Kind of on a semi hiatus...

“What’re you doing?” he finally asked, lifting his head to look at you.

“Shopping,” you said, clicking a few more times. “Hair stuff. Some skincare junk. You know essentials.”

He hummed, about to close his eyes again, when something bright and silky caught his eye.

You were browsing a site that sold hair extensions — gorgeous, long, flowing locks in every shade imaginable.

Bucky blinked, sitting up a little straighter.

“Wait. Is that for you?” he asked, sounding more interested than he probably should’ve.

You nodded. “Yeah. I wanna try longer hair without committing to, like, years of growing it out.”

He kept staring. At the screen. At you. At the screen again.

Something deep inside him — something he thought he’d buried — stirred.

His own hand went to the ends of his current hair, brushing it lightly. It had been growing out again after a few trims and missions that had demanded ‘uniform standards.’ It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t short.

But it wasn’t his long hair, either.

He missed it.

Missed the way it used to fall in his face, missed the wildness of it, the way it made him feel a little less... polished. Less fake. More himself. More of someone he'd become after losing everything.

“...Can you get me some, too?” he blurted, before he could think better of it.

You paused, hands frozen over your keyboard. “...What?”

He scooted closer, earnestness written all over his stupidly handsome face. “Extensions. Get some for me.”

You turned to stare at him fully, one eyebrow raised. “Bucky. Babe. Love of my life. You are a literal enhanced super soldier and you’re telling me you can’t wait for your hair to grow?”

He pouted actually pouted and tugged lightly at the ends of his hair. “But you’re gonna have long hair and I’m gonna look like a half-baked chia pet.”

You snorted so hard it startled him.

“A chia pet?” you repeated, wheezing.

“A sad one,” he said gravely. “One that needs love.”

You were half-crying, half-laughing now, clutching your stomach. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious,” he said, grabbing your hands in both of his big ones, squeezing them like he was proposing marriage. “Doll. I’ll do anything. Just order some for me, too.”

"You'll do anything?" you teased, still wiping tears from your eyes.

"I'll be your personal assistant for a week. I'll clean the kitchen. I'll even let you pick the next five movies we watch. Even if they suck."

You shook your head, grinning like a fool. "Alright, alright, I'll do it. Only because you look so cute."

Bucky whooped and immediately pulled you into his lap, hugging you tight enough to make you squeak. "You're the best. Seriously. I'm gonna look so good."

"You’re gonna look like a prince," you said dryly.

"Prepare to have Sam roast you into oblivion."

"I don’t even care," Bucky said, burying his face in your shoulder. "I want my hair back."

Few Days Later

Bucky was sitting on the floor in front of you, legs crossed, a towel thrown around his shoulders like a cape. You carefully parted his hair, sectioning it and clipping in the silky extensions you had color-matched for him.

He was so still, so obedient, it made you grin.

"You’re a good client," you teased.

"Yeah, well," he said, glancing at you over his shoulder with a smirk. "I gotta be. My stylist’s got very delicate hands."

You rolled your eyes fondly and snapped another clip into place.

As you worked, you caught him sneaking peeks at himself in the mirror watching the longer pieces blend into his real hair and his smile was so genuine, so open, it almost hurt.

By the time you finished, Bucky looked like he'd stepped straight out of 2014 — but softer, happier.

You admired him from a few steps back, a fond warmth blooming in your chest. "You look perfect, Buck."

He preened a little, flipping a lock of hair over his shoulder. "Damn right."

Just then, the door creaked open.

Sam stuck his head in, mouth already open to say something — and froze.

The look of pure, stunned silence on Sam's face was priceless.

You bit your lip hard to hold back a laugh.

"...No," Sam finally said, deadpan. "No. Absolutely not."

Bucky grinned, pure menace. "Hey, bird boy. You like the new look?"

Sam just shook his head slowly. "You look like a dude who lives in a cave and plays the flute for forest animals."

Bucky tossed his newly long hair dramatically. "Jealousy’s an ugly color on you, Wilson."

"I'm sending this to Torres," Sam said immediately, pulling out his phone.

"Traitor!" Bucky shouted, lunging for him.

You laughed so hard you had to sit down, watching Bucky chase Sam down the hall, towel flying like a cape behind him, hair streaming.

After the chaos died down, you found Bucky sitting in front of the bedroom mirror again, just quietly looking at himself.

Not in the playful way from earlier.

Softer. Sadder.

But not bad.

You walked over slowly and wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder.

He smiled faintly at your reflection.

"You okay, Buck?"

He nodded, his hand coming up to tangle lightly with yours.

"Just... stupid," he said quietly. "Looking at myself like this."

"Not stupid," you murmured.

He shrugged a little. "It reminds me of... when I wasn’t doing so good. Long hair, no plan, no peace. I hated that version of me for a long time."

You pressed a kiss to his temple, squeezing him tighter. "He was doing the best he could. He survived. And he deserved love, too."

Bucky’s shoulders relaxed under your hands, the tension easing out of him slowly.

He met your eyes in the mirror and the look he gave you was pure devotion.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Maybe he did."

You leaned your forehead against his. "Definitely did. Definitely does."

For a moment, you both just stayed there him, you, the soft lamp light, the long, wild hair breathing together, existing without judgment.

And when Bucky finally smiled, really smiled

You were there first.

That’s what haunts you most at night, when the tears finally fall and the silence becomes unbearable. You were the one who held him when the world felt too loud. You were the one who coaxed him into daylight when he was drowning in shadows. You stitched him back together with patience, with care, with everything you had.

And yet, when he smiles now, when he really smiles — it isn’t for you.

It’s for her.

You’ve seen her. Once was enough.

She floated into the New Avengers Tower one afternoon, sunlight catching in her perfect hair, perfume subtle but unforgettable. She shook your hand with soft skin and softer words, kind enough that you couldn’t even hate her. Which somehow made it worse.

Because she was perfect. Elegant. Effortless. The kind of woman who knew which wine to order at dinner, who never tripped over her own shoes or spilled coffee down her blouse. The kind of woman who belonged on Bucky’s arm.

And you — you’re the one with chipped nail polish, half-dead plants on your windowsill, and laundry piling in the corner. You’re the one with toys from your niece still scattered across the floor because you didn’t have the heart to tidy them away. You’re the one who wears pin curls in your hair because it’s all you can manage on some mornings.

Not polished. Not perfect. Just…. you.

And never enough.

Bucky doesn’t notice the difference in your behaviour. Or maybe he does, but it doesn’t matter to him.

He still shows up at your door, still fixes your broken shelves and laughs at your terrible jokes. He still presses mugs of tea into your hands, still calls you “doll” like it means something.

And every kindness cuts you deeper, because it’s not love. Not the kind you want.

You wish he were cruel. You wish he would pull away, slam the door, leave you behind. That, at least, you could survive. But Bucky Barnes is the sweetest man you’ve ever known, and that sweetness is your undoing.

Some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling while tears blur your vision. You imagine him with her — how she must keep flowers in her room, how her apartment must always smell like lavender and clean linen. How she waits for him, polished and perfect, and he steps into her world like it was built just for him.

And then you think about yourself — the smudged mascara, the pile of dishes, the empty side of your bed that will always stay empty. You curl in on yourself and sob until you’re hoarse, because you know you’ll never measure up.

You can’t hate her. She hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s kind, she’s beautiful, she makes him happy. She’s everything you’re not, and you despise yourself for resenting her anyway.

So you don’t hate her. You hate yourself.

The cruellest part is remembering.

You remember the nights when he first started coming around — broken, haunted, barely holding himself together. You remember him shaking in your arms after a nightmare, your hand pressed to his hair, whispering, You’re safe, Bucky. You’re safe.

You remember coaxing a laugh out of him for the first time, how it cracked something open inside you. You remember when he told you, voice trembling, that he didn’t know who he was anymore, and you promised him he didn’t have to figure it out alone.

You were there for all of it.

You patched the holes, held the weight, steadied his hands when they wouldn’t stop shaking. You saw him broken and loved him anyway.

But she gets the whole man you helped put back together.

It builds until one night, you can’t stop yourself.

“Bucky…” Your voice cracks around his name as he sits on your couch, too close, too warm. “Do you ever think… about us? About me?”

He blinks, startled, and then his gaze softens. Too soft. Like he’s about to put you down gently.

“You’re my best friend,” he says, his voice careful, measured, as if he’s handling glass. “You mean the world to me. You know that, right?”

You nod, because what else can you do? But your heart is splitting open in your chest.

He squeezes your hand, smiling in that way that makes you weak. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

And you want to scream, then love me. You want to shake him, to beg him, to make him see you. But you don’t. You never do.

Instead, you swallow your grief and let him hold your hand a little longer, pretending it means more than it does.

When he leaves that night, you crumble. You sink to the floor, back against the door he just walked out of, and cry until you can’t breathe, hand pressing against your mouth like you can stop the confession that almost slipped out with your tears.

Because you know the truth, even if you never say it out loud.

You are the other woman.

The one who will always cry herself to sleep.

The one who will never have his love to keep.

The one who healed him, only to watch him walk away.

And you’ll spend your life alone, haunted by the kindness of the man who never loved you back.

He watches you without meaning to, tracks the tilt of your head when you’re joking, the scrunch of your nose when you’re faking being offended, the way you tuck your legs up when you’re cozy. It feels easy. Natural. Like breathing.

Maybe that’s just what friendship feels like when it’s good. Really good.

He doesn't even question it when Steve saunters in with a tablet tucked under his arm and says, "Briefing in five. Bucky, you’re paired with [name] again."

Bucky just grins. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

You hop off the couch, stretching your arms over your head, and Bucky tears his eyes away fast enough that he nearly gives himself whiplash.

Not love. Just...habit.

The mission seemed simple enough on paper.

A low-level hostage situation in an abandoned warehouse. In and out. Keep it clean, keep it quiet. But nothing ever really goes according to plan, especially when Hydra’s fingerprints are involved.

You and Bucky move through the dark, ruined building with practiced ease, shoulder to shoulder, covering each other like you've done a hundred times before.

You crack jokes over comms, whispering snide comments and bad puns that make Bucky snort so hard he nearly gives away your position once. You were always like that — a pressure valve when everything got too tense.

It’s when you’re clearing the second floor that everything goes sideways.

Gunfire erupts from behind a stack of broken crates, and you shove Bucky hard, taking the lead to draw fire away from him. You always were the reckless one, the one who moved first and thought second because you trusted him to have your back.

You do take the guy down, one clean shot to the knee, but not before another bullet finds you.

Bucky hears it before he sees it — the sickening, wet impact of a bullet hitting soft flesh — and then you're stumbling backward , your face twisted in confusion and pain, your hand pressed against your side, blooming red.

His heart doesn’t just stutter. It stops.

"[NAME]!" His voice is a rasp, rough with panic he hasn't felt in years. Not since the worst days. Not since he lost everything once before. His arms catch you before you can crumple, his gloved hands pressing hard against the wound, his voice a desperate, low chant.

"Stay with me. Stay with me. Please."

You try to smile — that stubborn little smile you always give him when you're trying to convince him you’re fine — but your eyes are glassy, and your hand is shaking.

Bucky’s shouting into comms before he even realizes it, demanding evac, demanding medical, demanding anything that will get you out of here faster.

The hospital is too bright. Too sterile. Too slow.

Bucky sits in the hard plastic chair outside the operating room, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands clenching and unclenching like he could strangle time into moving faster if he just tried hard enough.

He's still got your blood on his jacket. His hands. His heart.

The surgeon’s words spin in his head — critical but stable, lost a lot of blood, bullet missed major organs by a hair — but none of them make the knot in his chest loosen.

Sam tries to talk to him. Steve tries to get him to leave, even just to eat something. Bucky doesn’t hear them. Doesn’t move.

He stares at the double doors like he can will them to open.

It hits him there, in the too-quiet, too-cold hallway:

He loves you.

God, he loves you.

He loves you in a way that makes him feel like his ribs are cracking open, like his soul is laid bare and all he can think is how he almost lost you and he didn’t even know.

Didn’t even know until it was almost too late.

How fucking stupid can he be?

When they finally let him in, you’re still unconscious, tubes snaking from your arms, machines beeping steadily at your side. You look small in the hospital bed, pale against the stark white sheets, and Bucky feels like a goddamn idiot for not realizing it sooner.

He pulls the chair as close as he can get, leaning in, his metal hand carefully wrapping around your much still, much warmer one. His thumb strokes lightly over your knuckles, afraid to hurt you, but needing to touch you. Needing you to be real.

"You scared the hell outta me, doll," he murmurs, voice low and rough. He smiles, a broken, helpless little thing. "You know that? Always throwing yourself into trouble. What were you thinking?"

You don't stir.

He sighs, resting his forehead lightly against your joined hands.

"I was so stupid," he whispers. "Didn't even realize what you meant to me until I saw you fall." He squeezes your hand gently, like a silent apology. "You're everything, [name]. You’re...hell, you’re the reason I still get up in the morning some days."

He leans back a little, rubbing his free hand over his face, and then just lets it all pour out — the fear, the guilt, the love he’s been too dense to name.

"I don't know when it happened," he says, laughing under his breath, the sound watery. "Maybe it was the way you always made me laugh when I thought I forgot how. Maybe it was the way you look at me like I’m not broken. Maybe it was just you being you. Loud and brave. Impossible."

He shakes his head, staring at you like he could memorize every detail.

"I love you," he says, finally. "God, I love you. And if you don’t wake up and let me tell you that to your face, I swear to God, I’m gonna lose my mind."

There’s a pause.

Then —A small, unmistakable sound.

A giggle.

Light. Breathless. Completely, beautifully alive.

Bucky freezes like he’s been hit with a stun gun, eyes snapping to your face.

You're awake.

Barely, your eyes are just barely fluttering open, your mouth twitching into a mischievous little grin but you're awake.

And you heard everything.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, his entire brain short-circuiting.

"You little— you’ve been awake this whole time?" he sputters, half horrified, half overwhelmed with relief.

You’re still smiling, your voice raspy but full of unmistakable warmth as you tease, "Maybe. I wasn’t gonna interrupt. It was a good speech."

Bucky lets out a choked laugh, pressing your hand to his lips like a prayer, but when your eyes meet his — bright and sincere and a little watery, he suddenly finds himself looking away, overwhelmed, flustered in a way he hasn't been in decades.

"Don't look away from me," you whisper, your voice shaking just a little. "You're all I can think about too."

His eyes snap back to yours, wide and stunned, and you squeeze his hand with what little strength you have.

"I’m not dreaming, right?" he asks, voice thick. "You’re really here?"

You nod, squeezing his fingers back weakly. "I’m here, Buck."

He leans in, brushing a feather-light kiss against your forehead, lingering there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You close your eyes at the touch, heart stuttering in your chest for a whole different reason now.

But when he pulls back, you blink up at him and say, playful and soft, "Did your aim get worse or something? You missed my lips by like...a few inches."

Bucky stares at you for a beat — and then bursts out laughing, the sound bubbling up raw and real from somewhere deep in his chest.

"You little shit," he says affectionately, shaking his head.

And then —He leans down, one hand cradling your jaw so, so gently, and kisses you for real.

It’s soft at first, tentative, like he’s asking permission — but when you kiss him back, when your hand fumbles weakly into his jacket and pulls, he deepens it with a kind of desperate tenderness that steals the breath from both of you.

He tastes like relief. Like hope. Like home.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, you're both grinning so wide it almost hurts.

"Don't ever scare me like that again," he whispers, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

"I'll try," you promise, a little breathless, a lot in love. "Only if you stay close enough to catch me next time."

Bucky chuckles, brushing another quick kiss over your nose, your cheek, your temple, like he can’t get enough now that he’s allowed to love you the way he always should have.

"Deal," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere, doll."

And you believe him.

Because for once —In the middle of all the chaos and noise and danger of the world —You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Together.

Always.

Divider credits: @saradika-graphics

You know it doesn't happen on purpose. That no one does it on purpose.

It's just always been one of those things that you notice, the way you slip through the cracks of a conversation like water trickling down a worn picnic table, seeping into each crevice and corner it can to avoid falling to the ground.

In reality it's most likely your fault, that you let yourself get so quiet, that you don't bother trying to hold on when you feel yourself falling back. Nobody owes you anything, owes it to you to involve you in every conversation, to go out of their way to make sure that you feel included in whatever is taking place.

No one owes you the courtesy. Maybe that's why it hurts so much.

Knowing that no matter how much effort you put it, no matter how many birthdays you remember, how many favorite colors, coffee orders, or small quirks you memorize, you'll never get it back. And you can't be mad, can't get disappointed because then you're breaking your number one rule; never let them see how much it hurts.

So you limit yourself. Minimize as many interactions to nothing short of mandatory, keep small talk to just that and just maybe you can survive another day. You fold in on yourself so no one else can do it to you, reign yourself in so no one can push you away, they can't break what they can't touch you remind yourself.

The best part, or maybe the worst, was that it worked. With every step you took back it became easier and easier for them to move forward, easier for people to forget jokes you had made, to forget when you'd be around and when you'd be busy, to forget you.

'Good morning' fades to 'Morning' fades to a faint nod in acknowledgement fades into a short glance fades into nothing, a swift short breeze wafting over you when they walk by, not bothering to break from their phone or their conversations to address the walking cluster of dead stars and atoms that just so happens to be you.

It doesn't bother you anymore, you take it in stride and continue about your day, moving to your desk and settling in like always. You remember when you were first offered this position, they let you choose your desk and you took the smallest one on the end, where they stack all the old file boxes that they don't need anymore, just assuming that you would get rid of them as the last person had. And of course you did, adding it to your daily tasks to go through one box and shred every paper before you go. Even before everything fell away, you still tried to make yourself as minute as possible, taking up as little space as you can.

You don't mind it though, less space means less room for mess, emotional or physical.

The beginning of your morning always started the same. Checking your emails, seeing what thousands of tasks had been sent to you overnight and sort them out by most to least important. After that it was time for coffee, you always waited a little extra longer as to let the morning rush in the break room subside, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire of forced friendliness or coerced conversation. When enough time had passed you made your way over, taking the edge path to keep out of the way as you approached the warmly lit kitchenette.

That's the plus side of working here, even though it's still just a menial office job, SHIELD spares no expenses on their properties, the break room with its sleek tiles and paneled walls, touchless steel sinks and Stretta counter tops. It's nice than your own apartment kitchen, and despite the rather hefty salary you make, it will probably be the nicest kitchen you ever get to use.

The Keurig filled the silence around you, that small humming drain matching the hum in the back of your head, the thrashing sea of thoughts of the day ahead of you fizzling away as the smell of coffee hits the back of your nose. This was usually your favorite part of the day, that quiet moment when it's just you and your coffee in your own corner, no one to pass you by without a second glance... or a first.

Once your coffee was made you lingered for just a second longer, not part of your usual routine but there was just something in the quiet that held you down, rooted you in place as you watched the dark liquid slosh in your cup. It was almost hypnotizing, the way the dark comes up to the to the edge without spilling over, the gentle shine reflecting from the lights above.

You don't know why it stopped you, you'd never stopped and took the time to look before, you're not sure why you had now.

As intriguing as the thought was you had to get on with the rest of your day, with a deep breath you curl your shoulders in and make the trip back to your office, rounding each corner with muscle memory, eyeing your coffee like it was holding an answer to whatever question you were secretly asking.

On your last turn your mind switches back into work mode, mentally listing out every item that needs to be logged, every paper that needs to be copied and—

A yelp of surprise left your lips as you collided into what felt like a brick wall, your hands fumbling your cup in your hands as it fell backwards on you and onto the floor, the sharp sting from the heat jolting at your skin for a brief moment before subduing into something tolerable. The rich, bitter aroma of the coffee now clung to your shirt instead of the air around you as you mumbled a slew of panicked curses under your breath.

"Oh god," you muttered as you looked at the mess on the floor, the brown liquid that didn't hit your shirt spreading out around your feet, quiet heady fear rising up inside you like a pot left on the burner too long.

"Shit I'm sorry." A deep voice hummed in front of you, your mind too preoccupied with the mess below that you hadn't even looked at the object of your collision until now.

You'd never seen him before. You would remember a face like that, not just because you remember everyone but because you don't think in a million years you could forget eyes like that. His gaze carried that of the winter sky, the pale aching blue that you only get before snow begins to fall, like staring into the curl of waves that you know will pull you under, and letting them.

He had been saying something to you, you know because you watched his lips move but your mind wasn't registering anything past the blink of his lash line, your brows pinched together as if you were waiting for magic subtitles to appear in the air as translation.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I asked if I could get you another," He repeats with a faint gesture to what used to be your coffee, but is now added decor to your shirt and the floor. "I'm sorry I didn't see you there, I was a bit lost."

Lost? That adds up. He doesn't look like he belongs down here with the rest of the cogs, he belongs atop the machine, that much is obvious by the snug fit of his broad shoulders into his crew neck sweater and the way he carries himself, like he's never had to hold his breath to make room for others.

You're staring when you realize he's waiting for a response, because that's how conversations go, you remind yourself. It's been a while since it's ever been more than one-sided that you'd nearly forgotten.

With a dismissive wave you take a few steps back, throwing on a polite smile that you use around your other coworkers that they always take as the end if the conversation. "Oh, uhm, that's okay I should just clean this up."

"Are you sure? I don't mind, besides I kinda ruined your outfit."

"It's fine, really. Thank you. Have a good day."

Usually that would be the end of it, this is when they walk away with a happy smile knowing they don't have to deal with the mess that is you. Yet he wasn't leaving, hadn't budged an inch at your diminishment of the situation.

"Let me at least help you clean up." he offered with an extension of his hand, a curl of a smile at his lips. "I'm Bucky by the way."

Your eyes dropped to his hand, then to the small pool of coffee between you on the ground. It wasn't a big spill, nothing you couldn't clean up with a couple bundles of paper towels and some cleaner for good measure, it wasn't something that needed two people, much less someone of his... caliber, so why would he offer?

When you looked back up there was no change in his eyes, no retract in his offer or deceit in his decision.

You didn't know what to do.

Would it be impolite to reject or to accept? You'd never been in this situation before and your Rolodex of reactions isn't serving you well.

Biting the bullet you slowly slipped your hand into his, replying with a soft murmur of your name as you felt his hand tighten around yours, closing his fingers into the back of your palm. He echoed it out as he shook your hand, the smile on his face widening with each lift and lower of his arm and yours.

"Well I still don't know my way around here, so you'll have to show me where the cleaning supplies are."

Right, you thumb a gesture over your shoulder. "Uhm, well the janitors closet is past the elevators on the right, but there's probably supplies under the sink back in the break room."

He gives you a short nod and steps around the puddle, clearly waiting for something by the way that he held his hands at the back of his sides, a small uptick of a smirk growing at the corner of his lips.

"Show me the way?"

Your eyes dart to the clock on the far side of the wall to your office that's just a couple feet away, normally by now you're knee deep in emails and running back and forth through the office sliding stacks of copies into everyone's wall inbox. If you don't get started now there's a good chance you'll be behind for the rest of the day…

"Sure. It's just this way."

He— Bucky, you remember, is on your tail like white on rice, every two steps you take he makes up for it in one long stride. There's no sense of disinterest in his step or boredom in his breath, he's following you as if you're leading him to the most exciting place on Earth, not the cleaning supplies under a kitchen sink.

He doesn't let up, not when you grab a roll of paper towels, or the cleaner, not when you duck your head to avoid eye contact from passing coworkers who question why he's down here, not acknowledging you in any sense of the matter. Not even when you quietly kneel to the floor, handing him a few tears of towel at a time, letting him hold the sopping bundles as you wipe over the spot with some cleaner and a last dry swipe.

You follow him on the way back, eyes steeled to the floor as to not bore into his back. He carried himself so differently than you, shoulders squared and back, broad and unafraid to take up space. It's a familiar look to you, you see it on almost everyone around you. The deep breaths they pull in, uncaring if it's the last of the oxygen in the room, taking it like it rightfully belongs to them.

It was hard to feel like that, to feel like you could take anything you wanted without fear of taking from others, you're so often on the other end of it you could never imagine what it must be like to be on the receiving end of the 'give and take' of life.

Now you're back at the beginning, the once stained floor back to its shining pearl while you and Bucky stood above it.

"Thank you again for your help." you concede, it feels almost strange rolling off your tongue, yet you're not sure if it was the offer, or your easy acceptance that threw you off.

"Anytime."

You both stood there for a moment longer. You don't know why you're lingering so much today, you usually never let yourself loiter in someone's space for so long, it opens doors for small talk and small talk can lead to questions and you, well you're not good at questions.

"So… I'll see you around?" he says, and it's almost a question. Anyone else would assume that he's asking if he can see you again, they would put themselves up on that level of someone he would willingly want to spend time with. He probably just meant it as a courtesy.

"Sure," you feigned reassurance with a soft smile. "See you around Bucky."

He gave you a polite wave before walking past down the hall, your neck craved to crane, to follow his path away but your forced it forwards, eyes straight ahead as you walked back to your desk.

There was no need for you to think about Bucky, as there was no need for him to be thinking about you.

Two and a half weeks had passed until you saw Bucky again and ironically, you were the one who was lost this time. One of your managers had asked you to take some paperwork up to the top floor to Ms. Potts, which was extremely out of your way and a little frightening but who are you to deny a direct ask from your superiors.

The elevator ride up was daunting enough, thirty-five floors in a glossy glass elevator that feels weightless under you, your eyes glancing out to the river view to the side as you glide up past each floor. With a tight clutch on the papers you stepped out at the ding, eyes widening in amazement as the marble floors and frosted glass walls twinkled around you, every step revealing a new sparkling wonder as your shoes clacked against the floor.

You'd never been up here, and you don't know if you'll get the chance again so you begin to slow your stride, taking in every perfectly polished handle and hinge, even the doors being of such high quality you have to stop and admire. You only wish you had a better layout of the place because three turns and two hallways later you were well and truly disoriented, checking over your shoulder every other step to make sure you hadn't gone in a circle.

Maybe if you had a map you would've been able to look ahead of you, and if you were looking ahead you would've seen the obstacle you're heading on a straight collision course towards, and just like the iceberg and Titanic, it sends you sinking down.

"Shit I'm sorry—" Bucky's voice rings out in the empty hallway as he immediately kneels to the floor to help you up, a small smirk crossing his face when your eyes meet. "Hey, it's you."

Your face must have been something straight out of a sitcom, jaw dropped to the floor as one hand gently guided you off the ground, the other swooping your papers up alongside you.

He remembers you?

"You know we've got to stop meeting like this." he adds with a soft chuckle, straightening some papers in the folder before handing it out to you.

You know you're staring, there's no way not to. His eyes had to have gotten bluer since the last time you saw them, every blink revealing the beautiful glossy hue in them, like sunlight on open water, sudden and blinding and gone before you know it.

Wait, he remembers you?

"I'm sorry, what?" you mutter as you finally get your bearings, trying to ignore the embarrassing parallels from your first interaction, leave it to you to make a fool of yourself back to back.

Talk about a first, and second, impression.

"I said we have got to stop meeting like this," he gestures between the two of you. "If I make you fall again people are going to start thinking I've got something against you."

"People don't think anything of me." you blurt out before you can even stop yourself, a fumbled attempt at trying to make light of a horribly humiliating situation. "Sorry."

If he was put off by your comment he didn't let it show, didn't give you any of the typical signs of discomfort that most people blatantly show to you, pinched brows with a down-turned lip as they go quiet, maybe a monotone hum before discarding your words and going about their day.

Instead he gave you a small laugh, a breathy little thing but the sound of it reverberated in your ears and bloomed a seed of warmth in your chest as you continued to try, and fail, to not to fall into the never ending pools of his eyes.

"Funny," he added after his light chuckle had subsided. "So what're you doing up here?"

You snap out of your trance at the question, the folders in your hands practically materializing at the reminder as you hold them to your chest.

"Oh, uhm my manager wanted me to bring these up to Ms. Potts but I think I took a wrong turn and I was looking for a directory when I ran into you."

"Pepper?" he echoes out in disbelief, probably shocked that someone like you would even come into her orbit, you're still in a little denial yourself but then again this wasn't some opportunity bestowed upon you. This was someone handing any work they didn't want to do, knowing you'd do it without dissent.

"Oh girlie you are all sorts of turned around."

Girlie? Before you can process anything there's a gentle hand just ghosting the small of your back as Bucky turns and guides you back down the hall. You try to protest, stuttering out excuse over excuse that you'll be fine and that he should get back to whatever it was he was doing, it had to be much more important than showing some cubicle hermit crab the way to an office.

"I don't mind, besides you helped me out last night."

"I did?"

He nods as he leads you down a corner you walked right past the first go around. "Yeah, I had come up there because Steve needed something from one of the managers that clear our mission reports, and after bumping into you she found me on my way back and we got everything sorted out."

Oh.

"Glad you two got it worked out." you hum quietly, ignoring the small ache spreading in your chest. You don't know why that made your heartbeat falter, it's not like he asked for you help and then blatantly went out of his way to ignore it, not like people have before.

"Wouldn't have happened without you."

You know that's not true, statistically speaking he would have eventually found someone to show him around and what he was looking for, but you know nobody likes to be around a Debbie Downer so you keep the comment to yourself as he guides you down a long hall.

The end door was different from the others, the frosted glass having an opal pearlescent to it and a platinum name plate off to the side.

Office of Virginia 'Pepper' Potts.

"Here we are," Bucky hummed out as he turned to face you, a gentle smile on his face as he tucked his hands into his pockets. "I can wait here until you're done."

"What? That's not— you don't have to do that." you tried to decline, face flushing with embarrassment, it was already bad enough he had to walk you here like a lost puppy but on the way back was even worse.

He waves your words away with a dismissive air and smiles again. "Don't worry about it. Besides you might get lost again and run into some other guy, and that's our thing."

"Our… thing?" you echo out in pure confusion.

"Yeah," he nods in agreement, "You know, I bumped into you, you bumped into me. It's our little thing. Can't let anyone else have it."

"Oh."

You've never had a thing before, and you're not really sure what to do with it now that you do have one, but the shining glimmer of joy in his eyes from talking about it warms you up to the idea pretty quick.

"Okay." you murmur with a soft smile, you don't know if you're agreeing to the 'thing' or him waiting but either way you're for it.

"Great. I'll be here."

You nod and turn to the door, papers in hand and deep breath in your chest. With a hesitant raise of your arm you lightly knock on the door, two light thuds echoing out in the quiet hallway around you as you take a small step back.

"Come in!" the voice calls out from behind the doors, you cast a small glance over to Bucky who just juts his chin to the door with a gentle look.

Another deep breath.

A small push of the door was all it took for it to glide open, cedar and citrus hitting your nose as the warm afternoon light pours in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the opalescent vinyl flooring practically glitter.

Ms. Potts was at her desk, a few lush green plants around her as she sat exuding the power and confidence you'd only seen in movies. A polite smile on her face as she beckons you in the room further. You follow and while lost in amazement of your surroundings it isn't long before dread forms it's heavy weight in the back of your chest as the moment you step in you see the sight of two more bodies in the office alongside you. One tall and broad, the other slightly shorter and stalky, voices both strong but faltering when they heard the sound of your steps.

Now while you do work for SHIELD and are aware of the superhero connections it has, you yourself have never actually been in the same room with a superhero, let alone two of the biggest ones of the current millennium, as the news would say.

So when the two men turned around to reveal themselves as Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, well it was safe to say that the dread in your chest expanded a thousand fold.

"How can I help you honey?" Pepper's soft voice forced your attention back forwards, the edges of the papers in your hands no doubt carrying some of the sweat that had begin to form against your skin.

Deep breaths.

With a shaky hand you hold them up faintly, a small gesture in lieu of an answer while you try to steady your racing heart with every step you take closer to her desk.

"Those for me?" she assumes when you finally get to her, holding them out with a faint nod before you finally find the wire in your brain that connects your thoughts to your mouth.

"Yes," you croak out before a slight clear of your throat. "Yes ma'am, my manager Kerri wanted me to drop these off to you."

Her eyes widen just a fraction as she smiles before reaching out to take them. "Right, I remember her saying she would bring them by, nice of you to do it instead, thank you."

You return her smile in polite fashion and turn on your heels to make your way out, less than ten feet to go before a voice stops you in your tracks, it's not aimed at you of course but when you hear Steve Rogers' voice it's not to stop and want to stand at attention.

"Buck? What're you doing up here?" his voice was still light within its resounding boom, golden just like him, gentle but all powerful if you're not careful.

Bucky peeks around the corner of the doorframe with a slight smile, stepping into the room without a blink of hesitation, like there was no doubt he belonged in the same air as them. You put it together the first time you met that 'Bucky' was one James Buchanan Barnes, a complicated man with a set of killer baby blues, and of course best friend to Captain Rogers. Steve pulls him into a conversation while Tony makes his way over to Pepper to look over the papers you just handed off, and you feel it.

That strange, sharp moment suspended in time, where you're both present and invisible. Where everything is silently screaming at you that you don't belong here. Voices moving through the air around you, conversations overlapping each other, both over-whelming and grounding you at once. You catch fragments of sentences that aren't meant for you, tones that hint at something more, laughter that spikes around you. It's not for you, yet it catches your attention anyways, reeling you in as you're trying to pull away, it's suffocating but all so similar.

You know this feeling, you are this feeling.

With practiced ease, one step turns into two, quiet and unnoticed as you make your way to the door. You don't say goodbye, because there's no reason to, no need to end a moment that never really started. With a final slip past the door you're back in the hallway, every step dimming the distant conversations behind you.

The quiet of the halls clings to your skin, both welcoming and unnerving.

That's the thing about being alone, it's a double edged sword. There is no silence without solace, the weight of freedom and the ache of emptiness both anchoring themselves in the pit of your soul. Alone, you can rest, breathe, can exist without worry. But the same stillness that soothes begins to echo, the quiet turns to a mirror reflecting back everything you thought you tucked away, the edges of loneliness press in, reminding you that silence has a voice too.

You don't know how made it back to your office. The walk back felt like trudging through silken mud, soft but heavy, holding to you but not holding you back. The partitions of your cubicle comfort you somehow, the enclosure giving you space to exist in where you don't have to be anything past these four walls. You don't need to fill the silence here, you let it consume you as you drown yourself in paperwork for the rest of the day.

Sometimes you wonder if your degree meant anything.

All those years of studying, pulling all nighters trying to cram while simultaneously balance a thriving social life. It was brutal and amazing all at once, the stress sending kerosene through your veins and lighting you up from within, you don't know the last time you ever felt like that since graduating.

Of course working for SHIELD was, and still is, the opportunity of a lifetime but you can't help but think as you stare into the laminate tile of your cubicle walls if there isn't something else you could be doing with your time, with your life.

You wonder what kind of person you would be if you didn't have an office job, what kind of life you would be living if you weren't held captive by the nine to five that has been your bread and butter all these years. Would you be going out on weekends? Have different friend groups? Maybe you might have a tattoo, or a piercing, or a super embarrassing story of how you danced with the subway sax player over on 103rd st.

The thought does occur to you, that it's not the job that's made you like this, it's just you. You're the reason you don't go out, have different friends, or any significant attributes about yourself, but that thought leaves a sour taste of self awareness in your mouth that you don't feel like addressing this morning so you brush it away.

A hollow knock to the side of your wall snatched your wandering thoughts right from your mind as you spin around to find the noise source. It was one of your more polite coworkers, not that any others aren't nice, but you always appreciated how Macy would look at you rather than through you.

"Hey, it's Carissa's birthday and they're having cake and snacks in the main conference room. Just wanted to let you know in case no one else had." She was gone as quick as she came, her smile while polite was hollow, holding no real affection other than the societal mandated of an acquaintance.

You used to have friends, you think so at least, people who you felt close to and felt like you could call them a constant in your life. You're not sure when it all changed, when everything began to fall through. Memories of distant laughter on nights out with coworkers drift through your mind as you make your way down the hall, the sound of bustling conversation drowning your thoughts out when you approach the open double doors.

Most office birthday parties are the same, a few balloons in the corners, maybe some petaled plastic plates for the food rather than straight out of the container and a litter 'Happy Birthday' banner hung across the projector wall. There was something almost comforting in it, knowing that in this place, this form, everyone gets treated the same. There's no extra special cake, sparkly ribbon decorations or cushy seat covers.

Here, you're all on equal ground.

That was until Captain America followed by two more renowned Avengers walked into the room like it was any other day for them. As expected, gasps were thrown and whispers sung before a sleek bun of blonde hair parted through them, Sharon Carter in a perfectly pressed pantsuit revealing herself.

"You came!" Carissa squealed as she crossed the room to envelop Sharon into an embrace, the rest of the room watching in idle anticipation. "And you brought company."

"Ask and ye shall receive." She replies with a quick wink before motioning the boys over. "Now let's get some cake and mingle before some alien touches down in Boston."

Steve, Bucky and Sam enter further into the room, their broad distinction in both stature and personality practically fill the room. Conversations buzz and with every passing minute the conference hall gains a new member, someone innocently walking by until the gaze of golden glory catches their eyes and they're drawn in.

Like natural magnetism, your back finds a wall. The small paper cup of water in your hand slowly giving way of its circular shape, bending into the 'C' liked mold of your hand from the mix of condensation and sweat on the outer layer. You should get another one but you don't want to look too obvious doubling backing to the drink table, so you stay put and try not the let the cup wither away.

Time passes by you in different increments. First is the giggles from Carissa and her friends when Steve makes his way over for his congratulatory Happy Birthday, then it's from the soft yet pitchy 'awes' when people begin sharing old photos of memories, and by the time you hear whispers of cake you know you've found your chance to slip out.

With one last glance over your shoulder to make sure you're not getting spotted on your getaway, your feet start to carry you to the doors, not before getting interrupted about six steps in by what you thought was the corner of the table, that turned out to be a hand snagging gently at your wrist.

"Hey," a warm familiar voice drifted over the others, making your eyes drop down to the contact at your skin before back up to those eyes.

Those eyes. You'd recognize them anywhere.

"Bucky." you mumble as you watch him pull his hand away, a small smile growing on his face as he stood to his full height.

"Didn't think you'd remember me without knocking you over first."

You laugh before you realize, the sound feeling unfamiliar and lumpy as it rises up and out of your throat. Bucky lets out a small chuckle in turn before you both quiet down, your eyes gladly meeting his.

"Hey." he hums in return and your eyes drift to the paper cup in his hand. His hasn't lost any of its shape yet, probably due to being offered new ones every time he goes to take a sip.

"Hi. How have you been—"

"Why did you skip out on me the other day?"

The question catches you off guard, but you're not entirely surprised, more worried than anything. Worried that he'll take your disappearance the wrong way, take it personally and twist it until you're the one apologizing and comforting him, as you have plenty of times before.

"Right." you breathe out, letting out another small breath before curling inwards on yourself, your fawn instinct taking over. "I'm sorry. I knew Pepper and the rest of you guys had work to do so I quietly excused myself to let you get to it."

"Don't be sorry, I'm not mad or anything. I was just curious," he admitted gently with a light rub to the back of his neck. "Listen I was wondering if maybe you'd like to—"

"Sergeant Barnes," Carissa's voice floated over in her typical soft and kind, yet sour lilt. "I don't think we've been properly introduced, I'm Carissa."

You watch as she extends her hand, Bucky taking with a polite nod and returning her introduction in kind. "Bucky."

"Thank you so much for coming Bucky, I know you guys probably have a million other things to do so it means a lot that y'all came on down just to see little ole me."

Watching the two of them talk reminds you of your displacement here, and your original plan to leave, you had almost forgotten while talking to Bucky. You give it another minute or two, light smiling or nodding when either of them drifts their eyes over to you but you stay quiet, slow your movements when taking a sip from your drink, doing anything to slowly slip away from them.

After the third time Carissa had laughed with a brush to Bucky's arm you knew you could get away, with one well oiled glance to the clock on the wall you stepped back, finding the nearest trash can to dump your cup before stepping out.

You'd had made it about halfway down the hallway back to your office before a baritone voice calling your name stopped you in your tracks. A small glance over your shoulder reveals a broad shouldered Bucky walking over to you, while the smile on his face was gentle the crease between his brows hinted at something less than pleased.

"Hey Bucky." you greet with a soft smile, trying to ease your way into whatever it was he was planning unleashing.

"What happened back there?"

Your brows pinched together in worry, hands gently clasping in front of you out of habit as you felt the walls barricading you in when he finished his approach.

"What do you mean?"

"Back there," he thumbed a gesture down the hall to where a muffled 'Happy Birthday' began to sing out. "On e second you and I were talking and then you just disappeared."

"Oh, right," you mutter with a nervous breath of a laugh, palms beading with sweat as you tighten the threading of your fingers. "I'm sorry, I just have a lot of work I need to catch up on and thought it would be better if I got a head start on it."

He stayed quiet as he listening, his expression nearly unreadable even for someone as well practiced as you.

"You always do that?"

"Well we get a litter busier during the holidays so sometimes it's easier to get a jump on things if I—"

"That's not what I meant."

Oh?

It was your turn to grow quiet now, unsure as to what he was getting at or what he could be insinuating.

"Back there when we were talking everything seemed fine, then Carissa came over and it's like you just disappeared."

Oh.

"Well I was just trying to get a leg up on paperwork so I excused myself to go get that started."

"No, before you left. Carissa and I were talking and you just… faded away, like you weren't even there anymore, like you had this secret door inside yourself that you just stepped into."

Oh.

Normally you're so quick to answer, so well oiled in polite conversation that you usually never miss a beat, always having an excuse on hand. But this was the last place you ever expected to be having this conversation, let alone with someone like Bucky. Most people never asked why you always skip out on coworker trivia night at the bar, or why you leave before the cake slices get handed out, you're always one step ahead.

Not this time.

Bucky clearly noticed the turmoil growing inside you, his feet taking him a small step forwards as he spoke up softly. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" it fell from your lips almost automatically, your body and mind fighting against each other, one telling you to back into the nearest corner while the other urges you to tread on like nothing is wrong.

"That," he makes a small circular gesture to your form, hands still tightly clenched in one another, shoulders slumped down and inwards with your chin pointed low, eyes just barely making contact with his. "Folding in on yourself and stuffing it deep down. Acting like if you take shallower breaths no one else will realize you need to breathe too."

Your heart sped up tenfold, every nerve in you body making itself known with a screaming declaration saying 'I exist and now that you know you'll never forget!', anxiety pouring through your veins like ice water.

"I don't… I don't know what you mean I just stepped out to finish up some paperwork that I should really be getting to so if you'll excuse me." And as sharp as your turn to leave was, he was sharper, his hand finding your wrist in the same fashion as earlier, firm but gentle.

"Hey, it's okay. It's just me." he murmurs softly, finding your other hand with his and holding them tight, his thumb brushing up and down your pulse point with the kind of care you'd give to fine glassware, no doubt able to see the quickening of your heart rate with the rapid rise and fall of your chest.

"Just breathe, in and out. Start slow, with me." he guides you with a long deep breath in followed by a steady short breathe out.

His smile grows when you follow along, your once short and staggered breaths now slow and even. "There you go, that's it."

"Sorry." you mumble when your heart finally calms its racketing against your ribs.

"For what?"

"I don't know. Ditching you at Peppers office, at the party, freaking out for no reason. Being weird."

"You mean for being human?"

You looked up to meet his eyes, confusion crossing your face with furrowed brows and parted lips. Sure you had heard the argument that it's normal to grow weary in large crowds, that being put on the spot sends a little anxiety through everyone.

But it never felt normal to you, there was always something that felt off. Like there was an invisible barrier between you and the rest of society, one that took every ounce of strength to push through to the other side, and even when you did it hardly went noticed.

As a kid you thought everyone felt like that, that everyone had to give their all to any and every interaction they had. Then you got older and learned that hardly anyone felt like that, that most people had little to no struggles with… being human.

"Nothing," you rescind with a faint shrug, gently pulling your hands back to your sides. "See you around Buck."

You hadn't even moved before your name left his lips, an utterance so soft if there was any other noise you wouldn't have heard it. An involuntary sigh slipping past your lips, not of annoyance or distaste, but dread of confession.

"I don't know." your admittance slowly eases the weight in your chest, one small pebble at a time. "I don't know why I do that, why I always leave, why I freak out from someone asking if I'm okay. I want to be. Be normal, be apart of crowds and conversations instead of watching from the sidelines, I want so badly to walk into a room and have someone go 'hey nice to see you!' or 'I saw this the other day and it made me think of you!'. I just… can't, like there's something wrong with me."

The silence in the hallway around was deafening, to the point you could hear the faint shuffling of footsteps all the way back in the conference room.

"I want it so bad, but every time I get the chance, it's like I can feel every atom in the room pressing up against me, reminding me how out of place I feel. It's not even like I feel invisible, I just feel like nothing, unnoticeable, unmemorable. "

Bucky didn't say anything, not at first, he just stood there like he could see the strings that were unraveling within you.

"I've spent decades feeling like I was watching life through glass. Like I got put in the wrong skin at the wrong place." he began softly, closing the distance between you. Your throat tightens and nose turns red with the build of emotion as he takes in a small breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "But you're not invisible to me, not ever."

"I remember seeing you for the first time, it was only for a split second before we bumped into each other, but I remember every millisecond in between." he continues, soft but sure with a gentle tilt of his head. "You were looking down at your coffee like it had the answers to the universe. The way you immediately worried about the mess on the floor rather that the coffee soaking your shirt, as if it was your fault for holding the cup."

Your lips parted with an attempted reply but the building tidal wave of emotion in the back of your throat cut off any words trying to push through, Bucky takes this and keeps going, gently pulling each nail out of the coffin you thought you nailed yourself into.

"There's nothing wrong with you or with your feelings," he whispers like its top secret information. "You don't have to fight it, and you don't have to do it alone."

Your chest tightens but it's a different kind of ache now, warm and full, almost fragile. "I didn't think anyone noticed. Ever."

"I noticed you when you first looked up at me, like you'd never seen another person in your life." he admits with a breathy huff of a laugh. "Anyone else and I probably would've thought they were terrified of me."

"I wasn't scared of you."

"I know." Bucky agreed with no hesitation, his head titled down as he looked at you through your eyelashes. "You looked me right in my eyes. Most people just kind of look around them, but not you."

The call out should've embarrassed you, normally anyone pointing our your behavior would send you running for the hills, but your confession came as easy as air. "I like your eyes."

"That a fact? I couldn't tell from your immense staring."

"I didn't stare!"

"You were definitely staring, literally every time."

You hardly noticed your laugh until it bounced off the walls and back to you, gone was the empty shell that left the party, here was a body full of life and warmth. When both of your laughter died off you found yourself smiling, and for the first time it felt right, unforced and wholly welcomed. Before you knew it you had stepped forward, your arms wrapping around Bucky's neck in an off guard hug. He hardly stumbles before his hands snake around your waist and hold you close.

"Thank you, Bucky." you mumbled into the valley of his neck and collarbone.

"For what?" he hums against you and tightens his grip, each speck of dead star dust in his body pressing into yours with harmony.

"For seeing me. For not letting me fade away."

You liked to think of your apartment as a sanctuary. Sure, the walls were a little thin, and the paint on the windowsill was starting to peel, but it was yours. A cozy home that smelled of vanilla-scented candles, fresh laundry, and the faint aroma of Bucky’s cologne that seemed to linger everywhere these days.

Most days, Bucky Barnes, your sometimes frustrating, always handsome boyfriend—respected that sense of peace. After all, you’d established a routine of sorts: quiet mornings sipping coffee together, mid-day breaks where he’d slip away for a run or to tinker with something mechanical in the spare room, and lazy evenings spent on the couch binge-watching the latest Netflix series.

But today, it seemed, he had other ideas. You were leaning against the kitchen counter, your phone pressed to your ear, talking to Yelena Belova—your best friend, occasional partner-in-crime, and the only person who could drag you into the most unexpected of situations. Today’s phone call was nothing dramatic, though. She was simply updating you on her day, complaining about a near-disastrous grocery trip, while you nodded and made little sounds of sympathy at all the right times.

It started out innocently enough: Bucky roaming into the kitchen, glancing your way, flashing you a quick grin. You raised your eyebrows in greeting, mouthing I’m on the phone, which typically was code for don’t do anything weird. He gave a small salute, as if to say Understood, ma’am, and disappeared around the corner.

But then, just as Yelena began launching into a story about the horrors of supermarket lines and fighting an old lady for pickles, you felt the faintest brush of warmth at your back. At first, you thought you were imagining it. You continued listening, your phone tucked snugly against your ear. But then a hand—large, warm, and far too confident, settled on your hip. You startled, nearly dropping the phone in surprise.

“Bucky,” you whispered, craning your neck to look at him. He was standing behind you, a lazy smile playing at his lips. “I’m on the phone,” you mouthed.

He only grinned in response, blue eyes sparkling with mischief. His voice, when he leaned in, was barely above a murmur. “I know.”

You shot him a pointed glare, one that said Behave yourself. But Bucky, of course, had never been particularly good at following that order.

Yelena’s voice in your ear continued, completely unaware. “So anyway, the cashier looked at me like I was some kind of weirdo for buying that much hot sauce. But it’s not my fault the best brand was on sale—are you even listening?”

“Yes,” you managed, voice slightly strained, “I’m listening. Sorry, I just—”

Bucky took that moment to press closer, his chest aligning perfectly with your back. The warmth of him was impossible to ignore. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, a barely-there touch that sent a chill of awareness down your spine. The phone nearly slipped from your fingers.

“Everything okay?” Yelena asked, clearly catching the odd shift in your tone.

“Fine,” you said too quickly. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to force yourself to focus. “Just, uh… I spilled something. Go on.”

You felt, rather heard Bucky’s chuckle against you. His arms slid around your waist, locking you in place. Slowly, he lowered his head to the crook of your neck, pressing a gentle kiss there. It was so light you might have imagined it—if not for the way your entire body tingled in response.

You could practically hear Yelena’s eyebrow arching on the other end of the line. “You sure you’re not busy? I can let you go if you’re… preoccupied.”

“No, no,” you insisted, ignoring Bucky’s soft hum of amusement. “I’m not preoccupied. Really, I’m—” You sucked in a sharp breath as Bucky’s lips dragged across your skin, teasingly slow. “I’m good,” you finished, sounding decidedly not good.

Bucky was a menace. You realized that with startling clarity. He was enjoying every second of this, too—the way your breath hitched, the way your shoulders stiffened when he kissed just behind your ear. If he’d come in loud and obvious, you could have pushed him away, shot him a glare, or at least excused yourself from the call. But this was worse. He was stealthy, methodical, lulling you into a trap with that soft voice, gentle kisses, and the faint scrape of his stubble against your neck.

And oh, you were definitely trapped.

“Let me guess,” Yelena said, suspicion in her tone, “Bucky’s there, isn’t he?”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Bucky took advantage of your silence, kissing a trail from the base of your neck up toward your jaw, each press of his lips making your heart pound harder.

"Uh,” you managed, “maybe.”

Yelena barked a laugh. “That’s a yes. Put me on speaker. I want to say hi.”

You stared at Bucky, who gave you a quizzical tilt of his head, as if to say What’s she saying? For a second, you debated whether or not to do as Yelena asked. If you put the call on speaker, she’d hear every little sound: the rustle of Bucky’s clothes against yours, the husky laughter you were certain would spill from his lips at any moment. But you couldn’t exactly refuse her, not without raising even more suspicion.

Reluctantly, you tapped the speaker icon. “Yelena, you’re on speaker,” you said, trying to sound composed. It was a losing battle.

“Barnes,” Yelena said, her tone mocking, “are you bothering my best friend again?”

Bucky cleared his throat. You felt the rumble of it against your back. “I wouldn’t call it bothering,” he said. His voice was low, smooth as silk. “I’m just showing her a little attention.”

You could practically see Yelena rolling her eyes. “She’s on the phone, you know. With me. Some people might say that’s rude.”

Bucky’s grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Rude, maybe,” he allowed, “but she’s been ignoring me all day. I had to get her attention somehow.”

You wanted to defend yourself, but the words lodged in your throat as Bucky nuzzled against the side of your neck again. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any embarrassing sounds.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Yelena said, her amusement obvious. “You’re tormenting her.”

Bucky’s lips curved into a smirk against your skin. “Torment’s a strong word.”

“That’s because it is torment,” you finally managed, your voice shaky. “He’s being insufferable.”

Bucky hummed. “You don’t sound too unhappy about it, doll.”

You could hear Yelena snort. “I’ll let you two figure this out. Call me back when Barnes isn’t acting like a cat in heat.”

You tried not to laugh, but the giggle bubbled up anyway, half from the absurdity of the situation, half from your own flustered state. “Okay, okay. Talk to you later.”

The moment you hung up, Bucky wasted no time. He spun you around in his arms so that you were facing him, your phone clutched tightly in one hand. He wore a cocky grin that made you want to kiss him and slap that grin away, all at once.

“You have the worst timing,” you scolded, although your voice trembled with laughter.

He shrugged, not the least bit repentant. “You looked too adorable not to bother.”

You tried to arch an eyebrow in disapproval, but your heart wasn’t in it. Not when Bucky was looking at you like that, with those soft eyes and that infuriatingly handsome smirk. “I was on the phone.”

He leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “I noticed.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you grumbled, but you didn’t pull away when he ducked his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

His hands settled on your hips, drawing you closer. “I learned from the best.”

Despite yourself, you melted into the kiss, letting the warmth of his body and the taste of his lips chase away your frustration. It was impossible to stay mad at him for long. Not when he kissed you like he was savoring every second.

When you finally pulled away, you were breathless. “I swear, you’re worse than Yelena sometimes.”

He laughed. “High praise.”

You tried to scowl, but the affection in his gaze made it impossible. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He pressed a playful kiss to the tip of your nose. “I’ll take it.”

Later, you found yourself curled up on the couch, scrolling through messages on your phone. Yelena had sent a few texts, each more teasing than the last. You alive? Surviving Barnes’s torment? You typed back a quick reply: Barely. But yes. Thanks for leaving me high and dry.

Bucky appeared in the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets. “Need any help fending off Yelena’s jokes?” he asked.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the one who gave her ammunition.”

He smirked, coming over to flop onto the couch beside you. “True. But I’m also the one who can help you forget about it.”

“Oh?” You arched a brow. “How exactly?”He reached out, plucking your phone from your hand. “By stealing your phone, for starters.” He tossed it onto the coffee table, far out of reach.

“Bucky!” You reached for it, but he caught your wrist, tugging you closer until you fell against his chest.

“You work too hard,” he said, settling you against him. “And you spend too much time on your phone. I’m just making sure you take a break.”

You snorted. “A break from Yelena’s teasing, or from your own mischief?”

He shrugged, running a hand up and down your arm. “Maybe both. Besides, I like having your full attention.”

“You had it in the kitchen,” you pointed out. “Remember? You nearly made me drop the phone.”

His smile widened, and you felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he laughed. “That was different. Now you can actually enjoy it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but his fingers slid beneath your chin, guiding you into a kiss. It was slow, deep, and achingly sweet, every bit of teasing replaced by genuine warmth. Your annoyance melted away, replaced by a comfortable haze that made you forget anything beyond the two of you.

When you finally broke apart, he traced a thumb across your cheek. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said softly, though there was still a playful glint in his eyes. “You know I can’t help it sometimes.”

You brushed your lips over his knuckles. “I know. And… I don’t actually mind.”

His grin turned lopsided. “You say that now, but wait until next time.”

You let out a mock groan, shoving him lightly. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Never,” he promised, though the twinkle in his gaze suggested otherwise.

A little while later, you found yourself in the kitchen again, rinsing dishes from a late lunch. Bucky hovered nearby, drying each plate you handed him. The domestic routine was soothing—until he decided to nudge you with his hip, nearly making you drop a fork.

“Seriously?” You glared at him, though you struggled to keep a straight face.

“What?” He feigned innocence. “My hand slipped.”

You snorted. “Sure it did.”

He set the plate aside, then stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against your back. You felt his breath on your neck again, and your heart kicked up a notch, recalling how he’d distracted you earlier. His lips grazed your ear.

“You’re adorable when you’re annoyed,” he murmured.

“Funny,” you replied, fighting a grin, “I was thinking you’re adorable when you’re not annoying me.”

He laughed quietly, nuzzling into your hair. “You still love me.”

With a soft sigh, you turned in his arms, letting the water run. “I do,” you admitted, resting your hands on his shoulders. “But you have to promise not to sabotage any more phone calls.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can promise to try.”

You knew that was the best you’d get. Rolling your eyes, you leaned in to kiss him, the warm press of his lips sending a pleasant hum through your body.

A sudden buzz echoed in the kitchen, and you both turned to see your phone vibrating on the counter. Yelena’s name flashed across the screen. Bucky grinned, lifting a brow. “Round two?”

You huffed, reaching for the phone. “Don’t you dare.”

He put his hands up in surrender, stepping aside with an exaggerated show of good behavior. You picked up the call, putting it on speaker before you could change your mind.

Yelena’s voice came through loud and clear. “Hey, troublemaker. You done making out with Barnes?”

Your cheeks flamed. “That was quick. And you’re the troublemaker.”

“Details, details,” she quipped. “Anyway, I was thinking about that recipe I mentioned earlier—”

“Oh, right. The spicy pickle challenge,” you said, glad to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

“Exactly. I need your help. I can’t figure out if I should make them into some kind of hot sauce, or if I should try a marinade. But I need to test it on someone who’s not me. You in?”

You glanced at Bucky, who mouthed, Absolutely not. Smirking, you replied, “Sure, why not?”

Yelena laughed. “Perfect. I’ll text you the details. And by the way, I’m bringing extra pickles so no old ladies can steal them from me.”

Bucky cleared his throat, stepping closer to the phone. “You’re not going to drag her into any fights, are you?”

“No promises,” Yelena shot back, then paused. “You being nice to her, Barnes? Or do I need to show up and save her?”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to you, a playful challenge in his eyes. “She doesn’t need rescuing from me.”

You decided to intervene before Yelena got any ideas. “Alright, enough bickering. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Fine,” she replied with a dramatic sigh. “But if he bugs you again, you call me.”

“Will do,” you said, rolling your eyes affectionately.

The call ended, and you braced yourself for another round of teasing, but Bucky just slipped his arms around your waist, looking surprisingly thoughtful. You looped your arms around his neck.

“You know,” he murmured, “I like seeing you happy. Even if it means occasionally getting on your nerves.” A warm flush spread through you. There was that sincerity again, the undercurrent of genuine care that anchored all his playful chaos. “You make me happy,” you said softly.

He brushed a stray hair from your face. “Good.”

That evening, you and Bucky ventured out for a walk. The late sunlight gilded the buildings, and a gentle breeze ruffled your hair. With your hands intertwined, the two of you wandered the streets, content to let the conversation flow.

He told you about his latest hobby—fixing up an old motorcycle he’d found cheap online—and you filled him in on Yelena’s plan to experiment with spicy recipes. Every so often, he’d nudge your shoulder or lean in to press a quick kiss to your temple, as if he couldn’t go too long without touching you.

Eventually, you ducked into a small corner café that you both loved. You ordered dessert first, justifying it with a laugh: “Life’s too short not to have cake for dinner.” Bucky agreed wholeheartedly, paying for your order and guiding you to a cozy table by the window.

Once seated, he studied you from across the table, fingers drumming idly on the surface. “So,” he said, “am I forgiven for earlier?”

You tilted your head. “I don’t know. You did cause me a lot of embarrassment in front of Yelena.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?”

“Maybe,” you replied, smiling. “Try it and see.”

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice that made your heart flutter. “For distracting you while you were on the phone.”

Your smile widened. “And?"

He reached across the table to take your hand. “And for enjoying it so much.”

You squeezed his hand, unable to keep the fondness out of your eyes. “Apology accepted, menace.”

The café door chimed, and a few more customers wandered in. You sipped your drink, relaxing in the warm atmosphere. Bucky kept your hand in his, occasionally rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

When your cake arrived, you split it, laughing as he stole the larger piece. He offered you a bite from his fork in apology, and you leaned forward, letting him feed you.

“Good?” he asked, eyes bright.

“Delicious,” you managed, savoring the sweetness.

He watched you with open admiration. “I like seeing you happy,” he repeated again, his voice softer now.

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I’m happy because I’m with you.”

He held your gaze, and for a moment, the rest of the world fell away. You saw the man beneath the mischief—the one who cared so deeply, who’d learned to laugh again despite the shadows of his past.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I never thought I’d have this. Someone to tease, someone who gives it right back. Someone whom i could becso free with.”

Your heart clenched with affection. “And now you do.”

He nodded, a slight smile on his lips. “Now I do.”

When you finally left the café, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in dusky blues and pinks. Bucky’s arm looped around your waist as you headed home, the city lights flickering on around you.

You strolled in comfortable silence until you reached your apartment. Once inside, you both kicked off your shoes and made a beeline for the couch. He settled in first, patting the cushion beside him in invitation.

“Come here,” he said, and you sank down, letting him pull you into his side.

He grabbed the remote, but instead of changing the broadcast, he clicked it off. The apartment went quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic through the window. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his steady breath.

After a moment, he turned to press a soft kiss to your temple. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“For what?”

“For this. For us.”

You smiled into his shirt. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

He tilted your chin up so you could meet his gaze. “I want to,” he said, and the quiet sincerity in his eyes made your chest tighten with emotion.

You reached up, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “Well, you’re welcome, then.”

He bent down, capturing your lips in a kiss that felt like a promise—of laughter, of mischief, of all the little moments that made up a life together. You let yourself sink into it, letting the warmth of his body and the softness of his mouth fill your senses.

Eventually, you both pulled back, breathless. He smoothed a hand over your hair, cradling you against him. “We should do something fun tomorrow,” he said. “Before you go help Yelena with her spicy pickles.”

You chuckled, snuggling closer. “Sure. But only if you behave the next time I’m on the phone.”

His laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’ll do my best, doll.” You didn’t quite believe him—but then again, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

In the end, Bucky was a whirlwind of affection and playfulness, and though you sometimes pretended to protest, you secretly relished every teasing moment. Because beneath the jokes and the stolen kisses, there was a profound sense of belonging that tied you together.

Bucky Barnes had faced down entire armies. He’d survived missions no man should’ve made it out of, stood toe-to-toe with monsters, and walked through fire more times than he could count. But none of that compared to this—to you. To your soft smiles, your gentle laughter, and your very specific brand of mischief. You didn’t need weapons or war to bring a super soldier to his knees.

You just needed one look.

That head tilt. That spark in your eyes. The way your lips would part in that little smile as you leaned in and said in the sweetest voice imaginable—

“Pretty please? With puppy dog eyes?”

He never stood a chance.

You didn’t abuse it. That was the most dangerous part. You only asked for little things. Cute things. Things that could never be considered a burden. And Bucky, well… he’d give you the moon if you asked. Hell, he was halfway to building a rocket when you offhandedly said once, “I wonder what sunrise looks like from space.”

It was a joke. A passing thought.

But Bucky remembered. Bucky always remembered.

The duck was his personal favorite.

It had started on a rainy afternoon, one of those slow, sleepy days where time seemed to stretch. You were in his hoodie, feet tucked into his lap on the couch, scrolling through videos on your phone while the sound of the storm tapped softly against the windows.

You gasped. “Oh my God.”

Bucky looked over, amused. “What?”

You turned the screen to him, pointing wildly. “LOOK at this duck. He’s wearing a sweater vest. This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. James. Look at his feet.”

Bucky squinted. “Huh. He’s fancy.”

“Fancy?!” you cried, clutching the phone. “He’s a whole gentleman. I would DIE for him.”

He chuckled, fingers drumming lightly along your shin. “Would you die for him… or want one of your own?”

You bit your lip. “Bucky, I am not asking you for a duck.”

He leaned back. “But you want one.”

You hesitated. Then…You folded your hands under your chin, your eyes impossibly wide and filled with longing. “Pretty please? With puppy dog eyes?”

He groaned, one hand dragging down his face as a grin crept in. “Not fair. That’s cheating.”

You beamed. “You love it.”

“I do,” he muttered, fully doomed.

Two days later, you opened the back door to the sight of a small, waddling creature in a tiny hand-crocheted sweater vest approaching the porch.

You blinked. “Is that—”

Bucky stood behind the duck, arms folded and entirely too pleased with himself. “His name is Sir Quacksalot. He likes strawberries. And cuddles.”

You gasped. “YOU GOT ME A DUCK?!”

He shrugged. “You said pretty please.”

Your squeal nearly shattered glass. You scooped the duck into your arms and spun around like you’d just won the lottery. “This is the best day of my LIFE.”

Bucky leaned against the railing, watching you coo over your new feathery friend. His chest felt warm—like some part of him had been waiting his whole life to see you this happy.

There was nothing he wouldn’t give you. No wish too silly. No ask too big.

At least, that’s what he thought—until you stopped asking.

It started subtly.

You still smiled at him, still kissed his cheek while he made coffee in the morning, still called him your “Bucky bear” when you wanted to make him blush (which always worked). But you weren’t asking anymore. Not for little things. Not even for something as simple as “can we make pancakes for dinner?” or “let’s take the long way home.”

At first, Bucky didn’t notice. Life got busy. He assumed it was just a lull, something fleeting. But after a week, then two, his chest began to tighten with something like worry.

You still looked happy. But it was quieter. Softer. More... reserved.

He started paying more attention. How your “thank yous” came with a hesitance. How you’d say, “You didn’t have to do all this,” a little too often. How your smile would falter sometimes when he gave you something, even as you hugged him and said you loved it.

And then one night, while you were asleep curled up in his arms, Bucky got up to grab a blanket—and his eyes landed on your notebook.

He wasn’t looking to snoop. He’d seen you scribble in it before—little doodles, grocery lists, the occasional poem or recipe. But this time, a page had slipped out slightly, catching his eye.

He picked it up.

And his heart stopped.

A sketch. A rough pencil drawing of a cabin. Trees. A porch swing. Notes scribbled in the margins.

String lights here?

Big fireplace with that armchair I love.

Waking up to snow. Coffee in mismatched mugs. Just us.

Then, the words that made his breath catch:

“Somewhere far enough to breathe. Somewhere I can wake up with him and feel like the world is still.”

You hadn’t shown this to him.

You hadn’t asked.

And he knew—instantly, gut-deep—that you’d wanted this more than anything. But you’d stopped asking because you didn’t want to seem like you were asking for too much. As if he hadn’t already given you his heart, his home, his soul.

Bucky closed the notebook gently.

And called in a few favors.

You were already suspicious when he drove you out of the city and wouldn’t tell you why. The trees grew thicker, the air cooler, and your eyes narrowed with every passing mile.

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “If this is a murder cabin, I swear—”

He snorted. “Trust me. You’re gonna like it.”

When he pulled off onto a narrow gravel path, your heart began to thud. And then you saw it.

The porch swing. The twinkling lights. The tall trees surrounding the cabin in quiet serenity, the kind of calm you only ever dreamed of.

Your hand flew to your mouth. “No way,” you whispered.

Bucky stepped out of the car and rounded to your door, pulling it open gently. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You stepped out, staring at the cabin like it might vanish if you blinked. “How did you—?”

“I found your notebook.” You froze.

“I wasn’t snooping. Just saw the page,” he said softly. “And I thought… if you won’t ask for it, I’m just gonna make it happen anyway.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t ask because it felt… like too much. You already do so much for me.”

He cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was touching something precious. “There’s no such thing as ‘too much’ when it comes to you. You want it? It’s already yours.”

Tears stung your eyes.

He pulled you into his chest and held you there for a long time, his chin resting against your head, his heart thundering against your ear.

“I love you,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “And I love you more than I’ve ever known how to say.”

That night, you sat on the porch with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, Bucky behind you, his arms around your waist as you sipped hot cocoa in one of your mismatched mugs.The stars were clear. The world was still.

Sir Quacksalot waddled across the porch in another ridiculous sweater (Bucky had packed a whole duffel bag of duck outfits, because of course he had).

And you leaned back into the arms of a man who would burn down the world just to see you smile.

He kissed your shoulder, then whispered against your skin, “You never have to ask, doll. If it matters to you… it already matters to me.”

You pull the blanket higher across your lap and close your eyes. The air is gentle against your skin—sun-warmed, kind. A good day for remembering.

You almost don’t notice when the chair beside you shifts.

At first, it’s the sound of someone sitting—simple, familiar—but then there’s that stillness. That pause in the air, like the world is waiting for your next breath before it dares to take its own.

“Hi, doll.”

Your eyes flutter open.

He’s there.

Bucky Barnes.

Exactly as he was the day you said goodbye on the Brooklyn docks. Hair slicked, uniform pressed, that smile—the one that always hit you like sunlight after rain.

For a moment, you think your mind’s playing tricks. You’ve seen him before, in dreams and memories. Sometimes you’d wake calling his name, the echo fading into the sterile hum of the room.

But this is different. His gloved hand reaches for yours, and it’s warm. Real. Steady.

“Buck?” you whisper, voice catching. “Is it really you?”

His smile softens. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

You laugh—small and shaky, half joy, half disbelief. “Took you long enough.”

He chuckles, brushing his thumb over your hand. “Traffic was hell.”

The laugh turns into a sob before you can stop it. You reach for his face, trace the line of his jaw, the faint shadow of stubble. You expect your fingers to pass through air. They don’t.

He leans into your touch, eyes glassy. “God, I missed you.”

They let you walk the gardens together. You take small steps, slower than you used to, and he matches every one, his metal arm hidden beneath his jacket, his other hand steady at your elbow. The nurse thinks he’s your grandson. You don’t correct her.

The hydrangeas are blooming along the fence line, pale blue like the summer you met him. You stop to touch the petals, paper-thin and trembling in the breeze.

“You remember the boardwalk?” you ask. “How you kept trying to win me that stuffed bear, but you couldn’t hit the bottles to save your life?”

Bucky grins. “I let you win, sweetheart. Didn’t want to bruise the ego of the prettiest dame in Brooklyn.”

You snort. “You were a terrible liar even back then.”

His laughter folds into something quiet. “I remember everything. Every time I close my eyes, I see you standing on that dock. Waving.” His voice tightens. “I never stopped looking.”

You squeeze his hand. “You found me anyway.”

“Too late,” he murmurs.

“Never too late,” you correct gently. “We just took the long way around.”

Sometimes, when the sun dips low and the shadows grow long across the garden path, you talk about the missing years.

He tells you about the cold metal table, the decades of silence between memories, the ghosts that never stopped whispering. You listen, thumb tracing idle patterns over the back of his hand until the tremor in his voice steadies.

Then you tell him about your life—brief and ordinary and beautiful. The bakery you ran, the nieces you spoiled, the war memorial you visited every year. How you never married. How every man after him seemed to fade when compared to a boy from Brooklyn with laughing eyes and grease on his knuckles.

“I used to think you’d hate me,” you admit once. “For moving on. For getting old without you.”

He stops walking. “Never.”

“Even if I forgot pieces of you along the way?”

He cups your cheek, thumb brushing the soft wrinkles there. “You remembered the important parts.”

Autumn comes. The trees outside your window turn gold and red, and every day Bucky arrives with a thermos of tea and a newspaper he never really reads. He sits by your side as the hours drift, listening to old records, his hand always finding yours.

Some nights, you wake and see him asleep in the chair, head tipped against the wall, fingers still tangled with yours. He doesn’t look like a man out of time then—just someone who’s finally stopped running.

You start to think maybe that’s what love is, after all these years. Not the rush of youth or the promises made beneath fireworks, but the quiet act of showing up—even when the world said you shouldn’t have survived each other.

Winter morning.

The world outside is silver, silent. You can feel it in your bones—the pull of rest.

Bucky’s there, sitting on the edge of your bed. He looks the same as always, but his eyes give him away—red-rimmed, shining with something he can’t hide.

You reach for him, your hand smaller than it once was, frail but still sure. “Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he breathes back.

“You okay?”

He lets out a shaky laugh. “You’re asking me that?”

You smile. “Old habits die hard.”

He leans closer until his forehead rests against yours. “You don’t have to fight anymore, sweetheart. You can rest.”

“I’m not afraid,” you tell him. “Not when you’re here.”

Bucky’s thumb traces a circle over your pulse. “I’ll be right here. Always.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You close your eyes. The hum of the world fades until all that’s left is the warmth of his hand and the sound of his voice, low and steady, humming a tune you haven’t heard in seventy years.

The one he used to sing before he shipped out.

They find him hours later, still sitting there, her hand cradled in both of his, the faintest smile on her face.

He doesn’t move for a long time. When he finally does, it’s to press a kiss to her forehead and whisper something no one catches.

Later that night, he walks through the garden alone, the snow falling in slow spirals. He looks up at the stars—cold, endless—and swears he sees her there, young again, laughing on the boardwalk, reaching for him.

He smiles back.

Maybe, somewhere beyond the years and the war and the weight of time, she’s waiting.

Who the hell names their kid Dean? And what kind of man makes you giggle like that? He doesn’t want to ask. No, that would sound insecure. You’d think he’s ridiculous. Maybe even… dump him. So he just swallows it down.

Except it festers.

So Bucky decides he’ll win you over the old-fashioned way. Brings home that apple pie from the bakery you’ve been eyeing, the one you swore “looked just like something out of Supernatural.” He figures maybe this’ll remind you who’s real. Who’s here.

But when he walks into the tower, pie box in hand, he doesn’t find you waiting in his room. Or sprawled on the couch.

No. You’re in your own room. Door cracked open. Giggling with Peter.

About. Dean.

That’s it. He snaps.

The door bangs against the wall when he pushes it open. “Who the hell is Dean?!”

You and Peter both jolt, wide-eyed. Peter’s halfway through explaining some monster-of-the-week nonsense, but Bucky barrels right over him.

“You’ve been laughing about this guy for days! Talking about him like he’s God’s gift to the world! And I—” he cuts himself off, jaw clenching. His hand tightens around the pie box until it creaks. “I just—what the hell does he have that I don’t?”

You stare. Blink. Then blink again. “…Bucky. Are you jealous of Dean Winchester?”

“Win—what?!” He bristles. “So he’s real? He’s got some dumbass last name too?”

Peter bursts out laughing, which doesn’t help. “Mr. Barnes, Dean Winchester’s a fictional character. From a TV show.”

Bucky freezes. Stares at you. Then at Peter. Then back at you. “…A what?”

You can’t help it—you dissolve into laughter. “Oh my god, Buck, you thought—? Babe, he’s not real. He’s played by an actor. On TV.”

The tension in his shoulders melts into sheepish embarrassment. “So… you’ve just been laughing at some… made-up guy.”

“Yes,” you grin, still breathless from laughing. “Made-up guy. Fake. Not real. Definitely not competition.”

Bucky exhales, mutters something under his breath, then finally holds out the pie box. “…Brought you this. Real pie. From a real bakery. By your real boyfriend.”

You melt instantly, standing to kiss him on the cheek. “That’s why I love you, Bucky Barnes.”

Peter, trying not to laugh again, pipes up: “So… does this mean you don’t wanna binge Supernatural with us tonight?”

Bucky groans.