
“Robert’s had a third leaf since Friday.”
“During Tokyo…”
“Yes.”
He kissed her again, gently, then rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Things that get better with use… Mila’s right.”
Y/N leaned her head back against him.
“Yes. That goes for everything else too.”
They stayed like that for a long time, entwined in the silence of the living room, his hands caressing her skin beneath her jumper, his warm breath on her neck.
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warnings ۶ৎ 18+ mdni. modern au. explicit smut, body insecurity/body image thoughts, jealousy, miscommunication, pool party tension, wet swimsuit, oral sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, protected piv, dirty talk, praise, possessive bucky, semi-public tension, soft aftercare.
synopsis ۶ৎ bucky spends the whole pool party trying not to stare. you spend the whole pool party thinking he can barely stand to look at you.
a slippery pool step, one bitter comment, and tony stark’s guest room fix that problem rather loudly.
evie’s input ۶ৎ not beta read. tumblr is a bitch for making my format go to shit. but please enjoy folks. dividers by @/cursed-carmine
you bought the swimsuit out of pure delusion. pure, bright, sun-drunk delusion, the sort that made sense at two in the morning with your laptop glowing against your face and natasha sitting beside you on the bed, eating chips directly from the bag while telling you that black one-pieces were for women hiding from federal charges or their own thighs. she had said that with such calm authority, such casual violence, that you had clicked away from the perfectly safe black one-piece and ended up on a page full of colors that made you feel personally attacked. cherry red. powder blue. white, which felt like an invitation for god to humiliate you. green, which nat said would look pretty on your skin and you said would make you look like a decorative salad, and then she had hit you with a pillow hard enough to send two chips flying into your blanket.
so you picked the dark blue one.
dark blue seemed mature. forgiving. almost responsible, if swimwear could be responsible. it had a low back that made you sit up straighter just looking at the model, and the top had little gold rings at the straps, small enough to pretend they were classy instead of slutty. the bottoms sat high on the hips, which nat called flattering and you called invasive. still, you ordered it. you even paid for express shipping, which felt like signing a contract with your own downfall.
now, standing in tony stark’s guest bathroom with the swimsuit cutting into places you had never invited fabric to develop an opinion about, the delusion had fully left your body. “this is a hate crime,” you mutter at your reflection, tugging the side higher, then lower, then higher again, like one of those positions will suddenly unlock a new body. “against me, specifically.”
the mirror gives you no sympathy. it just shows you exactly what you are trying very hard to survive. thighs. hips. stomach. skin. actual human flesh, very rude of it. you turn slightly, regret it, turn back, regret that too. the swimsuit is pretty. that may be the worst part. if it were ugly, you could blame the swimsuit. but it is pretty and soft and fitted, which means the problem is clearly you, and that feels legally actionable.
natasha knocks twice, then opens the door like locks are a decorative suggestion. she is wearing a black bikini and a loose white shirt, hair braided back, sunglasses resting on her head. she looks like she has never feared a changing room mirror in her life. maybe she killed that fear at sixteen and buried it in a forest. “if you’re dead in there, say something,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with a drink already in hand.
you glare at her through the mirror. “i’m suing you.”
“for making you look hot?”
“for elder abuse.”
“you’re younger than me.”
“for emotional elder abuse.”
her mouth twitches. she steps inside, closes the door with her heel, and turns you by the shoulders before you can protest. the inspection is quick and blunt, clinical in the scariest possible way, then her brows lift. “yeah. you’re wearing it.”
“you didn’t even pretend to think.”
“i did think. silently. very sexy of me.”
you pull at the bottom again, mostly so your hands have a job. it feels safer when your hands have a job. otherwise they might wander up and cover your stomach or your chest or your face, and then nat would make one of those sounds. a small sound, barely a sound, the kind that says she loves you and also wants to shake you until your bones make music. “it’s too much,” you say, quieter.
“it’s a pool party.”
“exactly. people will be near pools. with eyes.”
“tragic.” nat takes another sip. “people might also have necks. horrifying world.”
you make a face at her, but your fingers have started twisting the hem of the towel around your shoulders. the towel is the only thing keeping you from turning around, putting your shorts back on, and telling everyone you’ve developed a sudden aquatic allergy. chlorine intolerance. water-related moral conflict. any excuse with a medical-sounding word might work on steve. sam would ask questions. tony would ask if the water offended you personally, then offer to replace it with imported glacier melt.
bucky would look at you. that thought is the whole disease. bucky barnes looking at you in this swimsuit is either going to kill you outright or make you wish it had. he is already too much in normal clothes. jeans, shirts, those stupid henleys that cling to his shoulders with religious devotion. shirts in general seem desperate around him. fabric has never looked more underpaid. and now there is a very real chance that you will walk outside and find him shirtless by the pool, all broad chest and sun-warmed skin and dark hair falling around his face, and you’ll have to behave like someone who pays taxes and owns a toothbrush. impossible.
even worse, he may look at you and then look away. the thought is small. mean. familiar. he does that sometimes. looks away when you enter the room like your presence is a lamp turned directly into his eyes. you’ve built a whole religion around it. bucky finds you irritating. bucky tolerates you for nat’s sake. bucky can flirt with cashiers, grandmothers, dogs, possibly dangerous machinery, but when it comes to you, he either teases until you want to bite him or turns cold like you spilled something on his favorite memory.
“he’s already here,” nat says.
you blink at her. horrible woman. witch. spy. roommate. “who?”
“the pool boy.”
“tony has a pool boy?”
“no, but if he did, i’d respect his commitment to the theme.” nat watches you through the mirror. “barnes. he’s outside with steve and sam.”
your mouth goes dry. very mature reaction. very dignified. you deserve an award for remaining upright. “thrilling.”
“he asked where you were.”
“to insult me?”
“probably to write a poem.”
you snort despite yourself, then hate the sound for being too fond. bucky inspires many feelings in you, most of them medically confusing. rage, attraction, pettiness, fondness, the strange urge to press your face into his chest and stand there until society collapses. you used to think crushes were supposed to be fun. light. giggly. yours feels like chewing glass while a beautiful man laughs in another room. “i’m putting clothes on,” you announce, turning toward the pile you abandoned on the sink.
natasha catches the towel before you can turn it into armor. her face softens, which is alarming. she is much easier to handle when she is threatening people or calling men idiots. tenderness from nat tends to make you confess things. “you can wear whatever you want. but if you’re changing because barnes might see you, i’m going to be annoying.”
“you’re already annoying.”
“i have levels.” her hand squeezes your shoulder once. “he’s one guy.”
“he’s a large guy.”
“still one.”
“that’s debatable. he has the surface area of three men.”
she smiles into her glass. “come outside.”
you stare at yourself again. the gold rings at your shoulders glint under the bathroom lights. a soft breath leaves you, slow and unwilling. the girl in the mirror looks terrified, which is rude, because you were aiming for bored. maybe indifferent. possibly mysterious. something with less of a wet-cat energy.
bucky is one guy. one guy with eyes. one guy who probably won’t even look long enough to form an opinion. that is worse. “fine,” you say, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around your shoulders instead of your body. “but if i cry, i’m pushing you into the pool.”
nat opens the door, smug and fond. “deal. i swim beautifully.” you hate her. you follow her anyway.
sunlight hits you like a personal accusation. tony’s summer house is all glass, white stone, obnoxious wealth, and views so good they make you suspicious. the pool stretches across the back patio in a ridiculous blue sheet, bright enough to look fake, with lounge chairs lined along one side and a shaded outdoor kitchen on the other. music plays from speakers hidden somewhere in the landscaping, low and expensive. the air smells like sunscreen, grilled pineapple, chlorine, and the rosemary bushes tony probably paid someone to make look effortless.
everyone is already there. wanda is stretched on a lounger with sunglasses over her eyes, red hair spilling over one shoulder. vision sits beside her reading a book in the sun like a man who has never sweated once in his life. steve is by the grill, wearing swim trunks and a white shirt he left open, looking like a recruitment poster for sunscreen safety. sam is in the pool, arguing with clint over a foam football. tony is wearing sunglasses indoors, technically outdoors, but under the shaded bar, so spiritually indoors. bruce is speaking to pepper near a bowl of fruit like he has been assigned fruit diplomacy.
and bucky. bucky is near the far side of the pool, one foot up on the lower rung of a lounger, laughing at something steve says across the patio. shirtless, obviously. cruelly. swim trunks low on his hips, hair tied back in a loose half-bun, a pair of sunglasses hanging from the collar of the shirt he has abandoned on a chair. his skin is already touched by sun, golden at the shoulders, marked with faint scars and old history, and your brain takes one look at him and files for retirement.
of course. of course he gets to look like that near water. like some mythological punishment. like a sailor’s bad decision. like if marble got warm and developed a bad personality.
you stop near the sliding door. nat keeps walking. traitor. sam sees you first. “hey, finally! we were about to send a search party.”
“i was in the bathroom for seven minutes,” you call back, which is mostly true if you ignore the years spent negotiating with your own reflection.
“seven minutes in woman time,” tony says, lifting his drink. “so either twelve seconds or a fiscal quarter.”
“rich men shouldn’t speak,” you say, and tony points at you like you’ve wounded him.
“see, this is why i invite you. keeps the ego limber.”
that gets a few laughs, easy and warm. you can handle them. most of them. everyone here has seen you in pajamas, sick, angry, half asleep, and once crying over a video of a dog getting prosthetic legs. skin should be nothing. thighs should be nothing. a stomach should be nothing. human bodies have been happening for ages. terribly common things.
then bucky turns. it is fast. too fast. his smile is still there from whatever steve said, wide and relaxed, and then his eyes find you and the smile fades in pieces.
you go so still the towel slips down one shoulder.
he looks at your face first, then lower. hardly a second, maybe less, barely enough to count, but your body counts it. the line of his gaze touches your swimsuit, the bare places around it, the curve you have spent twenty minutes trying to negotiate with, and then he looks away.
just like that. his jaw tightens. his hand curls around the back of the lounger. his attention swings back to steve with such sudden force that you almost laugh. there it is. there it fucking is.
you knew this would happen. stupid, stupid girl. standing in a bathroom telling yourself he was only one guy when that one guy apparently needs to look anywhere else the second you show too much skin. amazing. beautiful. maybe you can walk straight into the pool and keep going until you reach a new continent. the patio sounds louder now. sam’s laughter, clint yelling about cheating, ice clinking in tony’s glass. everything keeps moving around you with obscene casualness. no one else saw it. no one else felt the tiny, sharp slice of it. bucky looked at you and looked away, and everyone else gets to continue eating fruit.
natasha glances back. you arrange your face into something flat and vaguely hostile. a familiar costume. better than the swimsuit.“drink?” she asks.
“yes.”
“alcoholic?”
“aggressively.”
tony hears that and brightens. “finally, someone with taste.”
you make your way toward the bar, aware of every step. the swimsuit feels too tight and too revealing and somehow too loud. bucky is across the patio, speaking to steve. he does not look again. that is fine. excellent. merciful, even. you hope he develops hiccups. tony slides a drink toward you. “for the lady with the aggressive liver.”
“thank you. sorry about your personality.”
“accepted. i bought another one.”
sam hoists himself out of the pool with a dramatic groan, water streaming down his shoulders. He grabs a towel, wiping his face, and his gaze flicks over your swimsuit without the weirdness men can sometimes bring to it. Just appreciative, warm, and easy. “Damn. Look at you.”
your fingers tighten around the glass. for one stupid second, praise lands in a place that has been sitting empty for too long. you lift your brows, aiming for casual. “is that surprise?”
“that’s respect,” sam says, pointing at the gold ring on your strap. “little fancy thing going on. i see you.”
“it’s swimsuit technology.”
“no, that’s a whole look. hey, buck.” sam turns his head before you can stop him. “you seeing this?”
murder becomes briefly understandable.
bucky’s shoulders go rigid. Steve looks between sam and bucky with the pained expression of a man witnessing a grenade roll under a picnic table. the second stretches. maybe two. your drink sweats against your palm. bucky does turn, but his eyes barely make it to your shoulder before skating away again. “yeah,” he says, voice rough enough that it sounds dragged from his throat. “i see it.”
that is worse than silence. you swallow. “fantastic. all votes counted.”
sam squints, sensing something in the air with the survival instincts of a man who has chosen chaos as a hobby. “you okay over there, terminator?”
bucky’s mouth moves into something that could pass for a smile in poor lighting. “fine.”
“sounds painful.”
“sam.”
“what? i’m checking on my friend.”
“check quieter.”
you take a long sip. It is sweet, cold, and strong enough to make your teeth feel clean. Wonderful. Tony Stark may be a public hazard, but the man stocks good alcohol. You let the burn settle on your tongue and decide, with the private little click of a door closing, that this is fine. Bucky can avoid looking at you. Great. Wonderful. Plenty of people have eyes.
Sam, for instance. Sam is grinning at you, towel around his neck, eyebrows lifted. He is handsome and safe and not Bucky, which immediately lowers his value in the ugliest part of your brain. But he complimented you. He looked at you without flinching. That counts for something. “you getting in?” sam asks, jerking his chin toward the pool. “or did you dress up to intimidate the tiles?”
“both can be true.”
“come on. clint’s cheating and i need a witness.”
you glance toward the water, then toward nat, who has settled beside wanda. Then, against all better judgment, toward bucky. He is looking at his drink. Very invested in it. Possibly falling in love with it. Good for them. your drink goes onto the counter. the towel slides off your shoulders and onto a chair before you can give yourself time to become normal again. Cool air brushes over your bare back. Too many places. Too much skin. Your arms fight the urge to cross over your middle.
Bucky’s head turns a fraction. You see it. You hate that you see it. The movement is so tiny anyone else would miss it, but you have a tragic little doctorate in James Barnes pretending indifference. His eyes make it to your legs this time. Then his mouth presses flat, and he turns away again.
Fine. Your chin lifts. “i’m a terrible witness,” you tell sam, stepping toward the pool. “i lie under pressure.”
Sam laughs and offers his hand from the water like he is helping royalty down from a carriage. “perfect. we’ll frame clint together.”
The pool is cold at first, a shock around your calves as you sit on the edge and lower yourself in. You bite back the sound that tries to escape, mostly out of pride. The water closes around your waist, then your ribs, and for a second the swimsuit stops feeling like a spotlight. Underwater, everything blurs kinder. Your hips, stomach, thighs. The body becomes a body again. Less evidence. Less argument. Sam tosses you the foam football. You catch it against your chest with both hands, splashing yourself in the face. “very athletic,” clint calls.
you wipe water from your eyes. “i’m preserving my mystery.”
“your mystery is that you suck at catch.”
“my mystery is that i haven’t drowned you.”
That gets a laugh from wanda. Nat smiles behind her sunglasses, proud and terrible. You start to loosen after that. The water helps. The drink helps. Sam helps too, in his loud, easy way, making you feel included without making you feel studied. He shouts fake strategies, accuses clint of crimes against recreational sport, and once spins you by the shoulders to aim your throw while you laugh so hard pool water gets in your mouth.
It should be enough. It almost is. Then you glance over and see Bucky watching. He is no longer pretending to listen to Steve. His sunglasses are on now, hiding his eyes, but his head is angled toward you. His arms are crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a patio pillar, sun catching along the metal of his left hand where it grips his own bicep. There is nothing soft in his posture. Nothing open. He looks carved into place.
Caught, he turns his head slightly. Of course. Your laugh thins. Sam says something, but you miss it. Maybe your name. Maybe a joke. The pool sounds muffle, slipping in and out around your ears. Bucky can look from far away, apparently. From behind sunglasses. From a place where you cannot look back properly. The second you are close enough for him to have to acknowledge you as a body with feelings, he finds the nearest wall or drink or horizon.
There’s a special sort of humiliation in wanting someone who seems vaguely offended by the evidence of you. “you alive?” sam asks, splashing water near your arm.
You blink back to him. “unfortunately.”
“you looked like you were plotting.”
“I plot as cardio.”
“that explains the stamina.”
Bucky’s jaw moves across the patio. You see that too. Tiny. Annoying. Delicious, if you were a healthier person. A reckless little thing uncurls in your chest. It is petty and hot and stupid, so naturally it feels almost holy. You turn back to sam with a brighter smile, the sort that probably looks normal to everyone else and insane to Nat. Sam raises his eyebrows. Brave man. “teach me to throw better,” you say.
He narrows his eyes. “this a trick?”
“i’m asking for athletic help. cherish the moment.”
Sam laughs, then shifts behind you in the water, hands hovering over your elbows before settling lightly when you nod. It is friendly. It is nothing. It is two people in a pool with a foam football and a crowd of friends around them. But you feel Bucky before you see him. His attention has weight. A dark little weather system rolling over the patio. Sam adjusts your arm. “okay, elbow up. no, less like you’re threatening the ball’s family.”
“I am threatening its family.”
“gentle. release here.” His hand taps your wrist.
Across the patio, Steve says something to Bucky. Bucky does not answer. You throw. The ball arcs beautifully for half a second, then smacks clint square in the forehead. The silence is immediate. Then clint sinks under the water like a betrayed submarine. You clap both hands over your mouth. Sam loses his mind laughing, one hand braced on your shoulder as he folds forward. Wanda sits up. Tony lowers his sunglasses. Steve looks concerned. Nat looks delighted. Clint resurfaces, hair plastered over his face. “attempted murder.”
“self-defense,” you gasp, still half laughing, half horrified. “you had criminal energy.”
“You hit me in my innocent head.”
“no jury would convict her,” sam says, wiping his eyes. “that was art.”
A sound comes from the patio. Low. Short. You look before you can stop yourself.
Bucky is laughing. Not loud. Not like sam. Barely more than a breath, but his mouth has curved despite whatever terrible thing he has been doing with his face all afternoon. He is looking at you now. Fully. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair, blue eyes narrowed against the sun, and for one ridiculous moment, all the air in the day seems to gather in your throat.
Then he catches himself. The smile fades. His gaze drops to the water near your waist, moves away, and he reaches for his drink. It is a slap with no hand.
Your smile goes with it. The water suddenly feels too cold. “i need another drink,” you announce, heading for the stairs before anyone can see your face arrange itself badly.
Sam calls after you, still laughing about clint’s tragic head injury. Nat’s sunglasses follow you from the lounger. Bucky stays by the pillar, but the closer you get to the edge, the more you feel him there. A terrible awareness. Like walking past a stove you know is on. Your hands grip the metal rail as you climb the pool steps. Water streams down your body, cooler where the breeze hits. The swimsuit clings hard now, slick to your skin, making every curve more obvious instead of less. Wonderful design choice. Truly innovative cruelty. You reach for the towel on the chair, but it is farther than you thought, and the stone under your wet feet is slippery.
Your heel slides. For one bright, stupid second, you are suspended in pure indignity. Then a hand clamps around your upper arm. Not sam. Not nat. Not anyone safe enough to survive.
Bucky. His other hand catches your waist, broad palm spreading over wet skin, fingers pressing into the soft give above your hip. The contact goes straight through you with such force that your brain empties. Chlorine, sun, his skin, the faint spice of whatever soap he uses, all of it crowds too close. Your hand lands on his chest to steady yourself, and he is warm. Warm and solid and right there, which is deeply unfair for a man who has spent the afternoon treating eye contact like a hostage negotiation.
“careful,” he says.
One word. Low. Rough. Stupid. Your embarrassment catches fire. You laugh. It comes out bitter, thin at the edges, nothing like the easy laugh you gave sam. Bucky’s fingers tighten once at your waist, and that little pressure makes the whole thing worse. “relax, barnes.” You pull your hand from his chest, hating the wet print your palm leaves behind. “you don’t have to touch me longer than necessary.”
The whole patio seems to keep making noise, but in your little corner, the sentence has teeth. Bucky goes still. His hand stays on your waist for half a second too long, then leaves like he has been burned. The absence is immediate and awful. You hate him for touching you. You hate him more for stopping. His face has changed, though you refuse to name the change. His brows draw together, mouth parting slightly as if he has lost the next line. Good. Let him lose something. “What?” he says, quiet.
You grab the towel and pull it around yourself, too late to feel covered. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrow at that, and for once he does not look away. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“You’re very observant.”
“Don’t do that.”
A laugh tries to crawl out of you and dies ugly. “Do what?”
“Act like I did something to you when all I did was catch you.”
You look at him then. Really, probably too much. Big mistake. His skin is still damp at the temples from sweat or the pool water someone splashed earlier, and the sun catches the blue of his eyes so sharply you want to be mad at nature. His chest rises under your gaze. Your palm still remembers him, every warm inch. A handprint in reverse. “you looked away,” you say, and the words escape before pride can shoot them down.
Bucky’s face tightens. “When?”
You hate him. You hate him so much you could kiss him until both of you forget language. “Forget it.”
You turn away, but he catches the edge of the towel. Not enough to pull you back, only enough to stop the escape from being clean. “When?” he repeats, and the softness in his voice is so much worse than anger.
You should have kept your mouth shut. You should have stayed in the bathroom and sued Natasha from there. Instead you’re wet, half naked, humiliated, and Bucky Barnes is holding your towel like it matters. “When I came out,” you say, staring hard at the bar instead of him. “When sam called you. When I got in the pool. Pick one, you’ve been consistent.”
His grip loosens. For a second you think he will explain. He might laugh. He might say you’re imagining things. He might finally cut the whole sickness open and tell you he does not want to look, and then maybe you can be free through the healing power of public devastation. But he says nothing. Of course he says nothing.
Your eyes sting, which is unacceptable. Chlorine. Obviously chlorine. You pull the towel free and walk toward the bar with as much dignity as a woman can manage while dripping on expensive stone. Behind you, Steve says Bucky’s name. Low. Warning. Or concerned. You do not turn around. Tony is pretending very hard to examine a lime. “Drink,” you say, dropping onto a stool.
He pushes one over without commentary for maybe the first time in his life. “Hydration adjacent.”
“your discretion is unsettling.”
“i’m multifaceted.”
You take the glass. Your hand shakes once, barely. You curl it tighter until it stops.
Across the patio, Bucky remains near the pool steps, one hand low on his hip, the other rubbing over his mouth. Steve stands near him now, speaking quietly. Bucky shakes his head. His eyes cut toward you. This time, you look away first.
Pool parties become less fun once you have emotionally exposed yourself near a wet staircase. A tragic discovery. Someone should tell the youth. The afternoon drags onward with the mean persistence of a song you cannot skip. People eat. People drink. Sam retells the clint football incident with increasing betrayal of facts, making himself sound like a coach and you sound like a trained assassin. Clint claims he can see sounds now. Wanda orders him to stop making it tempting to hit him again. Tony brings out enough food for a wedding and calls it “light snacks,” which makes you wonder if billionaires understand hunger as a concept or merely as a branding opportunity. You sit with nat under the shade, towel around your shoulders, swimsuit drying tight against your skin. The drink has made you warmer, loose at the edges, but not enough to soften the place Bucky opened and then abandoned. He has stayed away. Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone could call obvious. He helps Steve with the grill, talks to Sam, lets Tony make jokes at his expense. He is normal.
That might be the ugliest part. You are sitting here with your nerves scraped raw, and he gets to hold a plate of grilled chicken. Do you want to talk about it?” nat asks.
“No.”
She hums, sipping from her straw. “Do you want to lie about it?”
“Desperately.”
“Go ahead.”
You stare at the water. Sam is trying to shove clint off a float. Clint has accepted death with more grace than expected. “I’m having a nice time.”
“Terrible lie. Try again.”
“I enjoy sunlight.”
“Worse.”
“Bucky Barnes is a normal man whose opinion does nothing to my blood pressure.”
Natasha’s mouth curves. “Almost funny enough to pass.”
You pick at a loose thread on the towel. The fibers are soft, expensive, probably worth more than half your closet. Tony’s towels have better career prospects than you. “He looked at me like he wished I’d worn a tarp.”
Nat says nothing for a second. Her silence is rarely empty. It moves around, checks exits, evaluates weak spots. “That’s what you saw?”
You glance at her, defensive already. “I have eyes.”
“Unfortunately, yes. Dramatic ones.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She turns her head a little, and you follow her gaze against your will.
Bucky is standing at the grill beside Steve. His posture is casual enough for a stranger. Not for you. You know his casual. This is held too tight at the edges. His shoulders are set, left hand curled around a bottle of beer he has barely touched, eyes trained on the pool with such grim commitment that the pool may owe him money. “He’s been weird all day,” nat says.
“He’s always weird.”
“With you, yes.”
“That’s very comforting.”
She nudges your knee with hers. “You two are exhausting.”
“There is no two. There’s me, suffering heroically, and him, being confusing and broad.”
“Broad?”
“Don’t make me defend my vocabulary. I’m injured.”
“You slipped.”
“Emotionally.”
Natasha laughs softly, then reaches over and plucks the drink from your hand. “Slow down.”
You glare. “This is theft.”
“This is friendship.”
“Friendship would let me make poor choices.”
“I let you buy the swimsuit.”
“That was attempted murder.”
Her hand squeezes your knee once. “He’s looking again.”
Your entire body betrays you. It wants to turn. It wants to pretend it has not been starving for that exact sentence. You hold still with the grim focus of someone defusing a bomb under poor lighting. “Good for him,” you say.
Nat’s smile turns small and unbearable. “You’re allowed to like being looked at.”
“By normal people, maybe.”
“Barnes is many things.”
“Normal does seem optimistic.” The words come out light enough. The thought under them sits heavy. Bucky looking at you feels dangerous because you cannot tell what he sees. All day, you have been trapped between wanting his attention and being wounded by how he spends it. Too quick, too hidden, too late. You want him to look in a way that lets you rest, which is insane. A person should not need another person’s eyes to feel real in their own skin. There are self-help books about that, probably. You have not read them because they would tell you to journal and you would rather eat sand.
Tony calls everyone for food, and the shift saves you from Nat’s terrifying accuracy. Chairs scrape. People gather around the long outdoor table. You end up between wanda and sam, safe enough, with nat across from you and Bucky diagonally down the table beside Steve. Diagonally is awful. Diagonally means accidental glances. Diagonally means you can pretend to look at the salad and still see his hands. Diagonally means his knee might bump yours if the table were smaller, which it is not, thank God, or no thanks to God, depending on where you are in your moral development.
Food helps. A little. Grilled corn, charred sweet at the edges. Watermelon with feta. Skewers. Tony’s obscene little sliders made with buns so soft you briefly understand wealth. You eat more than you expected, mostly to give your mouth a reason to stay busy. Sam leans closer while reaching for the corn. “You ever think about joining a league?”
You stare at him. “For what, pool homicide?”
“Foam football. You’ve got raw talent.”
“I injured one man.”
“That’s how legends start.”
You laugh, easier this time. Sam is lovely. Sam is safe. Sam has never once made you feel like a bug under glass or a prayer no one taught you how to say. His attention is warm and uncomplicated, and maybe that is why it fails to do the thing you wish it would. You want it to. That would be convenient. You could turn your head and smile at the man making you laugh, and your body could decide to be sensible for once. Across the table, Bucky’s fork scrapes softly against his plate.
You glance up. His eyes are on Sam’s shoulder, where it nearly touches yours. His mouth has gone flat again. When his gaze shifts to yours, it stays. No sunglasses now. No immediate retreat. You should feel triumphant. You feel pinned and furious and too warm under the towel.
Sam keeps talking. You answer. Probably. Words happen from your side of the table. Bucky looks away first, but slower this time, and that almost makes you angrier.
After food, Tony declares a mandatory sunset swim like a man whose money has left him unfamiliar with the word optional. Wanda declines by pretending to sleep. Vision declines with such politeness that Tony thanks him. Steve gets dragged in by Sam. Clint goes willingly after shouting that the water may heal his head trauma. Natasha sheds her shirt and dives so cleanly that half the patio claps.
You mean to stay on the lounger. You really do. Then Bucky sits on the chair two spaces away with a beer and no intention of swimming.
You stand.
“Coming in?” sam calls from the pool.
“Apparently.”
Bucky’s head lifts. There. There it is again. That first startled drag of his eyes as your towel drops onto the lounger. This time you catch all of it. He looks at your shoulders, your chest, your waist, the high cut at your hips, the damp lines where the swimsuit still clings from earlier. His throat moves. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle.
Then he looks away. Again. The hurt comes faster now, less sharp and more tired. You have run out of ways to be surprised by it. “You coming?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Bucky looks back. “What?”
“In the pool.” You gesture toward everyone else, voice mild enough to deserve applause. “That large wet rectangle behind you.”
Sam laughs from the water. Steve watches Bucky with the concerned patience of someone looking at a friend about to step on a rake. Bucky’s eyes flick toward the pool, then to you. “I’m fine here.”
“Tragic. We’ll notify the rectangle.”
That gets a laugh from Tony. Even Bucky’s mouth twitches, but it dies before it becomes anything useful. “You scared?” you ask.
The words are easy. The ache under them is less so. You want him to rise. You want him to refuse. You want him to look. You want him to leave. You want so many impossible things at once that your own skin feels crowded. Bucky leans back in the chair, jaw set. “Of you?”
“Of fun.”
“Terrified.”
“Figures.” You turn before he can answer, stepping into the pool with all the dignity you can scrape together. The water feels warmer now after the heat of the day, soft around your knees, your waist, your ribs. Sam splashes near you, and you splash him back half-heartedly. The game restarts in some altered form. Someone throws a beach ball. Tony judges from the side with a drink, claiming he is “morally participating.” The sky slowly bruises pink and gold over the trees.
You laugh again. You even mean some of it. But Bucky stays on the chair. He stays dry and distant, one elbow on the armrest, beer untouched, gaze roaming everywhere except you until it does not. Then you feel it between your shoulder blades, across the back of your neck, sliding down where the swimsuit reveals more than it hides. If he is disgusted, he has a strange way of torturing himself with it.
Maybe he is bored. Maybe he is judging. Maybe he is thinking about someone else. Maybe you are pathetic. That last thought arrives with such calm familiarity that you almost miss the ball flying toward your face.
“Duck!” Sam shouts.
You duck too late. The beach ball clips the side of your head, harmless but startling, and you stumble back with a laugh that turns into a yelp when your foot misses the pool step under the water. This time, you do not fall. This time, Bucky is already there.
The splash of him entering the pool sends water up over your arms. You barely process the movement before his hand catches your waist under the water, bare palm meeting bare skin, fingers firm enough to halt every thought you were trying to have. His other hand closes around your wrist, anchoring you while your toes find the step.
The whole pool erupts around you. Sam says something. Tony whistles. Clint declares another murder attempt. None of it matters.
Bucky is in the water. Bucky is touching you.
Bucky’s hair is wet now, loose strands clinging near his jaw. His chest is inches from yours, water beading on his collarbones, eyes fixed on your face with the sort of focus that makes you feel both held and dissected. The metal hand around your wrist is cool. The flesh hand at your waist is warm even underwater. Your body, treacherous little idiot, forgets every insult it has been rehearsing and leans a fraction closer. “Careful,” he says again.
The same word. Same roughness. Less distance. Your laugh barely works this time. It leaves your mouth thin and tired. “You need a new line.”
His eyes drop to your mouth. Stay there. Move back up. “You need to stop slipping.”
“I’m sure the tiles are honored you blame me.”
“Wasn’t blaming you.”
“No, you’re just leaping into pools now. Very casual.”
His hand slides half an inch on your waist as someone’s wave rolls against you both. The movement is tiny and devastating. Your stomach pulls in under his palm before you can control it, and his fingers flex like he felt the reaction and had to restrain his own. Sam clears his throat loudly. “Everybody alive?”
Bucky does not look away from you. “Yeah.”
“You sure? That looked like a rescue.”
“Wilson,” Steve says, warning plain in his voice.
“What? I’m just asking. Man moved like a torpedo.”
Your face heats, and that saves you. Embarrassment brings language back. “I’m fine,” you say, trying to step back.
Bucky lets go of your wrist. His hand at your waist lingers. You glance down at it. He follows your gaze and releases you, slow enough to feel intentional, quick enough to hurt. “Fine,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You step away, wrapping your arms around your middle under the water. The swimsuit feels nonexistent now, yet somehow everyone can see the exact place his hand had been. Maybe there is a mark. Maybe your skin has announced it to the patio in bright letters. “I’m getting out,” you say, mostly to the water.
Bucky’s brows pull together. “Again?”
“Try to survive it.”
Sam says your name softly as you pass him, but you keep moving. The pool steps are kinder this time. You grip the rail, climb carefully, and grab your towel with wet hands. The sky has gone warmer, streaked with orange, and the air makes goosebumps rise along your arms. You head toward the house before anyone can ask.
The sliding door is blessedly close. The kitchen inside is cooler, dimmer, quiet except for the hum of Tony’s expensive refrigerator and the muted thump of music through glass. You leave wet footprints across the tile and feel guilty for half a second before remembering Tony could probably buy new tile by blinking. The towel goes tighter around you. Your face feels too hot. Your chest feels worse. Everything is tangled. Bucky looked away. Bucky watched. Bucky refused to get in. Bucky jumped in without thinking. Bucky touched you like instinct. Bucky let go like regret.
A normal person would accept complexity. You prefer suffering. The kitchen island has a bowl of cut limes, a bottle of tequila, and a tray of tiny desserts covered in plastic wrap. You peel one back and take a mini tart just to have something to destroy. It tastes like lemon and butter and wealth. You chew angrily. “stealing dessert before dinner’s fully over?”
You close your eyes. No. Absolutely no. The universe can go bother someone else.
Bucky’s voice comes from the doorway behind you, lower after the pool, rougher around the edges. You keep chewing. Swallow. Pick up another tart because dignity left hours ago and dessert is here now.
“Tell tony,” you say. “He’ll have me arrested by the pastry police.”
Wet footsteps cross the tile. He has followed you in dripping too, which should make him less intimidating. It does not. The room fills with him, chlorine and sun and that clean masculine smell under it, the one that has ruined many evenings and one perfectly decent pillow you once pressed your face into after he left it on your couch. He stops on the other side of the island. You look at the tart tray instead of him.
“I was checking on you.”
“Very heroic. I’m eating a tart.”
“So I see.”
“Then your work here is done.”
The old rhythm tries to come back. Snap, deflect, survive. Usually he takes the bait. Usually he smiles or scoffs or says something that makes you want to throw a household object. This time he stays quiet, and the quiet crawls right under your towel. You reach for a third tart. His hand covers the tray.
You stare at his fingers. Human hand. Calloused. Thick. The same hand that had been on your waist in the pool, warm through the water, possessive for one second before he remembered he did not want to be. Your own hand hovers uselessly near his. Lemon sugar sticks to your thumb. “Move,” you say.
“Talk to me.”
Your laugh is small and mean. “About dessert?”
“About what you said outside.”
“I’ve said many beautiful things today.”
His fingers press lightly against the plastic wrap, making it crinkle. “At the pool steps.”
The room cools further. Somewhere outside, Sam laughs. The sound reaches the kitchen thin and far away, like it belongs to another life where people can swim and flirt and enjoy fruit without turning into an open wound near a marble island. “I said you didn’t have to touch me.” You lift one shoulder. The towel slips a little. His eyes move to fix on your face with almost painful discipline. “Seems clear.”
“No.” His jaw tightens around the word. “It doesn’t.”
“It really does.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
There it is. Softer than you expected. Worse, somehow. He sounds angry, but the anger has nowhere clean to go. It sits between you, wet-haired and broad-shouldered and too close. You pick at the sugar on your thumb. “Standing in a kitchen?”
“Trying to stop touching you.”
A humorless sound leaves you. “Aren’t you?”
Bucky’s hand slowly leaves the tray. He comes around the island, and you hate yourself for how fast your body registers each step. Wet tile under his bare feet. The shift of muscle in his thighs. Water slipping from his hair to his neck. He stops beside you, close enough that you can see tiny droplets on his lashes. “You think that’s why I looked away?”
Your fingers curl into the towel at your chest. “I’m very tired of talking about where your eyes go.”
“I’m not.”
“Congratulations.”
His voice lowers. “Look at me.”
“No.”
He breathes out through his nose. A patient sound. Not gentle. Not quite. “Please.”
That word does the damage anger could never do. You look up, furious with him for asking nicely. His face is tense, mouth set, eyes darker in the dim kitchen. He looks too serious for a pool party. Too serious for you standing here in a damp swimsuit and a towel, lemon sugar on your thumb, embarrassment turning your throat tight. “Happy?” you ask.
His gaze moves over your face like he is trying to read something written under your skin. “No.”
That almost gets you. Simple answer. No joke. No little smirk to save either of you. Your own mouth opens, then closes again.
Bucky glances toward the patio doors. Outside, the others are loud and bright and drunk on summer. In here, the air holds still around the refrigerator hum and your wet footprints. “I looked away,” he says, each word measured like it costs him, “because if I kept looking, everybody out there was gonna know.”
You stare at him. It takes a second. Maybe more. Your brain receives the sentence, turns it over, rejects it, picks it up again, then shakes it until meaning falls out. “Know what?”
His laugh is almost silent, rough at the bottom. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m asking.”
“You know what.”
“I really don’t.”
His hand lifts, then stops before touching you. That restraint again. Always that. A hand held back like your skin has rules written over it. You hate it more than anything, and maybe you have loved it too, which is inconvenient and humiliating. His fingers curl into his palm. “That I wanted you.”
The fridge hums. Music thuds through glass. Someone outside yells for Tony to stop cheating at whatever stupid rich-man game he has invented. Your towel slips another inch down your shoulder. Bucky notices. This time, he does not look away fast enough.
Wanted. Past tense? Present tense? A cruel grammar question at the worst possible time.
“You’ve been acting like looking at me causes physical pain,” you say, and it comes out less sharp than you need. More wounded. Awful.
His eyes cut back to yours. “It does.”
You blink. Bucky looks almost mad at himself now, which is satisfying for one brief second before it becomes sad. “You walked out in that thing and I had two choices. Look away, or sit there with everyone watching me stare at you like I’d lost my damn mind.”
“That thing?”
His gaze dips. Brief. Hungry. No disgust in it. None. The realization makes your stomach hollow out and fill at once. “The swimsuit.”
“You hate it.”
His mouth parts, then closes. His brows draw down. “I hate that Sam got to tell you first.”
That sentence finds a deep, stupid place in you and presses there. You hate that place. It has no pride. “He was being nice,” you say.
“I know.” in his mouth, right now, it is not reassurance. It is surrender. It is a man admitting something he does not want to resent and resenting it anyway.
“He looked at you like a friend,” Bucky says. “That made it worse.”
You set the tart down slowly, afraid any sudden movement might shatter the room. “Why?”
His eyes come back to yours. “Because I didn’t.”
The answer moves through you like a slow spill. Outside, someone opens the patio door. You both turn your heads at once. Tony leans in halfway, sunglasses still on though the sun is dying. His gaze takes in the water on the floor, your towel, Bucky’s expression, the tray of tarts, and he immediately lifts both hands.
“Fantastic. Haunted kitchen. Love that for us.” He reaches blindly for a bottle near the door. “Pretend I’m rich furniture.”
“Tony,” Bucky says, voice tight.
“Gone. Emotionally, spiritually, legally.” Tony backs out with the bottle and slides the door shut.
The interruption should break the tension. It does not. It makes it worse. Now the world has peeked in and retreated. Now privacy feels chosen. You wipe your sticky thumb against the towel, then regret it. “People are going to come looking.”
“Let them.”
Your eyes flick to his. “That’s a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re agreeing?”
“Trying something new.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes you. Bucky’s face shifts at the sound. Not a smile, exactly. More dangerous than that. Like the laugh handed him proof he had been starving for and now he is trying to keep from grabbing.
“I thought you were embarrassed,” you say, quieter. The words scrape more than they should. “Of looking. Of me.”
His whole body seems to pull toward you without moving. “Jesus.”
You flinch at the roughness, and he sees it.
“Hey.” His hand finally touches your arm, just above the towel’s edge. Warm, careful, barely there. Still enough to ruin you. “No. I’m angry at myself. Not you.”
“You keep looking away.”
“I was trying to be decent.”
“That felt awful.”
His thumb moves once over your damp skin. You wish it did less. You wish it did more. “I see that now.”
“Great. Character development.”
He huffs, but there’s no real humor in it. His eyes have gone to the place his thumb touches your arm. “I’m sorry.”
You blink again. Bucky apologizes sometimes. To other people. Usually with grumbles and half-smiles and enough charm to make forgiveness feel inevitable. With you, apologies are rarer. Maybe because both of you prefer biting to bleeding. Maybe because he never seems to understand where the wound is.
This one is plain. You have no idea what to do with it. “I don’t want your pity apology,” you say.
His thumb stops. “Pity?”
“Yes.”
“You think I’m standing here half naked in Stark’s kitchen, dripping on a floor that costs more than my first apartment, apologizing out of pity?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”
“It sounded stupid before.”
You glare up at him, relieved by the spark of irritation because anger is easier to hold. “Careful.”
That word. His word. It changes something in his face, turns his attention heavier. Your mouth goes dry. Bucky’s hand slides down your arm, slow enough that you could move away. You do not. His fingers find your wrist, then your hand, lifting it between you. Lemon sugar still clings faintly near your thumb. His eyes meet yours, asking nothing aloud, and maybe you nod. Maybe your hand simply gives up and lets him.
He brings your thumb to his mouth. The first touch of his tongue is warm and wet and obscene in its quietness. He licks the sugar from your skin like he has all the time in the world, lips closing around the tip of your thumb for half a second before he lets it go. Your knees forget their duties. The island is behind you, so you lean back against it before your body can embarrass you further.
Bucky watches the movement. “There,” he says, voice rougher. “No pity.”
You breathe through your nose, which is impressive since your lungs appear to have resigned. “That was unsanitary.”
“Pool water’s worse.”
“Comforting.”
His hand stays around yours. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make a joke when you’re shaking.”
You glance down. Your fingers are trembling in his grip. Treacherous little things. You consider cutting them off. Too messy for tony’s floor.
“I’m cold,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes drop to the towel, the damp swimsuit, the little bumps risen along your arms. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to get you dry?”
There is nothing clean in that question. Maybe there could have been, from someone else. From him, with his mouth still wet from your thumb and his hand around yours, the words turn thick. You pull your hand back, mostly so you can breathe. “I can manage a towel.”
“I saw.”
“You saw me almost fall.”
“I saw a lot today.”
A pulse starts low in your body, slow and hot and deeply inconvenient. “You looked away for most of it.”
“I looked back.”
That shuts you up. His hand goes to the edge of the towel. He does not pull. Just touches the cotton near your collarbone, where it has started to sag from water and poor decision-making. “I looked back all damn day.”
You try to swallow. It takes effort. “Bucky…”
The patio door opens again. This time it is Nat. She takes one look at you, one look at Bucky, then at the wet floor. Her face gives away nothing, which means she has figured out everything.
“People are asking about dessert,” she says.
You stare at her helplessly. Bucky’s hand drops from the towel. He turns his head, expression suddenly murderous in a very contained, socially inconvenient way. “They can wait.”
Natasha’s brows rise. “Can they?”
“Yes,” he says.
Something about that single word, the calm certainty of it, makes your thighs press together under the towel. Nat’s eyes flick down for barely a second, then back up. You want the tile to open and swallow you. Preferably gently. With snacks. “Right,” she says. “I’ll tell them the kitchen is occupied.”
“Nat,” you hiss.
Her mouth curves. “What? By wet people.”
Bucky sighs like he is in physical pain. “Romanoff.”
“Relax, Barnes. I’m leaving.” She reaches for the tray of tarts, slides it away from you both, and pauses at the door. “Use one of the guest rooms. Tony has cameras in weird places.”
Your soul leaves your body. “What?” you choke.
Tony’s voice carries from outside. “I do not have cameras in weird places. I have cameras in strategic places.”
Natasha closes the door again. The silence after that is different. Less fragile. More aware of its own stupidity. You cover your face with one hand. “I’m moving.”
Bucky makes a sound that might be a laugh if he were less ruined. “Where?”
“Into the ocean.”
“Pool’s closer.”
“Too many witnesses.”
His hand returns to your waist, over the towel this time, and the casual possession of it melts the last few scraps of your brain. “Guest room’s closer too.”
You lower your hand. He is looking at you now. No retreat. No disgust. No careful sideways glance. He looks exactly how you had feared wishing for. Hungry and unsure and trying to make himself stand still. “This is a terrible idea,” you whisper.
“Probably.”
“People are outside.”
“Yep.”
“You were ignoring me two hours ago.”
His mouth tightens. “I was trying to keep my hands off you two hours ago.”
“And now?”
His fingers press into your waist, pulling you one inch closer. Not enough. Enough to make you greedy. “Now I heard what you thought.”
Your chest aches. “And?”
He leans in, slow. Gives you time. Too much time. Your eyes dip to his mouth, and he sees that too. Of course he sees that, the bastard. His lips brush the corner of yours, barely a touch, more breath than kiss, and your entire body answers like it has been waiting years for a command. “And I’m done letting you think it.”
The first kiss is almost gentle. Almost. That is what ruins it. Bucky’s mouth touches yours with restraint at first, warm and careful, and you stand there stupidly with your hand hovering near his chest. It has taken so long to get here that your body does not trust it. He kisses you once, then draws back just enough to look at your face, and something in that tiny pause makes you angry. “No,” you breathe, grabbing the wet hair at the nape of his neck.
His eyes darken. “No?”
“You don’t get to kiss me like I’m fragile after making me feel insane all day.”
The words are barely out before his hand slides behind your head and his mouth comes back harder. This kiss has teeth in it. Not cruel, not careless, but hungry enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair. He tastes like beer and lemon sugar from your skin. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until the towel is crushed between you and his damp chest, and you make a sound into his mouth that you would deny in court. Bucky answers with a low groan, and the sound breaks something open. The kiss turns messy fast. Your feet slip a little on the wet tile, and he catches you without breaking away, almost lifting you onto your toes. The island edge presses into your back. His hand spreads wide between your shoulder blades, then drags down over the towel, as if he hates every layer between his palm and the body he kept refusing to look at.
Outside, laughter rises. You jerk back. “Guest room.”
Bucky’s forehead touches yours for one second. His breathing is rough, uneven, gratifyingly ruined. “Yeah.”
He takes your hand. That simple thing nearly undoes you. His fingers lace through yours, warm and firm, and he leads you through Tony’s absurd house with far more purpose than a man dripping pool water should have. The hallway is cool and dim, lined with art that probably costs enough to rescue a small nation. You barely see it. You see his back, the muscles shifting under wet skin, the dark hair curling at his neck, your hand held in his like something he does not plan to misplace. A laugh bursts from the patio behind you, then the sound dulls as the hallway turns. Your pulse beats everywhere. Mouth, wrists, thighs, the places the swimsuit rubs too tight. You have spent hours wishing he would look, and now he is taking you somewhere private to do more than that, which means panic arrives right on schedule, prim little nightmare clipboard in hand.
What if he changes his mind when the door closes? What if this is heat and misunderstanding and chlorine? What if he touches you and finds every soft place you spent the day trying to hide? Bucky stops at the first guest room and opens the door. The room is airy, pale, ridiculous, with a king bed dressed in white and a view of the trees beyond the windows. Too pretty. Too clean. A room for people who have sex beautifully, probably, with matching underwear and no body anxiety.
You hover at the threshold. Bucky turns. His gaze drops to your face, then your hand still in his. “What?”
You hate the gentleness. You might start wanting it everywhere. “Nothing.”
He steps closer, slowly enough to make the hallway feel narrower. “Try again.”
Your fingers tighten around his. “I’m wet.”
His brows lift a fraction. “From the pool,” you snap, heat flooding your face. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is having a day.”
Despite yourself, a laugh slips out, small and anxious. His thumb strokes over your knuckles, and the laugh fades into something softer. God, this is bad. This is tender now, and tender is much more dangerous than horny. Horny you understand. Horny has a beginning and an end and terrible decision-making in the middle. Tender grows roots. Bucky steps into the room and draws you with him.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click. For one second, neither of you speaks. The silence fills with water dripping from both of you onto the floor, distant music, your own uneven breathing. His hand leaves yours. You miss it immediately, which is humiliating.
Then he reaches for the towel. “Can I?”
You want to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that protects the swollen, nervous thing in your chest. Instead, you nod.
He unwraps you slowly. Not theatrically. Not like some polished movie scene. His fingers fumble once at the tucked corner, and that fumble does more to you than smooth confidence ever could. The towel loosens, slipping from your shoulders, down your arms, catching at your elbows before he pulls it free and drops it onto a chair.
Cool air touches your damp skin. Your hands twitch toward your stomach. Bucky catches them. The movement is fast, but his hold is gentle. Both wrists in his hands, lifted slightly away from your body. His eyes stay on yours. “Don’t hide from me.” The words are low, quiet, and absolutely devastating.
You try to laugh. It barely forms. “That’s ambitious.”
“I can be patient.”
“You? Since when?”
His mouth twitches. “Since about three seconds ago.”
You breathe out, shaky but almost amused. He lifts your hands and kisses the inside of one wrist. Then the other. Your throat tightens. It is so stupid, how much that gets to you. A kiss there. Not your mouth. Not your chest. Just the soft skin where your pulse is making an idiot of itself. “I’m going to look at you,” he says.
Your face burns. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It’s a warning.” His thumb moves over your wrist. “A fair one.”
“Very gentlemanly.”
“Trying.”
You swallow. “Don’t try too hard.”
His eyes darken. The shift is immediate, and you feel it under your skin. The little softness remains, but something hotter moves through it, something less careful. His hands lower yours to your sides. He waits. Gives you the chance to lift them again.
You don’t. Bucky looks. This time, he lets himself. His gaze starts at your face, maybe for mercy, then slips down your throat, over the thin straps, the gold rings, the wet fabric clinging to your breasts. You feel each inch like touch. He looks at the curve of your waist, the high cut at your hips, the soft places you wanted to fold away. His jaw sets hard. A slow breath leaves him, and the sound is not disgust. Not even close. It is almost anger, but turned inward, like he cannot believe he denied himself this all afternoon.
Your eyes sting again. “Oh,” you whisper, then immediately want to slap a hand over your mouth. Not a standalone reaction, you tell yourself absurdly. Put it in a sentence, idiot. “You actually…”
Bucky’s gaze snaps back to your face. “Yeah.”
“You looked away.”
“I was an idiot.”
“That’s established.”
His smile is brief and strained. “Fair.”
His hands come to your hips, bare now, no towel, no water softening the contact. Skin to skin. You inhale too sharply and his grip steadies, thumbs pressing near the swimsuit’s edge. “You thought I didn’t like this?” he asks, voice dragging lower.
Your eyes drop to his chest, safer than his face by maybe half a degree. “You looked like you were suffering.”
“I was.” His fingers slide along the high curve of your hip, then stop there, squeezing once. “Sweetheart, I saw you come out in this and forgot what language I spoke.”
That sounds impossible. It also sounds like him. Rough, a little annoyed, painfully sincere under all that heat. “You recovered fast.”
“I didn’t recover. I panicked.”
The laugh that leaves you is shaky and wet at the edges. “That was panic?”
“Steve asked if I was having a stroke.”
Your mouth opens. “He did not.”
“He did.”
“Was he concerned?”
“Very.”
You laugh fully this time, and Bucky’s hands tighten like he wants to hold the sound against you. The laugh fades when he steps closer. His wet chest brushes the front of your swimsuit. Barely. Your nipples tighten under the damp fabric, and his eyes drop just long enough to notice before returning to your face. The restraint almost kills you. “Sam complimented you,” he says.
You blink, following the turn. “Yes.”
“You smiled.”
“He was nice.”
“I know.”
There it is again. Acknowledgment. His thumbs move, small circles over your hips that turn thought into warm static. “You hated that?”
“I hated how easy it was for him.” Bucky’s voice goes rougher. “He could just say it. Stand there in front of everyone and tell you that you looked good. I stood ten feet away acting like looking at you too long was gonna put me in the ground.”
You study him, the damp hair, the tense mouth, the eyes that keep trying to fall and climb back up. “Would it?”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time he does smile. Small, wrecked, honest enough to hurt. “Maybe.”
That does something worse than praise. Makes you ache. Makes you stupid. Makes you lift your hand to his chest, pressing your fingers over the warm skin where your palm had landed earlier. He looks down at your hand like he wants to thank it. “You could’ve said something,” you murmur.
“I thought I had time to figure out how.”
“Figure out how to say you liked a swimsuit?”
“How to say I wanted to peel it off with my teeth without getting slapped in front of Steve.”
Your fingers curl against his chest. He watches your face. “Too much?”
The question is sincere, but barely. Mostly he is reading you now, and whatever he sees in your expression pulls his mouth into something darker. “No,” you say, and your voice sounds smaller than you want. “Continue.”
His laugh is quiet. “Continue?”
“You heard me.”
“I did.” One hand leaves your hip and comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing near the corner of your mouth. “Trying to decide if I wanna continue with my mouth or my hands.”
Your knees feel untrustworthy. “You’re taking suggestions?”
“From you?” He leans in, lips grazing your cheek, not quite kissing. “Always.”
The word slides down your body and settles low, hot, awful. You press your thighs together, barely, but he is too close to miss it. “Yeah?” His lips brush your ear now. “That where it goes when I say that?”
“Shut up.”
“Been trying all day.”
“To shut up?”
“To keep from saying worse.”
His mouth touches your neck. Your eyes close before you can pretend dignity. It is only one kiss at first, warm and damp from pool water, placed under your jaw with almost unbearable care. Then another, lower. His fingers at your jaw angle your face up, and the little stretch of your throat makes the room tilt through your body without the phrase in your head. You grip his shoulder, nails pressing into skin.
“Bucky,” you whisper.
He hums against your neck. “That sounded nice.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
You would scold him, but his teeth scrape lightly over your pulse and the scolding falls apart into a weak sound. He hears it. Of course he hears it. His hand on your hip slides around to the small of your back, pressing you closer, and the hard line of him through his swim trunks meets your lower stomach.
Your entire body pauses.
Bucky goes still too, but only to let you register it.
“Oh,” you breathe, then rush to fix it, face flaming. “That’s, um. That’s there.”
He pulls back enough to look at you. His eyes are nearly black. “Yeah. It’s been there.”
Your mouth parts.
“All day,” he adds, almost cruel now, and the hand at your jaw keeps your face tipped up. “You want the truth? I had to sit down after you got in the pool.”
A tiny, helpless sound leaves you.
His thumb strokes your cheek. “No. Look at me.”
You do, barely.
“I’m gonna say things,” he says, voice softer but dirtier somehow, stripped of performance. “And you’re gonna believe me this time.”
Your throat works around nothing. “That’s demanding.”
“Yeah.”
“Usually people ask.”
“I spent all day asking myself if I was allowed to want you.” His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sinking into damp hair. “I’m done asking me.”
That should terrify you. It does, maybe. But it terrifies the part of you that has been begging for exactly this.
His mouth comes back to yours, and this time neither of you pretend at gentleness for long. You open for him almost immediately, and he groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating through his chest under your hand. His tongue slides against yours, slow at first, then deeper when your fingers dig into his shoulders. The kiss turns wet, hungry, breathing ruined between mouths. He walks you backward without breaking it, guiding rather than pushing, until your calves hit the bed.
The bed. White sheets. Guest room. Pool party outside. Bucky’s hands on you.
Your brain tries one last heroic effort at thought.
What if someone comes in?
Bucky’s hands move to your hips.
What if the door isn’t locked?
He turns you, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls you between his thighs.
What if this changes everything?
His mouth leaves yours and moves down your throat, and your remaining thoughts scatter like birds.
He is sitting now, which makes him lower, makes your body the thing above him for once. It should help. It does not. His hands spread over your thighs, thumbs running along the place where the swimsuit cuts high, and he looks up at you with damp hair falling around his face. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Like the sight of you standing between his legs has finished what the swimsuit started.
“You were hiding under that towel,” he murmurs, tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
You swallow. “It was cold.”
“Liar.”
Your face heats, but his mouth presses to your stomach before you can answer. Right over the swimsuit. Soft. Deliberate. You freeze.
He does it again.
Lower this time.
Your hands hover over his shoulders. You do not know what to do with them. Push him away? Pull him closer? Applaud? Cry? Move to Romania?
“Bucky…”
His eyes lift. His lips remain near your stomach. “Yeah?”
You hate the question. Hate how much room it gives you to stop him. Hate how badly you want him to keep going without making you beg for it. “That’s…”
“What?”
You glance away. “You don’t have to…”
He sits back so fast you regret speaking. His hands remain on your thighs, but the warmth of his mouth is gone. “Don’t.”
The single word is sharp enough to bring your eyes back.
His expression is serious again. “Don’t say I don’t have to. I know I don’t have to.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I want to.” His fingers press into your thighs, almost too tight, then ease as he notices. “I have wanted to put my mouth on you since you walked outside.”
Your body responds so hard it feels unfair.
His eyes lower, following the tiny shift of your thighs. His jaw tightens. “Since before that.”
The room has become too warm. Your swimsuit is drying in patches, damp fabric clinging between your legs, and every tiny movement makes you aware of how wet you are under the pool water. Not just pool water anymore. Maybe not for a while. Horrible. Amazing. You may need medical attention. Or less medical attention and more of his mouth.
Bucky’s thumb slides along your inner thigh.
“You thought I didn’t wanna look.” He says it quietly, but the words carry a rough little bite. “You thought I looked away because I didn’t like your body.”
Your fingers curl into his hair. You do not answer.
He leans forward and kisses the inside of your thigh, just below the swimsuit’s edge.
Your breath leaves in a broken little rush.
His mouth lingers there. “I looked away because I wanted to do this in front of everybody.”
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized and so turned on you can barely feel your feet.
His lips move higher, still over skin, slow and warm. “Wanted to drag you out of that pool when Wilson had his hands on you.”
“He was helping.”
“I know.” His teeth graze your thigh. “Still wanted to.”
“You’re terrible.”
“Today?” His eyes flick up. “Yeah.”
His fingers hook under the swimsuit at your hips, then stop. The pause makes your skin prickle. He is waiting. Again. That careful, maddening decency under all the dirty want.
You nod, too fast.
His mouth curves, but it is not teasing. More relief than anything. “Words, baby.”
That name hits deep. Worse after the whole day of being looked away from. Baby means wanted. Baby means chosen. Baby means the towel can stay on the chair and the body you were trying to hide is now the only thing he seems able to focus on.
“Take it off,” you say.
Bucky closes his eyes for a second.
You almost laugh. Almost. Instead your fingers tighten in his hair, and that ruins him faster. His eyes open, and the polite thread in him snaps.
The swimsuit comes down slowly at first, peeled over your hips with such careful attention that you want to crawl out of your skin. The damp fabric resists, clinging where it can, and Bucky seems almost personally offended by it. He leans forward, mouth brushing your hip as he works it lower, then your lower stomach, then the soft skin above your mound. Every kiss makes the wait worse. Every inch exposed feels like a confession.
You expect him to look up at your face once you are bare.
He does not.
His gaze fixes between your thighs, and the sound he makes is quiet, dragged deep from his chest, almost pained. You try to close your legs on instinct, but his hands are already there, spreading warm over your thighs.
“Don’t hide,” he says again, rougher now.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You’re staring.”
“Yeah.” His thumbs slide higher. “I missed a lot today.”
Your face burns so hot it almost hurts. “You can’t just say that.”
“I can.” He kisses the crease of your thigh, eyes still on you. “I am.”
The swimsuit slips lower, down your thighs, then to your knees. You lift one foot, then the other, and he drops the ruined damp thing somewhere on the floor. A wildly expensive room, white sheets, your swimsuit abandoned in a wet little heap. It should feel humiliating.
It does.
It also makes you throb.
Bucky’s hands return to your thighs. He sits there on the bed, still in his wet trunks, and looks at you like this is the first quiet moment he has had all day and he plans to spend it badly. Your arms cross over your chest, but he catches the movement at once.
“Hey.”
You glare, but there is no force behind it. “What?”
His hands slide around to the backs of your thighs. “Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
“There is physically no closer unless I climb you.”
His expression changes.
Ah. Idiot mouth. Treacherous mouth. Mouth with no survival instincts.
Bucky leans back slightly, spreading his thighs more. “Then climb.”
Your body gives an almost embarrassing pulse at the command. “You’re very comfortable giving orders for someone who spent half the day staring at landscaping.”
“I had a hard day.”
“You had a chair.”
“I had you in that swimsuit ten feet away from me.”
“That must have been so difficult.”
He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs, and the sudden movement makes your hands land on his shoulders. “It was.”
There is no joke in his voice now.
Your knees go onto the mattress on either side of him before you fully decide to move. Straddling his lap like this, bare while he is still partly clothed, feels obscene in a way full nudity might not have. His trunks are wet beneath you. The hard length of him presses up between your thighs, thick and hot even through fabric. Your hips jerk before you can stop them, and his hands clamp around you with a groan.
“Shit.” His forehead drops to your collarbone. “Do that again and I’m gonna embarrass myself.”
That should make you smug. Powerful. Instead it makes you needy in a way you did not agree to. You roll your hips again, smaller this time, dragging your bare pussy over the soaked fabric of his trunks. The friction is rough enough to make your mouth fall open. His hands grip your ass, helping and stopping at once, torn between instincts.
“Baby,” he says, warning and pleading in the same breath.
The word feeds something awful in you. You do it again.
Bucky’s head tips back, throat working, eyes squeezed shut for half a second. This beautiful, irritating man who looked away all day now looks as if your body might actually kill him. Good. Maybe balance exists.
“You like this?” you ask, and your voice is shaky, but the question still has a little bite. “Or are you going to look at the curtains?”
His eyes open.
You may have gone too far.
His hand comes up and catches your jaw, not hard, but certain enough that your hips still. “Say it again.”
Your lips part. “What?”
“What you said outside.”
The pool steps return all at once. Wet stone. His hand at your waist. Your own stupid voice, bitter and wounded.
“You don’t have to touch me longer than necessary,” you murmur, quieter now.
Bucky’s jaw flexes. His thumb strokes once along your lower lip, and the tenderness of it makes the shame worse somehow. “That.” His other hand presses at your lower back, bringing you down against him again. “Every time you thought that today, I want it back.”
You have no idea what that means until he kisses you.
It is not careful now. It is deep, claiming, his tongue sliding into your mouth as his hand guides your hips over him. The wet fabric drags against your clit, and you whimper into the kiss, the sound swallowed by him immediately. He does it again, rolls you down, grinds you over the hard shape of his cock, and the pleasure is dirty and sharp, mixed with the faint scratch of his trunks and the slickness between your thighs.
“Long enough?” he mutters against your mouth.
You clutch at him, face burning. “Shut up.”
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with such sudden precision that your whole body jerks. He rubs slow, tight circles, using your wetness and the water still on your skin, watching your face from inches away.
“Answer me.”
You shake your head, pride making a brave final appearance before dying in combat. “No.”
“No?” His mouth brushes yours, and his fingers press a little harder. Your hips chase the touch, humiliating you on contact. “Still not long enough?”
You hate him. You love him. You want to bite his shoulder until he says your name wrong. “Bucky…”
“That’s not an answer.”
His fingers dip lower, sliding through your folds, and his eyes go heavy at what he finds. “Fuck, sweetheart.” His voice drops into something rough and almost disbelieving. “You’re soaked.”
“Pool,” you manage, immediately ashamed of yourself.
He laughs then, a low sound against your mouth. “Yeah? Pool did this?”
His fingers push inside you, two at once, thick enough that your head drops forward to his shoulder. The stretch steals whatever joke you had left. Your hands claw at his back, and he groans like that hurts in the best possible way.
“Guess I owe the pool an apology,” he murmurs, pumping his fingers slowly. “Been mad at it all day for touching you more than I got to.”
Your laugh breaks into a moan. The sound is embarrassing, open, too needy, and he reacts to it with a thrust of his hips up against your bare thigh, his cock hard and trapped in wet fabric.
“Bucky,” you whimper, turning your face into his neck.
His fingers curl.
Your body goes liquid.
“There,” he breathes, and then seems to remember himself. “Yeah, right there?”
You nod into his skin, too far gone to be difficult.
“Use words.”
A sharp little pulse goes through you. He feels it. His laugh is quieter this time, almost awed.
“Oh, you like that.” His fingers press the same spot again, slow and deliberate, and his thumb finds your clit. “All that mouth at the pool, and now look at you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His mouth moves to your ear, breath hot over wet skin. “You hated thinking I didn’t want you.”
That one splits you open more than his fingers.
You try to lift your head, but he holds you where you are, face tucked into his neck, body in his lap, nowhere to go but the truth.
“You hated me looking away,” he continues, quieter, filthy and tender in equal measure. “Hated Wilson saying you looked good because you wanted it from me. Hated that I sat there like an idiot when all you wanted was for me to come over and put my hands on you.”
Your thighs shake around his. The pleasure is building faster than you expected, pulled tighter by every word. He is too accurate. Too close. Too deep, and it is only his fingers, which makes you dizzy with terror over what the rest of him will do.
“I didn’t…” You try. Fail. “I didn’t want…”
He kisses under your ear. “Liar.”
“Bucky.”
“You did.” His hand around your waist slides up your back, holding you as his fingers fuck into you a little harder. “You wanted me jealous. You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to stop acting like a saint and do something about it.”
Your nails dig into him.
“There,” he says, sounding pleased and ruined all at once. “That one.”
You are close. Horribly close. Hips rocking into his hand now, your body making choices your pride would never sign off on. His thumb rubs your clit steadily, and his fingers hit that same spot until your vision goes soft at the edges. You bite down on his shoulder to keep from being too loud, and he makes a strangled sound, hips bucking under you.
“God, do that again.”
You do. Harder.
His fingers slip out of rhythm for one second, and that small loss almost makes you sob. “No, no, no, don’t stop.”
Bucky’s hand tightens at your back. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying things like that,” you gasp, words breaking as he finds the rhythm again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s annoying.”
He kisses your temple, and the sweetness of it almost tips you over. “Cum, then complain.”
That should not work.
It works.
The orgasm rolls through you hard enough to make your mouth open against his shoulder without sound at first. Then the sound comes, muffled into his skin, high and wrecked. Your hips grind down on his fingers, chasing every last pull of it, and Bucky talks you through it in a rough whisper that barely sounds like him anymore.
“That’s it, baby. Fuck, there you go. Just needed someone to touch you right, huh? Needed me to stop being stupid and put my hands on you.”
Your body shakes in his lap, every muscle loose and trembling. His fingers slow but do not leave right away. He lets you ride the last of it, forehead pressed to the side of your head, breath rough in your ear. The patio music is still going somewhere far away. Someone outside cheers. Maybe a game. Maybe a toast. The world is criminally unaware that you have just collapsed into a man you were pretending to hate this morning.
Then Bucky starts to pull his fingers free.
You whine.
The sound is pathetic. Immediate. You wish to file a complaint against yourself.
Bucky freezes, then laughs under his breath. “Greedy.”
“Shut up.”
His fingers slide out fully, wet and obscene between you. You mean to look away. You fail. He watches your face as he brings them to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow, dirty satisfaction that makes your cunt clench around nothing.
His eyes darken. “Saw that.”
“You see too much.”
“Not enough.” His hands go to your hips again, turning you carefully and laying you back on the bed before you can protest. The white sheets are instantly doomed, damp under your body, but Tony’s laundry issues are not your ministry. Bucky kneels between your thighs, still in his trunks, cock straining hard beneath the clinging fabric. “I’m making up for it.”
A nervous laugh leaves you as your head sinks into the pillows. “By staring at my vagina?”
His brows lift.
Your face burns. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face again.”
“My face likes you.”
“Your face is an idiot.”
“Yeah.” He presses a kiss to your knee, then lower, then lower again, hands sliding under your thighs to open you wider. “It’s got company.”
The first touch of his mouth between your legs almost makes you levitate.
He does not ease in. Not really. Maybe he means to, maybe he has some beautiful plan involving patience, but the second his tongue parts you, his control seems to go with it. His hands hook around your thighs, dragging you closer to his mouth, and the sound he makes against your pussy is so filthy you cover your mouth with one hand.
Bucky stops.
Your eyes fly open.
He lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes furious in the best way. “Move your hand.”
Your fingers loosen over your lips. “They’ll hear.”
“Let them hear the pool wasn’t the reason you left.”
Your whole body clenches. He sees that too. Obviously. Curse him and his newly unleashed observational skills.
“Bucky,” you whisper, scandalized.
He kisses your inner thigh, close enough to make you twitch. “Move it, baby.”
Slowly, your hand drops to the sheets.
He smiles against your skin. “Thank you.”
Then his mouth is back on you, and gratitude becomes a weapon. He licks into you with slow, messy strokes at first, tasting you like he has been denied water and blames you personally. His tongue drags from your entrance to your clit, lingering there until your thighs tense around his head. Then he does it again. Again. Learning with horrifying speed what makes your hips jerk, what makes your fingers twist in the sheets, what makes your mouth form his name without quite saying it.
You understand, distantly, that he is good at this.
Of course he is. Of course Bucky Barnes eats pussy like he has a vendetta against sanity. Of course the man who looked away all afternoon now has his face buried between your thighs with a concentration that feels almost insulting. Like he is determined to win an argument you did not realize your body had started.
His metal hand slides up your stomach, cool against heated skin, holding you down when your hips lift. The contrast makes you moan. His eyes flick up. He does it again, palm pressing lightly between your ribs as his tongue circles your clit.
“Please,” you breathe, though you have no idea what you are asking for.
Bucky hums into you.
Your back arches. The hum vibrates through every over-sensitive nerve he has already ruined, and your hands shoot to his hair. He lets you pull. Encourages it, maybe, with another wet, open-mouthed suck that makes your thighs clamp around his ears.
“Sorry,” you gasp, trying to loosen your grip.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shining. “Do it again.”
“What?”
His teeth scrape your thigh. “Pull my hair again.”
You stare at him, then obey with trembling fingers.
His eyes close for a second, and the expression on his face is so openly pleased that something inside you folds. This is him. Not the cold look-away version from the patio. Not the teasing version with everyone watching. This man, wet-haired and greedy, kneeling between your legs like he has found religion and plans to be terrible about it.
He lowers his mouth again, and this time you pull when his tongue presses inside you.
Bucky groans into your cunt.
The sound is enough to make your hips jerk up against his mouth. He holds you down, but barely. Like he wants the fight. Like every needy movement makes him worse. His tongue fucks into you, then slips back to your clit, alternating until you cannot predict anything except pleasure. It grows too quickly. Your last orgasm has left you sensitive, swollen, every touch brighter than it should be.
“Bucky, I can’t,” you gasp, then hate yourself because you absolutely can and probably will.
He lifts his head, but keeps his thumb moving over your clit in lazy, devastating circles. “Can’t what?”
“Again. I can’t…”
His mouth curves, wet and wicked. “You can.”
“You have too much confidence.”
“I have evidence.” His thumb presses a little harder, and your legs shake. “Look at you.”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He leans up over you, thumb still moving, mouth hovering above yours. You can smell yourself on him. The realization makes you clench so hard his eyes drop. “You gonna get shy now? After soaking my fingers? After grinding all over me like you were trying to ruin my life?”
“I was making a point.”
“You made it.” His lips brush yours. “Very persuasive.”
You mean to roll your eyes. He kisses you before you can, pushing the taste of yourself into your mouth while his thumb keeps working your clit. The kiss makes it dirtier. More intimate. Your hand wraps around his wrist, but you don’t pull him away. You hold him there, grinding up in tiny helpless motions as the pressure builds again.
Bucky’s mouth leaves yours only to speak against it. “You’re gonna cum on my hand, then I’m gonna fuck you. If that’s what you want.”
If. Somehow that word remains. A door, not a trap. It makes your eyes sting again, which is so deeply inconvenient while naked with a man’s hand between your legs.
“I want it,” you say, voice shaking.
His forehead touches yours. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Your grip tightens around his wrist. “I want you. I wanted you all day. I wanted you before today, and you were horrible and confusing and shirtless, which was unnecessary, and I hate that you looked away, and I hate that I cared, and I want you to fuck me so badly I can’t think about any of it.”
Bucky stares at you.
For a moment you regret speaking. Then his mouth crashes into yours, and regret becomes impractical.
His fingers replace his thumb, sliding down and pushing into you again, three this time, the stretch sharper after his mouth. You gasp into the kiss. He swallows it, pumps his fingers deep, heel of his hand grinding against your clit. The pleasure turns immediate and rough, your body already primed by his mouth and his words and the unbearable fact of being wanted after hours of believing the opposite.
“That’s it,” he mutters against your cheek. “There’s my mean girl. Thought I lost you under all that pouting.”
You whimper and slap weakly at his shoulder. “I was wounded.”
“You were jealous.”
“You were avoidant.”
“I was hard enough to see God.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of you, then breaks as his fingers curl. “That’s vulgar.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I did not ask for theology.”
He laughs into your neck, and somehow the warm sound mixed with the filthy rhythm of his hand tips you closer. You clutch at his shoulders, then his hair, then the sheets. Nothing helps. The orgasm comes slower this time, dragged out of you with cruel patience. Your thighs tense, stomach pulling tight, and Bucky feels the change before you can warn him.
“Yeah, baby. Give me that one too.” His mouth presses near your ear, voice a wrecked whisper. “Need it. Need to feel you cum before I get inside you.”
Need. From him. Bucky Barnes needing anything from you.
Your body gives in.
The second orgasm is messier, wetter, less contained. You cry out before you can bite it back, hips bucking into his hand, and Bucky groans like the sound goes straight through him. His fingers keep moving, slower but deep, dragging the pleasure until you are shaking and trying to push at his wrist.
“Too much,” you gasp.
He stops at once.
The loss makes you whine again, and he laughs softly, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth with absurd sweetness for someone who just fingered you into temporary stupidity.
“You’re impossible,” he murmurs.
“Your fault.”
“Yeah.” His hand smooths over your thigh, gentle now. “I’m starting to like that answer.”
You open your eyes. He is above you, wet hair falling forward, mouth swollen from kissing and eating you, eyes on your face with such naked affection that it scares you more than the hunger did.
Affection is hard. Desire has a script. Affection looks at you afterward.
Your hand lifts before you can stop it, touching his cheek. He turns slightly into your palm. That tiny movement ruins you.
“You really wanted me?” you ask, hating the softness in your voice.
His expression tightens. “All day.”
“Before today?”
He presses a kiss to your palm. “Yeah.”
“How long?”
A pause.
The room becomes too quiet again, but this silence is not empty. It is full of him deciding whether to lie. He does not.
“Long enough to act stupid about it.”
“That could be any amount of time.”
“Months.”
Your chest squeezes. “Months?”
“Maybe longer.”
“You’re terrible at flirting.”
“I panicked,” he says again, like that explains the whole tragedy of him. Maybe it does.
You laugh softly. He smiles this time, real and quick, then kisses you. The kiss starts gentle, then deepens when your legs wrap around his waist. His cock presses against you through his trunks, and the teasing drag makes both of you go still.
He looks down between your bodies. “I need these off.”
“Finally, a smart idea.”
His hands go to the waistband, then pause. “Condom?”
Reality returns in a less catastrophic way. Important. Practical. You gesture vaguely toward the side table, then remember this is Tony’s guest room, not a hotel minibar for sex supplies. “Unless Tony keeps them next to the complimentary existential dread, I don’t…”
Bucky drops his forehead to your shoulder with a pained groan.
A laugh bubbles out of you, helpless and mean. “Very prepared seduction, Barnes.”
“I was supposed to be ignoring you by the pool.”
“You did great.”
He bites your shoulder lightly. You yelp, then laugh harder. His own laugh shakes against you, warm and frustrated, and the absurdity of it makes the room feel human again.
Then he lifts his head. “I have one in my wallet.”
You stop laughing.
His brows draw together. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re judging.”
“I am judging.”
“I’m a grown man.”
“With pool-party condoms?”
“One condom. Singular. Emergency.”
“What emergency did you anticipate?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently this one.”
You should make another joke. You truly should. But the thought of him having one, of this actually happening, drains humor out of you and leaves want in its place. “Wallet,” you say.
Bucky’s eyes darken again.
He climbs off the bed, and the loss of his body makes you cold for exactly three seconds before he turns toward the chair where his discarded shirt must be absent, then remembers his wallet is out by the pool with his things. His face changes into genuine despair.
You clap a hand over your mouth.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“You left your emergency outside?”
“I didn’t plan to need it indoors.”
You dissolve into laughter. It is quiet, desperate, half muffled, but laughter all the same. Bucky stares at you, then shakes his head, smiling despite himself. He looks younger like this. Less impossible. Still shirtless and wet and hard in his swim trunks, which does complicate the innocence.
“I’ll go,” he says.
“You are not going outside like that.”
His gaze drops to the obvious tent in his trunks. “Fair.”
You look around the room and spot a folded robe near the bathroom door, white and plush. Perfectly Tony. “Robe.”
“I’m not wearing Stark’s sex robe.”
“Guest robe.”
“Same thing.”
“You want the condom or a philosophical debate?”
Bucky points at you. “Stay there.”
You sink back into the pillows, naked and grinning like an idiot. “Where would I go?”
“Knowing you? Window.”
“Only if things get worse.”
He grabs the robe, pulls it on with visible resentment, and the sight of Bucky Barnes in a plush white guest robe with wet hair and a furious erection is so absurdly beautiful that you almost cry. He catches your face and pauses at the door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “That smile says something.”
“It says hurry.”
That works. He leaves, closing the door behind him.
The second he is gone, you become aware of yourself again. Naked on white sheets. Swimsuit on the floor. Body cooling, thighs damp, mouth swollen. The laughter fades slowly, leaving a trembling little silence behind it.
This is real.
Bucky wanted you. Bucky is coming back. Bucky went to fetch a condom wearing Tony’s guest robe like some obscene, damp ghost of poor planning.
Your hand presses over your stomach. Not hiding now. Just grounding. It feels different under your own palm after his mouth, his hands, his eyes. Still yours. Still soft in places. Still carrying every insecurity from the bathroom mirror. But his wanting has touched it now, and you hate how much that helps. Hate how badly you needed someone else’s hunger to quiet the awful little voice in your head. Maybe you can work on that later. Maybe growth can wait until after orgasms.
Voices rise in the hall.
You freeze.
Sam: “Barnes, why the hell are you wearing a robe?”
Bucky, low and deadly: “Move.”
Tony, delighted somewhere farther away: “That is Egyptian cotton, by the way.”
Natasha laughs. “Let him live.”
Sam again, audibly grinning: “Is there a fire?”
Bucky says something too low to hear.
A beat of silence.
Then Sam barks out, “Oh my god.”
Your soul exits again, does a lap, returns out of morbid curiosity.
The door opens. Bucky steps in, face red, jaw tight, wallet in hand, robe still tied around him. He closes the door and locks it this time.
You stare.
He points at you again. “Don’t.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re laughing with your whole face.”
“I would never.”
He stalks back toward the bed, tugging at the robe tie with enough aggression to threaten the cotton’s lineage. “Wilson knows.”
“Oh no.”
“Tony knows.”
“Tony knew before we did.”
“Steve looked proud.”
That breaks you. You roll onto your side, laughing into the pillow. Bucky tosses the wallet onto the bed and grabs your ankle, pulling you back toward him. The movement turns your laughter into a gasp. The robe falls open as he kneels on the mattress, and there he is, absurdity gone in a single second, his body over yours again, desire returning like a hand around your throat.
“Laughing at me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His hand slides up your calf, over your knee, spreading your leg aside. “That’s brave.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You slipped twice today.”
“Physically brave and spatially cursed.”
His mouth twitches. He bends down and kisses the inside of your knee, then the thigh, and the laughter fades into a softer sound. “You okay?”
The question is quiet. It stops the teasing better than any command could. You look down at him, fingers resting in his wet hair.
“Yes,” you say. Then, more honest, “Nervous.”
His hand stills on your thigh. “About me?”
“About you seeing me.”
His face changes again, but he does not use any of the easy lines. No polished praise. No smooth answer. He moves up your body instead, covering you with his warmth, bracing one arm beside your head. His other hand cups your cheek, thumb damp against your skin.
“I see you,” he says. “I want you. Same sentence.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s unfairly effective.”
“Trying to be clear.”
“Terrible habit.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Can I keep seeing you?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
His lips press to your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “Can I keep touching you?”
Your legs part wider around him. “Yeah.”
His hand slides down between your bodies, and your hips lift when his fingers stroke through your folds again, gentle now, checking. Teasing. Both. “Can I fuck you?”
The bluntness sends a hot pulse through you. Your fingers tighten on his shoulders.
“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”
Bucky’s eyes close for a beat, and when they open, patience is hanging by a thread.
The robe is shoved away. His trunks follow, dragged down his hips with a wet, clinging sound that would be funny if you had enough brain left. You do not. You are too busy staring. He is thick, heavy in his hand, flushed at the tip, and your mouth goes dry so fast it is almost comic.
Bucky notices. Naturally.
“Still judging my emergency condom?” he asks, tearing the foil with his teeth.
You look up at him. “Less now.”
“Thought so.”
The condom rolls on. His hand pumps once, twice, and your thighs press together around empty air. He sees that too, then settles between your legs and guides them open again. The head of his cock drags through your wetness, and both of you go quiet.
The first press against your entrance is almost too much.
He pauses there, forehead lowering to yours. “Tell me if you need slow.”
You hate that. You love that. You want to ruin him for it.
“I need you to stop talking like a responsible adult,” you whisper.
A short laugh leaves him, strained. “Sweetheart, I am hanging on by a thread.”
“Then stop hanging.”
His hips push forward.
The stretch is slow and full and immediate enough to make your mouth fall open. Bucky watches your face as he enters you, jaw clenched, breath breaking through his nose. He gives you the first inch, then another, then stops when your nails dig into his arms.
“Okay?”
You nod too quickly, body caught between ache and hunger. “More.”
His control slips for half a second. His hips roll deeper, and the sound that leaves both of you is ugly and perfect. He is bigger than his fingers, thicker than your imagination had kindly prepared you for, filling you in a way that makes thought stagger. Your legs wrap around his waist. His hand grips the sheet beside your head.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost helpless. “You feel…”
You wait for the line. Pretty. Tight. Perfect. Something dirty and easy.
He lowers his face to your neck. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
That is better.
You clench around him, and his hips jerk. His teeth press into your shoulder. “Do that again and this ends fast.”
“Maybe I want that.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark. “No, you don’t.”
Your body gives you away, warmth spreading under your skin. “Annoying.”
“You want me to take my time now.” He pulls out slightly, then pushes back in, slow enough that you feel every inch. “You wanted me to look, right? Wanted me to stop looking away?”
Your hands twist in the sheets.
He does it again, dragging the pleasure into something deep and almost unbearable. “I’m looking.”
You cannot answer. There is no room. He fills too much of you, his body heavy over yours, wet hair brushing your cheek, the scent of chlorine and him wrapped around every breath. His eyes hold your face as he starts a slow rhythm, each thrust smooth and deep, his mouth parting when you tighten around him.
“Bucky,” you moan, and his name sounds ruined.
His hand slips under your knee, hitching your leg higher. The angle changes, and his next thrust hits so deep your back bows off the bed. He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“There?” he asks, already doing it again.
You nod, frantic. “There, please, there.”
“Yeah, baby.” His pace picks up, still controlled but rougher now, bed shifting under both of you. “Knew you’d sound pretty begging.”
Your face burns. “I’m not begging.”
He thrusts harder.
The words vanish.
“That sounded like begging.” His mouth presses to your cheek, deceptively sweet while his hips drive into you with enough force to make your fingers claw at his back. “Pool made you mouthy. My cock’s fixing it.”
The filth of it makes you clench.
Bucky laughs, but it breaks halfway into a groan. “Shit, you like that.”
“You’re so smug.”
“I’m inside you,” he says, breath hot against your mouth. “I earned a little.”
You would argue, but his hand slides between you and finds your clit. The first touch makes you jolt. After his mouth and his fingers, you are too sensitive, every nerve overfed and greedy. He rubs tight circles as he fucks you, watching your expression collapse.
“Oh, that’s it.” His voice turns thick, affectionate in the dirtiest possible way. “There’s my girl.”
My girl.
You fall apart a little just hearing it.
His eyes sharpen. “Yeah? That one?”
“Bucky…”
“My girl,” he repeats, and his hips hit deeper, harder. “Mine to look at. Mine to touch. Mine to pull out of the pool when she’s trying to make me jealous.”
You shake your head, but your body is a liar and both of you know it.
“No?” His thumb presses harder on your clit. “You didn’t like me jumping in after you?”
“You looked ridiculous,” you gasp.
“Yeah, well. You looked wet and half naked and mad at me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
A laugh escapes you, then turns into a moan when he rolls his hips. He smiles against your mouth, kissing the sound away, and for a few seconds the rhythm becomes messy. Kissing, thrusting, breathing into each other, his hand working between you, your nails leaving half-moon marks in his shoulders. No clean choreography. No grace. Just damp skin, white sheets, the slap of his hips against yours growing louder, the ridiculous fear that someone outside might hear and the worse realization that you want them to know he came after you.
You turn your face into the pillow to muffle yourself.
Bucky catches your jaw and pulls you back. “No.”
“They’ll hear.”
“Good.”
“Bucky.”
His eyes are dark, almost feverish. “Spent all day watching you think I didn’t want you. Let them hear me prove it.”
Your orgasm rises so fast it scares you. It starts low, tightening through your stomach, then spreads until your thighs tremble around his waist. He feels it. His thrusts lose some smoothness, turning heavier, more desperate.
“You close?”
You nod, helpless.
“Say it.”
“I’m close.”
His mouth brushes yours. “Ask me.”
Your eyes open. “What?”
“Ask me to make you cum.”
The request should annoy you. It does. It also sends pleasure twisting sharply through your body, so your irritation lacks credibility.
“You’re impossible,” you whimper.
“Ask.”
His hips slow.
That is evil.
You grab at his shoulders. “Don’t slow down.”
“Ask me, baby.”
A second passes, filled with the obscene pressure of him buried deep and almost still, his thumb barely moving over your clit. You glare at him with whatever strength remains.
“Please,” you say, hating how breathless it is. Loving how his face changes. “Please make me cum.”
Bucky groans, and the restraint goes.
His hips drive into you hard enough to shove you up the bed, one arm hooking under your back to keep you close. His thumb works your clit faster, and his mouth moves over your jaw, your cheek, your lips, wherever he can reach while he fucks you. He is talking now, rough and uneven, less like performance and more like words escaping under pressure.
“Wanted this so bad. Wanted you so bad, sweetheart. Sitting out there in that fucking swimsuit, looking at me like you wanted to scratch my eyes out. Thought I was gonna snap when you smiled at Sam. Thought I was gonna drag you inside when you said I didn’t have to touch you. Stupid thing to say to me. Like I haven’t been thinking about putting my hands on you for months.”
Months. Again. The word breaks over you with the thrusts, with the pressure, with the hard heat of him inside you.
Your orgasm hits with his name in your mouth.
It is bigger this time, deeper, pulled from every place he touched and every place he looked. You cry out, hips lifting into him, cunt clenching around his cock so hard his rhythm stutters. Bucky curses against your throat, fucking you through it with short, rough thrusts that make the pleasure keep sparking long after the first wave should have ended.
“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you feel so good when you cum.”
You cannot answer. Your body is trembling too hard, arms wrapped around him, face pressed into his neck as he loses the last of his rhythm. His thrusts turn desperate, deeper and less controlled, and something about that undoes you almost as much as your own release. Bucky, who spent all day looking away, is now buried inside you and shaking apart over it.
“Where?” he rasps.
The condom. Practicality. Again, somehow.
“Inside,” you breathe. “You have the condom, inside, please.”
He makes a sound against your skin, broken and almost grateful. His hips slam once, twice, then bury deep as he comes. His whole body tenses over yours, breath caught against your shoulder, hands gripping you like he needs somewhere to put the force of it. You feel the pulse of him through the condom, feel the weight of him, the shudder that runs across his back under your hands.
Then he softens by degrees.
His forehead rests against your shoulder. His breathing is rough, warm, damp over your skin. Your own body feels boneless, wrung out and too sensitive, thighs still locked around his waist like they have not received news of the ending.
Outside, someone cheers again.
Bucky huffs a laugh into your neck. “If that’s about us, I’m moving to Siberia.”
You laugh weakly, fingers combing through the wet hair at his nape. “That was my plan.”
“We can carpool.”
“After you get off me. You’re heavy.”
He lifts his head, affronted and beautiful. “You wound me.”
“You crushed me.”
“You wrapped around me.”
“You were available.”
His smile comes slowly this time, soft and disbelieving, and the sight hurts in a new way. Not bad. Just big. Too big for a guest room during a pool party. Too big for a body still buzzing from sex.
He kisses you once, gentle and quick. “I’m gonna move.”
You make a deeply embarrassing sound of protest before you can stop it.
Bucky pauses. The smugness returns in miniature. “Yeah?”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face is speaking.”
“My face has been through a lot today.”
He eases out carefully, and even that makes you wince. His hand strokes your thigh in apology, and the tenderness of it makes you look away. He handles the condom, ties it off, finds a trash bin in the bathroom, washes his hands. Normal things. Human things. Meanwhile you lie in Tony Stark’s guest bed naked, damp, and fucked so thoroughly that your bones feel rearranged.
When Bucky returns, he grabs the towel from the chair and wipes gently at the wetness on your thighs. The care makes your throat tighten.
“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, then immediately regret the phrasing.
His eyes lift.
Right.
You both hear the echo.
This time, he does not get angry. He leans down and kisses the inside of your knee. “I want to.”
The answer settles over the old wound quietly.
You nod, unable to make a joke fast enough.
He cleans you with warm water from the bathroom after that, careful between your legs while you try not to squirm from sensitivity. Then he finds another towel, pats the sheets around you with the resigned air of a man who knows Tony will make comments for the rest of his life. Your swimsuit remains on the floor. He picks it up, holds it between two fingers, and gives it an unreadable look.
You lift your head. “Don’t insult it. We’ve all grown.”
Bucky’s mouth twitches. “I owe it an apology.”
“You owe me an apology.”
“I gave you one.”
“I want another.”
He climbs back onto the bed beside you, still naked, shameless in a way that should be illegal. The mattress dips under his weight. “For what?”
“For being weird at the pool.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For looking away.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For making me think you hated it.”
His face softens in that unbearable way again. He reaches for you, then pauses until you shift closer yourself. Once you do, his arm slides around you, pulling you against his chest. His skin is warm now, less wet, still smelling faintly of chlorine. “I’m sorry.”
You rest your cheek against him, listening to his heart. It is beating fast. Not hammering. You refuse to give it dramatic language. Just fast enough to comfort you.
“And for making me feel like I needed sam to tell me I looked nice,” you add, quieter.
His arm tightens.
A few seconds pass. Not empty. Not awkward. Full of that sentence sitting between you and breathing.
“You looked beautiful,” he says, voice low. “You looked so good I forgot how to act like a person. And that’s on me, not you.”
Your eyes sting again, which is becoming repetitive and rude. “You need to stop saying decent things after sex. It’s confusing.”
His lips press to your hair. “Would it help if I said something indecent?”
“Yes.”
“Your thighs almost killed me.”
A laugh bursts out of you, wet and startled. “Bucky.”
“I’m serious. National threat.”
“You’re so stupid.”
He kisses your forehead, smiling against your skin. “Yeah, but you like me.”
You go still for half a second.
He feels it.
The words sit there, too close to another word neither of you has touched yet. Like. Want. Months. My girl. All safer than the one with teeth. Bucky’s hand moves slowly over your back, giving you somewhere to put the panic.
“You like me too,” he says, softer, almost cautious beneath the tease.
You close your eyes. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
His chest moves under your cheek with a quiet laugh. “Too late.”
A knock hits the door.
Both of you freeze.
Tony’s voice comes through the wood, bright with theatrical politeness. “As the owner of this house, its Egyptian cotton robe, and several traumatized guests, I would like to announce that dinner part two is happening in twenty minutes. Clothing encouraged. Applause optional.”
You bury your face in Bucky’s chest.
Bucky sighs. “Go away, Stark.”
“Gladly. Also, Wilson owes me fifty dollars. Carry on.”
Footsteps retreat.
Your face is burning so badly it may light the bed on fire. “I hate everyone.”
Bucky’s hand slides possessively over your hip. “Want me to get your clothes?”
The thought of walking back outside in the swimsuit after everything makes you want to dissolve. But then again, the old shame does not bite quite the same now. The swimsuit is still a damp heap on the floor. Your body is still your body. Your friends are still awful. Bucky is still a confusing, broad disaster.
Only now he has seen you. Touched you. Wanted you. Said it clearly enough that even your mean little brain has to work harder to ruin it.
“Eventually,” you say.
He hums. “Eventually sounds good.”
“You can’t keep me in Tony’s guest room forever.”
“No,” he agrees, hand moving lazily over your side. “But I can try for another ten minutes.”
“That’s ambitious.”
His mouth finds your neck, and the smile against your skin is warm enough to melt whatever was left of you. “I can be patient.”
“You said that before.”
“I lied.”
You laugh, and he kisses the sound before it can get away.
