I’m bored in a house

You lasted one night before Hydra came.

The next day, another rift opened in the city. This time, it was right in the middle of Manhattan.

You woke instantly, back rigid, ears ringing with a sound you knew too well. You were being held inside a cell, but you’ve lived through enough of this to know that this won’t end well. 

You watched as squadrons of agents rushed out of the compound. You shouted after them, voice slicing through the chaos.

“They’ll hit you where you’re blind! They’ll attack the smaller areas first!”

They ignored you. Of course they did.

But Steve didn’t. He appeared outside your cell, shield already strapped to his arm. His eyes locked on yours through the glass.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve bled through it!” You slammed your palm against the barrier. “Open this door or start digging graves.”

Hesitation flickered, but only for a second. He keyed the lock.

The moment the glass slid back, you grabbed your shield and ran.

The city shook under the assault. Hydra soldiers spilled from the shadows, armor sleeker and more advanced than anything you’d see in this world. You cut through them like the blade you’d been forged into, efficient, merciless. Steve covered civilians, deflecting bullets with wide, defensive arcs.

He shouted over the chaos. “Don’t kill them!”

You pivoted, shield crushing a soldier’s throat. “You hesitate, people die!”

“And if we become them—”

“We already did!”

The words ripped out of you sharper than steel. His face faltered, just for a breath, and in that breath another soldier nearly flanked him. You moved without thinking, shield slicing down, saving his blind spot.

You met his gaze for the briefest second. Then turned away.

The argument crackled across the comms even as the fight raged. Hydra’s weapons burned, their strategy unnervingly precise. You cut through them without remorse. Steve saved civilians, slowing you down. To him, you looked reckless. To you, he looked weak.

But somewhere in the middle, your movements started to sync. His shield covered you when you advanced. Your blade cleared the path when he pulled people to safety. It was infuriating… and effective.

When the last Hydra soldier vanished through the collapsing rift, Strange sealed it tight with a desperate chant. The silence that followed was broken only by heavy breathing.

You wiped your shield on your ruined uniform, jaw tight. “That wasn’t your Hydra.”

Steve’s voice was steady, but his eyes searched yours. “Yours?”

“Oh yeah,” you said flatly. “And if they’ve made it here, this world isn’t ready for what’s coming.”

No one argued. They didn’t need to.

Back at the compound, the Avengers gathered in the briefing room. The map lit up with reports of Hydra sightings, red dots multiplying. Strange folded his hands behind his back, voice clipped. “The multiverse is bleeding. Her Hydra is growing teeth because it’s trying to do what our Hydra couldn’t. If we don’t stop this, they’ll consume both worlds.”

The team’s eyes turned to you.

You bristled under their stares, clutching the strap of your shield tighter. “Don’t look at me like that. You think I wanted them here?”

Tony muttered, “Well, you did bring your own bag of problems through customs.”

“Tony,” Bruce warned.

Sam leaned forward, voice steadier. “Look, if Hydra’s making moves this big, we’re gonna need every shield we can get.”

Nat’s gaze lingered on you, assessing. “But can we trust her not to break when it counts?”

You met her eyes, unflinching. “I didn’t break when my world fell apart. I’m still here.”

For once, Steve spoke up. “Then we fight together.”

It should have meant nothing. But the way he said it, steady, unyielding, certain, lit something in your chest you hated.

The first mission with them was chaos. Orders collided, voices overlapped. Steve told the team to hold the line; you told them to push forward. He called for restraint; you went for the kill. By the end, Hydra was scattered, the facility burning, but the Avengers were bleeding frustration.

Back at the compound, Tony threw his helmet down. “Never again. Two captains on the same field is one too many.”

Nat smirked. “Could be worse. At least they haven’t actually killed each other yet.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at you. “Yet being the key word.”

And from that night forward, Fury insisted you fight with them. Like it or not, you were the only one who knew Hydra’s playbook.

You didn’t argue. But as Steve’s gaze lingered on you from across the room—measuring, weighing, silently demanding answers. You felt the heat of fire again, burning just beneath your skin.

Only this time, it had nothing to do with the rift.

———

That night, you didn’t sleep.

The room they gave you was too clean, too quiet. Your own world’s silence had always meant danger, the lull before another Hydra patrol stormed through the streets. Here, the stillness was soft. Oppressive in a different way.

You sat on the edge of the bed with your shield across your lap, fingers tracing the broken star. It felt strange to be surrounded by people who weren’t trying to kill you, or worse, claim you.

There was a knock. Soft, hesitant.

“Come in,” you said without looking up.

Bucky stepped inside. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.

“You don’t know me,” he said, voice careful, steady. “But I think I know what you see when you look at me.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to smirk. “You think you’re a mind reader, Barnes?”

“No. Just… I’ve seen that look before. Back when I was still Hydra’s weapon.” His jaw flexed. “It’s the look of someone who’s lost me.”

The words cut like glass. You swallowed hard and looked away. “You were the last thing I had worth fighting for. And they took you. Hydra made sure of it.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything Hydra could have thrown at you. For a moment, you thought you might break. But then Bucky only nodded, slow and respectful, before backing out of the room. He didn’t push. Didn’t demand more.

When the door closed, you let out the breath you’d been holding. You hadn’t spoken your Bucky’s name out loud in years.

And it hurt.

——

By morning, Natasha dragged you to the gym.

“You’ll adjust faster if you test your limits here,” she said, already tying her hair back.

You arched a brow. “You offering, Romanoff?”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “Unless you’re scared.”

You laughed, short, sharp before stripping down to your undershirt. The sparring mat felt alien beneath your boots.

Natasha struck first. Fast. You blocked, swung, countered. She moved like water; you moved like fire. Within minutes, you had her pinned, your forearm at her throat, her wrist twisted behind her back.

For a heartbeat, you almost tightened your hold. Muscle memory urged it. End the fight, secure the kill.

But Natasha just smirked up at you, utterly unfazed. “Not bad,” she rasped. “You fight like you don’t care if you get hurt.”

You shoved off, stepping back. “I don’t.”

“Mm.” She rolled her shoulders and stood. “That’s the problem.”

Steve had been watching from the doorway. He said nothing, but you caught the crease in his brow, the faint disapproval he never bothered to hide.

Training became the battlefield for your unresolved war.

Steve fought clean, disciplined, precise. You fought dirty. Every spar ended with bruises and barbed words.

One afternoon, you pinned him to the mat, shield pressing hard into his chest. He strained, gritting his teeth.

“Thought you didn’t like fighting dirty,” he rasped.

“I don’t like losing.”

Your faces hovered close for a breath too long before you shoved off, leaving him sprawled.

Sam, watching from the sidelines, muttered, “That was practically third base.”

Steve flushed. You ignored him, though your ears burned.

Later, in the library, you caught Steve poring over an old war manual. You leaned against a shelf, arms crossed. “Still reading Sun Tzu like it’s gospel?”

He glanced up. “And you don’t?”

“I prefer Machiavelli.”

He shut the book with a snap. “Figures.”

——

Hydra didn’t stop.

They had resurfaced in a warehouse outside Newark, and Strange confirmed the tech matched your world’s designs. You suited up with the others, feeling their eyes on you as you strapped your battered shield to your arm.

You hated how familiar it felt. The sound of their boots pounding pavement, the cut of their voices barking in German through comms… your Hydra, invading this cleaner world. You hated it, but part of you burned with grim satisfaction too. At least here, you weren’t the only one fighting them anymore.

But fighting with Steve was unbearable.

The next mission was a Hydra weapons cache on the outskirts of Prague. Clean, simple, in and out, at least, that’s what Steve said.

You’d barely touched down before things started to fall apart.

“Sam, take the north entrance. Nat, flank from the east,” Steve ordered over comms, voice sharp, practiced. “Everyone else hold position until—”

“Or,” you cut in, already sprinting forward, “we hit them before they can regroup. Hydra doesn’t wait politely while we strategize.”

“Hey!” Steve’s voice cracked in your earpiece as your shield smashed into the first guard, dropping him like a stone. “You can’t just—”

“I just did,” you shot back, raising your shield to deflect incoming fire. “Move your team, Rogers, or get out of my way.”

A low growl of frustration cut through the comms. Then, “Avengers, adjust. Cover her.”

Bullets ricocheted around you, Hydra soldiers pouring from the compound. You moved like a storm, shield cutting arcs of violence, body remembering the rhythm of a thousand battles.

Behind you, Steve barked orders, his team shifting, falling into place with him. But where he told them to pin down, you told them to advance. Where he ordered restraint, you struck to end the fight.

“Nat, don’t kill him—” Steve started.

“Too late,” you muttered, your shield cracking into a soldier’s jaw.

“Are you kidding me?” Steve’s voice thundered across the comms. “These are assets, not bodies. We need intel!”

“Intel doesn’t matter if they regroup and blast us out of the sky!” you snarled back, slamming a Hydra trooper into the wall hard enough to rattle the foundation.

Sam’s voice crackled in the comms, wry even through the chaos. “Gotta say, Rogers, watching you argue with yourself is wild.”

“Not helping, Sam!” Steve snapped.

Tony swooped overhead, blasting a turret to pieces. “Oh, I don’t know, Cap. I think it’s hilarious. This is like divorced parents fighting in front of the kids. Which one of you do I call mommy?”

“Neither,” you and Steve barked in unison, which only made Tony cackle harder.

The battle raged. You caught glimpses of Steve in action, shield flashing, jaw set, fighting clean. Too clean. He pulled his punches. You didn’t. And every time you looked at him, it burned.

When the dust settled, the Hydra facility was in flames, their forces routed. But instead of triumph, the air crackled with tension.

You ripped off your comm, throwing it down in the dirt. “You’re too slow, Rogers. Too careful. Hydra doesn’t give a damn about your rules. They’ll bury you with them.”

Steve turned, dirt and blood streaking his face, but his voice steady. “And you’re reckless. You think winning is just about body counts. That’s not how we do things here.”

You stepped closer, chest heaving. “That’s why you’ll lose.”

The team hovered nearby, uncomfortably silent. Natasha raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Sam exchanged a look with Bucky, who just crossed his arms. Tony muttered, “I give this about a week before one of them throws the other through a wall.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t.”

“Stand down,” Steve barked at you, voice rising.

You met his glare head-on. “Make me.”

The words hung there, heavy, electric.

It took Nat stepping between you both, calm but iron in her tone. “Enough. We can’t afford this right now. Hydra’s not gone, and you two measuring shields isn’t going to win the war.”

You broke the stare first, yanking your shield back onto your arm and walking away. But the fury in your chest didn’t cool, it only sharpened.

The debrief had been a disaster.

Steve stood tall in the conference room, explaining the tactical value of capturing rather than killing, while you leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp as knives. The team split their gazes between you both, like kids caught in the middle of a shouting match they weren’t invited to.

“Intel could’ve given us leads on the next base,” Steve pressed, tone measured but tight.

“Dead soldiers don’t regroup,” you shot back, your voice flat.

“And live ones can talk.”

“Hydra doesn’t talk.”

The room went quiet.

Natasha’s eyes flicked between you two, unreadable. Bruce shifted in his chair, muttering something under his breath about stress hormones. Sam exhaled hard, like he was trying not to laugh at the absurdity. Steve’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Fury broke the tension by dismissing everyone.

Later, you caught Bucky’s gaze from across the hall. He didn’t look away.

It was Bucky who found you again. This time in the gym, long after midnight. You were pounding a heavy bag, fists bloodied, sweat dripping down your temple.

“You don’t sleep much either, huh?” His voice was quiet, almost cautious.

You didn’t turn. “Sleep’s for people who don’t wake up to nightmares.”

“You’re going to break your hands,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

“I’ve broken worse.”

He stepped closer, offering a towel. You hesitated, then took it.

“You look at me like you’re not sure if I’m real,” he said quietly.

You froze. “Maybe I’m not sure.”

Bucky studied you, unreadable. “What was I like? In your world.”

For a second, you wanted to lie. To tell him he wouldn’t want to know. But the silence stretched, and the words forced themselves out anyway.

“You were my anchor,” you said, voice low. “The reason I kept going when everything else burned. Hydra took over everything—governments, cities, lives. They turned the world into a machine. And me? I fought until there was nothing left of me to fight with.”

You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor. “But you… you were the one thing that kept me from giving up. Until Hydra broke you. They strapped you into a chair, wiped you clean, and sent you after me. And when I couldn’t save you, when I had to—” Your breath caught, sharp, and you pressed your fingers against the star on your shield. “When I had to kill you to stop them… that’s when something inside me finally cracked. Hydra didn’t just take you. They took me, too. What’s left is this.”

The confession hung heavy in the night air.

Bucky didn’t speak for a long moment. His eyes softened, shadowed with a pain that wasn’t entirely his. “I’m sorry,” he murmured at last.

You forced a humorless smile. “You’re not him.”

“No,” he agreed, steady. “But I know what it’s like to lose yourself. To think you’re gone for good. Steve… he doesn’t get that. He still believes in people like we’re not broken past fixing. Pisses me off sometimes. But it’s the reason I made it back at all.”

You blinked against the tightness in your chest. “You sound like him. Like my Bucky back home.”

“Guess some things don’t change across universes.”

He left you to the night after that. But the weight in your chest lingered, heavy and sharp, long after his footsteps faded.

And for the first time since you arrived, you let yourself rest your head against the punching bag and close your eyes.

Just for a moment.

The next morning, the compound felt tighter somehow, as if the walls themselves had registered the fight neither you nor Steve wanted to acknowledge. The rest of the team carried on as usual, but their eyes kept flicking between the two of you like they were waiting for someone to light a match.

Breakfast was unbearable. Sam was halfway through pouring syrup over his waffles when Steve sat down across from you.

“You didn’t finish the mission report,” he said, quiet, measured.

You stabbed your fork into your eggs. “Maybe because I was busy doing the actual mission while you were trying to kidnap Hydra agents for intel.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Oof. Too early for this.”

Nat, without looking up from her coffee, murmured, “It’s never too early.”

Bruce muttered, “Would be nice if at least one day didn’t end with cortisol spikes.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “It’s called strategy. You’d know if you—”

You slammed your fork down, the sound sharp against the table. “If I what, Rogers? If I hadn’t spent the last decade clawing through the ruins of my world, trying to stop Hydra from turning it into their personal playground? You don’t get to talk to me about strategy.”

The room went silent.

Tony leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Okay, this is my favorite soap opera. I’m just waiting for one of you to kiss the other mid-argument. Save us all the tension headaches.”

You glared. “Not in a million years.”

Steve shot back instantly. “That makes two of us.”

The denial was too sharp, too fast. Nat’s lips twitched like she was hiding a smile.

“Uh-huh,” Sam drawled. “Sure.”

You pushed back from the table before anyone else could add fuel, shield in hand. “I’m going for a run.”

—

Hydra didn’t wait long to make their next move. By evening, Strange had tracked a surge of energy signatures to the outskirts of Berlin. Hydra Prime, the twisted version from your world, was advancing faster than expected.

“Looks like your fan club’s growing,” Tony said, scanning the holographic display.

You crossed your arms. “They’re not after me. They’re after power. Order. The kind of world they think they can carve out of yours.”

“Fun,” Sam muttered.

Steve stood at your side, arms folded, watching the data scroll past. “We need to contain this. Cut them off before they establish a foothold.”

“No,” you said immediately. “We burn it out. Root and stem. If you leave even one base standing, they spread.”

“They’re people,” Steve countered.

“They’re Hydra,” you snapped.

“And some of them might have a choice—”

That was it. You turned, anger sharp and uncontained. “Choice? You think Hydra’s about choice? You think those bastards gave me one when they slaughtered my team? When they executed civilians in front of me to prove a point? They don’t stop, Rogers. Not because of mercy. Not because of second chances. They stop when they’re dead.”

The silence was suffocating.

Bruce finally broke it. “I’m… gonna go prep the quinjet.”

Natasha murmured, “Good call.”

The room slowly emptied, leaving only you and Steve glaring at each other across the table. His expression wasn’t righteous anymore. It was… wounded. But you couldn’t let yourself look too long. Not when every part of him reminded you of hope you’d buried.

——

The quinjet touched down just outside Berlin, cloaked in the shadows of a half-collapsed industrial park. Hydra Prime had dug in deep, using an abandoned freight yard as their base. From above, it looked like ants swarming: rows of soldiers, vehicles bristling with weapons, the faint shimmer of energy shielding their perimeter.

“Hydra Prime,” you muttered, gripping your shield. “Always hiding in the bones of dead cities.”

Steve stepped up beside you, studying the layout. “Then let’s make sure this is the last graveyard they build.”

You didn’t answer, jaw tight.

Natasha crouched near the edge, binoculars up. “They’ve got heavy artillery lining the north. If we go in loud, we’ll get shredded before we make it ten feet.”

“So we don’t go in loud,” Steve said.

You scoffed. “They already know we’re coming. Loud is the only language Hydra understands.”

Sam raised a brow. “You two ever agree on anything?”

Tony’s voice crackled in the comms from above, piloting overwatch. “Nope. And it’s adorable. Now focus before Berlin turns into fireworks.”

The plan, if you could call it that, dissolved the moment you hit the ground. Hydra’s scouts spotted you instantly, and the night exploded with gunfire and shouting.

You charged first, shield raised, taking out two soldiers with brutal efficiency. Steve was at your side a second later, shield deflecting a barrage of bullets. For a heartbeat, the rhythm almost worked. Until it didn’t.

“Left flank!” Steve shouted, gesturing.

“I’ve got it,” you snapped, already barreling forward.

But so did he. The two of you collided mid-strike, shields clanging, just long enough for a Hydra soldier to fire off a rocket that tore through the building behind you.

“Damn it, Rogers!” you snarled, shoving forward. “Stay out of my way.”

“You’re the one cutting across my line,” he shot back, breathless.

Over the comms, Sam’s exasperated groan was loud. “Oh my god, you two are gonna kill us before Hydra does.”

Bucky, cutting down a Hydra soldier with a swift strike, barked, “Eyes on the fight, not each other!”

You and Steve broke apart just as a new wave of Hydra soldiers poured in, energy rifles glowing ominously.

You dropped low, sliding under their fire, shield striking out to take three down in one brutal sweep. Steve, ever the idealist even in the middle of a war zone, called out, “Don’t kill them if you don’t have to!”

Your laugh was sharp, humorless. “You always have to.”

He grabbed your arm mid-spin, forcing you to face him. Even with bullets flying, he had the nerve to lock eyes, voice low and insistent. “If you kill them all, you’re no better than them.”

You wrenched free, fury boiling over. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t made peace with that already.”

The rage in your voice carried enough weight that even Hydra soldiers hesitated for a split second. It was enough for Natasha to cut them down and for Sam to sweep overhead, blasting the rest back.

“Friendly reminder,” Sam grunted over the comms, “still in the middle of a war zone.”

The battlefield became a blur. You fought like someone with nothing left to lose. Steve fought like someone trying to save everyone, even the enemy. And every time your paths crossed, sparks flew, both literal and not.

At one point, a Hydra brute tackled Steve, pinning him hard against the concrete. Instinct overrode everything else. You tore through three soldiers to reach him, shield slamming into the brute’s spine until he went down.

For a heartbeat, Steve’s wide eyes met yours, shock flickering there. You almost said something. Almost. But instead you turned away, cutting into the next wave of Hydra soldiers with a snarl.

When the dust finally cleared, the freight yard was a wreck of twisted metal and smoking ruins. Hydra’s forces had retreated into the shadows, but you knew this was only a front. The real war was coming.

Breathless, you wiped blood from your cheek, standing amid the wreckage. Steve stepped toward you, shield dragging slightly at his side.

“You risked yourself back there,” he said, voice quiet, almost accusing.

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself, Rogers. I was just making sure Hydra didn’t win another inch.”

But even you didn’t quite believe it.

Behind you, Natasha and Sam exchanged a look, silent but smug. Bucky only shook his head, muttering, “You two are exhausting.”

And Tony’s voice, tinny but grinning in everyone’s ears, “I swear, this is better than cable.”

The compound was quiet when you slipped out onto the balcony that night. Quiet, but not calm. Berlin still burned in your memory, the roar of artillery, the clash of shields, the way Steve’s eyes had caught yours in that split second after you’d saved him. You didn’t know which was worse: the anger, or the flicker of something else.

You gripped the railing, staring out at the dark treeline beyond the compound, trying to let the cool air strip the heat from your chest.

“You’re wound tight enough to snap.”

You didn’t flinch. Heavy footsteps gave him away long before he appeared, slipping into view like a shadow made flesh. Bucky leaned against the railing beside you, hair tied back, expression unreadable.

“You keeping tabs on me now?” you asked, voice sharp.

“Someone has to,” he replied evenly.

For a while, silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Bucky had a way of waiting you out, he’d learned patience in the hardest ways. Finally, he asked, “Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Save him. Rogers. Back there.” His gaze flicked toward you, keen and searching.

You exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “Because letting Hydra crush him would’ve made things worse. For everyone.”

“Uh-huh.” He tilted his head. “That all?”

You turned on him, glare sharp. “What do you want me to say, Buck? That I suddenly care about your golden boy? That I’m softening? Don’t kid yourself, I still hate him.”

But Bucky didn’t bite. He studied you the way only someone who’d lived through decades of violence could, with an eye for fractures, for hairline cracks in the armor.

“You fight like someone who’s already lost everything,” he said finally. “But the way you looked at him? That wasn’t just hate.”

The words landed like a punch you hadn’t braced for.

Your voice came out harsher than you intended. “You don’t know me.”

“Then tell me.”

And damn him, you did.

Your hand tightened on the railing as you spoke, low and unsteady. “I carried the shield in my world. There was no Rogers. No one else to share the load. Every time Hydra rose, it was me they looked at to stop them. And every time I failed, it was me who buried the bodies. Friends. Teammates. Civilians. My… my Bucky.” The words cracked, raw and unguarded. “They got to him because he was trying to buy us time. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Bucky was silent for a long time. His metal fingers tapped once against the rail, the sound soft in the night air. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. And you knew he meant it.

You let out a bitter laugh. “I think you like to apologize for things that weren’t your fault.” 

Bucky didn’t reply, but looked at you with a sad smile.

You shook your head. “Sorry doesn’t change it. Nothing does.”

He studied you, eyes shadowed. “So what, you punish yourself forever? Or punish Steve because he’s the version of you that got lucky?”

That hit too close. You turned away, gripping the shield at your side like it might anchor you. “Who said anything about punishing him?”

Bucky didn’t argue. He just let the words hang, sharp and jagged in the night. Finally, he said, “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re stuck in the same fight now.”

You laughed bitterly. “You sound like a damn therapist.”

He smirked faintly. “Been through enough to know when someone’s lying to themselves.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was almost… steadying.

Bucky pushed off the rail, heading back inside. But before the door shut behind him, he said, “Goodnight, Cap.”

The door clicked closed, leaving you alone with the night, your shield, and the gnawing truth you refused to face.

The next mission came too soon. Hydra Prime was pushing again, testing borders with precision that reminded you too much of the world you’d left behind. Strange had tracked an energy surge to a weapons lab hidden beneath the ruins of an old government building on the edge of Warsaw.

It should’ve been a straightforward raid: breach, secure, dismantle. But Hydra was never straightforward.

The fight tore through the crumbling halls, Hydra soldiers swarming like shadows. You moved like a blade, shield carving through the chaos with ruthless precision. Steve was always two steps away, covering, countering,  sometimes with you, sometimes against you.

It all blurred until you saw it, a Hydra soldier, wounded, crawling backward into the corner of a shattered hallway. His hand fumbled with something on his belt.

You knew what it was before you saw the gleam.

“Grenade!” you shouted.

Time folded in on itself. You surged forward, shield raised, intent on ending it before it could cost anyone their life. But Steve was faster.

“Wait!”

You watched in disbelief as he shoved past you, interposing himself between the soldier and the team. “Drop it!” Steve barked, shield raised, voice commanding. “You don’t have to do this!”

Your blood ran cold.

The Hydra soldier’s eyes were wild, fanatical. He pulled the pin.

You lunged. Too late.

The explosion ripped the hall apart. Stone and fire swallowed the space, shoving you back into the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. For a second there was only ringing silence and smoke.

When it cleared, Steve stood hunched in the wreckage, shield blackened, blood streaming down the side of his face. The soldier lay crumpled and unmoving.

“Are you out of your damn mind?!” you roared, shoving off the wall and storming toward him.

Steve barely had time to straighten before you shoved at his chest, fury shaking your hands. “He had a live grenade and you tried to talk him down? Do you have a death wish? Or are you just that naive?”

Steve’s voice was strained, but his tone held. “There was a chance—”

“No!” you snapped, voice echoing through the hall. “There was no chance! That wasn’t a man to save, that was an enemy! And your hesitation nearly got us all killed!”

Sam’s voice came over the comms, tentative. “Uh, guys—”

“Stay out of this!” you and Steve barked in unison.

Your hands shook as you pointed at him, chest heaving. “You walk around with that shield and those speeches about mercy like the world bends to your will. It doesn’t. It chews people up. It eats them alive. And when you hesitate, when you think you can redeem monsters like that, you won’t have to pay for it. Your team does.”

Steve’s jaw was tight, eyes burning. “Maybe you forgot what the shield stands for. It’s not just a weapon. It’s a promise. If we give up on that, on even the possibility of saving someone, then what the hell are we fighting for?”

You laughed bitterly, the sound raw. “I didn’t forget what it stands for. I lived it. I carried it. And I watched the world burn anyway. So don’t you dare stand there, bleeding all over the floor, and lecture me about promises. Promises don’t stop Hydra. Promises don’t bring the dead back.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting. The others hovered on the edges, tense, unwilling to step in. Even Bucky, his expression tight, stayed back.

Steve’s voice finally cut through, quiet but sharp. “If that’s really what you believe… maybe you’re not Captain America. Maybe you’re just someone wearing the uniform.”

The words hit harder than the blast had.

Your throat tightened, fury and something dangerously close to grief twisting together. You shoved past him, shield biting into your palm.

“Better a cynic who survives than a fool who gets everyone else killed,” you spat.

No one spoke as you stalked away down the ruined hall. The echo of your boots drowned out the sound of Steve’s ragged breathing.

The days that followed blurred into routine— training, briefings, missions. But the air in the compound felt suffocating. You and Steve barely looked at each other, let alone spoke. When you did, it was clipped, professional, empty of the spark that once made the team roll their eyes.

The silence was worse than the shouting.

It spread like a disease, seeping into the cracks of the team. Natasha’s eyes flicked between you both during debriefs, sharp and assessing. Sam sighed loudly whenever he caught you walking in opposite directions down the same hall. Even Bucky stopped pairing with you during sparring, muttering something about “not wanting to be collateral damage.”

But he didn’t stay quiet forever.

One evening, he caught you pacing the balcony of the compound’s living quarters. “You always run hot after a mission, or is this new?”

Bucky’s voice came from behind. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying you with that frustrating calm of his.

You didn’t answer, just kept pacing.

A few moments of silence later, you muttered, “I don’t have anything left to say to him.”

“Bullshit.” His tone was flat, cutting. “You have too much to say to him. That’s the problem.”

You shot him a glare, but he didn’t flinch. He closed the door behind him, metal hand glinting in the low light.

Your jaw tightened. For a long time, you didn’t answer. But the weight of his gaze pressed down until the words cracked free.

“He hesitated. And it almost cost us everything. Again.” You swallowed hard. “I watched Hydra swallow my world whole because I believed that hope was stronger than reality. But when the moment came, I couldn’t do what had to be done. I lost everything because of it.”

The silence stretched. “And then I see him, your Cap, standing there, looking at me with the same eyes I had, making the same mistakes I did. And I…” Your throat caught. “I can’t do it again, Buck. I can’t lose another world because Steve Rogers believes in mercy.”

Bucky’s gaze softened, but it didn’t let you off the hook. “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

“He should.”

“No,” Bucky said firmly. “What he hates is what you think of yourself. You keep throwing yourself at death like it’s the only thing left for you. He sees that, and it kills him.”

Your throat tightened, but you masked it with a glare. “You defending him now?”

“Always.” His mouth twitched into the faintest smile. “But I’m not saying this for him. I’m saying it for you. You act like the only thing left in you is rage, but I’ve seen the way you look at me. You still care. Which means you could care about him too. If you’d let yourself.”

You looked away sharply, jaw tight. 

“You gonna tell me why?”

You stopped pacing, back to him, shoulders tight. “Why what?”

“Why you’re so set on hating him.”

The words dug deeper than you wanted them to. You turned slowly, eyes hard. “I don’t even know what I feel, Bucky. Hate is simple. Clean. What I feel about him? That’s not clean.”

Bucky tilted his head, waiting.

You exhaled, shaky. “I keep trying to tell myself that I ended up here because this was my second chance. To save a world, even if it isn’t mine. But deep down, I know I don’t deserve a second chance. This world already has a Captain America. A functional one, a Captain America who didn’t fail.”

Your voice cracked, and you looked away quickly, swallowing hard. “It kills me everytime. Looking at him. The one who gets to stand there, bleeding but unbroken, telling me there’s always another way. He gets to believe in things I can’t afford to anymore. And I…” You broke off, pressing a hand to your eyes. “I can’t stand it. Because part of me wants to believe him. And I know what that hope costs.”

Bucky was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady, quiet. “You’re scared.”

You bristled. “I’m angry.”

He shook his head. “Anger’s just armor. What you are is scared… of him, of yourself, of what it means if you let him be right. If you let yourself feel anything but the fight.”

The words cut, sharp and unyielding.

Your throat tightened. “You sound like you think this is salvageable. Like we could… what? Work together? Understand each other? Don’t be naive, Buck. This doesn’t end with us shaking hands and walking into the sunset.”

Bucky’s gaze softened in a way that was almost cruel. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t have to end with you alone either.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with things neither of you wanted to admit. Finally, you turned back toward the city lights, gripping the railing until your knuckles went white.

“Go to bed, Bucky.”

He didn’t argue. But before he left, he muttered, “Careful, Cap. Hate’s not the only thing burning in you.”

You felt the weight of his words linger like a ghost.

——

The Hydra incursions only got worse. Reports came in of coordinated strikes across Europe, their symbol painted bold and red across captured cities. 

The Avengers gathered in the briefing room, maps lit across the table. Tension hummed like a live wire. Strange laid out the plan: one final strike on the Hydra stronghold, dismantle their engine before it breached the rift beyond control.

It felt like a death march.

After the briefing, you found Steve alone in the war room, staring at the map like it might reveal an answer if he glared hard enough. His shield leaned against the table, his shoulders taut with weight.

Steve broke the silence. “You know, I used to draw. Back before the serum.”

You blinked. “Yeah? What of?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Sketchbooks full of Brooklyn alleys. I was terrible, but it made the world feel less… heavy.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “I used to sing. When Bucky was still alive, before Hydra. He used to say I was off-key, but it made him laugh.”

The memory hurt, but for once, it didn’t feel like poison. For once, you didn’t feel like fighting.

“They’ll be ready for us,” you said.

He glanced up, eyes tired. “I know.”

You hesitated, then crossed the room. The air between you felt charged, sharp as a blade. “Back in my world… Hydra didn’t just take power. They took hope. People clung to it, believed in it, even as everything fell apart. I believed it was enough. That mercy would make them stop. But Hydra doesn’t stop. Ever. I hesitated, and everyone paid the price.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “You think I’ll make the same mistake.”

Your throat tightened. “I know you will. Because that’s who you are, and what I used to be. The person who always sees the good. Who always waits one second too long.”

“And yet here you are,” he said quietly, eyes steady on yours. “Fighting beside me.”

You looked away, heart hammering. “Because I don’t have a choice.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but not quite. “I just.. I think if we’re going into something this big, maybe we shouldn’t be walking in like strangers.”

You barked a laugh, short and sharp. “Strangers? That’s rich. You’re everywhere in this world. History books, news reels, museum wings. And you stand there like some reminder of everything I’m not.”

Steve didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, his voice quiet but steady. “That’s not how I see you.”

Something twisted in your chest. You shook your head. “You don’t get it. I wasn’t supposed to survive. My world, Hydra gutted it. My team, my Bucky, all gone. And I stayed behind to pick up the pieces. I kept fighting when there wasn’t anything left worth saving. That’s who I am, Steve. Not some symbol. Not a beacon. Just a soldier who couldn’t stop swinging until the end.”

Steve studied you for a long moment, blue eyes sharp as glass. “And you think that makes you less? That because you didn’t save your world, what you did doesn’t matter?”

Your throat worked, but no words came.

He stepped closer still, until he was just a breath away, voice dropping to something meant only for you. “I’ve made choices I regret. I’ve lost people I couldn’t save. But you? You carried your world on your shoulders, even when it broke you. That’s not weakness. That’s not failure. That’s… strength I don’t know if I’d have had.”

You hated the way his words burned through your defenses. The way they scraped raw the ache you’d buried so deep.

“Don’t put me on a pedestal, Rogers,” you managed, voice cracking at the edges. “I’m not you.”

He gave the smallest shake of his head. “No. You’re you. And that’s enough.”

The silence stretched. You could feel the pulse in your throat, the heat of him this close, the terrifying possibility in the space between you.

Finally, you forced a laugh, brittle and shaky. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might start to think you don’t hate me.”

This time, the corner of his mouth really did twitch upward. “What if I told you I never did?”

Your breath caught, the air thick between you. For one dizzying second, it felt like everything could change.

But then Strange’s voice echoed through the comms, sharp and clinical: “Team, we’re on the clock. Move out.”

The spell broke. You pulled back, straightened your shoulders, and grabbed your shield. “Guess we’ll have to table this little heart-to-heart.”

Steve’s gaze lingered on you as you walked away, like he wanted to say more. Like maybe he’d found the crack in your armor.

And for the first time since you arrived in this world, you weren’t sure you wanted to stop him.

——

The quinjet’s cabin hummed low as Strange unfolded the projection of Hydra Prime’s stronghold. The hologram floated between everyone: a ring of defenses, hardened bunkers, the generator heart glowing a sickly blue at its center. Reports scrolled alongside it— troop movements, energy signatures, timestamps. Everything pointing at one ugly fact: these weren’t casual agents. These were professionals with a playbook, and part of that playbook had you all over it.

You didn’t have to look at the intel to know. Hydra Prime had followed you through the rifts; they’d brought the tactics that had worked against your world. They knew the timing of your swings, the way you favored the shield’s edge, the defensive patterns you taught your teams. 

“Hydra Prime has adapted,” Strange said, his voice flat. “They used information from your timeline. They know your methods. They expect your moves because they were trained on them.”

A cold, clinical line of understanding ran through the team. No one needed to tell you the consequence, you weren’t the wildcard here. You were the blueprint.

Steve’s jaw hardened. “That changes things.”

You folded your arms. “Of course it does. They know my rhythm. They know how I bait and break. If I go in on the same script, it’s a trap.”

Natasha’s smile was thin, appreciative. “So we don’t follow the script.”

Sam rubbed his chin, thinking out loud. “Then who draws their fire? We can’t just stroll in and hope they’re confused.”

Tony’s voice came over the comms, half panicked, half delighted. “Cast me as distraction #1. I’ll be loud, obnoxious, and excessively metallic. Works like a charm.”

Bruce frowned. “We need a layered approach. If Hydra expects Cap, then we give them a version of Cap, but not the one they trained for.”

You looked toward Steve. “You’d be that ‘version’?”

He met your gaze without flinching. “I can be. They know your tactics because you were their problem so they’ll be primed. I’m less predictable to them; I can walk in a different rhythm.”

You let out a hard sound that might have been a laugh. “So your idea is play the man they expect a different man to be?” You jabbed a finger at the hologram. “You think they’ll take the bait?”

Steve’s eyes didn’t waver. “They might. Or they might be cautious. Either way, if I take the front, if I absorb what they expect from a Captain, it gives you a chance to move where they won’t be looking, to hit the core from the angles they didn’t rehearse.”

Bucky, who’d been quiet, shrugged. “Logic holds. If they trained for one signature, surprise them with another. Confuse their muscle memory.”

You felt the weight of everyone’s eyes; the plan was risky, but it made tactical sense. Hydra Prime had your moves in their notes. If you executed the same way, they’d anticipate you like clockwork. If Steve walked the path they expected while you worked the unexpected corridors, you’d have a sliver of advantage.

“Fine,” you said finally, the word hard as a strike. “I’m not bait. I’m not going to stroll into a trap because it looks symbolically neat. But I’ll run the flank. I’ll go where they won’t expect someone with my history to go. If they think they know me, I’ll make them learn the wrong lesson.”

Steve nodded. “We move together, but not the way they want. We use what they expect against them.”

Tony clapped, delighted. “Finally peace and harmony. Also, if this goes sideways, someone please livestream. This will be Emmy-worthy.”

Bruce, with his usual awkward practicality, asked, “Are we clear on extraction points and med evac? If anything goes wrong—”

“You’ll be covered,” Steve said, voice steady. “We’ll have Sam for air, Bucky for the perimeter, Nat on silent breach, Bruce and Strange on rift containment once we hit the core. Stark runs watch from above.”

Nat gave a curt nod. “And if anyone improvises, don’t die creatively. We have policies against it.”

A small, exhausted laugh slipped out of you despite everything. “Trust me, I don’t plan to improvise my death.”

Steve’s gaze met yours for a heartbeat, something unspoken passing between you, a pact that felt both fragile and absolute. In the back of the cabin, Sam made a mock toast. “To beating the apocalypse.”

Tony added, “And to not letting two Caps ruin the next century.”

You allowed yourself one short, sharp smile. The plan was dangerous. It leaned on both of you playing roles the enemy expected and then breaking the rhythm. It depended on trust more than you liked. But Hydra Prime thought they had you pegged; that arrogance could be turned into a weapon.

The light in the quinjet shifted. The city of Berlin glinted below, dark and waiting. You fastened your straps, hefted the shield, and felt the old, familiar sensation: the calm before the storm. Only this time, the storm had names and memories, and you couldn’t let the past dictate the future.

You and Steve stood side by side in the dim hum of the quinjet for the barest beat, helmets in hand, the world below a dark smear of lights. The rest of the team ran last-minute checks at their stations; Sam’s soft whistling and Tony’s deadpan commentary telegraphed the thin line of normalcy. But for the two of you there was a quiet that felt like a countdown.

“You sure about this?” Steve asked, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You met his eyes, not the public, polished gaze he gave the others, but something open and tired and honest. “No,” you said. “I’m not. But I’m not the kind to back down either.”

He let out a short breath that might have been a laugh or a sob. “Me neither.”

A half-smile ghosted over your mouth before you could stop it. “We do this your way. We do it my way. We make them guess which one’s bait.”

Steve’s hand brushed the metal of his shield by habit. “We make them guess. And we get everyone home.”

“For once,” you murmured.

His fingers tightened just a fraction. “For once.”

You didn’t say the thing that the both of you were thinking, that once could mean different things, that once could be enough, because Strange’s soft, clinical voice cut through the cabin. “Execution in fifteen. Don’t die.”

You clipped your helmet down and slid the strap tight. The small private moment the two of you had just shared dissolved into the mission rhythm. It was enough. It had to be.

——

The Hydra fortress loomed against the night sky, jagged steel and concrete carved into the mountainside. Floodlights swept across the cliffs, catching on patrols, gun turrets, and the crimson symbol painted bold across its walls.

You and the Avengers approached under cover of dark, the quinjet cutting through the clouds like a blade. No one spoke. The air was too heavy for jokes, even from Tony. The only sound was the hum of the engines and the pounding of your heart.

You glanced at Steve across the cabin. His jaw was set, eyes hard, shield strapped tight to his arm. He didn’t look at you, but somehow you felt his awareness, steady as a tether.

When the jet touched down, it was chaos immediately. You dropped on the flank you’d insisted on running, moving like someone who had trained their body to forget exhaustion. Steve took the front line, the picture Hydra expected: the other Captain, confident, visible, drawing eyes. They took it just as you predicted.

For ten brutal minutes you slid through their blind spots. You moved through shadows Hydra Prime thought you hadn’t preferred, struck at relay points you knew they’d leave unguarded because their data taught them to look for your patterns somewhere else. Bucky’s watch kept the long corridors clear. Sam’s wings made swooping passes that shredded the bigger equipment. Nat whispered and killed and vanished into walls. Tony made the night rain hell from above.

The freight yard was already shaking apart. Strange’s containment spell strained like glass under a hammer, arcs of unstable rift-energy cutting jagged holes in the air. The Hydra Prime forces were throwing everything at them— waves of soldiers, prototype weapons that spat blue fire, drones that hummed like angry wasps.

But it was the engine core that terrified you most. A massive, unstable conduit pulsed with raw dimensional energy. Every beat of light through its frame made the ground quake.

“Strange, talk to me!” Tony shouted, repulsors firing as he cut another drone out of the sky.

“I’m holding it,” Strange gritted out, sweat dripping from his brow as the rune circle in his hands fractured and reformed. “But the rift won’t close while the conduit is still active. It’s anchoring the tear.”

“Translation?” Sam asked, wings folding as he landed, chest heaving.

“Unless we destroy it,” Strange said, “this rift tears both our worlds apart.”

Your stomach dropped. The core was thrumming louder now, energy spiking erratically. You knew Hydra Prime had designed it with a failsafe because you would have. Your instincts told you the truth before Bruce even confirmed it.

“Self-destruct’s armed,” Bruce said, his hands flying over a half-melted console. “If this blows uncontrolled, we’re looking at a crater the size of Berlin.”

You tightened your grip on your shield. “Then we take it down before it cooks off.”

“Not that simple,” Bruce shot back. “This thing’s rigged to chain-react if we just smash it. It has to be shielded long enough for me to reroute the surge. Someone has to hold it in place.”

Your breath stilled. That kind of shielding meant standing inside the blast radius, absorbing the full brunt of energy no one could possibly survive.

“Don’t even think about it,” you snapped at Steve the second you caught the look in his eyes.

He met your gaze anyway, calm, steady, resolute in a way that cut right through you. “Someone has to buy Strange and Banner the time.”

“Then it’s me,” you said immediately, stepping forward. “I know Hydra Prime’s tech. I can—”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it carried over the chaos like a verdict. He placed his shield in your hands before you could argue. “You’ve already given up enough. You don’t get to do this too.”

You grabbed his wrist, desperate, furious. “Steve—”

His hand squeezed yours once, firm, final. “I was built for this.” He leaned closer, just for you. “Don’t try to save me by killing yourself.”

Before you could stop him, he broke free and ran straight into the storm.

The explosion of light that followed was blinding. Steve braced himself between the core’s unstable coils, raw energy slamming into his body. His shield, now in your grip, not his,  would’ve been useless here. His flesh burned under the strain, his suit tearing apart as veins of white-hot power crawled across him. But he held.

He held.

Bruce shouted over the comms, “Thirty seconds! Just thirty more!”

Steve roared, every muscle trembling as he forced the surge back into the containment. You could see him breaking, every heartbeat tearing him open, but he didn’t falter. Not once.

You pressed against the barricade, screaming over the noise, “Steve! You don’t have to do this!”

His head snapped toward you, and through the blaze you saw his eyes, clear, focused, impossibly steady. He shouted back words that seared themselves into your bones.

“Someone has to!”

The light crescendoed, shaking the whole chamber. Then, at the final second, Bruce yelled, “Now!” and slammed the failsafe sequence. The conduit imploded, sucking in the unstable energy before detonating in a controlled blast.

The rift’s roar dimmed, Strange’s spell finally sealing the edges shut. The chamber went silent except for the ringing in your ears.

And Steve collapsed.

You were already running before his body hit the floor. You dropped beside him, shields clattering uselessly on the ground. His chest was a ruin of burns and shrapnel, blood staining the floor beneath him. You pressed your hands to his wounds, frantic.

“Stay with me! Please, just—dammit, Steve, don’t you dare! Talk to me, Rogers!”

His eyes fluttered, breath shallow. Somehow, he managed a weak smile. “Told you… Should’ve done it my way.”

“Shut up,” you said, voice breaking. “You’re not allowed to joke right now.”

And when his hand twitched, searching for yours, you grabbed it with everything left in you.

——

The medbay was too quiet. For hours, the only sounds were the soft hum of the monitors, the occasional hiss of oxygen, and your own uneven breathing as you sat in the chair beside the bed, still wearing half-burned gear, dried blood stiff on your hands.

Steve looked small here, which felt impossible, wrong. Even battered, even broken, he was supposed to be larger than life. But now he lay pale against the stark white sheets, chest swathed in bandages, skin mottled with burns. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only proof he hadn’t actually left you.

You hadn’t moved since you carried him back. Sam had tried to convince you to eat. Natasha had left coffee within reach. Even Bucky hovered in the doorway, a shadow you refused to acknowledge. You couldn’t leave. You couldn’t blink. Not until you saw him open his eyes.

Hours blurred together until finally, finally, his hand twitched. The smallest movement, but you were on your feet instantly, leaning over him.

“Steve,” you breathed, and it came out almost like a prayer.

He opened his eyes and gave a weak half-smile. “Guess I don’t go down that easy.”

You let out a laugh that came out broken. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He studied you quietly. “You stayed.”

You let out a shaky laugh, half anger, half relief. “Of course I stayed, you idiot. You nearly got yourself killed.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Not funny.” Your voice cracked, and you looked away, gripping his hand before you realized it. The warmth of his skin nearly undid you. “You can’t do that to me. Not after everything.”

His gaze softened. “I had to.”

“No.” You shook your head violently, nails biting into your palms. “You didn’t. You could’ve let me do it. You could’ve found another way.”

Steve reached for your hand, slow and trembling, but deliberate. When his fingers caught yours, it was as if he were anchoring both of you. “You were ready to throw yourself into it. I couldn’t let you.”

Tears stung, hot and furious. “Why? Why would you take that from me?”

“Because you’ve carried enough.” His grip was weak but certain. “You’ve already been the Captain your world needed. You bore all of it— Hydra, the losses, the weight of being their only hope. You lost everything.” His voice dipped, rougher. “You don’t get to lose yourself too. Not if I can help it.”

The room blurred. You pulled your hand back, only to press it against your eyes. You hated crying in front of anyone. Hated it more in front of him. But his voice broke through your defenses, soft and steady.

“I hate you,” you whispered, but your voice betrayed you. “I hate how much I care.”

His eyes, though dim with pain, held something steady, something unyielding. “Then we’re both in trouble.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “You’re supposed to be the good one, Steve. The one who doesn’t get dragged down by people like me.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be good without you.” His voice was low but unwavering. “Maybe you’re the reason I fight harder.”

For the first time in years, you let the tears fall.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “You’re going to break my heart.”

“Then let me,” he murmured, and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle, it was desperate, raw, years of buried ache finally clawing free. And for once, you let yourself want.

———

The next morning, Strange called a meeting. His expression was grim as he laid out the truth: the rift was destabilizing. They had one chance to close it, but once it was sealed, you’d be cut off from this world forever.

The decision was yours.

Steve found you afterward, still pale but upright, stubborn as always. His voice was steady, but his eyes burned. “Stay. You don’t have to go back to the ruins of your world. You don’t have to be alone.”

Your chest ached. “I can’t stay.”

He sat up, wincing from his still-healing injuries. “We’ll find another way.”

You shook your head. “There isn’t another way. If I stay, this world stays in danger. I can’t do that to you. To them.”

His jaw clenched, his hand tightening around yours. “Then let me fight for it.”

“You can’t,” you said softly, leaning closer. “Not this time.”

The hangar thrummed with unstable energy, the rift swelling like a wound in the air. Strange stood before it, weaving spells in sharp arcs, sweat beading at his temple as the fabric of two universes strained against each other. The glow of it painted the quinjet bay in sickly light, like the end of the world bleeding through.

Everyone was there. Natasha, arms crossed but jaw tight. Sam shifting uneasily, wings folded but restless. Bruce, grim and silent, hands clenching in his pockets. Tony, for once, subdued, no snark, no quips, just his eyes fixed on the rift like he could invent another solution if he stared hard enough. Even Bucky hovered near the back, face set like stone, his presence a shadow of the world you’d lost.

Your chest tightened when you saw him. Bucky, alive here in a way he never had been in your world. It almost broke you more than the rift itself.

You walked to him first. His eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to choose him, but he stayed still, watching.

“Guess this is it,” you said, voice low.

Bucky gave a short nod. “Looks like it.”

You hesitated, then reached for his hand. He let you take it, his metal fingers curling carefully around yours. “You were the only piece of my world I thought I’d never see again. And even if it wasn’t really you… it meant something. Having you here. Reminded me I wasn’t completely gone.”

Something flickered in his expression. Pain, maybe gratitude. “You weren’t alone. Not really. And for what it’s worth… I wish I’d been there. In your world. Maybe things would’ve gone different.”

You squeezed his hand, hard. “Yeah. Me too.”

Then, with a small, trembling smile, you added, “Take care of him for me. He’s better with you watching his back.”

Bucky’s jaw worked, but he only gave a quiet, firm, “Always.”

You let go, because if you didn’t, you never would.

Then you turned to him.

Steve stood at the front, leaning on a crutch, pale but unbowed, eyes locked on you.

“This doesn’t have to be goodbye,” he said, voice cutting through the low hum of the rift. “You don’t have to go.”

The words cracked something inside you, but you forced yourself to stand straighter. “Yes, I do. Strange said it. Two worlds tangled together will destroy each other. My world’s already gone. I won’t let this one fall with it.”

Steve stepped closer, his face raw, stripped of the easy calm he usually wore. “We can fight it. Together. That’s what we do.”

“Not this time.” Your throat tightened, but you didn’t look away. “This isn’t a fight. It’s a choice. And it’s mine.”

Natasha’s voice was soft but firm. “She’s right, Steve. We can’t afford to tear both worlds apart.”

But Steve shook his head, eyes never leaving yours. “You don’t understand. It’s not just about the mission. It’s—” He faltered, but only for a second. Then the words came like a hammer blow. “It’s about you. I don’t want to lose you.”

Silence rippled through the team. Even Tony looked away, like giving you privacy in a crowd.

Your heart broke all over again. You took a step closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, close enough that the rift’s wind whipped both your hair and his back.

“You’re not losing me,” you said softly. “You’re letting me go. There’s a difference.”

His hand lifted like he was reaching for you, but it fell halfway, trembling. “You deserve more than being a ghost. You deserve more than just—”

You leaned up and kissed him, harder than in the infirmary, harder than you meant to. It was desperation and goodbye and everything you couldn’t say pressed into one impossible moment. His hand finally caught the back of your neck, pulling you in like he couldn’t let go, like maybe if he held hard enough the rift itself would bend.

But the glow surged. Strange’s voice was strained, “It has to be now!”

You tore yourself free, breath ragged, your lips still burning from his. 

“Don’t turn into me,” you whispered.

Then, before your courage failed, you stepped into the light.

The rift swallowed you, and the hangar fell silent.

The team stood frozen in the afterglow, the rift sealing shut with a shattering crack. It was done.

Steve was left standing in the middle of the hangar, your shield in his hands, grief carved into every line of his face.

And though the Avengers surrounded him, he had never looked more alone.

–––

It didn’t stop during training. Soon enough, everything turned into a contest. 

Who could eat more hot wings without breaking a sweat. Who could stack their laundry fastest. Who could quote movies quicker. Who could guess the end of a TV episode before it aired.

One night, Yelena found you and Bucky in the kitchen at 2 a.m., face down on the floor mid push-up contest. Neither of you looked up as she padded in, opened the fridge, and grabbed a soda.

“Americans,” Alexei muttered when he shuffled in after her. He didn’t even ask questions. He just shook his head and left.

Another time, Ava caught the two of you in the courtyard, throwing knives at a target. Not to practice accuracy—no, you were standing farther and farther away each time, just to see who could still hit the bullseye.

“You realize,” Ava said, arms folded, “this isn’t training anymore. This is obsession.”

“Skill issue,” you mumbled, blade sinking dead center. Bucky matched it a second later, smirk tugging his lips. “Definitely a skill issue.”

Ava rolled her eyes so hard you were surprised she didn’t sprain something. 

The Thunderbolts eventually learned to adapt.

John avoided pairing with you and Bucky during drills because “you idiots treat everything like the goddamn Olympics.”

Bob, poor Bob, tried to mediate once, just once. He stepped between you mid-argument over whether Pluto still counted as a planet.

“You’re both right in your own ways,” he offered kindly.

You and Bucky turned on him instantly, voices sharp in unison: “No, we’re not!” “Stay out of it, Bob.”

Bob never volunteered to mediate again.

And Yelena? She leaned into it. She started taking bets on who would win each competition. She cheered when you beat Bucky at trivia, jeered when he wiped the floor with you in arm wrestling, and once passed out popcorn just to watch you two argue about who cooked better pasta.

“This is my entertainment,” she told Alexei smugly. “Better than Netflix.”

And still, through it all, people kept assuming Bucky was soft on you.

Until Ava finally called him out one night after you and Bucky walked out limping after a few rounds of sparring.

“I always thought you’d give her special treatment,” Ava said, arching a brow. “But I guess not.”

Bucky just shrugged, clutching his water bottle. “She’d hate it if I did.”

He wasn’t wrong.

If training was brutal, game nights were catastrophic.

UNO was war.

Every round turns into shouting matches and the occasional sweeping of the table. Bucky plays with military precision, and you play with the single-minded goal of ruining his strategy. It usually ends with one of you flipping the discard pile onto the table in frustration.

“Do you two realize,” John mutters one night, rubbing his temples as he draws another card, “that the fate of the free world doesn’t actually depend on this game?”

“Tell that to him!” you snap, pointing at Bucky. Bucky points right back. “No one likes a sore loser, doll.”

John groans. “Unbelievable.”

Mario Kart is even worse.

You and Bucky scream at each other loud enough to rattle the tower’s windows. Every shell is a personal attack, every banana peel a declaration of war.

“You looked at my screen!” you shout.

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

Yelena records the whole thing on her phone, cackling like a hyena.

Bob–bless his soul– tried to referee once, gently pointing out, “You’re both cheating.”

Instantly, you and Bucky whip around, voices in perfect unison: “I am NOT!” “Just her.”

Bob retreats to the couch with a sigh. “This is unhealthy.”

Pictionary nearly ends in bloodshed.

You draw a toaster. Bucky insists it’s a mailbox. He digs his heels in even as the timer runs out.

“That was clearly a toaster!” you argue, throwing the marker at him. “You can’t even draw a rectangle right, doll,” he shoots back, smug as ever. 

“You want to talk about rectangles, old man? Your mailbox looked like a coffin!”

The rest of the team collectively puts their heads in their hands. Alexei mutters, “This is worse than my second marriage.”

Ava leaves halfway through. “Not worth the migraine.” Only Yelena sticks around, gleeful as ever. “Go on,” she urges. “Fight more. I am invested.”

But the games are just warm-ups for where the competitiveness really bleeds through: missions.

Every mission is a scoreboard. Every takedown tallied, every move compared.

One mission in Germany, you cleared an entire floor before Bucky caught up. You leaned against the wall, smug as hell. “Twelve hostiles down. Beat that.”

He glanced around at the bodies, then smirked. “Sloppy.”

Another time, during a covert sweep, you both lunged for the same target. You got there first, elbow driving the guy into the ground. You grinned up at Bucky, triumphant.

“Fastest hands in the West.”

He only rolled his eyes. “It’s East, doll. Learn your geography.”

John had enough after one mission. Ducking behind cover, he snarled into comms, “You two realize this isn’t a contest, right?”

“Yes it is!” “Butt out, Walker,” you and Bucky replied in unison, before darting off in opposite directions.

But it’s not always harmless. 

The mission started like any other. A sweep-and-secure in a narrow side street. Too many rooftops, too many windows. Too many places for things to go wrong.

You and Bucky split off, like always. It isn’t even an order anymore, it’s habit. A routine that became normalized through the years. He takes high ground, you take the street. You make it a contest. Who can clear faster, quieter. Who can end the fight with more precision.

It’s a dance, but competitive. Always competitive.

You duck low, sweep an enemy’s legs, pin him to the cobblestones before Bucky drops the sniper perched above. Through the comms, your voices overlap:

“One.” “Two.”

You grin despite yourself. “Keep up, old man.” His chuckle crackles through the earpiece. “Try not to slow me down, doll.”

But then, everything fractures.

The second wave bursts from alleyways and balconies. Gunfire erupts, bullets ricocheting off the walls. Smoke grenades choke the air. You took cover hard, heart slamming.

Through the haze, you spot him. Bucky, mid-sweep, taking out two men at once with brutal efficiency. And you see what he doesn’t: another hostile perched above, rifle trained on his unguarded back.

There’s no thought. Just movement.

You launch out of cover, sprinting into the open. Bullets bite the air around you. You throw yourself at the shooter, wrestling the barrel away just as he squeezes the trigger. The shot goes wide, but not before the muzzle flashes close enough for the bullet to graze your side.

Pain rips hot and sharp across your ribs. You hiss but don’t stop. You drive your knee into the shooter’s gut, wrench the rifle free, and knock him out cold with the butt of it.

By the time you stagger back, blood soaking your shirt, Bucky’s eyes are locked on you. He’s already storming forward, finishing his last target with a vicious elbow before grabbing you by the arm and shoving you back behind cover.

“What the hell was that?!” His voice is razor-sharp, thunder under the chaos.

“I saved your ass!” you snap, gasping, hand pressed to your wound.

“You almost got yourself killed!” He’s leaning close, eyes blazing, jaw tight enough to crack.

“So what, I was supposed to let you take a bullet?”

“I had it handled!” His hand fists against the wall behind you, metal arm denting the brick.

“Clearly not!”

Gunfire still erupts around you, but you’re not even listening. The fight between you burns hotter, louder, than the firefight outside.

“Do you have any idea what you just risked?” he snarls, voice low and dangerous.

“Yes,” you spit back, eyes locked on his. “And I don’t care.”

He curses, turns his face away for a second like he can’t even look at you. Then he’s back, voice raw. “Don’t you ever pull that shit again.”

“Don’t you dare tell me how to do my job.”

For a moment, you’re both just staring at each other, breaths ragged, fury sparking like lightning between you. Neither of you willing to yield.

Over comms, Yelena’s dry voice cuts through, “Wow. Lovers’ quarrel mid-battle. Classic.” Ava barks, “Both of you, focus! We’re not out of this yet.”

The reminder shatters the moment. You rip yourself free of Bucky’s grip, fury still boiling, and push back into the crowd. He follows, close as a shadow, but the air between you stays sharp, brittle, ready to shatter all over again.

Hours later, the quinjet hums, steady and constant, but inside the cabin it feels like a storm brewing.

You’re on one side of the bench seats, shoulders rigid, arms locked across your chest. Your leg bounces restlessly, betraying the adrenaline still flooding your veins. Across from you, Bucky mirrors the posture, arms folded like steel, jaw working, his vibranium fingers flexing and clinking as if itching for something to break.

The silence grates. No one speaks, but everyone feels the heat radiating between the two of you.

John finally snaps, throwing his helmet onto the floor. The clang makes everyone jump. “Are you two gonna keep glaring at each other all night, or should we just let you brawl it out now?”

Your head jerks up, fire flashing in your eyes. “Maybe I wouldn’t be glaring if someone didn’t act like he’s indestructible.” 

His head lifts, eyes sharp, voice a low growl. “Don’t you dare put that on me. You ran out in the open like a damn rookie.”

You shove up straighter in your seat. “I was covering your back!”

“I didn’t need covering!” He leans forward, voice booming, fist slamming against his thigh hard enough to make the metal plates clink. “You didn’t even see the guy aiming at you!” You throw your arms out, incredulous, chest heaving. “I had it handled!” He leans closer, steel arm braced against his knee, muscles taut with anger.

Your hands curl into fists. “You could’ve died!” His reply is a whipcrack, low and venomous, “And you could’ve too.”

The words freeze the air.

Ava shifts, muttering under her breath, “Feels like we’re trapped in a soap opera.” Alexei groans loudly. “Please, stop. This is worse than sitting through my divorce. And my second divorce.”

Bob, trying desperately, leans forward, hands raised like a referee. “Look, maybe if you both just took a breath–”

“Stay out of it, Bob!” you and Bucky bark at the same time, voices colliding like thunder.

Bob recoils, blinking fast. “Right. Yep. Staying out.”

Yelena, perched with her boots on the seat, grins wide and holds her phone up, recording. “This is good. Don’t stop. Very dramatic.”

You ignore her. You’re on your feet now, pacing a tight line in front of your seat, every muscle wound tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

Bucky pushes up to his feet too, towering over you, eyes blazing. “I think you’re reckless as hell.” His metal fist flexes at his side, plates shifting audibly. “You don’t get to gamble with your life like that.”

“And what, you do?” You jab a finger into his chest, refusing to back down, even though your wound tugs painfully. 

“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, doll!” He looms closer, breath hot, voice rough.

“Oh, don’t you doll me when you’re being a hypocrite, old man.”

That makes his nostrils flare, his jaw locking so tight you can hear the grind of his teeth. His hands drop to his sides, fists curling like he’s forcing himself not to slam them into the wall.

Then, voice cutting and raw, he spits, “I’d rather take every bullet myself than watch you take one for me.”

The words knock the wind out of you, but you force your chin up, pride shoving down the ache in your chest. “Well, too bad. Because I’m not letting you decide that for me.”

The silence that follows is explosive. Everyone’s frozen, waiting for one of you to swing.

Finally, John groans and drags a hand down his face. “I swear to God, if you two start making out after this, I’m walking out the airlock.”

Yelena doesn’t look up from her phone, smirking. “They won’t. Not yet. They’ll simmer first. Then fight again. Then kiss. Classic pattern.”

But you and Bucky don’t break your stare. Neither blinking. Neither moving. Both locked in a dangerous standoff that promises this argument is far from over.

Moments later, Bob finds Bucky in the cockpit. “Why do you push her so hard?” he says softly. “Why not give her a break sometimes? Most guys would.”

Bucky looks up, eyes stormy, but his voice is steady and quiet, not wanting you to hear.

“Because I believe in her the most,” he says simply. “She deserves better than easy. She pushes me to be my best every damn day. Only fair I return the favor.”

The jet lands hours later, and the silence between you and Bucky still hasn’t cracked. Not during the descent. Not during debrief. Not even in the walk back through headquarters.

The team notices. Everyone does.

Yelena elbows Ava on the way out of the hangar. “They’re still not speaking. This is new. Usually they’re screaming or flirting by now.” Ava smirks, but it’s uneasy. “If they don’t let it out, someone’s gonna explode.”

John mutters, “Good. Maybe they’ll kill each other and save me the headache.”

But they’re wrong about one thing: you and Bucky don’t implode. You both head the same way, straight to the sparring room.

Neither of you say it aloud. You just know.

The room smells faintly of rubber mats and sweat. The overhead lights buzz faintly as you peel off your jacket, ignoring the sting in your stitched wound. Bucky’s already across the mat, rolling his shoulders, stripping down to his Henley and flexing his vibranium hand.

You stand opposite each other, the silence louder than shouting.

He jerks his chin at you. “Ready?” His tone is hard, clipped.

You narrow your eyes, settling into a stance. He scoffs. “Is that all you got, doll?”

Your mouth twitches, sharp and humorless. “Oh, I’ll show you what I got, old man.”

You launch first.

Your fist slices the air, fast and precise, but he blocks with his forearm and shoves you back. You recover instantly, circling, striking low with a kick. He grunts, catches your ankle, and twists, but you roll with it, flipping out of his grip and landing hard on your feet.

The mat thuds under your movements. The clash of limbs echoes like thunder.

“Too sloppy,” he growls, blocking another jab and forcing you back with a shove to the shoulder.

“Still got through,” you snap, landing a glancing hit to his ribs before he twists you into a hold.

You elbow out of it, chest heaving, sweat slicking your temple. You’re not holding back, and neither is he. Every strike is loaded with the argument you didn’t finish. Every block is another word unsaid.

Finally, you rush him, tackling him to the mat. He grunts, flipping you under, pinning you with a knee to your hip and a forearm braced against your collarbone. You struggle, growl, shove, but he doesn’t budge. His face is inches from yours, eyes blazing.

“You’re reckless,” he bites out, voice rough.

“You’re overbearing,” you fire back, still straining against him.

He leans closer, metal fingers curling against the mat by your head. His voice drops, raw and cracked. “You scared the hell out of me.”

That pulls the fight out of you. Your breath catches, chest rising hard against his. The fury softens, just enough. “I know,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t gonna let them shoot you,” he whispers, voice shaking despite himself. “And I wasn’t gonna let them shoot you,” you fire back, frustration bleeding through. 

His eyes search yours, desperate. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing? You think I can’t handle it?”

“That’s not it.” Your grip on him falters “I just—I saw the shot lined up, and I didn’t think. I moved. That’s it.”

For a moment, neither of you move. His weight presses into you, grounding, steadying. Then he exhales, long and shaking, before pulling you upright with him to continue the match.

You don’t stop. Neither does he.

The fight doesn’t end in a clean win. It never does with you and Bucky.

You trade blows until your knuckles throb, until your lungs feel like fire. You hit the mats over and over, throwing each other down, only to spring back up and crash together again. Neither of you give an inch, both too stubborn to yield.

But the anger burns out the longer it goes. The strikes grow less sharp, the shoves less punishing. Until finally, the two of you crash to the mat in a messy tangle and just… stay there.

You’re flat on your back, Bucky half-draped across you, both of you heaving for breath. Sweat slicks your temples, your chest rising against his as the silence stretches, this time not hostile but heavy with something else.

The tension that’s been strangling you since the mission was finally loosened. Not gone, but softened.

You both stay like that, sweat dripping, heartbeats thundering in the quiet gym. Then, with a grunt, Bucky shifts off you, collapsing onto the mat beside you. His arm flops across his stomach, metal plates glinting under the harsh lights.

For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the sound of your breathing even out.

Finally, you huff a laugh, turning your head toward him. “You fight dirty.”

His lips twitch, faint but real. “You love it.”

You smirk tiredly. “Maybe.”

He exhales through his nose, glancing at you sidelong. His voice softens, almost grudging. “You’re too damn good at getting under my skin.” You roll onto your side to face him, propping your cheek on your hand. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing.”

Silence again. But this time it’s warm. Familiar.

After a beat, you sit up slowly, groaning at the ache in your ribs. Bucky follows, watching you carefully, his hand hovering like he wants to steady you but waits for permission.

You notice, and with a tired little smile, you take his hand and pull it onto your thigh. His fingers curl there, grounding.

For a while, neither of you talk. You just sit on the mat, shoulder to shoulder, sweat cooling, breaths syncing.

Finally, you murmur, quiet but firm, “I’m not going to stop protecting you.”

Bucky turns his head, his gaze sharp but steady, “And I’m not going to stop protecting you.”

It’s not an agreement. Not really. But it’s the closest either of you will get.

And somehow, it’s enough.

The door creaks. Yelena’s head pops in, eyes flicking between the two of you sweaty, tangled, and breathing hard.

She smirks, “Called it.”

Ava yanks her back by the hood before you can throw something at her.

You and Bucky exchange a look. Exhausted, worn, but whole again. It’s not fixed, not perfect. But it’s yours.

And for both of you, that’s enough.

———

Staffers scribbled feverishly, already drafting talking points. Reporters whispered into recorders. The interns manning social media feeds typed at lightning speed–everyone knew this clip would trend within the hour. 

And you leaned back in your chair, a faint, satisfied smirk tugging at your lips. 

Congress emptied out slowly after a long day of hearing, like a school where the bell had rung but the students lingered in the hallways, gossiping about today’s events. Bucky stayed in his seat until most of the room had cleared, pretending to go through his notes.

He wasn’t fooling anyone. 

He needed a minute to breathe, to scrub your words out of his head. 

Trying to cosplay as a politician.

It shouldn’t have gotten to him. He’d been called worse. By enemies, by allies, by himself. But the way you’d said it–sharp, dismissive, laced with the cool certainty that you were right–dug deeper than he wanted to admit.

Bucky stuffed his papers into his bag, ignoring the faint buzz of his phone. Another alert about trending hashtags, no doubt. Another thousand strangers online dissecting if he was unfit for office. 

He slung the bag over his shoulder and left the side hall, hoping to escape before anyone else decided to offer commentary. 

Of course, he wasn’t that lucky. 

“Rough hearing?”

The voice, dripping with amusement, came from behind one of the towering columns. 

Bucky turned. Yelena Belova leaned casually against the marble, arms crossed, her blonde hair tied back messily, her smirk sharp enough to belong in a different kind of battlefield.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bucky said flatly.

“Relax. I’m blending in,” she gestured with both hands at the tailored suits passing by. “See? Everyone thinks I’m congressional intern. Maybe secretary. Very cute.”

Bucky sighed. “Why are you still here?”

“You and Congresswoman,” she continued conversationally, “you fight like married couple. Always so much passion. Very dramatic. People love it.”

“It’s infuriating,” Bucky muttered.

Yelena smirked. “You say infuriating. I say: chemistry.”

He shot her a look sharp enough to cut steel, but Yelena only raised her eyebrows in exaggerated innocence.

“Tell me,” she pressed, “when she looks at you like she wants to stab you, do you ever think maybe she wants to kiss you instead?”

Bucky stopped walking. “Yelena.”

“Yes?”

“Go home.”

“Fine, fine.” She held her hands up, backing away with that grin that always meant she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. “But I am just saying—if I were to make bet, I would put money on enemies-to-lovers. Very popular trope.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Yelena winked, spun on her heel, and disappeared into the evening crowd.

Meanwhile, you swept down the hall on the opposite side of the building, your aide scurrying to keep up with a tablet clutched in both hands. 

“Your next committee meeting is in forty-five minutes, ma’am,” the aid rattled off. “And you’ve been invited to speak at the press briefing afterward. We should prepare statements–”

You waved a dismissive hand, heels clicking against polished marble. “Draft the usual lines. I’ll edit.”

Your mind wasn’t on press statements. It wasn’t even on the bill you’d just shredded in front of cameras.

It was on Bucky Barnes.

Infuriating, insufferable Bucky Barnes. 

You should’ve been reveling in your victory–your words had landed, clean and sharp, and you knew the press would replay them a hundred times before the week was over. Another notch in your belt, another clip that proved you could spar with the so-called Avenger-turned-politician and come out on top.

And yet, instead of satisfaction, all you felt was restless irritation. 

Because for all his fumbling, for all his lack of polish, Barnes hadn’t folded. He hadn’t wilted under your barbs like so many others. He’d stood there, calm, steady, his eyes locked on yours as though he wasn’t just defending his policy, but defending himself. 

And for one fleeting moment, too quick for anyone else to see, you’d caught something in his voice. Not defensiveness, nor arrogance. Something close to conviction.

I fought Hydra.

The words echoed in your head longer than you’d care to admit.

You shook the thought away, forcing your spine straighter. No. Rivalry was cleaner. Rivalry was safer. Whatever the flicker of respect had been, it was an illusion, and you wouldn’t let it distract you. 

Not from your work. And certainly not for him. 

Later that night you sat on your couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, scrolling through clips of the hearing. 

The internet was having a field day. 

#BarnesVs(L/N) was trending, accompanied by endless memes. One showed you pointing a finger with the caption “when mom and dad fight at the dinner table”.  Another had edited your exchange into a romantic comedy trailer, complete with swelling violins and freeze-frames of you and Barnes’ angriest expressions. 

You scoffed, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the faintest twitch of amusement. 

Scrolling further, you found yourself frowning. 

Barnes wasn’t just being mocked. Some threads were sympathetic, pointing out his military service, his work as an Avenger, his reputation as a man of action rather than words. One commentator even argued: Barnes is raw, yes, but he’s authentic. Maybe Congress could use less polish and more conviction.

You clicked away quickly, annoyed that you’d read more than one post. Annoyed that some part of you agreed.

Your phone buzzed. A notification from her media team.

Trending window’s open. Opportunity: draft tweet response?

You tapped it, already typing. Your thumbs flew over the screen with ease, crafting the perfect balance of wit and subtlety:

“Efficiency matters. Recklessness doesn’t. Congress needs solutions, not superheroes.”

You hit post before you could overthink it. Within minutes, the likes poured in, the retweets multiplying. 

You leaned back, satisfied. Another small victory. Another reminder that you could own the narrative.

And yet, when you set the phone aside, your eyes drifted back to the laptop screen, to the still frame of Bucky staring at you with that unflinching intensity. 

You told yourself you hated it. 

Bucky didn’t even bother checking his social media until the next day. He knew what he’d find, and he wasn’t wrong.

Your tweet had exploded. Everyone was quoting it, laughing at it, dissecting it.

Solutions, not superheroes.

Bucky tossed the phone onto the desk, muttering curses under his breath. He should’ve ignored it. He should’ve brushed it off the way he brushed off Hydra jokes and assassination memes. But somehow, when you said it, it stuck.

It wasn’t just your words. It was the way you believed them. Like you genuinely thought he didn’t belong here.

The thing was… sometimes, he wasn’t sure you were wrong.

Bucky stared at the city outside his office window, the faint hum of busy Washington filtering in. Congress had never been his plan. Hell, plans had never been his strong suit. His therapist had told him running for office might give him grounding, a new sense of purpose. And maybe it had.

But then there were days like yesterday, when you dismantled him in front of the nation, and all he could think was: Maybe I don’t belong here after all.

The next hearing was supposed to be quieter. At least, that’s what the chairperson had prayed for.

The chamber was packed again regardless, the buzz thicker than last time. Staffers carried in binders heavy with policy drafts, secretaries whispered into phones, and reporters leaned forward like gamblers waiting for another round of poker.

You sat with your notes neatly stacked, suit sharper than ever, confidence wrapped around you like armor. This time, you were ready to win without even breaking a sweat.

The chairperson cleared their throat. “Today, we continue discussion on the veteran infrastructure allocation bill. Congresswoman (L/N), you have the floor.”

You straightened your microphone and began, voice calm, measured, every syllable sharpened to precision.

“Housing for veterans is vital,” you said, scanning the committee as though you owned the room. “But the data tells us it isn’t enough. Forty-one percent of homeless veterans suffer from untreated PTSD. One in three struggle with substance abuse. Suicide remains the second-leading cause of death for post-9/11 veterans. We cannot talk about roofs without talking about minds. Prioritizing expanded mental health services—clinics, telehealth accessibility, crisis hotlines—is not optional. It is fundamental.”

You flipped a page without looking down, rattling off another volley of statistics, your cadence crisp, clinical. Each number was a blow meant to be definitive, unanswerable.

Behind the cameras, a few reporters exchanged impressed glances. You had data, you had structure, you had polish.

But what you didn’t have was heart.

Bucky felt it before he even touched his mic. The hollowness in your tone, the way your voice carried facts but no weight. You made veterans sound like a math problem to solve.

And something inside him couldn’t let that stand.

He leaned in slowly, jaw clenched, voice deep and raw when it finally cut through the chamber.

“The numbers don’t lie,” he said, echoing your own words back at you. “But they don’t tell the whole story either.”

The chamber stilled, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Bucky didn’t look at anyone but you. His gaze was steady, unblinking, sharp with conviction.

“You can’t treat trauma with statistics. You can’t tell a guy who’s sleeping under an overpass in January that you’ll get to him once the telehealth portal is up and running. You can’t hand him a pamphlet for counseling when he doesn’t even know where his next meal is coming from.”

He shifted in his chair, metal hand tightening against the tabletop. “I’ve seen what happens when you think treating the mind is separate from treating the body. Housing and mental health aren’t two separate issues. They’re the same war. And if you pick one and leave the other, you lose.”

The murmurs started immediately—reporters scribbling, cameras zooming in, staffers whispering behind their hands. The clip was already alive in a thousand headlines before you’d even replied.

You kept your face still, perfectly composed, though your knuckles whitened where they pressed into your notes. His words weren’t policy—God, they weren’t even structured—but they had a gravity you couldn’t replicate with data points.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said coolly, raising your chin. “You mistake clarity for callousness. I am not ignoring housing. I am saying that without addressing trauma, housing won’t keep them alive. Do you want veterans sheltered, or do you want them whole?”

Bucky didn’t blink. His voice dropped lower, steadier. “I want them both. Because anything less is failure.”

You felt your mouth twitch in annoyance but you didn’t let it falter your stance. “Barnes,” you said through gritted teeth, “there are systems in place–”

A flicker of something crossed his face. He shifted forward. “And maybe systems shouldn’t be built by people who’ve never had to rely on them.”

The chairperson slammed the gavel, sharp enough to make a few assistants flinch. “Order. Order. Both points are noted. Let us proceed with the markup.”

But the damage was already done.

Staffers scribbled furiously, already drafting talking points for evening broadcasts. Reporters exchanged knowing looks—this would be the headline, the soundbite, the meme. A few interns live-tweeting the hearing typed so quickly their keyboards rattled.

You leaned back, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Inside, though, your chest hummed with a dissonance you couldn’t name. His words shouldn’t have gotten under your skin, not when you had demolished him with cold precision. But still—you heard conviction in them, unvarnished, clumsy but real.

Bucky, for his part, sat rigid, forcing himself to look down at his notes instead of at you. His heart was still thudding in his chest, heavier than it should’ve been. He knew his interjection hadn’t been polished, hadn’t been elegant. But it had been true. And for the first time in this chamber, he felt like that truth mattered.

The chairperson droned on, but no one was really listening. Not the staffers, not the reporters, not even the other congressmen. All eyes—and all ears—were still caught in the echo of your clash.

And as you left the chamber later, heels clicking against polished marble, you already knew what you’d see when you opened your phone.

#BarnesVs(L/N), Round Two.

And this time, you weren’t sure whose side the public would take.

You didn’t head straight for your office.

You spotted him first. Barnes, leaning against the marble wall just outside the chamber, his tie askew, shoulders taut, breathing slow like he was fighting off the tail end of a storm. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

For a moment, you considered walking past, ignoring him. But the words from the hearing still burned hot on your tongue, stinging in ways you didn’t want to admit. Before you could stop yourself, your heels clicked against the stone, each step sharp and deliberate.

His head lifted, eyes narrowing slightly as you stopped in front of him.

“You think I don’t care about vets?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

His brows drew together, and for a beat he didn’t answer. Then he pushed off the wall, looming over you, his presence heavier than the marble around him.

“Care?” His voice was rough, edged with something darker than annoyance. “You throw numbers at a room and call it caring. You sit there with your perfect suit and your polished speeches, but you’ve never had to watch someone bleed out next to you. You’ve never had to pull a friend out of a battlefield only to bury him a week later. You’ve never woken up choking on nightmares that don’t let go.”

The words hit harder than he intended, but he didn’t stop. His jaw flexed, his voice low, cutting.

“You’ve never lived it. You’ll never know what it’s like. And until you do, don’t stand there and act like your reports and statistics mean more than the people behind them.”

You held your ground, but his words slid under your skin like glass splinters. Your throat tightened, though you forced your expression to stay composed. He doesn’t get it, you told yourself. He thinks experience is the only currency that matters. He thinks I can’t care because I wasn’t there.

But some quiet part of you—small, unwelcome—knew he was right about one thing: you didn’t know. Not the way he did.

Still, you lifted your chin, steadying your voice. “Maybe I didn’t live it. But someone has to turn those scars into policy. Someone has to write the laws that keep the next soldier from ending up like you.”

His eyes flickered—hurt, anger, something else—before he turned sharply, boots striking hard against marble as he strode down the hall, leaving you in the echo of your own words.

You exhaled slowly, only then realizing how fast your heart was racing.

Damn him.

Damn him for making you feel like you were standing on trial, even outside the chamber.

By the time you got back to your office, the trending page was already a circus.

Clips of the exchange replayed endlessly—your clinical, data-driven delivery cut against his raw, unscripted conviction. Commentators framed it as “logic vs. heart,” “policy vs. passion.” The memes wrote themselves.

You dropped your folder onto the desk and perched on its edge, phone in hand. Normally by now, you’d be dictating a statement to your aide, drafting a razor-sharp tweet that would own the narrative before it spun out of your control. You’d done it dozens of times. That was your rhythm, your armor.

But tonight… your thumb only hovered. You couldn’t bring yourself to type.

That’s when you saw it.

Bucky Barnes tweeted.

Not his staff. Not some pre-cleared talking point with patriotic emojis. Him.

“I respect the numbers. I respect the work. But I’ve seen too many vets fall through cracks we pretend aren’t there. A roof isn’t enough without help. Help isn’t enough without a roof. They need both. We owe them both.”

The words were plain. Uneven. The syntax clumsy in places. But they were his.

Retweets skyrocketed. Hashtags bloomed across your screen: #BothNotEither, #BarnesSpeaks, #VetsMatter.

You set the phone down for a moment, staring at your reflection in the dark window of your office.

Why did it bother you so much? You’d landed harder blows in that chamber. You’d buried opponents under data and never once lost sleep. But this? This one unpolished, heartfelt tweet was winning hearts faster than your entire arsenal of logic.

You picked your phone back up, scrolling again. Every like, every retweet felt like a tide pulling farther and farther from you.

Your secretary poked their head in quietly. “Ma’am, do you want me to draft a response? We can keep it sharp, undercut him before the news cycle runs too far—”

“No.” Your voice came out sharper than intended. The aide blinked, nodded, and slipped out, leaving you with the silence you had demanded.

You leaned back in your chair, phone resting heavy in your palm. For the first time in years, you stayed quiet. No tweet, no quip, no spin. Just scrolling. Watching.

Watching his words do what yours never could.

And the thought you didn’t dare voice lingered anyway: Maybe this round… he actually won.

The same afternoon, the Thunderbolts briefing room smelled of coffee and sarcasm.

Bucky walked in, hair damp from the shower, jacket slung over his arm. The rest of the team was already gathered—Yelena lounging with her feet on the table, Alexei sipping coffee like it was vodka, Ava silently reading through the mission brief, and John scrolling through his phone.

“Ah,” Alexei boomed when he saw Bucky. “The Congressman arrives! We were just talking about your big television showdown.”

“It wasn’t a showdown,” Bucky muttered, setting his jacket down.

“Oh, but it was,” Yelena corrected. She tilted her phone toward him, showing a paused clip of yesterday’s hearing. “Look. You and Congresswoman. Staring. So much tension. People are writing fanfiction already.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do you even know that?”

“Because I read it,” Yelena said without shame. “One story was very… creative.”

John leaned over, curious. “Oh yeah? Do they fight or make out–I mean, make up?”

“All of the above,” Yelena replied with a wicked grin. 

Bucky groaned. “Can we talk about the actual mission, please?”

The door to the briefing room swung open without a knock, heels clicking across the concrete floor. 

“Alright, kiddos,” Valentina announced, dropping a folder on the table hard enough to scatter Yelena’s boots off it. “Fun’s over. We have work.”

“But it was only getting good,” Alexei protested. 

Mel followed right behind Valentina, arms full of slim briefing folders. She handed them out, one to each team member. 

Bucky sat forward, jaw tight, grateful for the interruption from his teammates’ relentless teasing. "What's the target?”

Valentina perched casually on the edge of the table, crossing her legs. “A congressman. Congressman Rollins, to be specific. Midwest darling, flag-waving, family values, all-American blah blah blah.” She rolled her hand in a dismissive swirl. “Only Rollins might be a little less apple pie and a little more… AIM.”

The word dropped like a stone in the room.

Ava’s eyes flickered. Yelena looked like she was finally paying attention. 

And Bucky froze in his place as if he was back in the chair that dealt him so much pain, so much anguish, that it still plagued him with nightmares to this day. 

“AIM?” John drawled, finally lowering his phone. “As in Hydra’s nerdy little weapons lab with the bad beekeeping suits?” 

“The very same,” Valentina confirmed. “Only now they’ve rebranded. ‘New management,’ as their propaganda says. But intel suggests they’re courting Rollins, and if he’s in bed with them, that means contracts, money, access. Which means we’ve got ourselves a problem.”

Mel tapped a tablet, a holographic layout of the Capital Rotunda popping up on the central screen. “Rollins will be at the Congressional Gala this Friday. Every major player will be there. If AIM’s making a move, it’ll be under those chandeliers.”

“Gala?” Yelena scoffed. “So what–you want us to play dress up and mingle with politicians?” 

Valentina frowned. “Oh, please. I’m pretty sure a group of misfits like you in a fancy gala would definitely raise some alarms.” 

Bucky piped up. “You mean me. Rollins knows me, I can get close.”

“Right,” Ava muttered. “Because nothing says ‘blend in’ like the ex-Winter Soldier glaring at senators over the shrimp cocktail. 

Bucky shot her a look sharp enough to cut. “I can handle myself.”

“Not the point,” Mel said evenly. “We need more eyes inside. Rollins won’t say anything directly to you, Bucky. He’ll be cautious. But with the right kind of… leverage… someone else might get him talking.

Yelena’s grin returned, wicked and unhelpful. “Oh, I know who.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped even before she said it. 

“Congresswoman (L/N).”

The table erupted with overlapping voices–John chuckling, Ava raising a brow, Alexei booming out a laugh about some Russian love story. Yelena clapped her hands together like she’d just delivered the punchline of the century.

Bucky slammed his folder shut. “Absolutely not.”

Valentina groaned. “I knew you would say that.”

“She’s not part of this team,” Bucky snapped. “She’s not a field agent, she’s not trained–”

“She’s a sitting Congresswoman,” Valentina cut in smoothly. “Which makes her the perfect cover. No one will question her being there. And Rollins already sees her as an ally. If AIM is whispering in his ear, she might be the one they approach.”

Yelena kicked her feet up again, smirking. “And you two have such chemistry. Very convincing undercover couple, no?”

Bucky nearly growled. “We’re not–”

Valentina clapped her hands once, cutting him off. “Decision made. Barnes, you’ll make sure our dear Congresswoman doesn’t get herself killed. She’ll get Rollins talking. Meanwhile, the rest of you will work the perimeter. Discreetly.” Her eyes slid towards Alexei. “As discreet as possible.”

Alexei only grinned. 

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “This is a bad idea.” 

But Valentina only smiled wider, “Oh, Congressman. The best ideas usually are.”

———

Your office smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink when the knock came. Sharp, deliberate. Not your secretary’s timid little tap.

“Come in,” you called, not looking up from the pile of policy memos spread across your desk.

The door opened, and your secretary’s nervous head poked through first. “Um–ma’am? They… insisted.”

They?

Then she stepped in. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Tailored suit in a shade too sharp, a smirk like she already owned the room. Behind her came Mel, calm, efficient, carrying a slim folder tucked under her arm.

“Congresswoman,” Valentina purred, sweeping past your secretary like she was invisible. “What a pleasure. I’d say you’ve been busy, but that would be an understatement, wouldn’t it?”

You sat back slowly, narrowing your eyes. “This is a secure office. Visitors need clearance.”

Valentina only smirked wider. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t need clearance. I am clearance.”

Mel set the folder down in front of you, her tone far more professional. “We won’t waste much of your time, Congresswoman. One of your colleagues, Congressman Rollins, is suspected of entertaining ties with the Advanced Idea Mechanics.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. “AIM? Hydra’s old weapon mill?”

“Rebranded, but yes,” Mel confirmed. “And if Rollins is involved, it’s not just a weapons deal. It’s influence. Contracts. Policy pipelines.”

Your fingers tapped once against the desk. “So why are you in my office?”

Valentina leaned forward, elbows on your desk like she owned it. “Because we need you at the gala, Congresswoman. Not as a guest. As an operative.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “An operative? I don’t play spy games. I write laws.”

“Which is exactly why you’re perfect,” Valentina counted. “No one questions your presence at a political gala. No one suspects you’re listening when Rollins loosens his tie and says something he shouldn’t.” She titled her head. “You want to protect this country, don’t you? Well, AIM–and in extension, Hydra– crawling back into Congress is one hell of a threat.”

Mel slid the folder closer. Inside, you glimpse the Capitol Rotunda, profiles of Rollins’ donors, encrypted communications flagged with AIM’s insignia. Proof. 

Your mouth went dry. 

“And you’re asking me,” you said carefully, “because Rollins trusts me. He won’t stonewall me the way he would Barnes.”

Valentina’s smirk sharpened. “Exactly. You’ve already sparred with him in public. People believe you’re on opposite sides of the table. Perfect cover for working together.”

That pulled you up short. “Wait. Working together?”

Mel’s eyes flickered, just once, toward the door. “You wouldn’t be alone, ma’am. Congressman Barnes will be your partner inside.”

Your stomach dropped. “Barnes?”

Valentina sat back, utterly delighted by your reaction. “Yes, Barnes. Don’t look so horrified. You two already put on quite the show in hearings. Sparks flying, cameras eating it up. Tell me, what’s more believable than rivals forced to mingle at a gala?”

You hated how your pulse skipped at the thought. Hated it more that Valentina noticed.

“Absolutely not,” you said crisply, closing the folder. “I’m not going undercover with him. I don’t even like him.”

Valentina stood. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s exactly why it’ll work.” She tapped her nail against your desk, sharp as a gavel strike. “Be at the Rotunda Friday night. Wear something dazzling. And don’t worry, Barnes will be thrilled to see you.”

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you with the folder, the silence, and a heart beating far too fast for your own liking.

A few minutes later, your office looked like a storm had swept through it. Papers scattered across your desk, staffers gathered in tense clusters, the hum of voices ricocheting off the high ceilings.

Your chief of staff was the first to break the silence. “This is… unconventional,” he said, adjusting his glasses nervously. “But it’s not without merit. You’ll be in a room with high-value officials, in a position to observe. It would give you insights no one else on the Hill will have.”

“Insights,” you repeated flatly, folding your arms. “Or a career-ending headline when someone leaks that I spent an evening playing dress-up with the Thunderbolts.”

Your communications director leaned forward, tablet in hand, already scrolling through scenarios. “Not if we control the narrative. Congresswoman attending gala for national security purposes—strong optics. You’ll look proactive, decisive. The public eats that up.”

An intern piped up. “Besides, imagine what happens if something actually goes down and you’re the one who spots it. That’s not just good press, that’s historic.”

You exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re all very enthusiastic about volunteering me for spy games.”

“Because you’re good at them,” your chief of staff said without hesitation. “You know how to read a room, how to hold your ground. And…” he hesitated, glancing at the others, “frankly, you’ll balance him.”

You didn’t have to ask who him was. The name dropped like a weight between you.

“Barnes.”

The comms director nodded. “He’s raw. Conviction, yes, but… unpolished. You bring strategy. Poise. Together, you might actually make this thing work.”

You scoffed, pacing behind your desk. “Or we’ll just spend the evening trying to kill each other with eye contact.”

There were a few stifled laughs, but no denials.

One of your younger interns—brave, or reckless—spoke up carefully. “With respect, ma’am… people already think there’s something between you two.”

You froze, narrowing your eyes. “Something?”

She flushed. “Not like that. Just… the hearings. The way you clash. It’s electric. The media runs with it. If you’re both seen at the gala, working together, it flips the narrative. From rivals to reluctant allies. That’s powerful.”

You hated that she wasn’t wrong. You hated more that a small, treacherous part of you wondered what it would be like, to stand beside him instead of across from him.

But you snapped the thought shut, smoothing the irritation from your expression. “Fine,” you said at last. “I’ll play along. But don’t mistake this for enthusiasm. The second this blows back, I’m dragging all of you down with me.”

Your team exchanged quick glances of relief, already moving into action—drafting talking points, planning contingencies, polishing optics.

You stayed still for a moment longer, staring at the darkened window.

Working with Barnes. God help you all.

———

The briefing room was cold steel and humming lights, tucked away from the Capitol’s marble halls. You walked in with your chin high, heels sharp against the floor, the weight of every pair of eyes turning toward you. They weren’t lobbyists or donors here—they were something else entirely. Predators in civilian clothes.

Yelena lounged like the room belonged to her, a smirk already twitching as if she knew how this would go. John didn’t even look up from his phone, but you caught the curl of amusement on his lips. Ava watched in silence, eyes flicking, calculating. Alexei slouched with the casual indifference of someone who’d survived too much to be impressed by titles.

And then there was Bucky Barnes.

He sat at the far end of the table, tie loose, suit jacket off, his metal hand tapping an irregular beat against the tabletop. He looked up at you as if your very presence was a challenge.

You read it instantly—annoyance, skepticism, something heavier under his stare. He didn’t want you here. He didn’t think you belonged. And yet, you walked straighter, sharper, as if to remind him and everyone else that belonging wasn’t given—it was taken.

Valentina clapped her hands together, sweeping in behind you with a smirk. “Good, everyone’s here. Let’s get started before anyone stabs each other, shall we?”

Mel spread out a digital schematic of the gala hall across the table, her tone brisk. “The target is Congressman Rollins. Intelligence suggests AIM has made contact. We don’t know how deep he’s in, but we’ll know more by the end of the night. Here’s the layout—main floor, balcony access, service entrances. Standard surveillance choke points.”

She tapped the screen, zooming in. “Bucky and Congresswoman (L/N) will be inside. You’ll blend with the crowd, get close to Rollins, and keep eyes open for any suspicious exchanges. The rest of you will hold perimeter—communications, exits, backup.”

Bucky leaned forward, voice low and clipped. “We keep it simple. Don’t draw attention. Stay close to Rollins, watch him, blend.”

You couldn’t help the soft scoff that escaped. He thought blending meant sulking in the shadows, glaring until people turned away. “You don’t blend, Barnes,” you said smoothly, “you brood. And brooding gets noticed.”

Laughter rippled through the table—quick, stifled. Yelena’s grin spread wider.

John leaned back, smirking. “Y’know, you two could just kiss and save us the trouble.”

“Shut up, Walker,” Bucky snapped.

Mel continued. “Rules of engagement: this is a gala, not a war zone. If you see something, signal first. We’ll handle escalation. Understand?”

You leaned forward, scanning the schematic. “What’s the extraction plan if things go sideways?”

Bucky snorted. “Of course that’s what you ask.”

You arched a brow. “And of course you’d just wing it, right? Because charging headfirst into chaos always works out so well.”

He turned, jaw tightening. “I don’t charge headfirst. I adapt. Which is something you’d know if you spent less time polishing speeches and more time actually doing.”

The words landed harder than either of you intended, but you refused to let him see the sting. “And maybe if you thought past the next five minutes, you’d realize doing without planning gets people killed.”

The room went quiet for a beat—everyone watching, amused, like kids at recess circling a fight.

“Children,” Alexei boomed suddenly, cutting through the taut silence. “You fight like old married couple. Very convincing.”

This time, laughter wasn’t stifled. It rolled across the table. Yelena clapped once, delighted. Walker finally looked up, smirking like a man watching a bar fight. Even Ava’s mouth twitched.

You felt heat creep up your neck, and from the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, you knew he felt it too.

You exhaled slowly, forcing composure back into your spine. But inside, the words still echoed. He thought you hid behind polish. You thought he hid behind action. And somewhere in between, maybe you both knew you weren’t entirely wrong.

Valentina’s voice echoed across the room, cutting through the tension. “Barnes. Congresswoman (L/N). Whatever your issues are, set them aside. Tonight isn’t about out-arguing each other. It’s about exposing AIM before they dig in deeper.”

You gave a clipped nod, but your chest hummed with dissonance. You couldn’t quite tell if the heat rising between you and Barnes was rivalry—or something far riskier.

And by the way he avoided your eyes just then, maybe he couldn’t tell either.

The hologram dimmed, the briefing wound down, but the room never shook loose of the tension. Everyone else looked entertained. For them, it was theater. But for you and Bucky, this wasn’t a performance. It was a warning.

Because if tonight went wrong, you weren’t just stuck in a room with each other. You were stuck on the same side. And neither of you trusted the other enough to believe that would keep you safe.

The briefing broke apart in a shuffle of chairs and half-muttered jokes, but the edge between you and Barnes stayed sharp enough to draw blood. Valentina gave a satisfied little smile as she swept out, clearly enjoying the friction.

“Play nice,” Yelena called after you, sing-song, earning herself a withering look from Bucky.

You ignored them all, letting your secretary usher you toward the prep suite two floors down. The gala was an hour away, and whatever you felt about being dragged into Thunderbolt theatrics, you weren’t about to let anyone see you crack. Not in front of them. Certainly not in front of him.

The prep suite was too small for two people who barely tolerated each other. Bright vanity bulbs glared against the mirror, catching every tense shift of your shoulders, every flicker of his jaw as he tightened his tie like he wanted to strangle it.

You concentrated on fastening your necklace, refusing to meet his eyes. But silence had never sat well with Barnes.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” His tone was flat but dangerous, like a fuse waiting for flame.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“The hearing. The way you spun it.” He turned toward you, steel-blue eyes cutting sharp. “You made it sound like I don’t give a damn about trauma, like I think a bed and four walls erase it all.”

You set the clasp down harder than necessary. “Because that’s how you made it sound. Like housing is a magic cure.”

He scoffed, bitter. “No. I said it’s the foundation. You can’t rebuild a life when you’re freezing under a bridge. You can’t even think about therapy when you don’t know where you’ll sleep that night.”

“And what happens,” you shot back, heat creeping into your voice, “when you finally get the bed, the roof, the keys, and the nightmares don’t stop? When you still wake up choking on ghosts? Housing doesn’t stop the spiral.”

“Don’t you dare think that I don’t know what it’s like to have nightmares.”

The air between you went taut, vibrating with unspoken things. You folded your arms tight against your chest, nails digging half-moons into your palms.

Bucky leaned forward, bracing his palms on the vanity’s edge. His voice had lost its sharp edge, settling into something steadier, more deliberate. “You know what your problem is?”

You arched a brow, though your chest tightened at the way he said it—quiet, like it mattered. “Enlighten me.”

Then his voice cut through, quieter but sharper. “You can’t stand the idea of me being right. Why is it every time I open my mouth, you’ve gotta prove me wrong?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t debate me. You dismantle me.” His words came out like a confession dragged through broken glass. “Like you can’t stand the idea I might know something you don’t. Like it’s not enough for you to be right—you need me to be wrong.”

That landed heavier than you expected. You swallowed, throat dry.

“You act like I don’t care. Like I don’t see the people behind the numbers. I do. But maybe someone has to be cold enough to make the math work—because if it doesn’t, they get nothing.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe you just like proving me wrong. No matter what the cost.”

“Maybe,” you said slowly, “because if I don’t fight like hell, I lose. One mistake, one moment of hesitation and I’m written off. Too young. Too much of a woman. Too… not enough. I don’t get second chances, Barnes. So yeah. I come at you with everything. Because I have to.”

He looked at you then, not as the congresswoman who grilled him across hearings, not as the politician he sparred with in headlines. Just… you.

And you weren’t done.

“Maybe I go hardest at you,” you admitted, voice softer now, “because you’re the only one who pushes back. Everyone else panders, or underestimates me. But you–you don’t. You make me sharper. And I hate it. And I–” You hesitated, breath catching. “I need it.”

His jaw slackened, the fight bleeding out of him. He turned fully now, closing the space inch by inch until you could feel the charge of him in the air.

“Funny,” he murmured, something unreadable in his eyes. “That’s what I hate about you too. You don’t let me get away with anything. You see through it. And it pisses me off.”

Neither of you moved, not really, but the room shrank around you. Your pulse pounded in your throat, your chest, your fingertips.

For the first time, you let yourself notice him, really notice. The scar along his jaw, the impossible blue of his eyes, the weight of his presence that wasn’t just intimidating but… magnetic. Too magnetic.

And he was looking at you the same way. Not with disdain. Not with rivalry. But with something that unsettled you far more.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoy fighting with me.”

His gaze dropped, just for a beat, to your lips before snapping back up. “Maybe I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was charged, humming, filled with everything neither of you dared to name.

And then, knock knock. “Two minutes til we move out!” a voice rang from outside.

The spell shattered like glass.

You stumbled back a step, heart hammering, and adjusted your gown with brisk, practiced precision. The walls came back up.

“Don’t screw this up,” you said coolly, as if your pulse wasn’t still racing.

“Try to keep up,” he muttered, straightening his tie like a shield.

But when you walked out side by side, the echo of what just passed clung to you both. The kind of echo that made you wonder if this was still politics or something far more dangerous.

The motorcade stretched along the curb, black SUVs and town cars spilling guests onto the red carpet in carefully choreographed intervals. Reporters jostled behind velvet ropes, microphones raised, camera flashes popping like fireworks.

Your car pulled up first. The moment the door opened, the noise swelled—your name shouted, questions lobbed, lights flaring. You stepped out smoothly, every inch the polished congresswoman: chin lifted, posture impeccable, gown cut to command attention without courting scandal. You smiled just enough, the kind of smile that photographs well but gives nothing away.

As you climbed the short stretch of carpet toward the doors, the press surged.

“Congresswoman, do you expect to clash with Congressman Barnes again tonight?” “Will we see another viral showdown?” “Are you and Barnes working together on this bill, or is this just political theater?”

You gave your usual noncommittal answers, sharp and efficient, already in control of the narrative. This was your arena, after all.

Then another round of shouts broke out. Louder. Frenzied.

Barnes had arrived.

He emerged from a separate SUV at the far end of the carpet, taller than the men flanking him, broad shoulders filling out a black suit that looked just a little too snug on someone built for combat instead of politics. He didn’t smile. Didn’t pose. Just walked, unhurried but unflinching, as if the blinding camera lights were nothing compared to the gunfire he’d faced in another lifetime.

The reporters pounced.

“Congressman Barnes, do you think you belong here?” “Are you and Congresswoman (L/N) enemies—or something else?” “Barnes, are you planning to respond to her tweet?”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. That silence was an answer in itself.

And then it happened: you reached the top of the carpet just as he did.

Two separate arrivals. Two orbits colliding.

For a moment, the crowd went electric. Rivalry embodied in two figures standing side by side under the glittering lights. The flashbulbs doubled, capturing every glance, every shift of posture.

You didn’t look at him, not directly. But you felt him—the heat of his presence, the deliberate way he turned his body just enough to acknowledge you without inviting contact.

“Perfect,” you muttered under your breath, the practiced smile never leaving your face.

“Yeah,” he muttered back, low enough that only you could hear. “Picture-perfect enemies.”

Inside, the ballroom doors loomed. And though the arrivals had been staged separately, Valentina’s plan meant walking in together.

When his arm extended toward you, the cameras caught it instantly.

You hesitated. The crowd fed off it, buzzing, hungry. Then, with every eye on you, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow.

His arm tensed beneath your touch. Yours did too.

And as the doors opened to swallow you both into the gala’s golden light, one truth rang clear: no matter how separate you arrived, the world wanted you together.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, a sea of sequins, tuxedos, and crystal flutes. A string quartet played something elegant enough to keep conversation buoyant without ever drowning it out. Servers weaved through the crowd with champagne trays, their movements smooth as clockwork.

Your hand still rested in the crook of Bucky’s arm as you stepped inside. The crowd noticed. They always did. Conversations dimmed by a decibel, glances exchanged, subtle smiles traded like gossip.

“Smile,” he murmured, tilting his head toward you as if sharing an inside joke. His breath brushed your ear. “They’re watching.”

“I am smiling,” you replied, laughing just loud enough for the donors. “You just hate that it’s not at you.”

“Feels like it is,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth curving in something dangerously close to a grin.

Before you could sharpen the edge, a cluster of donors intercepted you. Retired generals, media moguls, a senator with a practiced laugh. Their questions came dressed as pleasantries:

“Congresswoman, your committee remarks were powerful—do you foresee bipartisan traction?” “Congressman Barnes, you’ve been… colorful in your critiques. Care to elaborate?”

You traded answers like cards, always sharp, always measured, while Bucky threw in his brand of bluntness, which somehow landed well in this room of people who mistook honesty for novelty. To the onlookers, you weren’t opponents—you were foils, sparks flying in all the right ways.

In your ear, Yelena’s voice cut through, dry as ever.

“Barnes, you should try smiling for real. You look like someone stapled your mouth shut.”

“Funny,” he muttered under his breath. “Didn’t realize this was a comedy gig.”

Ava’s voice slid in next, crisp and clipped.

“North wing balcony, second floor. Rollins is heading up there. Looks like he’s avoiding the press.”

You sipped your champagne to mask the slight tilt of your head. “Copy that.”

Still, the dance continued. You laughed lightly at something Bucky said aloud—something about funding “actually reaching the people instead of vanishing into a black hole of bureaucracy.” The group around you chuckled, pleased at the interplay. You leaned closer, close enough for the pose of intimacy, your words meant only for him.

“You sound rehearsed.”

“You sound jealous,” he shot back, his blue eyes glinting in the chandelier light.

Your chest tightened, though you masked it with another laugh for your audience. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But the tension wasn’t just for show anymore. His hand rested lightly against yours at his arm, fingers brushing just enough to feel deliberate. The contact was electric, unwanted and undeniable all at once.

Alexei’s voice broke the spell, booming through the comms like a proud father. “Look at you two! So believable! Even I almost forget you hate each other.”

“Focus,” John hissed.

The crowd shifted, new figures drifting in—an ambassador here, a billionaire there. Every conversation layered with meaning, every toast laced with promises. You and Bucky navigated it like a battlefield, seamless in motion if not in spirit. You traded barbs in private, pleasantries in public, and through it all, the Thunderbolts’ whispers stitched the night together, every guest, every corridor, every anomaly fed into your ears.

And yet, between each coded update, each handshake and staged smile, you kept catching him. The brush of his shoulder against yours. The steady way he angled himself to keep you within his line of sight. The rare, fleeting curl of his mouth when you said something he didn’t expect.

The ballroom was alive, every chandelier scattering golden light over polished floors and polished people. Your smile was constant, honed sharp enough to conceal exhaustion, irritation, even the heat prickling at your skin from standing so close to him. His arm anchored you as you moved from circle to circle, trading pleasantries with power brokers who believed themselves untouchable.

Compliments dipped in poison, each more transparent than the last. You parried with poise, while Bucky skewered with bluntness. To the crowd, the two of you were a spectacle: rivals made to dance together, a performance so seamless they almost forgot the history.

Through it all, your comms whispered.

Ava: “Target moving again—heading for the far corridor. Looks like he’s trying to shake his security detail.”

Yelena: “Too obvious. Smells like bait. Keep parading, I’ll shadow.”

John: “You two look cozy. Can’t wait for the engagement announcement.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. You stifled the urge to roll your eyes.

And then—movement. A bodyguard passed nearby, one you both knew to be Rollins’. Without hesitation, Bucky dipped his head toward you, pulling you in as if whispering something intimate. To anyone watching, it was a lover’s lean, secretive and sweet.

But his words were anything but.

“Two o’clock. Blue tie. He’s circling the ambassador.”

Your lips parted, a perfectly timed gasp for the crowd, but inside you were burning at the heat of his breath against your temple. You leaned closer, your own whisper threading the space between you.

“Don’t look so comfortable.”

“Who says I am?” he murmured, though his fingers brushed yours again at his arm, deliberate this time.

The bodyguard stopped. Turned. Smiled. He’d noticed you both.

So you played your role. Tilted your head toward Bucky’s shoulder, as though he’d just told you something worth blushing over. Your body angled into his. The cameras snapped, the donors cooed, and your heart stuttered at how easily the act slipped into something that felt too real.

Yelena’s voice broke through. “Nice. Keep holding hands. Maybe kiss next. Disgusting, but effective.”

You nearly choked on your champagne. Bucky covered it with a quiet chuckle that only made the moment worse.

For everyone else, it was perfect theater. For you, it was a line you weren’t sure you wanted to stop toeing.

The gala had begun to loosen. Glasses refilled, conversations grew more candid, and the currents of money and influence swirled thicker beneath the gilded surface. You and Bucky had been tethered together long enough to sell the performance—long enough for every gossip-hungry donor to wonder aloud if the infamous sparring partners were suddenly allies, or something more.

Ava’s voice rang. “Too much attention on you two. Split. Barnes, west wing. Congresswoman, stay east. Cover more ground.”

“Copy,” Bucky muttered. His arm flexed beneath your hand before you both withdrew, and you were left standing on your own as though the act had never been. The shift was immediate, eyes followed you, whispers prickled at your back.

One of them, a senator with decades of polished menace behind his grin, leaned in as if sharing a harmless joke. “Tell me, Congresswoman, is it true what they’re saying? You and Barnes—” He chuckled, eyes flicking to the cameras across the room. “It’d be a hell of a headline.”

You laughed lightly, brushing the question aside. “He’s a colleague. Nothing more. People see sparks and assume fire.”

The senator smirked, unconvinced.

You pivoted away, searching the crowd, when the comms caught another conversation, this one not meant for your ears.

A muffled voice, another politician you’d just shaken hands with, low and teasing. “So, Barnes…what’s the deal with her? She’s got bite. Don’t tell me you’re enjoying it.”

There was a beat of silence. You froze mid-step.

Then Bucky’s voice, steady but unguarded, slipped through. “She’s gorgeous. Sharp, too. Smarter than half this damn room. Keeps me honest.”

Your heart stuttered. Heat rushed to your cheeks so quickly you nearly cursed aloud. Gorgeous. The word echoed, reckless, intimate. Not meant for you to hear.

You forced your expression neutral, raising a champagne flute to your lips before anyone saw the crack in your armor. But inside, your pulse drummed, a traitor to your composure.

Focus. The mission.

And then you saw him.

Congressman Rollins.

Moving like a shadow at the edge of the gala, ducking into a side corridor no one else seemed to notice.

Your instincts flared. This was it.

“I’ve got eyes on Rollins,” you murmured into comms, already slipping through the crowd.

Bucky’s reply was immediate, sharp. “Wait. Don’t move without backup.”

“We don’t have time.”

“You’re going to get yourself cornered–”

But you were already gliding through the curtains, heels muffled against the marble as you entered the dim hallway. The air was cooler, quieter, heavy with secrets.

Ahead, Rollins spoke in low tones to two men in dark suits. You pressed yourself against the wall, straining to catch the words.

“…the shipment leaves tonight. AIM doesn’t forgive mistakes. If the funds don’t clear, we’re all compromised.”

Your stomach knotted. So it’s true.

You leaned just enough to catch another detail, adrenaline thrumming through your veins–

And that’s when it happened.

A guard’s head turned. His eyes locked on yours.

“Hey–”

You spun, too late. Fingers like iron clamped around your arm. Another set grabbed your wrist, twisting hard enough to make you drop the champagne glass you’d been clutching like a prop. It shattered against the marble, echoing sharp as a gunshot.

“Get off me!” You slammed your elbow back into one man’s ribs, drawing a grunt. For a split second you broke free until another guard came from behind, arms snaking around you, pinning you in place.

Your comms erupted.

Bucky: “Where is she?! Somebody get eyes on her!”

Ava: “East corridor. She’s surrounded.”

Yelena: “Told you idiots not to let her off the leash.”

Rollins turned, his smile thin, reptilian, as he stepped into the low light. “Congresswoman. Always so eager to be the hero.” He stepped closer, eyes glinting. “Shame heroes are so easy to break.”

“Go to hell,” you spat, thrashing against the hold.

“Not tonight.” He gestured. “Get her out of sight.”

The guards wrenched you forward, dragging you deeper into the shadows. Your ear buzzed with comms, Bucky’s voice cutting through in jagged bursts—furious, panicked—but then a hand ripped the earpiece free. The line went dead.

Your last glimpse of the gala was the sliver of golden light spilling under the curtain. Then nothing but the dark corridor swallowing you whole.

The ballroom’s glow had turned brittle. Bucky pushed through the crowd, ignoring the confused looks from donors and politicians. He could still hear the echo of your voice in his head, sharp over comms— “We don't have time.” And then nothing.

Nothing.

“Come in. Say something,” Bucky muttered into the comm, pushing through a crowd of senators who blinked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Congresswoman, respond.”

Static.

“Talk to me,” he barked, weaving past trays of champagne, eyes scanning exits. “Where the hell is she?”

Ava’s voice cut through, quick and clipped. “Last ping from her comms was east corridor, behind the draped partition. Four hostiles minimum.”

Bucky’s chest tightened. He didn’t slow, weaving between tuxedos and sequins with military precision, ignoring the protests of donors nearly spilling their champagne. “Then why am I still standing here?”

“Barnes—” John started, but Bucky interrupted, eyes flashing.

“She’s unarmed at a goddamn gala. They took her comms. If we lose her—” His voice broke sharp, edged with panic he couldn’t quite mask.

For a moment, even Walker shut up.

Yelena’s voice slipped in over comms, sing-song but edged with focus. “Relax, Grandpa. Me and Alexei are already circling outside. No cars have left yet. If they want to move her, they’ll have to come past me and Alexei. And I shoot very straight.”

Alexei boomed faintly in the background, “Like arrow, but louder!”

Bucky ignored them, barreling down the hall, heading for the partition Ava had flagged. His pulse thundered in his ears. He’d been in ambushes, black-ops, Hydra hellholes—but this was worse. This was the echo of your laugh, your smirk, your barbs still fresh in his head… and now the yawning possibility of never hearing them again. 

Ava’s voice rang through the comms. “Barnes, slow down. You rush in blind, you’ll spook them, and then we lose her for good.”

“I’m not sitting on my hands while she’s dragged off by AIM,” he growled.

There was a beat of quiet on the line before Yelena muttered, softer, almost amused despite the tension, “He’s really freaking out. Cute.”

Bucky ignored her, ripping the curtain aside. The corridor beyond was empty except for shards of broken glass glinting on the marble. He crouched, picking up the remains of your champagne flute with a gloved hand. The sight of it—the proof you’d been here, proof you’d fought—sent something dark and hot through his chest.

“They’ve got her,” he said, low and raw. “And I swear to God, if Rollins lays one hand—”

“Barnes.” Ava’s voice again, steadier now. “We’ll get her back. But you need to think. Not feel.”

He forced himself to breathe, shoving the glass aside, standing tall. But his fists were clenched, metal hand creaking audibly as he fought to rein himself in.

“No,” he said. “You think. I feel. Because if I don’t, she’s gone.”

A beat of silence on the comms. Then John, grudgingly, “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Then Yelena, “Told you two, it’s not just political foreplay.”

Bucky shut them all out, eyes fixed down the darkened hall where they’d dragged you. He didn’t care about optics. He didn’t care about the gala. The only thing that mattered was that they had you, and he wasn’t going to lose you. 

Bucky spun toward the hall, stalking forward. “You think this is cute?” he snapped. “She’s out there with AIM, and you’re cracking jokes?”

“Da,” Alexei rumbled. “He is in love. Makes him soft.”

“Shut it, all of you,” Bucky barked, voice cracking with the weight under it. He wasn’t sure if it was rage or fear clawing at his throat—probably both. “We are not losing her. Not to AIM. Not to Rollins. Not to anyone.”

Silence. Just his breathing, heavy and raw.

Then Ava again, steady as always. “Okay, soldier. You lead. We’ll track your six. But breathe. Don’t think about what they could do. Think about how to stop them from doing it.”

Bucky inhaled hard through his nose. His chest felt like it was caving in. He’d lost too many people to shadows in hallways. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose you. Not after everything. Not when you were the one person who could meet him toe-to-toe and not blink.

“I’m not sitting back,” he said finally, voice steady but thick. “We move. Now.”

And without waiting for confirmation, he started down the corridor, every step a promise—that he would tear the walls of this gala apart brick by brick if it meant getting you back.

Your head throbbed where the blow had landed—swift, calculated, not enough to knock you out but enough to disorient. The world lurched sideways as rough hands dragged you down the narrow service corridor. Your heels skidded on marble, catching on the edge of a runner, until someone shoved you hard enough that you stumbled forward into darkness.

A door slammed. The music of the gala vanished, replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights. The air was colder here, industrial, heavy with metal and dust.

You straightened quickly, smoothing your suit jacket as if you still had control, even as the ache in your ribs told you otherwise.

“Hands off,” you snapped, twisting out of one guard’s grip. Your glare locked onto the man waiting by the far wall—Congressman Rollins, his tuxedo immaculate, his smile as polished as it was poisonous.

“Well,” he drawled, stepping closer. “Congresswoman (L/N). You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always so curious. Always listening where you shouldn’t.”

You held your chin high. “Curiosity isn’t a crime. Treason, however—”

A sharp backhand from one of his men cut you off, snapping your head to the side. The sting spread across your cheek, hot and humiliating. You swallowed hard, refusing to let it show.

Rollins only clicked his tongue, amused. “Bold. I’ll give you that. But bold doesn’t keep you alive in this game. You politicians–you love your speeches, your moral high ground. You think AIM is some boogeyman we can scare away with hearings and oversight.”

You narrowed your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. “AIM’s a corpse. Hydra’s shadow. You’re throwing your lot in with ghosts.”

His smile widened, sharklike. “Ghosts don’t die, Congresswoman. They adapt. They evolve.”

Behind him, one of the guards unlocked a sleek black case and revealed vials of something glowing faintly green. The sight of it twisted your stomach. Weapons. Serum, maybe. Whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for public eyes.

Rollins stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re going to disappear tonight. Maybe the story will say you left the gala early. Maybe it’ll say you had a breakdown. Doesn’t matter. You’ll be gone. And with you gone, the noise fades. The bills fades. And AIM’s work continues.”

Your pulse spiked, panic threatening to claw its way up your throat–but you shoved it down. You’d been in political bloodsport long enough to know one truth: fear was leverage. And you’d be damned if you gave him that.

The plastic cut deeper into your wrists with every shift of your hands, the sharp bite reminding you how vulnerable you were. The guards pushed you into a metal chair, and before you could twist free, one of them yanked a strap tight across your chest. Restraints, clinical and deliberate. AIM’s touch was never sloppy.

Rollins circled you like a predator savoring the moment. “You know what I like most about politicians?” he mused, hands clasped behind his back. “You spend so much time fighting each other, clawing for scraps, that you never see the real threats creeping in from the shadows. You’re too busy arguing about budgets and hearings.”

You ground your teeth, forcing yourself to stay calm. “And what, you think AIM is the solution? Using science to wage war, destabilize nations? You’re not saving the future—you’re selling it to the highest bidder.”

Rollins crouched low in front of you, so close you could smell the expensive scotch on his breath. “No. I’m building the future. And AIM is giving me the tools.”

He gestured, and one of the guards placed the glowing vials on a steel tray beside him. The green light pulsed faintly, almost alive.

Rollins plucked one between his fingers, holding it up to the light. “This isn’t a weapon. It’s evolution. Augmentation. Imagine a soldier who doesn’t need food, rest, or hesitation. Imagine armies that don’t flinch.” His grin widened. “Imagine voters who never question.”

A chill swept through you. Whatever this was, it was bigger than weapons. It was control.

You steadied your voice, making it sharp. “You’ll never get it past oversight. You think the country will let you mass-produce super-soldiers in secret?”

Rollins laughed, straightening. “Oversight is bought. Oversight eats out of my hand. And if they don’t, well…” He tapped the vial against the metal tray with a chilling clink. “Accidents happen.”

He leaned closer, his tone dropping to something conspiratorial, almost gentle. “But you, Congresswoman, you’re clever. You’re tough. You’re wasted in chambers full of cowards. AIM could use you.”

Your stomach turned. “I’d rather die.”

For the first time, the smile slipped entirely from his face. He sighed, as though you’d disappointed him, then nodded to the guards.

“Very well. We’ll keep you alive. For now. The gala’s still burning bright, and no one suspects a thing. When it’s over, we’ll move you off-site. By the time anyone realizes you’re missing, you’ll be just another cautionary tale.”

One of the guards leaned close to whisper something in his ear. Rollins’ expression tightened, a flash of irritation.

“What?”

“They know she’s gone. The soldier—he’s already looking.”

Your chest tightened. Bucky.

Rollins cursed under his breath before schooling his features into a calm smirk again. “Well then. Let him come. It’ll make breaking him all the sweeter.”

He turned back to you, his voice silk over steel. “And when he fails, Congresswoman, the whole country will watch you vanish. Maybe that’s how we win—by reminding people that even their brightest voices can be silenced.”

The guards moved to lift you again, rough hands digging into your arms. You fought to keep your expression cool, even as dread churned in your stomach.

Because Rollins was right about one thing—Bucky was coming.

And if AIM thought he’d fail, they had no idea what kind of storm they’d just unleashed.

The gala’s noise was a distant echo now, muted beneath the pounding in Bucky’s ears. He stalked through the east wing’s corridor, pistol drawn, every nerve in his body thrumming with tension. He hadn’t realized how loud silence could be until your voice disappeared from the comms.

Yelena’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “Security footage confirms it. Two AIM agents dragged her out of ballroom, down through service halls. Rollins was with them.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on his weapon. “Where?”

“East wing, sublevel access. They are moving her fast.”

He broke into a jog, ignoring the startled shouts of staff he blew past. John’s heavy footsteps followed close behind, Ava’s lighter, quieter ones shadowing the opposite flank.

“Barnes.” Ava’s voice was sharp, professional. “We can’t storm in without eyes. They’ll kill her first thing if they feel boxed in.”

“She doesn’t have time for careful,” Bucky snapped. His throat burned with the words, but he couldn’t stop. “She’s not trained for this, not like us. She’s—”

He caught himself, jaw locking. But Yelena, of course, jumped on it.

“She’s what, hm? Special? Fragile? Or maybe you are just soft for her.”

John snorted, even mid-stride. “Not the time, Yelena.”

“No,” Yelena said, her smirk audible even over comms. “This is perfect time. I’ve never heard Barnes panic like this. Not even when we were knee-deep in the Void.”

“Enough,” Bucky barked, but his voice cracked around the edges, betraying the storm beneath.

They rounded a corner. Ava reappeared from the opposite hall, her intangibility allowing her to scout ahead. She flickered solid, face tense. “Service elevator shaft. Fresh footprints. They took her down.”

Bucky shoved past, prying open the elevator doors with his metal arm. The shaft yawned dark and deep, cables humming faintly.

“They’re headed underground,” he said, breath rough. “Probably to a loading dock or tunnel system.”

Alexei’s voice rumbled over comms from outside. “Perimeter still clean. No vans, no cars. They must still be inside.”

“Then we find them,” Bucky said, already clipping his harness to the cable. He rappelled down without hesitation, the drop swallowing him in shadow.

Halfway down, Ava’s voice reached him again, steadier now. “Barnes… you know if we rush this, she could be leverage. They’ll use her to pin you.”

The thought sent a cold spike through his chest. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice into steel. “Then they’d better pray I get to her before they try.”

The words echoed in the empty shaft, more vow than threat.

At the bottom, he landed with a metallic thud, gun up, every sense on fire. He glanced back at the cable above, hearing John and Ava descending after him. 

Yelena’s voice whispered in his ear, teasing but almost encouraging, “Go get her, lover boy.”

Bucky moved forward, heart hammering, the image of you strapped to a chair—hurt, alone—burning behind his eyes. He’d lost too many people already. He wasn’t about to lose you.

Not tonight.

The corridor spat Bucky out into a concrete sublevel humming with fluorescent light and the stink of oil. Crates were stacked high against the walls, half-covered with tarps marked with AIM’s yellow insignia. Voices carried down the hall–Rollins’, smooth and cruel, and yours, sharp even muffled.

Bucky didn’t wait.

“Contact ahead,” Ava whispered over comms, phasing through the wall to scout. “Two guards flanking the door. Rollins inside. She’s strapped down.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “We breach now.”

“Barnes–” John began, but Bucky was already moving.

He stormed the hall like a bullet, gun barking twice before the guards could raise theirs. Both dropped hard. The metal door loomed ahead, locked with a keypad. He didn’t hesitate–one swing of his vibranium arm shattered the frame, splinters of metal raining down as he barreled through.

The room exploded into chaos.

Rollins spun, startled but quick to mask it, while his guards lunged forward. Bucky’s gun spoke again, precise and merciless, while behind him Ava slipped through the wall to disarm another. John charged in next, slamming one brute into the floor with a bone-rattling crack.

And there you were.

Strapped to a metal chair under the sterile light, wrists raw from the zip ties, blood blooming faintly on your cheek where you’d been struck. Your eyes locked onto his the second the door crashed open–wide, fierce, alive. Relief and fury tangled in his chest, nearly knocking him breathless.

“Bucky!”

He cut down the last guard between you with a savage blow from his metal fist, then was at your side in two strides, crouching low. His hands moved fast, slicing the restraints with his combat knife.

“You okay?” His voice was rough, tight with adrenaline. His thumb brushed the welt on your cheek before he could stop himself. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, though your voice trembled. You held his gaze, the truth shimmering there: you weren’t fine, not even close. But alive. You were alive.

“Move!” Ava shouted, phasing through to take out another guard slipping in. “We’ve got more inbound!”

Rollins’ voice cut through the din, smooth and venomous. “Do you really think you can stop this, Barnes? You can’t save her. You can’t stop us. AIM is inevitable.”

Bucky shoved you behind him, gun raised. His voice dropped to a growl. “Touch her again, and I’ll make sure you don’t leave this room standing.”

Rollins smirked, backing toward a rear exit even as his guards covered him. “She’s already touched, Barnes. Marked. You think this is over? She’s just the beginning.”

Shots cracked, smoke filled the air, and the Congressman slipped through the back before Bucky could fire.

“Fuck!” he roared, rage surging.

Gunfire rattled the sublevel, sharp bursts echoing off concrete as the team pushed the AIM reinforcements back. Smoke hung in the air, acrid and heavy, stinging your eyes.

Bucky pressed you behind a stack of crates, his body a shield, firing over your shoulder with relentless precision. Every time you flinched at a shot too close, his hand was there, steadying you, pulling you close.

“Barnes!” John barked over comms. “Rollins is on the move, heading for the sub-tunnels!”

“Then we chase him,” Bucky snapped, already rising. But his gaze flicked to you—and lingered.

You read it instantly, the war behind his eyes. Duty versus instinct. Mission versus you.

Alexei lumbered up beside you both, shotgun slung casually over his shoulder like this was just another Tuesday. “I’ll take her,” he said gruffly. “Get her topside, safe.”

“No.” Your voice cut sharp, raw from smoke but firm. “I’m not leaving. I heard him, I know what AIM’s planning, I can help—”

Bucky crouched in front of you, one hand gripping your shoulder, the other still steady on his pistol. His eyes locked to yours, intense enough to burn. “You’re done here. You hear me? You’ve done enough.”

“I’m not some liability you can shove into the corner, Bucky!” you shot back, shoving his hand away. “I’m not—”

“You’re hurt!” The words ripped out of him, harsher than he meant, echoing through the corridor. His throat worked, jaw tightening. “And if I take you with me, they’ll use you against us. Against me.”

Silence fell in the beat between you. The fight in his voice wasn’t anger–it was fear. Raw, unguarded fear.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the words out. “Alexei gets you out. That’s the only way I can go after Rollins without looking over my shoulder every damn second.”

“Bucky–” you started, softer now, but Alexei’s massive hand clamped down on your arm, hauling you up to your feet.

“Time to go, Congresswoman,” Alexei rumbled, dragging you back toward the service hall.

You dug your heels in, resisting. “Barnes! Don’t you dare–”

He didn’t look back. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the smoke-choked tunnel where Rollins had vanished, his voice rough as gravel as he spoke into comms. “Avengers, on me. We end this.”

And just like that, Alexei’s grip pulled you into the shadows, your protests swallowed by the gunfire.

The last thing you saw before the hall turned and the smoke cut off your view was Bucky’s silhouette–rigid, braced, weapon ready, charging deeper into danger without you.

And the last thing he heard was your voice, sharp with fury and something far deeper beneath it, fading as Alexei dragged you away.

“Don’t you dare get yourself killed, Barnes!”

Alexei’s grip was iron, his big hand swallowing your arm as he bulldozed through the smoke-filled service tunnels. You yanked against him, heels scraping the floor, fury and panic twisting tight in your chest.

“Let me go back!” you demanded, half-shoved, half-dragged toward the exit.

Alexei only grunted. “No. Barnes is right. You’re safer outside.”

“I don’t care about safer!”

“You will.” His words were final, heavy. He shoved open a steel door, the night air rushing over your face like a slap. The alley was dark, lit only by the spill of streetlamps and the glare of a waiting van.

He all but shoved you inside. “Stay here.”

“No, I’m not—”

But before you could finish, he pressed a comm into your palm—his own, spare earpiece. “Then at least listen.”

You jammed it into your ear, heart hammering. Immediately, chaos flooded in: gunfire, boots on concrete, the clipped voices of the team in the thick of it.

John: “Two down, pushing east!” Ava: “Rollins has a guard wall, moving to flank—” Yelena: “Barnes, watch your six!”

And then the words that froze your blood.

John, shouting: “Barnes is hit!”

Your stomach plummeted, everything inside you lurching into cold panic. You slammed your hand against the van wall, shaking your head like you could rattle the words out. No. Not him. Not now.

Alexei stiffened, looking back toward the building. You could see it in his face–he wanted to run in. But his jaw tightened. He had orders.

“Stay,” he told you again, then ripped the comm from your ear and charged back toward the chaos, shotgun cocked and ready.

And just like that, you were alone.

The silence pressed in, suffocating despite the noise crackling through the comm. You hugged your arms tight around yourself, nails biting your palms.

You tried to convince yourself this was just another mission. That he’d handled worse. That the Winter Soldier doesn’t go down easy.

But underneath the practiced armor of your thoughts was something rawer, unrelenting.

You couldn’t lose him. Not after all the fire and fury between you. Not after the moments of quiet you weren’t supposed to share. Not after you’d finally started to wonder if it was rivalry or something more.

The distant wail of sirens cut through the night. Red and blue lights washed across the alley walls as police cars screeched into formation, surrounding the building. Officers spilled out, guns drawn, shouting commands.

And then–movement.

The sublevel door burst open. First came John, hauling Rollins in handcuffs, the Congressman’s smugness broken, his face pale with sweat. Ava and Yelena followed, battered but alive. And behind them–

Your breath hitched.

Alexei emerged, massive frame supporting Bucky’s weight slung against his side. Bucky’s face was bloodied, his shirt torn and damp with crimson at the shoulder, but he was standing–or at least trying to.

The sight knocked the air from your lungs. Relief, fear, anger, all tangled into something too big to name.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

“Bucky!”

He lifted his head at your voice, blue eyes locking on you instantly. For a second, the world shrank to just that look–the quiet fire in it, the unspoken I’m alive and I came back.

You skidded to a stop in front of him, hands flying to his face before you could stop yourself, cupping his jaw, brushing your thumb over the blood at his temple. “You idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You reckless, stubborn idiot. I thought–” Your throat caught. “I thought I lost you.”

Despite the pain twisting his features, he smirked faintly. “Not that easy to get rid of me.”

“You were hit.”

“Just a scratch.” His voice was rough but teasing. “You should see the other guy.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, though you fought to blink them back. The heat of his skin under your hands, the tremor in his breath–it all hit at once, the truth you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said, softer now, almost to yourself. “Pretending I don’t care. Pretending it’s just politics. Or rivalry. Or… or anything but what it is.”

His eyes searched yours, tired but steady. “And what is it?”

You swallowed hard, the words tearing free. “It’s you. I care about you. More than I should.”

The smirk faded. His expression shifted, raw, stripped bare. He leaned into your touch, just for a heartbeat, his voice quiet enough only you could hear.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”

Your hands were still on his face, his skin hot under your palms, your heart ricocheting against your ribs. The sirens wailed, police shouted, Rollins spat curses, but none of it mattered—not when Bucky was looking at you like that.

Like you weren’t an opponent. Like you weren’t just another congresswoman with sharp words and sharper ambition.

Like you were someone he wanted.

And then you moved at the same time.

Your mouth crashed against his, desperate and messy and unpracticed, a kiss born out of relief and exhaustion and every argument that had ever ended with something unsaid. His arm, the flesh one, wrapped hard around your waist, pulling you close despite the pain in his shoulder. You tasted blood and salt and adrenaline, and you didn’t care.

For a moment, the world really did fall away. Just him. Just you. Just the kiss you’d both been circling around for weeks.

A loud whistle shattered it.

“Finally!” Yelena’s voice rang across the alley, smug and merciless. “Enemies-to-lovers arc complete. You owe me fifty bucks, John!”

You jerked back, breathless, cheeks burning hot. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, both of you still panting. You half-expected him to step away, to smooth it over with sarcasm, but when you looked up, he was smiling faintly—soft, real, completely unguarded.

“Oh, come on,” John groaned loudly, hauling Rollins past you with a roll of his eyes. “Can’t you two save the make-out session until after the debrief?”

“Leave them,” Alexei boomed, still propping Bucky’s good side with one arm. “Barnes deserves kiss after surviving bullet. Very motivational!”

Ava’s voice came through comms, dry as ever. “Romantic. Bleeding out in an alley while civilians film on their phones. Truly one for the history books.”

You realized then that half the police had their cameras trained on the scene—and no doubt the internet would have the footage spliced into a meme within the hour.

Bucky finally pulled back, his lips ghosting against yours for one last second before he chuckled low, rough in his throat. “Guess we’re trending again.”

You gave a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “#BarnesVs(L/N), round three. Except this time… we kissed.”

Yelena clapped her hands together, grinning wide as she called out, “And the crowd goes wild!”

You groaned, burying your face briefly against Bucky’s shoulder as his laughter rumbled through you both.

But even through the noise, through the teasing, through the swarm of cops and press and flashing lights, the only thing you could focus on was the undeniable truth:

You’d kissed Bucky Barnes. And you wanted to do it again.

———

The chamber was thick with tension, every exchange clipped and charged, the kind of atmosphere where even the smallest sound seemed to echo. Today’s hearing had one subject that could draw blood on both sides: tariffs.

“Congresswoman,” Bucky’s voice was even but edged with steel, “raising tariffs in this climate risks alienating allies and pushing small businesses into the ground. It’s reckless.”

You leaned forward, fingers steepled, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “What’s reckless, Mr. Barnes, is pretending free trade doesn’t come at a cost to American workers. Tariffs level the field, protect our industries, and keep communities alive.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd of staffers and reporters. Neither of you broke eye contact. Neither of you blinked. This was the duel they came for—the sparks, the heat, the stubborn refusal to cede an inch.

By the time the gavel struck, dismissing the session, the air in the room still crackled. Reporters swarmed like moths, shouting questions, cameras flashing. You gave them your polished smile, dropped just enough soundbites to keep headlines spinning, and slipped through the side exit.

He was already there. Waiting.

“Nice speech in there,” Bucky said, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall like he owned the hallway. “Almost had me convinced tariffs don’t bankrupt people.”

You smirked, tossing your notes into your bag. “And you almost had me convinced that abandoning American workers is patriotic.”

His laugh was low, tired, but not without admiration. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Guess that’s why they keep putting us on opposite sides. Sparks fly.”

“You’re not supposed to enjoy it,” you muttered, though your chest tightened as he closed the space between you.

“Maybe I enjoy watching you work too much,” he said softly, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “You were—” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “—gorgeous up there.”

Your breath caught, though you rolled your eyes to cover it. “Compliments sound a lot like surrender, Barnes.”

“Guess I only surrender behind closed doors.” His voice dipped low, brushing past your defenses.

You hated how much you wanted him in that moment. And yet your hand was already on his shirt, pulling him closer. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, you muttered, though your hand was already finding his shirt, pulling him closer.

“And yet…” His lips brushed yours, teasing, waiting.

“…And yet,” you whispered, finishing for him as your mouth finally found his.

The kiss was brief—stolen, secret, just enough to take the edge off the battlefield you’d just waged in public. When you broke apart, his forehead lingered against yours, and for once neither of you had anything sharp left to say.

“Well,” you said, straightening your blazer, “that makes us enemies again tomorrow.”

“Enemies in the chamber,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your hand. Then, softer, “But not here.”

You let yourself smile, just for him, before walking away, the echo of your heels filling the hall.

The rivalry was still alive. The fire still burned.

But so did the secret—the dangerous, undeniable thing you and Bucky shared when the doors closed.

———

Safe to say that he is definitely your gym crush, and you would be lying when you say that you look forward to going to the gym just to see if he was there. 

Your gaze stayed on him as your friend led you to the Smith machine. You glance at his face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and mouth letting out huffs of breath as he raises the 100kg dumbells above him. 

Goddamn. 

Your attention is brought back to your friend as she begins loading the bar with a few weights to start your first exercise. You snap out of your daze and help her by loading up the other side before finally beginning. 

Taking turns, the two of you did a few sets of back squats, but your mind was definitely elsewhere. You desperately tried not to look at Bucky for too long, afraid that your friend might notice or worse, you get caught by Bucky staring at him. 

“Okay, what’s up? I feel like you left your brain back at home,” your friend joked as you took a break before starting your next exercise. You roll your eyes, taking a swig from your water bottle, ignoring her question. 

Your eyes subconsciously trail to Bucky, once again. This time, he was hunching over the bench as he stared at his phone, chest rising and falling at a steady pace. Your friend follows your gaze and hums in realization. 

“Ah, I see,” she pipes up with a smirk on her face, “you got hots for the Avenger.” 

You laugh softly, turning back to her and shrugging your shoulders. “Guilty as charged.” 

“Why don’t you go for it?” she pesters, causing you to rapidly shake your head. “No way, I’m scared he might just glare at me or something.” 

She scoffs before beginning to look for other plates to load the smith machine. She looks around your area only to find none that would suffice for your next exercise. So she scans the gym in search of heavier plates only to find a stack of 25’s that were conveniently placed beside Bucky. 

She smirks before trudging her way towards him despite your attempts to pull her back. “Come back here!” you whisper sharply, but ultimately give up once she reaches him. 

You see her gently tap Bucky on the shoulder, prompting the super soldier to turn and face her. You feel your whole body tense and your face starts to heat up. You watch as your friend points to the stack of plates beside Bucky and you see him nod and begin to stand up. 

Oh god, is he coming over here? You thought to yourself. Sure enough, you see your friend and Bucky each pick up a plate and head towards your direction. Your eyes briefly meet his, causing you to turn away and act busy by scrolling through your phone. 

You feel your heartbeat quicken as you see them grow closer through your peripheral until they are standing right in front of the machine. “Thank you so much!” your friend smiles as they both load the weights onto the bar. “I would’ve asked my friend to help me out, but the pre-workout hasn’t kicked in for her, you know?” she jokes, earning a soft chuckle from Bucky and a glare from you. 

“It’s no problem,” Bucky says, gaze shifting between the two of you, a shy smile on his lips. “Have a nice workout,” he adds, before heading back over to the benches. 

Your friend turns to you, a wicked smile on her lips. “See? He won’t bite,” she chides, causing you to roll your eyes before heading to the machine to start RDLs. “Unless you’re into that sort of stuff,” she continues, earning a smack on the shoulder from you. 

“I’m never working out with you again.” 

—

The next few days were not as uneventful as you’d hoped. You thought by going to the gym alone like you usually do would mean that you’d have more time to just subtly watch Bucky from across the room without worrying about any friends that would force you to interact with him. 

But just a few days after your initial interaction with Bucky, you were put in a situation where you had the chance to look at him up close once again. 

You were doing tricep pushdowns on the cable machine when you felt a hand tap you on the shoulder, causing you to jump. You turn around to meet the pair of blue eyes you so desperately gazed at all the time. 

You were frozen in your spot as you took in how attractive he looked in his compression shirt, arms bulging by the sleeves. You were snapped out of your daze when you realized he was talking to you. “I’m sorry, what?” you asked sheepishly, removing one of your earphones. 

Bucky smiled shyly in return. “Are you using the other cable?” he asked, pointing at the machine next to you. You shook your head, heat rushing to your face upon the thought of him working out beside you. “No, go ahead.” 

He smiled again before positioning himself beside you and starting his workout. You tried your best not to get distracted by the godly sight next to you, but you didn’t muster enough courage to talk to him after that. 

The next time you talk was the week after that. You were doing a particularly heavy set of dumbbell shoulder presses (while keeping note of Bucky somewhere behind you doing bicep curls). It was already your third set, and you were aiming to push out 12 reps until you started to feel your weaker arm give out. 

You braced your core harder as you pushed yourself to get the last rep in until you saw Bucky drop the dumbbells he was holding to rush behind you. “I got you,” he mumbled, lightly placing his hands just below your triceps to give you stability. 

You tried to ignore your heart that was hammering in your chest as you were finally able to fully lift the dumbbells over your head. You moved to lower them to put them down, but Bucky suddenly wrapped his hands on your wrists. “All you, give me one more.”

Jesus Christ. 

You pushed yourself one more time, ignoring the pain in your shoulders as you gave it your all. Once you finally put the dumbbells down, you turned to him. “Thanks,” you smiled, which Bucky returned. 

“No problem,” he replied, but before you could say anything else, he was already walking back to his spot to continue his set. You were extra energized to workout that day. 

Which brings you to a week after that. You were just stepping out of your car when you spot Bucky getting off his bike. You subtly watch as he took his helmet off, and revel in the way he tied his hair into a small bun by the nape of his neck. 

God, you were down bad. 

You were too busy trying not to drool and fail to notice that he was actually staring back at you. It wasn’t until he gave you a shy nod when you snap back to reality and return the gesture but throwing him a sheepish wave. 

“What are you training today?” he calls out as he watches you take your gym bag from the trunk of your car and slung it on your shoulder. “Oh, I’m doing pull today. What about you?” you ask, silently hoping he was planning to do the same. 

“Mind if I join you?” he asks which practically made your heart do backflips. Trying to hide your giddiness, you give him a short nod as you and him begin to make your way inside the gym. 

You enter and greet a few familiar faces as Bucky follows suit before stopping in front of the lat pulldown machine. “Are you okay with starting with this?” you ask. 

“What, no warm up?” Bucky asks in return, prompting your cheeks to heat up. “I don’t warm up,” you start, “And before you lecture me, I know it’s bad… I’m just too lazy to do it.”

He chuckles softly at this as he begins to take off the sweatshirt he was wearing to reveal that he was wearing a muscle tee underneath, leaving almost no room for imagination. “S’okay. I’m too lazy to warm up sometimes too.” 

You laugh as you take a seat in front of the machine, pick a favorable weight, and begin your set. You weren’t going to lie to yourself, the thought of Bucky Barnes standing just beside you to watch you do your set was both nerve wracking and motivating at the same time. Sure, you wanted to impress him with the amount of reps you could push out, but the way he was staring at you was also making your knees grow weak. 

Thankfully, you finish your first set with minimal struggle before standing up and gesturing for him to go next. “That seemed a little too easy for you,” Bucky began, “I know you can lift heavier than that, doll.” 

You try to ignore the way your stomach flipped upon hearing the pet name and reply with a playful scoff instead. You take a swig from your bottle as he starts his set. While lifting the whole stack, you admire the way his back muscles expand and contract without focusing too much on the soft grunts that were leaving his mouth. 

Did it suddenly get too hot in here? 

After a few more workouts and taking turns checking each other out, you both decide to end the day with a set of hammer curls. You watch in awe as he begins to work with a pair of 80kg dumbbells, making your weight look puny. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” you huffed as you continue your set. You see him slightly turn his head towards you in acknowledgment. “Given that you literally have a serum that makes you… you know, strong enough to lift a truck—“ he laughs at that, “why do you still work out?” 

He ends his set and places his dumbbells back on the rack. “Well it sort of feels like therapy for me. When I go to the gym, it’s like— are you done with these?” he stops, pointing at the dumbbells you placed down while he was talking. You nod and before you could protest, he picks up the pair with one hand and places them back on the rack for you. “Anyway, when I go to the gym, I can forget about everything, you know? It feels nice to leave the rest of the world behind and pretend like everything is normal in my life,” he finishes. 

Bucky lifts his metal arm in front of him. “This doesn’t really help with that though,” he adds, letting out a sad laugh. Your heart clenches at his sentiment, but before you know it, you blurt out, “Do you wanna get coffee after this?”

You widen your eyes at your sudden forwardness. A few weeks ago, you could barely approach him to ask help in re-racking weights, but you also never really imagined you would one day do pull with him, too. So this was sort of like a seize the day kind of thing. 

Bucky, too, was caught off guard with your invitation. He never really talked to anyone when he went to the gym, preferring to just keep to himself, but there was something about you that pulled him closer. Maybe it was how friendly you were with everyone in the gym or how he saw you continuously push yourself to your limit in every exercise you do, but he was always intrigued by you. 

His therapist told him to step out of his comfort zone more, so with a smile, he replies, “Only if you let me be your gym buddy from now on.” 

Your smile reaches your ears as you offer him your hand, which he gladly took, “Deal.” 

———

You have to admit, you’d never think you would end up dating a football player– and when Bucky approached you one night at a random party to ask you out, you halfheartedly said yes, expecting that he would just take you to a random sports bar and try to hook up with you the same night. Fortunately, the date went better than expected with him bringing you to his favorite taco truck downtown and driving you to one of those retro drive-in movie theaters. However, he failed to check what movie they were playing that night and had the both of you watch a random Scandinavian film with no subtitles. In the end, the two of you decided on staying in the car and get to know each other more with the movie long discarded in the background. 

Eventually, you ended up going on a few more dates after that and got to know how sweet he really was. Sure, he was still a jock and was still getting a hang of being in a committed relationship, but you could see him actively put the effort in it so you were more than happy. 

You hear their coach blow his whistle, signaling the end of their practice which prompts you and Nat to jump from your seats and head down to the field to meet Bucky and Steve. Nat gets there first, crashing into Steve’s embrace, almost knocking him over. You laugh at the interaction before your eyes land on Bucky’s. With his helmet off, you have the opportunity to finally see his face. His hair was flat from his helmet with a few strands clinging to his forehead, the eye black on his cheeks smudged due to the sweat, and his mouth stretched into that boyish grin you grew to love. 

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asks playfully as you approach him. He puts his helmet down to wipe the beads of sweat on his face. “Just looking for some hot jocks to kiss,” you tease, earning a laugh from him before he wraps his arms around your waist. “Find anyone you like?” he plays along. You smile, snaking your arms to the back of his neck. “Oh, yeah, I got one right here,” you giggle as you pull him into a kiss. It was soft and slow, and you could taste the saltiness of the sweat on his upper lip, but you didn’t care. 

“Hello to you too, dollface,” you hear him mumble between your lips before pulling away.  “I’m taking Steve to that new pizza place that just opened near campus, come with us?” he asks, shaking his head which elicited droplets of sweat to fly towards you much to your disgust. “You’re such a boy for doing that,” you grumbled. “But yeah, count me in.”

He smiles, but before he could get another word in, Nat interjects, “Count me in, too!” 

Bucky shakes his head, “Nuh uh, you’re not invited. Steve told me how sick he was of you and how loud you snore when you sleep.” Nat gasps before playfully hitting Steve in the chest, earning an “ow” from him. “You told Bucky?!” she shrieks, but before she could protest even more, Steve pulls her into a kiss, muttering a quick “I love you”, then runs towards the shower room. Bucky turns back to you, giving you a swift kiss. “Pick you, guys, up in 20.” 

As he was leaving, he looks back over at Nat and lets out a few loud snores, prompting her to throw a handful of dirt towards him. “Screw you, Buchanan!”  

–––––

A few days later, Bucky walks out of the field, his bag hanging from his shoulder, a cold breeze brushing through him as he begins to walk back to campus. “Hey, Buck, solid practice today,” Sam Wilson, one of the tackles, pipes up from behind him. “Yeah, man, good job today,” Bucky replies, giving his teammate a fist bump. “Me and Parker are gonna grab a few drinks, you coming?” 

Bucky laughs, the thought of Parker getting tipsy over a few pints entering his mind. He shakes his head, “I’ll pass tonight, man. Might go see my girl.” 

Sam smirks before clasping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Alright, see you around.” 

“Hey, take care of Parker, alright? Don’t want his aunt to find out he got wasted over a few cocktails!” Bucky calls out, earning a cackle from his teammate as he walks away. 

He checks the time to find out practice ended a few minutes early so he sends you a quick message, knowing you’re probably still in class. 

hey doll practice finished early

want me to walk you to your dorm? i should be able to swing by to pick you up from class

He waits for a few minutes before hearing a ping from his phone, gaze immediately falling to the screen. 

no need. didn’t go to class today wasn’t feeling well. 

oh? you want me to bring you some soup?

no its ok. thank u tho

anything for you, baby

do you want me to come over tho? 

maybe next time, bucky. sorry

Bucky frowns, taking notice of the difference in the way you typed. You were colder than usual and you’d usually want to see him even when you weren’t feeling the best. He’s a bit disappointed too, wanting to take care of you until you get better, but knows to respect your wishes. So he brushes it off. 

He shoots you a quick text saying he hopes you feel better soon before messaging Sam to say he’ll catch up with him and Parker in a few. 

Looks like he’ll take up Sam’s offer after all. 

–––––

Bucky cranes his neck over to the bleachers, but frowns when his eyes land on Nat sitting alone. You didn’t come to his practice today. Bucky would’ve been fine about it, but he knows you didn’t have any conflicting classes at this time and you would’ve messaged him beforehand if you weren’t able to come for whatever reason. 

“Maybe she’s still feeling under the weather,” Steve reasons, following his best friend’s gaze towards the seats.  

Bucky nods absentmindedly in response, “Yeah, I guess so.”

He was trying so hard to hide the fact that he was getting increasingly worried. He also doesn’t want to seem too clingy considering you’ve only been seeing each other for a short time. He’s only been in a handful of serious relationships before, and most of them happened when he was still a clueless teenager in highschool. You were the first person he was willing to be fully committed to after a few months of fooling around in college so he definitely does not want to screw things up.

After practice, he asks Nat if she knew where you were only to find out that Nat was just as clueless as he was. With a huff, Bucky fishes his phone out of his pocket. 

missed you at practice today. still feeling sick? 

“Hey,” Steve calls from behind him, Nat trailing closely behind. “Nat and I are gonna go study at the library, see you there?” 

Bucky snorts. “By study at the library you mean get frisky by the shelves at the back? Yeah, I think I’ll pass.” 

Steve laughs as Nat drags him away from the field, patting Bucky’s back comfortingly before fully parting ways. This action goes unnoticed as Bucky’s eyes remain glued to his phone, waiting for your reply. 

A few minutes pass and he grows antsy. He hesitantly types another message. 

baby? 

This time, you read the message, but still don’t reply. Bucky runs his hand through his hair, a sign that he was growing anxious. He looks around the field, desperately trying to find someone to talk to so he could take his mind off of you. To his dismay, the rest of the team either left or were still in the showers. 

Bucky thinks about his next move. 

i’m coming over. 

He quickly stuffs his phone in his pocket and practically sprints over to your dorm, a million things racing in his mind. His chest tightens at the thought of you being in trouble, not really knowing what to expect when he sees you. If he sees you. 

Bucky shakes his head to get rid of the image of him turning up at your dorm only to find it empty– he wouldn’t know where to begin looking for you considering you won’t reply to his messages. This is the first time you acted like this towards him, and Bucky tries to recall everything he’s said to you lately, attempting to think of anything that could have upset you. His pace slows down as he begins to question if he was overthinking things, his mind tricking him into thinking that he was being too clingy and it might turn you off. But with the absence of your replies and the assurance that you’re okay, Bucky’s strides become bigger and he picks up speed towards your dorm. 

A head of brown hair meets his gaze as the door to your apartment swings open upon his knock. “Hey, Wanda,” Bucky greets your roommate, chest heaving and beads of sweat adorning his forehead. “I’m sorry for barging in all of a sudden. Is she..?”

Before he could finish his sentence, Wanda nods, opening the door wider for him to come in. Bucky nods his head as he enters. “She’s in her room,” Wanda mumbles before closing the door behind him. 

Bucky mutters a “thank you” before walking towards your door, about to turn the handle, but hesitates for a second. Slowly taking his hand off the brass knob, he raises a hand and places two soft knocks on the door. “Doll,” he calls, loud enough that he’s sure you hear him, but gentle enough to not startle you. When he doesn’t hear a reply, he continues, “Can I come in?” 

A few seconds later, a soft click from the other side fills his ears. Bucky takes this as a signal to slowly turn the knob and peak inside. He barely caught a glimpse of you walking back to your bed before he sees you pull the covers back to climb in, reassuming the position he figured you were in before you unlocked the door. 

Bucky steps inside and if it wasn’t for him shutting the door behind him, separating the two of you from the noises outside your bedroom, he wouldn’t have heard the sniffles that were coming out of your mouth. Your back was facing him, but he can clearly tell that you were hugging your knees to your chest as you tried to control your breathing, desperately attempting to conceal your cries. 

“Baby…” he breathes, approaching you cautiously and planting himself by your feet. Only then does he catch a glimpse of your face, your eyes puffy and cheeks tinted pink, presumably from crying for an extended period of time. Bucky frowns upon seeing you in this state. He’s seen you cry before, but it was usually from a sad movie or being stressed with homework. He doesn’t know why you are crying now, but he’s determined to find out. He places a hand on one of your calves and begins to rub soothing circles on it. “Did something happen?” 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice as you begin to wipe the tears that were still trickling down your cheeks. “Wanna tell me why you’re crying?” Bucky persists, eyes still fixed on you. You shrug and the room falls silent as you close your eyes.   

Bucky hears you take a deep breath before finally piping up. “Just feeling a little down,” you mumble, voice hoarse and barely loud enough for Bucky to catch. He moves his hand from your calf to one of your feet, giving it a soft squeeze before beginning to slowly press on its sole, easing the tense muscles and giving you a brief moment of peace. 

Bucky tries to think of what to say, but is interrupted by the sound of his phone going off. Clicking his tongue, he grabs his phone to find a text from Pietro.

hey wya? im at the study hall 

Cursing to himself, he suddenly remembers that he and Pietro agreed to meet tonight to work on a project they were partners in. Typing a quick reply to say that he’s on his way, he turns back to you before leaning over to press a kiss on your temple. “We all get blue sometimes, doll. We just gotta hang on, you know?” he attempts to comfort you, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I gotta run, promised Pietro we’d do that project tonight. But I hope you feel better soon, baby. If you need anything, just text me, okay?” 

–––––

You don’t text him at all that night. 

In fact, if it wasn’t for the good morning text Bucky sent the next day, Bucky thinks you wouldn’t have texted him at all. Your replies grew colder and you became more distant, and Bucky was suffering. 

“Dude, what’s up? If you’re not busy being a total grump, you’re staring at your phone like you’re expecting something to pop out of it,” Steve points out as he, Bucky, and Nat sit in the cafeteria to have lunch. Bucky grumbles before slamming his phone face down on the table and sliding it away from him. “It’s (Y/N),” he starts, “she’s been acting off for days now.”

Steve and Nat share a look before Nat pipes up, “Have you tried asking her why?” Bucky scoffs. “Well, duh!” Bucky exclaims, running his hands through his hair. “I went over to her’s last night, but she just told me she was just feeling a little down.”

“And what did you say?” Steve asks. Bucky’s eyes meet his friend’s as he sighs. “I told her everyone gets sad and that we should just hang on. I left after that because I had to do that history project with Maximoff.”

The table falls silent and Bucky begins to zone out, thinking that the conversation would end there, but is quickly brought back to reality when something hits him dead center in the face. “Ow!” Bucky shouts as his hand flies up to cradle his nose. His eyes land on the table, a bread roll laying in front of him, causing his gaze to shoot up at the red head sitting across him. “Did you just throw a bread roll at me?” Bucky asks, his eyes wide with disbelief and confusion. 

“Well, duh!” Nat mocks, rolling her eyes at the brunette. “I always thought football players were dumb because of how much trauma their heads go through every game, but you’re on a whole ‘nother level, Buchanan.”

Bucky blinks. “Care to elaborate?”

Nat lets out an exasperated sigh before Steve butts in, “She’s obviously going through something, Buck. You can’t just tell her to suck it up.”

“Hellooooo!” Nat interjects, waving her hand in front of Bucky’s face as if what they were pointing out was the most obvious thing in the world. “She isn’t some jock going through a losing streak or something, actually be there for her, you know?” 

“Would you cut me some slack? It’s the first serious relationship I’ve been in since highschool, I’m still getting a hang of things again,” Bucky glares. He eyes the bread roll in front of him before giving in and grabbing it to take a bite. Nat watches him, a look of disgust adorning her face. 

The three of them sit in silence as Bucky contemplates on what to do. He picks up his phone to see no new messages from you, but his eyes catch the time. He knows you don’t have classes right now, and he figures you would just be in your dorm. He doesn’t want to ruin things with you, so he jolts up from his seat, catching the attention of the couple in front of him. “I’m gonna fix this,” he mumbles to himself before storming out of the cafeteria to head over to you.

“Atta boy!” Steve calls after him.

Bucky can feel his heart in his throat as he shakily knocks on your front door. To his surprise, you answer the door this time. His mouth starts to form a smile, but quickly turns into a frown when he takes in your form. At first, his heart skipped a beat when he noticed that you were wearing one of his shirts which was too big for you, the hem of it ending just by your thighs, and the bottom of one of his boxers peeking through it. 

But once he caught the way your shoulders were slumped and the dark circles around your eyes, he knew better than to celebrate. “Hey,” he exhales, flashing a sad smile, “can I come in?” 

You nod wordlessly before leaving the door ajar and making your way towards the couch. Bucky steps inside, shutting the door behind him before following suit. He sighs when he sees you on the couch, knees tucked closely to your chest and you watch whatever show is playing on the TV, eyes in an absent daze. 

He takes a seat beside you, draping an arm across the back of the couch only for you to launch yourself towards him like it’s a reflex. You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face into his chest as he instinctively encases you in an embrace. Bucky’s heart breaks as he hears you rack out a sob, his thumb beginning to rub circles on your shoulder. 

He gently places a kiss on your forehead as he feels his shirt become damp with your tears. “I’m sorry for leaving so soon the last time I was here,” he mumbles, lips still pressed to your temple. 

You don’t answer back right away and Bucky is forced to listen to you cry, his heart shattering after every noise that comes out of your mouth. 

“It’s just a drag,” you say between sniffles, “the world’s so mean.” 

Bucky furrows his eyebrows, not really understanding what you mean, but tries to think of something to say. His conversation with Steve and Nat replay in his mind as he desperately thinks of a reply, determined not to mess things up like last time.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, testing out the waters. He takes note of your silence and whispers, “Something’s breaking my baby’s heart and I wanna know what.” 

You let out a soft huff. “That’s the problem. I don’t know why I feel so down.”

The room falls silent. Bucky could hear his heartbeat in his ears, he felt his hands grow sweaty, his throat became dry, and his eyes began to prickle as tears started to form. He prays to whoever was listening before he asks. 

“Is it me?” 

“No, god no,” you shoot up, detaching yourself from him much to his dismay. Your eyes wide as he stares back at you with the same expression. Bucky looks down and begins to fiddle with his hands, another nervous tick of his, and you realize why he’s been so persistent about finding out what was making you upset. 

Bucky was afraid that he was the reason you’re in pain. 

You attempt to pacify his thoughts by placing your hands on both sides of his face. Bucky lets out a shaky breath as he leans into one of your hands, peppering it with feather-like kisses. You give him a teary smile. “It’s just that life’s so hard sometimes, you know?” 

Bucky gives you a smile in return, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he stares at you, trying to dig through the deepest parts of his brain to come up with something, anything, that could possibly make you feel better.

But before he could, you remove your hands from his cheeks and place them on your own as you wipe tears that you didn’t even know were flowing down your face. You stand up, causing Bucky to look at you in confusion. “You should go.”

“What? No,” he protests, standing up following you as you begin to walk towards the front door. Bucky’s mind is racing. 

Come on, dumbass, say something. Anything!

He opens his mouth, “Baby–”

“I just need to rest, Buck,” you interrupt, opening the door. “It’s not you, I promise.”

You press a kiss on his cheek as he looks down at you with sad eyes. 

You let out a small smile, “I’ll text you, okay?”

–––––

But you don’t.

You don’t text him even the day after that. 

Bucky’s mind was spinning. He felt absolutely helpless, and if it wasn’t for the harsh sound of a whistle filling his ears, he wouldn’t have snapped out of his daze. 

“Barnes!” the voice of his coach was enough for him to remember that he was in fact in the middle of the football field in the middle of practice. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you lately, but if you can’t pull yourself together then you’re benched for the next game. You hear me?” the coach shouts from across the field. 

Bucky nods absentmindedly before shouting back, “Sorry, coach!” 

He shakes his head, trying to retain focus and deciding to pay you one more visit later. Bucky didn’t know what to do nor say, but he sure isn’t leaving your dorm without mending things. 

He sets those thoughts aside for now, and turns his attention back to his team. 

Bucky figured he had totally zoned out during practice because it was only when Steve sat beside him did he realize that practice was over. “(Y/N) still not feeling okay?” Steve asks, sympathy dripping from his every word as he looks at Bucky whose eyes were going through all of the unanswered texts he sent you today. 

good morning, doll

hope you’re feeling at least a little better today :) 

–

don’t forget to eat

<33 

–

just finished my trigonometry exam lol pretty sure i flunked it 

–

call me if you need anything, okay?

– 

found out parker has a gf lmaooo

i kept denying it til he introduced her to the whole team 

you’d like her :) she’s smart like you 

–

i miss you

please text me back 

–

heading to practice 

i miss you so much, doll 

Bucky drops his head in his hands, tears threatening to spill. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Stevie,” he croaks. “I just wanna see her smile again.” 

–––––

He’s met with Wanda again as the door to your dorm swings open. “Is she here?” Bucky stutters, not even bothering to apologize for showing up unannounced. Wanda shakes her head, “No, she’s been gone since last night.”

Bucky’s eyes widen as he swears he almost felt his heart stop at Wanda’s words. His breathing quickens and his chest grows tight as Wanda ushers him into the apartment. “What do you mean she’s been gone since last night? Has she talked to you today?” Wanda shakes her head again, “I’ve been texting her since this morning, but she hasn’t replied to any of it.” 

Bucky runs his hands through his hair as he begins to think about what could’ve happened to you. He starts to make a list of who to call, frantically trying to think of ways to locate you. This was it, he thought. This was how he lost you forever. If he just knew what to say at the right time, if he had just been a good boyfriend to you, this wouldn’t have happened and you wouldn’t be gone. 

He can’t breathe, his mind begins to scramble and his vision turns foggy. Bucky clutches a hand to his chest to try and ground himself, forcing himself to think. 

Think, Barnes, think! 

Just as he was about to dial 911, they hear the sound of keys rattling from the other side of the door causing both his and Wanda’s heads to snap towards its direction. Bucky holds his breath, uttering a dozen prayers in his head, hoping that it was you. 

It’s only when he sees you walk through the door did the tears finally start to flow. He bounds over to you and instantly throws his arms around you, pushing your head towards his chest. Bucky silently thanks whoever granted his prayers as one of his hands fly to rest behind your head before placing a bruising kiss on your forehead. After this, he rests his chin on top of your head and looks up, desperately trying to keep any more tears at bay. 

“I’ve been worried sick, doll, where were you?” he asks, trying to hide the fact that he’s been crying, but the crack in his voice gives it away. “Hmpff mff humff,” he hears you mumble against his chest, drawing a teary chuckle from him as he pulls away. “Sorry, come again?” 

“I went over to my parents to try and cheer myself up, I’m sorry I should’ve told you where I was going, I had my phone off the whole day and—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky laughs breathlessly, pulling you back into him. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He sees Wanda slowly retreat back into her room to give you space. The two of you stand there in silence, holding each other as you relish in the feeling of being in each other’s arms. 

“I don’t know if I’m okay, honestly,” you say, quietly. 

“And that’s perfectly fine, too,” Bucky replies, cradling your face in his hands. “Listen I know I haven’t been dealing with this as best as I could but—”

“No, Bucky–”

“Let me finish, doll. I know I'm still trying to find my footing with all of this, but I want you to know that I'll be here no matter what, okay? When you’re happy, when you’re sad, or even when you don’t know what you’re feeling.”

You smile at him gratefully, resting your hands on top of his. “I don’t know what’s been going on with me recently. I think college is just getting to me or something. It feels like I always wanna find the rain even on a sunny day, you know?” 

Bucky continues to stare into your eyes, sadness glazing over them. You shake your head and begin to pull away, “Forget it, it sounds stupid–”

“Woah hey, no,” Bucky interjects, placing his hands on your hips. “It doesn’t sound stupid. I may not fully understand what you’re feeling, but I’m here, aren’t I?” 

You shake your head. “I really don’t wanna drag you into this, you have so many things on your plate–”

You’re interrupted by Bucky placing his lips on yours, engulfing you in a kiss so passionate, it takes your breath away. 

“But I’m in it for the long run with you,” he mutters against your lips. 

You stumble because for the months you’ve been together, the future never really fell into conversation between the two of you. With your schedules being so hectic, you and Bucky wordlessly settled with just going with the flow, and you were fine with that. But upon hearing the words leave Bucky’s lips, you began to think what this meant. 

Bucky tenderly places his hands back on your cheeks, rubbing them softly in order to soothe you. “If it feels like life is dragging you down, then hang on ‘cause I'll be your bodyguard,” he starts, earning a soft chuckle from you which urges him to continue.  “If you feel like the whole world is a red flag, then I'll be with you to look for the green, and hell, if you wanna find rain on a sunny day then I’ll be there to dance all through the pain with you, doll.” 

Tears start to flow down your face, once again, as you smile. You smile in a way that Bucky hasn’t seen from you for the past few days. He smiles back. 

“But you gotta try to talk to me, okay?” he pipes up, wiping your tears with his thumbs before pressing another kiss on the top of your head. “I know I’m a meathead, but I promise I wanna try to understand what you’re feeling so I can help.” 

You nod against his lips as Bucky lets out a breath. You stay that way for a while, and Bucky was already satisfied with how the conversation turned out, vowing himself not to push you further into talking things out. It isn’t until he hears you mumble the words he’s been longing to tell you for so long that he feels his world come to a halt. 

“I love you.” 

This is the first time these words were uttered between the two of you, and Bucky feels his chest tighten again, but this time, it was due to an overwhelming sense of joy. He pulls you tighter against him before breathing out, “I love you too. So much.”

It was then Bucky realized that he didn’t need to mend things when you’re feeling this way. As much as he’d like to take away the pain, he knew that reminding you that he’ll always be there despite it is, and always will be, enough.  

–––––

Ring, ring, ring…

“Hey, how are you, doll?” he greeted, making you smile. “Hi,” you replied, resting your phone on your shoulders, “I was just calling to ask you if you’re gonna get home late. Nadia wants to take me out for some drinks because of some guy that broke up with her.”

You heard him chuckle from the other end, a sound that you’ve grown to love over the past three years. “I’m actually heading home as we speak, but don’t worry about me, baby. Go have fun.”

You frowned into the phone, “But what about our plans?”

“You call sitting on the couch while binge watching Gossip Girl ‘plans’? That’s another reason why you should go out with Nadia tonight,” he teased, causing you to grumble.

After sensing your reluctance, he suggested, “Tell you what, if you’re too scared to say no to her, I can call her and say that we have other things to do.”

You let out a triumphant squeal which quickly died down as he continued, “Or I can pick you up and drive you to wherever you’re meeting her so you could be there for your friend, then come up with a fake emergency so you can go home a little earlier.”

You pondered on the thought, but ultimately agreed. “What would I do without you?”

He laughed. “Crash and burn.”

After a few seconds of ringing and no answer, you let out a breath of relief before pressing the end call button. “He’s probably busy with work,” you reasoned, much to the producers’ dismay.

“Do you still keep in touch?” glasses asked only to have you shake your head. “We sort of cut each other off after the break up,” you replied, fiddling with your phone, “guess it hurt both of us too much to stay friends.”

“How did you meet?”

You smiled.

“Americano for (Y/N)?” the barista called over the counter. You rose from your seat and walked over to where he stood. “Thank you,” you smiled, grabbing the cup and taking a sip as you walked back to your table.

As you resumed work on your laptop, you couldn’t help but overhear the conversation the man beside you was having on his phone. “I’m telling you, Steve, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me or you’ll go grey before you’re supposed to,” he spoke sternly, his eyebrows creased and forehead furrowed. There was a short pause, indicating that the opposite party was speaking.

“Yeah, because the chances of a six foot tall Avenger getting mugged in the streets of New York are so high,” he retorted sarcastically. Avenger, huh? That’s why he seemed so familiar.

“Whatever, man. I’ll call you in a few. If I don’t, assume I got kidnapped since you’re pretty good at thinking that I can’t fend for myself,” he grumbled as he ended the call and slammed the phone on the table.

He was taking a sip from his coffee while staring intently at the wall across from him when you decided to pipe up, “Boy trouble?”

He chuckled, “Men, am I right?” You shared a laugh as you turned back to your laptop, expecting that the conversation would end there, but the man ended up continuing. “It’s my first time going somewhere else alone other than whenever I go to my therapist so he’s extra worried. It ain’t my fault I got fed up with the people I’m living with,” he shrugged.

You laughed softly. “What domestic problems do Avengers have anyway? I always just imagine Cap having trouble deciding what suit he should use or Iron Man getting rust off his suit.”

The man beside you cackled, clutching his chest with his gloved hand. “That’s amazing,” he sighed, wiping a stray tear from his eye as you beamed with pride.

“I’m Bucky,” he said, extending his hand out to you.

“(Y/N).”

As the producers were about to let you go, your phone on the table started ringing. Dread filled you completely as you stared at his name.

You let it ring for a few more times, unsure of what to do until one of the producers shouted, “Answer it!”

So you did.

As soon as you accepted, his voice filled your ears, filling your heart with both warmth and dread. “Hey, I’m sorry I missed your call. I was training with Sam. Is everything okay?”

You inhaled a sharp breath before uttering, “Yeah, hey. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

Another beat of silence. “Why didn’t we work out?”

“I don’t understand why you need to leave,” you pleaded as you desperately tried to prevent the man in front of you from continuing packing his things. The two of you were currently in your shared bedroom as you watch the love of your life slowly walk out of it.

“I’m just keeping you safe,” Bucky grumbled as he continued to stuff his clothes into a worn out duffel bag he found under the bed.

“Safe from what? Bucky, just please tell me what’s going on.”

“Safe from me, okay?” he replied as he finally turned to you. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes as he stared into yours who were equally as teary. “I love you with all my heart, but it’s not safe for you to be with me any longer, okay?” he whimpered, walking over to you before delicately placing his hands on both sides of your face.

“I don’t understand,” you cried as he desperately tried to wipe your tears that were flowing down your face. He sniffled, looking up and seemingly attempting to blink back a few tears of his own before pressing a firm kiss on your forehead. He closed his eyes and inhaled your scent one last time before muttering, “You will soon.”

After what seemed like an eternity, Bucky answered.

“I was in a rocky place at that time and I really didn’t want to drag you into all of that,” he said, voice unsure of why you suddenly called him after months of radio silence.

You looked over to the producers who were looking back at you expectantly, but before you could reply, Bucky continued. “I was having a hard time finding out who I really was when we were together and I felt like it just wasn’t fair to you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. Gripping the phone, you summoned all the courage to reply. “You know I was always willing to stay with you. No matter how rocky things were.”

You heard Bucky let out a soft laugh, a sound you’ve been craving to hear for the past months. “You’ve always been stubborn.”

You smiled into the camera, satisfied with how things turned out. But just as you were about to say goodbye, Bucky spoke. “How are you, doll?” he asked in a voice that sounded so unsure, so afraid that you might react negatively and block him, never to call him again.

But no. At this point, you could feel your heartbeat in your ears and your stomach in your throat. It was as if all those memories you’ve tried to forget for the past months came rushing back upon hearing a single word. A word that has haunted you at night with his face attached to it, a constant reminder of a love that was lost.

With a shaky breath, you replied, “I’m good. You?”

You looked over to the producers who were just beginning to piece together who it was you were talking to and laughed. Soon enough, Bucky answered.

“Doing better than I was before,” he said, contently.

You smiled. “That’s good, I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you, I’m happy for me too,” he replied, causing both of you to chuckle.

“Ask him if he loved you,” glasses ordered.

“Did you love me?” you complied, already knowing the answer.

“With my whole heart,” Bucky replied almost immediately as you beamed with pride.

“Ask him if he would ever consider getting back together,” one of the producers mouthed, making you shake your head violently. The other producer countered this by nodding equally as violent. “Yes!” they mouthed.

“No!” you mouthed back. Just then, Bucky’s voice sliced through the room. “Hey, doll, listen, I gotta head back to training before—“

“Would you ever consider getting back together?” you interrupted, instantly regretting it. Bucky fell silent on the other end as you shrunk back into your chair, ready for the ground to swallow you whole. You made a mental note to kill Nadia after this.

“Would you?” he asked back.

“I asked first,” you retorted, earning another chuckle from him only this time, it was more nervous.

You hear him draw a sharp breath. You closed your eyes, preparing for whatever he was about to say next.

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since the day I left.”

You froze in your seat. Your eyes flew to the producers who held excited grins on their faces as you struggled to form sentences. It was as if the world had stopped spinning just as your brain stopped functioning upon hearing those words from the man you missed dearly. Your mind was racing as you thought of a million things you could say as a reply, but for some reason, your body acted faster as your finger flew to your phone and ended the call.

“What, why did you end it?!” glasses exclaimed, fumbling with her clipboard. You stuttered, mind completely foggy, “I don’t know.”

“Call him back, dummy!” the other producer shouted and before you knew it, you were calling his number once again.

It didn’t even finish the second ring before he picked up. “Oh, thank god. I thought I scared you off,” Bucky sighed in relief.

You shook your head, “You could never scare me off, Buck.”

Unbeknownst to you, Bucky smiled at that. “So, would you? Consider getting back together?” he asked, a little quiver making its way into his voice, giving it away how nervous he was.

You smiled. “In a heartbeat.”