.☘︎ ݁˖ erina .☘︎ ݁˖

"Daddy! Daaaaddy!"

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

There's an elated toddler giggle that echoes from the bedroom down the hall, "Come look, come see!"

Bucky dog-ears the page he was reading in his book and sets it on the nightstand, off to see what kind of trouble your little one is causing.

Winnie Barnes.

A perfect mix of the two of you, though she's a spitting image of Bucky— striking blue eyes and dark hair with his sarcasm and that signature Barnes charm.

"What've you done?" He says as he saunters down the hall.

And when he gets there, he's met with glittery chaos.

"Look, daddy, look!" She squeals, jumping up and down in excitement.

Glitter. Everywhere.

On the floor, all over her skin, her clothes, in her hair— there's even a stubborn orange fleck of glitter stuck to one of her eyelashes.

And in her hands is a picture— glue and glitter smeared on the page with doodles in green and different shades of pink and purple.

She's so proud it makes his heart ache.

"It's for Mama!" Winnie announces, "When she gets back for her trip! You said she was coming back today, I wanted to make her a picture— it's flowers that you get her every week, but sparkly."

Bucky smiles, despite the mess he'll inevitably be cleaning up for the rest of their lives because glitter has no mercy, and crouches beside her.

"It's so pretty, Mama's gonna love it."

Winnie grins excitedly, "You think?"

"I know it," Bucky whispers, kissing her forehead, unable to stop the fond laugh that leaves him, taking in the chaos, "How about we leave it here? I think someone needs a bath."

"But I had one yesterday!" She whines, "I'm not dirty!"

"You're glittery, sweetheart, pretty sure that's worse."

A/N: even if my exam went well (🥳) these nights my anxiety is through the roof, meaning I’m doing anything except sleeping lol. so I decided to be productive and finish this. I guess it’s also an alternative to gods, gore, & groping—I know many people don’t like monsterfucking. btw I’m so excited I’m actually shaking as I’m writing this 🥹 these two are already my favorite!! fun fact: I had h2o: just add water ambient instrumentals on repeat while writing this 😭 hope you’ll enjoy 🌊 next part | series masterlist

Northwick sits at the edge of a stretch of coastline so remote that most maps barely seem interested in acknowledging its existence.

There is a road leading to it—a narrow ribbon of asphalt that winds its way through miles upon miles of dense pine forest and jagged cliffs, before finally surrendering to the sea. But the journey is long enough that very few people ever find themselves here by accident. Nobody even passes through on their way somewhere else, because the road ends here, at a cluster of weather-beaten buildings pressed between water and rocks. It feels like nature has been slowly reclaiming the town for years.

Most of the time, the sea and the sky blend into a single sheet of dull grey.

Drizzle visits often enough that the residents rarely bother carrying umbrellas anymore, choosing instead to endure the weather with the sort of weary resignation that comes from decades of losing the same battle over and over again. 

The wind is worse. It never seems to stop entirely, always carrying with it the scent of salt, seaweed, and old wood. It comes shrieking off the water at all hours, rattling shutters and slamming loose signs against walls.

The sea itself is no friendlier. Dark, cold, and perpetually restless, it spends its days throwing itself against the cliffs with a violence that makes outsiders wonder why anyone had chosen to build a town there in the first place.

The truth is that nobody living here remembers a different life.

Certainly not James Bucky Barnes.

He has spent every single year of his existence within sight of that sea. He was born in the small hospital overlooking the harbor, attended the local school, worked the docks since he was old enough to lift a crate without embarrassing himself, and eventually inherited the modest house that had belonged to his grandparents before him.

His entire life can be traced through these streets: every corner carries a memory, every building has a story attached to it—although most of them aren’t particularly interesting.

His parents are gone now. His grandparents too. An assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins disappeared over the years until the Barnes family, which was one of the memorable families in town, had gradually been reduced to a single man living alone at the end of a quiet street.

He has a sister, but after a long series of arguments that neither of them seemed willing to lose, she eventually left for New York and they simply stopped trying to bridge the distance.

There was a period of time, many years ago, when he imagined things might turn out differently. 

He married young enough to believe that marriage itself would somehow change him and introduce a desire for things he had never wanted before. Instead, it had simply highlighted the differences that had always existed between himself and his wife.

She wanted cities, opportunities, children, experiences and possibilities that stretched beyond the horizon.

Bucky looked around at the life he already possessed and failed to understand what was missing.

The divorce was not dramatic. There was nothing to hate, no one to blame, only the slow realization that they were standing on opposite sides of a road that kept fracturing each passing year. 

When she finally left, loading her belongings into a rented truck before driving away from Northwick without a second glance, Bucky watched her disappear around the bend at the end of the road and accepted, with surprising clarity, that he would probably never see her again.

He was right.

More than fifteen years have passed since then.

No letters. No phone calls. No messages.

For all he knows she might have built the exact life she had always dreamed about.

The thought doesn’t bother him, and not because he is heartless; he has simply made peace with the fact that some people are meant for larger lives than his.

And Bucky chose this life.

He chose the quiet predictability of his routine.

Every morning begins with the same shrill of the same alarm clock, and every night ends at the same hour in the same bed. 

Some people would call the repetition depressing, lonely... Bucky calls it peaceful.

Bucky reaches the harbor when engines start coughing to life and the first ropes are being dragged across wet wood.

He adjusts his gloves as he walks, fingers closing briefly in a fist around the worn fabric before releasing again, more out of habit than anything. His boots strike the planks in a steady rhythm that never changes, no matter how many years pass.

“Well,” a raspy voice calls from his left, tinted with exaggerated surprise. “If it isn’t the ghost of punctuality himself being five minutes late.”

Bucky doesn’t slow down, but exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that barely registers as acknowledgment.

Pietro appears beside him a moment later anyway, just like every morning, matching his pace with the effortless ease of someone who has never once respected personal space in his life. He has been working the docks for a few years now—one of the youngest of the group—and possesses the deeply unfortunate personality trait of wanting to talk to other people.

Specifically people who wish to be left alone.

“I was beginning to think you’d finally retired.” He continues, glancing at Bucky with a grin that suggests this is already the most interesting thing that would happen all day. 

The older man lifts a crate without breaking stride, shifting it onto his shoulder as though it weighs nothing, then sets it down exactly where it needs to go.

“I’m forty-five.”

Pietro hums thoughtfully, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Exactly.”

Bucky throws him a glance and the blond young man does nothing to hide his smugness.

Workers move between warehouses carrying clipboards and coffee cups as forklifts rumble across the rain-darkened planks. There isn’t a particularly pleasant smell—a mix of diesel fumes and fish—but after nearly three decades of working here, he barely notices it anymore.

As a matter of fact, the harbor itself has changed very little since Bucky was a child. New boats occasionally arrive. Old boats occasionally disappear. Businesses open, fail, and reopen beneath different names. Yet somehow the place always remains fundamentally the same, preserved beneath layers of salt and stubbornness.

A few meters ahead, Sam and Drax are arguing over a misprinted shipping label, their voices rising just enough to cut through the wind. The moment Drax notices Bucky walking by, he immediately straightens, catching Sam’s attention with a light tap to his chest.

“Morning, Barnes.” He grins.

Bucky gives a single nod without looking at them properly, already scanning the area for whatever needs fixing or lifting before anyone else can complain about it.

The gesture, minimal as it is, detonates something entirely disproportionate in the group behind him.

There is a beat of silence, the kind that always comes just before trouble.

“Did he just—”

“Oh shit.”

“He acknowledged us.”

“Barton, write this down. We need witnesses.”

“Already got three.”

“You think he’s feeling alright?”

“I don’t know. Somebody check his temperature.”

Bucky closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, half a dozen colleagues are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

Pietro walks right into his line of sight, turning to stare at him with open disbelief.

“Barnes,” he starts slowly, as if addressing a skittish animal. “Was that... social interaction?”

Bucky shoots him a flat look.

“Have you never seen a nod?”

The dock erupts at once. Brock, who is standing near the edge of the dock, drops a coil of rope in theatrical shock.

“He talks!”

“He’s evolving.” Clint crosses his arms to his chest, nodding sagely. 

Pietro clutches his chest dramatically, staggering back a step.

“I can’t believe I lived to see this day.” He sniffles, wiping away a fake tear.

Bucky resumes walking, expression unchanged, though his grip on the next crate tightens slightly as he lifts it.

“Don’t start, Maximoff.” He mutters.

But Pietro jogs ahead of him now, walking backward just to keep eye contact, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

“Seriously, you feeling okay, Barnes? You need water? A nap? Emotional support?”

“I’m fine.” He sighs.

“That’s the most words I’ve heard out of you in a week. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how language works.”

Bucky stops to set the crate down harder than necessary, the impact echoing loudly through the wood beneath it, before staring blankly at the younger man.

Pietro raises both hands in surrender, though his grin never falters.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you alone.”

But he doesn’t actually leave. He just sort of… shifts his weight.

Bucky exhales through his nose and decides to ignore him completely, moving to the side where a length of rope has been left half-coiled from earlier work. He starts redoing it properly, hands working in tight, repetitive motions that give him something solid to focus on.

“So...” The younger man draws out. “How’s your love life?”

Bucky considers walking directly into the sea.

See, the problem with living somewhere this small is that people become comfortable... far too comfortable. After decades of seeing the same faces every day, the boundaries that exist in normal society begin to erode, and privacy becomes communal property as everyone feels entitled to everyone else’s business.

Especially his.

“Dead.”

That answer, as always, triggers a round of snickers among his colleagues.

Pietro claps him on the shoulder. “You’re so funny, man.”

Bucky follows the movement of his hand with frightening calm, causing Pietro to immediately snatch it back, before he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I wasn’t being funny.” Bucky retorts as he picks up the rope, the movement sharper this time as his patience thins in a way that’s entirely visible to anyone who knows him well enough.

Unfortunately, his colleagues couldn’t give two fucks about it.

“You know,” the younger man quips, leaning casually against a stack of supplies as if he has completely forgotten why he is here in the first place. “My aunt’s still single.”

Bucky stops mid-step. Slowly, he turns his head, just enough to stare at him right in the eye.

“No.”

“Hey, c’mon now, you didn’t even ask her name!”

“I don’t need to.” He resumes walking.

Pietro is already at his heels. “She’s nice.”

He rolls his eyes to the sky. “I don’t care.”

“She makes excellent soup.”

“I can cook.”

He once again jogs ahead to face Bucky. “She’s rich.” He lifts his eyebrows knowingly.

“I’m leaving.” Bucky announces deadpan.

“What—” Pietro’s eyes widen. “You just got here!”

“I can still leave.” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly.

The threat carries absolutely no weight, everyone knows it. Including Bucky, yet a chorus of protests promptly rises.

“You can’t quit.”

“We need you to scare the seagulls away.”

“Who’s gonna stop Maximoff from talking our ears off?”

“Hey!”

He shakes his head.

Some days he wonders if he’s the only serious person in town. Probably not, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to prove.

“Tell you what,” Pietro continues, clearly encouraged by his own stupidity. “If you won’t date my aunt, what about Ms. Hargrove?”

Bucky looks mildly horrified.

“No, no, hear him out.” Drax promptly intervenes, approaching the two of them.

“She’s only seventy-two!” Pietro continues.

“Seventy-four.” Brock corrects as he passes by.

“Still young at heart.”

“She’s been asking about you for years, Barnes.” Clint snickers, a cup of coffee already in hand.

“Everybody’s been asking about him for years.” Sam adds with a poorly concealed grin.

That, unfortunately, is true.

People ask constantly, because Bucky has become something of a local mystery. A man who lives alone on the top of a cliff, works alone, spends his evenings alone. Who has not been seen on a date in over two decades...

“She bakes.” Drax starts counting on his fingers.

“Oh, God.” Bucky mutters, tipping his head back tiredly.

“Excellent pies.” The other man continues solemnly. “She owns a house. She has all her teeth—”

“Most of them.” Sam interjects.

“Most of her teeth,” Drax agrees. “She grows her own vegetables. She volunteers at the church. She has strong opinions about parking regulations.”

“And she killed a raccoon with a shovel once.” Pietro adds with his stupid big grin.

Drax lights up. “See? She’s strong, a protector.”

“Leave him alone.” A new cocky voice appears.

Oh, great. Mr. Congeniality #2 has finally graced them with his presence.

“I bet he’s secretly married with some pretty businesswoman.”

“Shut up Storm, Barnes’ a ladies’ man.”

“Maybe he’s a spy.” Drax suddenly gasps, and he and Clint point at each other, clearly agreeing. “That’s why he always disappears after work! He might be working for the KGB.”

Johnny cringes. “The KGB hasn’t existed for thirty years, you idiot.”

Sam snorts. “Also, a spy who spends every day lifting crates and yelling at the weather? Really?”

“You don’t know if that’s a cover and he just pretends to work.”

“I know for sure he doesn’t pretend since you lazy asses are too busy gossiping like old ladies instead of doing your job like Barnes.” A deep voice interjects firmly and the group springs into action at once.

Sam bends down to inspect a crate as Pietro grabs a random clipboard from a nearby table, him and Johnny furrowing their brows at it with the intense concentration of someone attempting to decipher ancient scripture. Clint picks up a perfectly coiled length of rope and begins rearranging it for no apparent reason, while Drax plants both hands on a pallet jack and starts pushing it confidently in a direction that serves absolutely no purpose.

Fury shakes his head from the door of his office shack, choosing to ignore their quiet sniggers.

This is why, more than anything else, Bucky prefers the sea.

The sea minds its own damn business.

The longer Bucky works at the harbor, the more the routine stops feeling like something he follows and more like something that follows him instead.

It’s present in the way he ties his boots each morning, always in the same order, the laces pulled tight with a consistency he never consciously thinks about anymore. In the way he checks the weather without really needing to. In the route he takes to go grocery shopping, because some paths avoid certain corners and certain people who like to talk too much and ask questions that linger longer than he likes.

He thinks of these choices as efficiency. Or, if he is being honest in a way he rarely allows himself to be, as a way to preserve his peace.

Quiet people are often misunderstood. Others assume silence means absence, sadness, but Bucky has never felt better. He simply prefers to keep things where they belong: work stays at the harbor, the rest of his life within his house.

Memory, on the other hand, stays locked away in compartments he doesn’t open unless absolutely necessary.

Even grief has been assigned its proper space.

His parents belong to a drawer he doesn’t open often. His failed marriage to one he avoids entirely.

Eventually, even absence weaves itself into his routine.

And so Bucky goes to work every morning and comes home at the same time every evening. He fixes things that are broken and ignores those that are not worth fixing. He reads whenever he feels like it, though there is rarely anything new that piques his interest. He eats without much thought and sleeps enough to recover from exhaustion.

It’s not a life that demands attention, that’s precisely why it suits him.

His colleagues, though, treat it like something flexible that could be interrupted for conversation, for laughter, for questions that have no real purpose other than the enjoyment of seeing him grumble.

Bucky tolerates it all, but there are limits. They are not clearly defined, but simply translate into an internal threshold he recognizes immediately when it’s crossed.

A delay in starting the day. A change in the order of tasks. A request that requires him to be somewhere other than where he intended to be.

These are the kind of things that irritate him more than he ever expresses, because they are unnecessary.

And the world, in his opinion, is already full of many unnecessary things.

On that particular Thursday morning, nothing suggests it would be any different from the thousands that have come before it, because disturbances don’t announce themselves.

They don’t arrive with warnings or changes in weather that could be meaningfully interpreted as signs. They don’t break the rhythm of the town or alter the predictable movement of the harbor. If anything, they present themselves as almost insultingly ordinary, as though the world took care to disguise them beneath the same grey sky and the same restless water so that they wouldn’t be noticed until it’s already too late to ignore them.

Bucky wakes before the town has properly decided to exist for the day. He drinks his coffee in silence, standing by the window of his kitchen while the sky outside slowly shifts to a dull white. Watching the harbor lights flicker off one by one as the workers begin to arrive gives him a strange sense of tranquility.

He drives the same route through the narrow streets, passing the same abandoned buildings that have yet to be fully repaired.

At the docks, crates still need moving, boats still need unloading, and machines still need maintenance that nobody ever seems particularly grateful for until they stop working entirely. Pietro still talks too much, appearing beside him at inconvenient moments with questions that are more invitations to participate in conversations Bucky has no intention of joining. The others still laugh at his lack of participation, and he answers in the same way: briefly, reluctantly. Only when necessary.

When the end of the shift finally starts approaching, the harbor gradually empties around him as engines fall silent one by one. Warehouse doors roll shut at last and workers drift toward parking lots and side streets in loose groups, already discussing dinner plans, family obligations, and whatever local gossip has managed to survive the day.

Bucky avoids all three, which is how he finds himself at the far end of the outer dock, finishing one last inspection before heading home.

The outer moorings are more exposed to the weather than the rest, and by evening the wind has picked up enough to sting against his face whenever he turns toward the open sea. That’s why this is the kind of task nobody particularly enjoys.

Still, the lines need checking.

A damaged mooring left unattended can become a costly problem overnight, and Bucky has always preferred spending an extra ten minutes solving an issue now rather than dealing with the consequences later.

This section of the dock is also quieter, far enough from the warehouses that most voices blur together beneath the constant rush of the waves, and that gives him some sort of reprieve from his colleagues’ ability to turn any moment of silence into a forced conversation. It’s one of the few places where he can work without someone deciding that his apparent lack of enthusiasm is an invitation to fix it.

Bucky tightens the last line, testing the tension with a practiced pull before slowly standing back to his full height. The movement draws a familiar sting through his thighs, one he barely notices anymore.

Almost done.

A few more minutes and he can go back to his silent house and worn books.

His gaze drifts absently toward the water as he reaches for the clipboard tucked beneath his arm, and his entire body stills.

At first he sees only a shape, a disruption in the surface several yards beyond the dock, where the harbor opens toward deeper sea. Something moves beneath the waves, slow enough that it might be debris caught in the current or a trick of fading light reflecting on the water.

He watches it for a moment, but eventually lowers his eyes back to the clipboard and continues writing.

It’s only when the shape surfaces again, closer this time, and holds its position in a way that no floating object should have been capable of, that the rhythm of his day finally stutters.

The shape rises and falls with the movement of the water, appearing and disappearing between swells. But it doesn’t tumble the way driftwood would have, nor bobs with the lightness of abandoned equipment. 

Bucky cautiously rests one hand against the railing and continues staring with a deep wrinkle between his brows despite himself.

The shape drifts closer.

A swell lifts it.

For a brief moment, something iridescent emerges before disappearing again.

His eyes narrow.

Then, a human arm.

The realization doesn’t alarm him immediately. The possibility of people ending up in the water presents itself before anything more unusual could. A fisherman might have fallen overboard, or the current has carried a body farther than expected.

Neither explanation is pleasant, but both are infinitely reasonable.

Another wave rolls through the harbor, and it stirs the figure more harshly.

Strands of hair spread across the water. A shoulder becomes visible, then the outline of a head. The closer it drifts, the more certain Bucky becomes that he’s looking at a person, and although the sight should have inspired urgency, there is something oddly unsettling about the way the body moves—some small inconsistency his mind can’t quite identify but refuses to ignore.

It’s only when the water shifts again that Bucky swears he feels his heart stop for a moment.

The lower half of the body should have surfaced with the rest. Instead, the same iridescent thing flashes again beneath the water.

For a moment he thinks it might be a trick of the light—the evenings are dark here, and the sea tends to distort everything with its uneven inconsistency. He has spent enough years staring at moving water to know how easily the eye could be fooled. Yet when the figure rises again, there is enough distance behind him from the rest of the harbor and enough light across the liquid surface for Bucky to be confronted with an unjustifiable fact.

Because the upper half of the figure is human.

The lower half is not.

A tail emerges only briefly before slipping under water once more, but the glimpse still allows him to recognize scales that catch what remains of the afternoon light. He sees the shape of it and understands that whatever is floating toward the dock doesn’t belong to any category of living thing he has ever encountered.

“Hey, Barnes—”

The sound breaks through the unnatural quiet so abruptly that Bucky turns far more sharply than he intends to, the movement quick enough to make Sam take a step back.

“Whoa man,” he flinches, lifting his hands. “You okay?”

Under normal circumstances, Bucky would have answered immediately—perhaps with a grunt—and both of them would have gone on with their evenings without giving the exchange another thought. Instead, he finds himself standing there in silence, too aware of Sam’s growing confusion.

Of the fact that something half human and half fish is floating right behind him.

Now, Bucky has spent his entire life in Northwick. He understands how information moves through places like this, how a single unusual detail could travel from one end of the town to the other before sunset and somehow become common knowledge by breakfast. People talk. Most of the time it amounts to nothing more than harmless chats about neighbors, relatives, weather forecasts that end up being wrong, and private arguments that are treated like celebrity gossip.

Something like this, however, would not remain gossip for very long.

It would take one person looking in the right direction.

One person deciding to tell somebody else.

One person making a phone call.

The thought settles like a boulder in his stomach as he imagines the chain reaction unfolding beyond anyone’s ability to control it.

The harbor would fill with annoying strangers first, because people have always been drawn toward things they don’t understand, particularly when there is a possibility of witnessing something extraordinary with their own eyes. Then would come the reporters, eager to turn a forgotten coastal town into a headline. Scientists would inevitably follow, along with researchers, government agencies, and every other institution that believes to have the right to dissect, catalogue, study, explain, and ultimately claim the unknown.

The town would become famous, either as a tourist destination overrun with Airbnbs and souvenir shops selling mermaid-shaped keychains and t-shirts with the town’s name printed across the chest, or as a heavily restricted government zone surrounded by fences and security checkpoints.

For years, one of the things Bucky has appreciated most about living here is the simple fact that nobody cares about it. 

People drive past it. Forget it exists. The isolation that others complain about has always suited him perfectly because it allows him to live at his own pace, untouched by the constant noise of the outside world. Bucky has no desire to watch that disappear because of whatever thing happened to be floating toward shore today.

Nor does he particularly enjoy imagining what role he might end up playing in the disaster.

The man who found it.

The man who saw it first.

The man everyone would inevitably want to speak to.

Questions, interviews, strangers knocking on his door, people expecting him to repeat the story over and over again to squeeze the news until the very last dollar.

The more he thinks about it, the more his anger grows.

All because of a creature he would have been perfectly content going his entire life without seeing.

Sam is still watching him, and the concern in his expression has deepened, gradually replacing whatever casual curiosity had prompted the question in the first place.

“Bucky?”

Only then does Bucky realize how long he has been standing there, silent. The pause has stretched far beyond what’s normal, long enough that another few seconds might encourage Sam to get closer and see for himself what has captured his attention.

That can’t happen.

Not now.

Perhaps not ever.

“Yes.”

The answer is devoid of any emotion yet delivered with enough certainty that someone else might have accepted it without question.

Sam knows him too well for that.

For a long moment he studies Bucky’s face with the skepticism of a man who has already reached the conclusion that something is wrong but has not yet decided whether it’s worth arguing about. The wind moves between them, tugging at jackets and carrying the distant sound of waves against the rocks beyond the harbor, while behind Bucky the figure continues drifting steadily through the dark water.

Eventually, Sam exhales and gives a small nod.

“Alright,” he hums. “Pietro wanted me to ask if you’re coming to Joe’s for a beer.”

“No, I’m beat.”

Sam stares at his friend for a little longer, before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

But he doesn’t make any move to leave.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He doesn’t sound particularly convinced as he frowns. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, his eyes flicking briefly toward the open sea out of sheer habit before meeting Bucky’s gaze.

“Well, don’t stay out here all night.” He sighs.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

Sam nods again, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

“See you tomorrow, Barnes.”

Bucky grunts in response, waiting until the sound of his footsteps has disappeared completely before allowing himself to look back at his new problem.

The first indication that Bucky has made a catastrophic mistake arrives approximately halfway between the maintenance ramp and his truck.

Up until that point, the plan seemed bothersome but achievable. Certainly not smart, but achievable.

You, the creature—because he still refuses to think of you as anything else—were fully unconscious as the current eventually carried you near enough for him to step off the ramp and into the freezing water. From there, he decided that he would check whether you were alive, get you out of the water, and then figure out the rest somewhere private.

Instead, the moment his hand finally closed around your wrist, the entire evening began deteriorating at an alarming pace.

The first problem was that you were barely alive. The pulse beneath his fingertips was weak, but still there.

The second problem revealed itself only after he managed to drag you close enough to properly examine you, and that forced Bucky to immediately abandon several much simpler solutions, because his nose instantly caught the revolting smell of seaweed mixed with iron.

The blood was difficult to see at first in the dark, diluted by water, but red streaks had spread around you as the waves shifted, eventually staining his palms and clothes once he reached underneath your shoulders to keep your face above the surface.

Bucky adjusted his grip and promptly regretted it when the movement caused the weight of your tail to shift again.

“Jesus Christ.”

If there was one thing he had learned during the last twenty minutes, it was that mermaids are significantly heavier than they look.

His attention then settled on the scratches scattered across your arms and shoulders—thin deep lines that looked as though a ferocious beast with big claws had taken an interest in you with all the intention of turning you into its next meal. More marked your sides as others disappeared around your back.

The damage to your tail, however, was horrifying.

Even now Bucky finds himself grimacing whenever his eyes drop to the big bloody stains on the beach towel wrapped around it.

Several scales were torn away completely and parts of the fin looked shredded. Deep gouges crossed sections of muscle that probably made swimming impossible, as the amount of blood surrounding the wounds suggested that whatever had happened to you was quite recent.

The sight alone was enough agonizing to make Bucky wince.

And because the injury somehow made the entire situation feel more real.

Unfortunately, the third problem proved considerably more immediate: transportation.

Bucky stops briefly beside a stack of lobster traps to adjust his hold before continuing toward the parking lot.

You remain entirely unhelpful throughout the process.

“Could’ve at least woken up.” He grunts. “You don’t have to hold a conversation. Just enough to explain why your mauled tail is so damn heavy.”

The closest thing to a response he receives is your head rolling slightly against his shoulder.

His jaw clenches.

“Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”

The walk should not have been difficult, his truck is visible from the dock, a distance he crosses almost daily without effort. Tonight, however, every step seems determined to prove some previously unknown law of physics regarding large aquatic women.

The tail keeps shifting, the fin catching against his legs.

Twice he nearly lost his grip entirely.

The second occasion could have been particularly catastrophic because it occurs directly beside a puddle deep enough to soak both of you. The sudden jolt nearly sends you slipping from his arms and onto the hard concrete.

Bucky lurches forward instinctively.

“Absolutely not.” He tightens his hold.

“No.” He grits out, his chest heaving quickly under the exertion. “We’re not doing that.”

He stops for a second, enough to properly recover his balance.

“If I drop you in a fucking parking lot after dragging you out of the damn sea, I swear on my mother’s grave I’m leaving this town.”

By the time he finally reaches the truck, his lungs are burning.

The vehicle sits alone beneath one of the lampposts, exactly where he left it that morning, completely unaware that its owner has apparently spent the evening acquiring a mermaid.

Bucky stares at it for a long moment, before he looks at you.

Then back at the truck, before his eyes fall on the tail.

A deep sigh escapes him.

“Stupid dock.”

He shifts your weight.

“Stupid town.”

He takes a step forward.

“Stupid Sam.”

A particularly awkward portion of your tail nearly slides out of his grasp.

“Stupid fish-lady.”

The nickname feels unfair, but he uses it anyway. Because blaming himself would have required accepting that every terrible consequence currently happening is the direct result of a decision he had made entirely on his own.

The irritation only grows as Bucky awkwardly maneuvers you on the passenger side, already wondering how exactly he intends to explain the blood covering his clothes if anybody happens to drive past before he gets out of there.

That concern alone is enough to make him move faster.

Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman through the harbor after dark would already guarantee several months of gossip.

Carrying an unconscious, half-naked woman covered in blood would almost certainly result in the police becoming involved.

And carrying an unconscious, half-naked mermaid covered in blood...

Bucky doesn’t even bother finishing the thought.

Some things are too large to contemplate while lifting.

The passenger seat offers the illusion of structure. It’s familiar, comfortable... None of which matter the moment he realizes that your lower half doesn’t, in fact, respect the concept of seating.

The tail doesn’t fold, nor moves in any cooperative manner. It simply exists—heavy and entirely indifferent to the existence of upholstery.

Bucky stands before the passenger seat for a moment longer than necessary, breathing hard with one hand braced on the truck door while the other supports your shoulders. He stares at the seat with quiet resentment.

“Of fucking course.” He grits out under his breath.

Carefully, he tries once again to lower you into the seat anyway, because he has already wasted too much time trying to not drop you on his way back to the truck. The moment your weight shifts fully into the cabin, the tail slides sideways with alarming inevitability, dragging across the door frame before settling awkwardly along the floorboard, resulting in the fin to bend unnaturally.

Bucky pauses to look at it for a long moment, arms open as if ready to catch you, before he lets out a slow sigh.

“This is fine.” He murmurs, in the same tone of someone who is trying to convince himself as well.

The engine starts with its usual reluctant groan and for a few seconds there is a brief, deceptive sense that the worst part has just begun.

The road away from the docks is, as always, in a state of neglect that could only be described as communal acceptance of decay. Potholes interrupt the asphalt at irregular intervals, forcing the truck into sudden dips that make the suspension complain loudly, while uneven patches send vibrations through the chassis that consequentially reach the passenger seat.

And you.

The first jolt is mild, barely noticeable. The second makes your upper body shift forward enough for Bucky’s arm to shoot out instinctively, bracing across your chest to push you back against the seat.

“Yeah,” he exclaims flatly, eyes going back and forth between you and the road. “That’s right. Stay there.”

Another pothole hits immediately after, harsher this time, and the truck lurches hard enough that your entire weight shifts again.

Bucky’s hand moves without thought, catching your arm firmly before you can tilt any further.

“I don’t know who the hell is in charge of this town,” he states far more loudly than before, steering one-handed as the road curves unexpectedly. “But I would very much like five minutes alone with them and a shovel.”

The truck bounces again and your tail scrapes against the floorboard with a dull, dragging sound that makes his jaw clench.

“We have time and money to build a fucking dock extension nobody asked for, but fixing the only road anyone actually uses is apparently optional.”

The silence that follows is, as always, entirely unhelpful. It makes the entire situation worse—at least if you had been awake, he could have been annoyed at you directly.

Instead Bucky is forced to distribute his frustration evenly across the universe.

The truck continues forward, tires thudding rhythmically over uneven pavement, while the landscape outside the windows shifts from industrial structures to the quieter edges of town. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, casting brief white flashes across the interior of the truck that make you look almost unreal, as though you were the beloved, ethereal character out of a forgotten fairytale rather than a half-dying creature tossed around by the cruel sea.

Bucky keeps one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally bracing you when the road demands it, each movement growing more automatic the longer the drive continues.

Eventually, the houses grow farther apart and the roads slightly less cratered, until the familiar shape of his street comes into view.

Only then does he notice the faint sting in his muscles, how tightly his shoulders have been locked.

Bucky parks into his driveway with more precision than usual, worried that any sudden turn might somehow jerk your body one final fatal time. When the truck finally comes to a full stop, he allows himself to exhale properly.

For a long moment, he just sits there with the faint noise of the engine ticking as it cools, and his hands still on the wheel.

Then, slowly, he turns his head.

You are still unconscious. Still inconveniently alive. Your tail occupies roughly eighty percent of his passenger seat in a way that suggests you have no intention of becoming easier to deal with at any point in the near future. Saltwater has already begun to dry in uneven patches across the upholstery and Bucky already knows he is going to regret the smell for a very long time.

With a tired sigh, he tips his head back against the headrest, letting his eyelids flutter shut.

Even for him—broad-shouldered and built for hauling anything the harbor demands—this is a new kind of effort. It settles deep into his muscles in a way that ordinary work never does, accumulating in his forearms and shoulders and along the length of his back with a dull, persistent ache that sharpens every time he shifts in his seat.

Crates have handles, machinery can be pushed, and even the heaviest loads usually possess the decency to distribute their weight evenly. But between the painful wounds and the sheer mass of that ridiculous tail, carrying you feels more like wrestling with gravity itself. 

Now that the adrenaline has worn off, a knot throbs beneath his left shoulder blade. His lower back protests when he breathes too deeply, and his hands faintly burn from how tightly he had been holding on.

Bucky drags a hand down his face, and as he sits in the dark in the middle of his quiet driveway, he’s forced to acknowledge the next dreadful step: getting you inside.

That night, locking the front door comes with a heavy weight on his chest.

He can no longer pretend this is temporary. The ocean is not going to reclaim you overnight, nor the harbor is going to quietly undo his fate.

Officially you are, for the foreseeable future, his responsibility.

The bathroom is the only place that makes even a limited amount of sense, because as far as Bucky is concerned fish need water to survive.

He carries you in carefully, adjusting his grip more than once with low, strained groans, and by the time he finally manages to lower you into the tub, he is already panting in a way that has nothing to do with physical strain alone. The tub itself is barely large enough, your body forced into a curled position that makes the entire thing feel wrong from every possible angle.

With a long sigh, he can finally focus on the injuries.

Every time he peels back maimed scales or moves a section of the tail enough to inspect the wounds, he finds himself pausing for a fraction too long, hissing quietly as he registers just how extensive the damage actually is.

The scratches along your arms and torso are deep enough that he cleans them with antiseptic without hesitation, muttering under his breath the entire time.

“What the fuck did you do?” He shakes his head, though there is no indication you could hear him. 

The gauze comes next, wrapped carefully around injuries that would have required a hospital if you had been human. He works methodically, hands steady out of habit more than comfort, leaning closer than he would have liked in order to keep the bandaging tight enough to stay in place without cutting off circulation.

The tail is another story.

Nothing about it behaves like something that could be treated in a conventional medical way. Bucky does what he can, though, gently wiping the blood, applying antiseptic where it makes sense, and then carefully positioning the injured section so that it remains mostly above the waterline while the rest of you is gradually submerged. 

It’s an awkward compromise, the kind that makes him repeatedly adjust the placement of towels and folded fabric until he is reasonably satisfied that nothing is actively getting worse.

Bucky stands over the edge of the tub for a long moment, one hand braced on the tiles to support his aching body as much as he can while he watches absently the water fill around you. At least something in your posture finally eases a little.

“That’ll have to do.” He mutters, finally breathing properly once he steps into the hallway.

Over the next three days, the house stops feeling his in any meaningful sense.

The bathtub remains occupied at all times, which means that basic routines have to be adjusted in ways he finds increasingly irritating. At one point, after nearly knocking over a bottle of soap while trying to maneuver around the bathroom, he stares at you for a long moment.

“This is ridiculous.”

You don’t respond, which he has already established as your primary method of communication.

On the third day, he drives into town and returns with a large tub that requires significant rearranging of his living room to accommodate. The old furniture is pushed aside with minimal ceremony, the new container placed near the center of the space like some kind of absurd contemporary art installation he refuses to acknowledge as emotionally significant in any way.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he grunts while dragging it slightly to the left. “I’m doing this because I need a place to shower without stepping over a fucking unconscious fish.”

When he finally deems the position satisfying, he stops right before the tub and stares at you.

“You’re not even supposed to exist.”

By the fifth day, Bucky has acquired a new kind of routine, because now every part of the day revolves around returning home.

He checks on you before leaving for the dock. At first, the visits are practical and necessary: he needs to make sure the water is clean, that the bandages have not come loose during the night, that whatever infection he has been quietly expecting has not finally decided to appear.

The tail still unsettles him every time: some mornings he rounds the corner carrying a mug of coffee and stops at the sight of the scales beneath the surface before remembering that there is, in fact, a mermaid occupying his living room.

The realization is somehow never less strange.

He checks on you again when he comes back for lunch. He tells himself it’s because no sensible person would leave an unconscious stranger unattended for twelve hours yet this conveniently ignores the fact that he has never once come home for lunch before, though. It happens on the third day of this new arrangement for the first time ever, not even realizing what he’s doing until he’s pulling into his driveway instead of sitting with the others eating his sandwich.

The second time, he pretends it’s intentional. Until he gives up trying to justify it altogether.

The moment he returns in the evening, before taking off his boots—before even putting away his keys—Bucky walks to the tub.

His groceries sit forgotten by the front door more than once. One evening he tracks muddy footprints across half the house because he catches sight of the injured part of your tail on the brink of falling into the water, so he ends up jogging straight past the mat. Another time he leaves the television running in the background for nearly an hour before realizing he has spent the entire time sitting beside the tub staring blankly at the water instead of watching the stupid show Sam insisted he would like.

At some point during the night, he inevitably finds himself getting up for no reason he can adequately explain, walking across the house in silence and standing beside the tub just to confirm that you are still breathing.

Sometimes he remains there longer than necessary, enough to notice that the house sounds eerily different at night. The old pipes creak, the wind howls against the windows, water shifts softly whenever you move in your sleep... and he catches himself waiting for that sound.

He hates himself.

It’s fucking humiliating and he’s fully aware of that.

And then there is the staring.

Bucky would like to claim that it only happens while he’s changing the bandages, while his hands are occupied with gauze and antiseptic and his mind with the careful reminder of making sure nothing has worsened overnight, because that would somehow justify it.

Yet there are moments when he lingers there long after cleaning your wounds, sitting beside the tub with his hands resting loosely on his knees, his attention no longer anchored to anything in particular, as though he has simply forgotten to stand up and leave. Only after several seconds does he realize that his eyes have settled on your slack face and stayed there without permission.

The problem is not simply that you are beautiful, though even that thought irritates him in a way he doesn’t fully care to examine, because it’s too simple and therefore too easy to dismiss. The problem is that everything about you feels impossible in a way that doesn’t sit comfortably within the ordinary structure of his life.

Although silence was forced upon you, your magnetic presence still creates an unsettling contrast with the quiet, predictable weight of his house. At the end of the day, you are something borrowed from a place that doesn’t follow the same rules as the rest of the world.

More than once, while standing in the middle of tasks that require his full attention, he finds himself wondering what color your eyes are, and not as a question he intends to answer, but as something that simply appears in the background of his thoughts and refuses to leave when he tries to push it away.

It leaves him with a bitter taste on his tongue, because it’s unnecessary and Bucky doesn’t have time for unnecessary things. It implies a level of attention he has no intention of giving, even though it returns again and again in the quietest moments, as persistent as the sound of the tide against the harbor walls.

At work, he is more silent than usual even by his own standards, which is something Pietro comments on more than once with the kind of exaggerated concern that suggests he is both amused and genuinely uncertain whether something is wrong. Even the few words he normally allows himself seem to cost more effort than they should, part of his attention already drifting back toward the house without him fully noticing it.

There are moments when he finds himself standing still, eyes fixed on the open stretch of sea beyond the harbor where the water darkens with depth and distance. His thoughts lose their usual shape and linger instead on the parts of the world that have never been accounted for in humans’ understanding of it.

It’s not simply the sea as he knew it, with the predictable rhythms of tide and current and the weathered ships moving in and out of the harbor, but something broader and less defined. Your existence is indeed the confirmation that most of it remains unseen, untouched, and entirely outside of anything he has ever had reason to consider.

Bucky wonders, without meaning to, how many things move beneath that surface without ever breaking it, how many shapes exist in the deep water that have no connection to anything on land, and whether the world has always been fuller than it looks from the edge of a dock.

The thought is not particularly welcome, because it doesn’t fit into anything that Bucky normally considers useful.

Another ten days pass and you still haven’t awakened, but your breathing has stabilized and that has to mean something. Right?

That morning, when he steps closer to the tub, Bucky is already reaching for the edge before his brain fully registers what his eyes are seeing.

The bandages on your tail are still in place, though slightly shifted from movement he had not witnessed. The injuries beneath them look marginally less severe than before—still far from healed, but no longer actively worsening.

He frowns slightly as he leans in, adjusting the gauze diligently and checking the open wounds with the same clinical focus of the last couple of days.

“Still looks like hell,” he mutters. “But at least you’re stable.”

He straightens slowly with a sigh, unconsciously letting his gaze trace the length of your body until they reach your face.

And there, he meets your eyes.

Your open eyes.

Bucky freezes mid-motion, both his hands still hovering over your tail. His lips part pathetically at the ethereal sight, but before he can comprehend what’s happening, you scream right in his face.

— ⟢ END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🤍 my masterlist → winteryn's masterlist

🏷️ general bucky taglist: @itzzkayla @randomfanpage @astraea-and-her-novels @heavenlypjm @spinsteringintoamillionpieces @pandasslol @wildflowersandvibranium @scribblesandquotes @beans-and-toast @singulartoast @gentlelimerence @secretxion14wells @maplesyrizzup @phantom-wolf-girl @norucking @punkh3arted @r4isins @doctorbitchcrxft @butterfly-lover @secretdream2 @sambuckystony @cowboylikeh @jasontoddswhitestreak @shrupshrooms @bibiishin @sheriff-bodecker @ninauh @metal-armed-muse @mehmeh331 @iloveshawnieboi @namjoohnie @onyx8514 @nash-dara @tt-bby @midnightmondaykiss @mikonawa @oomexluvsseb @floraslcve @erina00 @clover1004 @eatingyourboyfriend @starfire-irl @phoenix-in-writing @shyshyraven-writes @thegirlfatherr @jamesbbcrnes @yapeez @jynx-the-dynx

Your cheeks flamed, heat crawling up your spine even though you had lost your shirt three rounds ago. "Wasn't aware that the color of my undergarments were even up for debate. What if I wasn't wearing any?" you shot back, eyes barely flicking to his with an easy smile while you arranged your cards.

"Honey, c'mon, you know I cannot stand the way you tease me," Leo pouted, leaning back in his chair. His eyebrows furrowed, glaring at his cards like he was calculating a way to get them to transform into whatever he needed to make sure he won.

From your left, Nia folded, pushing her cards to the middle and then proclaiming she needed another drink. Charlie, whose leg had not stopped bouncing and eyes had not so much as glanced away from the table once clothes came off, stuttered out that he also folded.

Leo took a final drag from his cigarette, leveling you with a stare. "Charles, why don't ya go help Mary with that paper she keeps prattling on about?"

Once it was just you, Leo, and the residual smoke from too many cigarettes, he folded his arms on the poker table, a large palm covering his cards on the felt. "What do you say we raise the stakes?"

Matching his posture, your eyes narrowed playfully. "Like what?"

"A date."

You glanced at the flush in your hand and then pushed all of your chips forward. "Consider me all in."

Everything Taglist: @overwintering-soldier @stanmarvelous @wint3rbarnes @barnes-babydoll @defn0tonyourleft @herejustforbuckybarnes @stesha02 @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @miraclediviner @tw1sters @bucksbby @daddysbitchybaby @metal-armed-muse @avgdestitute @imtoooldforthis82 @daydreamgoddess14 @hailmary-yramliah @nachtigall127 @heavenchana @ornateglass @steelandvibranium @stkmaprang @yourmomoclockit @misswhiddless @mariamorales1998 @mistressmkay @ladymiseryy @my-drvidess @alli0-0 @buckyscaptain @larissareidbarnes @castielscaplan @juniebjonesin @angelryex

Stan Characters Only: @iamthatonefangirl @cassity357 @erina00 @buckytakethewheel @buckysdecaflove @singulartoast

as graduation approaches in only a few more weeks, you find yourself scrambling. you’re one of the few in your friend group who doesn’t yet have a job lined up for after graduation, still working through tedious job applications day after day in the hopes that something will work out. 

you still haven’t talked to Bucky about the plan you’ve begun to develop in your head, a plan where you envision staying in LA beyond graduating. where Bucky comes to join you in this city that’s grown to be your favorite place in the world. 

there hasn’t been any discussion about it beyond the little talks you had while he was in town, but you’re sure he’s going to love the idea. he wants to support you, and he seemed to be quite open to it when he was here. there’s a lot of factors to consider, you know that. it’s not easy to make that kind of decision. for instance, sure, he’s busy with business back home. that’s a sign of a good businessman, though, right? there’s no way he won’t be able to make it work here. 

luckily, despite your fears about what will happen after graduation in terms of successfully finding a full-time job, your lease still has a few more months before it runs out. that’s plenty of time to find a job and hopefully finagle a way for Bucky to join you in LA.

because why wouldn’t he? you’ve left such a mess at home, alienating both Bucky and yourself from your family with the reveal of the relationship you never wanted to have to confess to. for months now, you’ve been able to avoid it, pretending it doesn’t exist in awkward phone conversations where there’s no need for the elephant in the room to be brought up. 

Bucky moving here is the best case scenario for the both of you to start over, to live the life you’ve always dreamed. that’s what it would be for you to be able to live happily ever after with Bucky: a literal dream. a dream you’ve harbored since your early teens, dreaming and praying to call him yours and have that stupid fairytale wedding you’d imagined as a kid. 

starting over here would be perfect, to get away from the critical eye of your parents and away from the guilt and shame that arose within you alongside the very start of your relationship. 

besides, you’ve built a life for yourself here. you didn’t really expect to grow to love Los Angeles as much as you do; choosing to come here was a decision made out of desperation to get away from Bucky, to get away from your childish crush. 

yet somehow, it’s become your new home. you hope that Bucky will be open to letting it be his new home, too, because as long as you’re together, it’ll be enough. 

being with him is all you’ve ever wanted. 

it has to be enough.

~~~

the last voicemail you have from him in your inbox was from last week. typically, he tries to call you every other day, even though most of the time you can’t pick up. your voicemail box is filled with a million different messages from him by this point; ones of him telling you how much he misses you, others of him speaking deeply and making debauched noises as he tells you how bad he wishes you were there with him while he jerks off. even though you hate missing his calls, you love having his little voice notes in your phone to listen to whenever you please. 

he’s sent a scarce few texts since then, but you truly haven’t heard from him in days now. 

you’ve texted and called him a few times over the last day or so, with nothing in return. it’s only instinct for you to grow concerned. 

except you don’t have the time to be worried about him or the state of your relationship. you’ve finally secured an interview for tomorrow afternoon, a job local to your apartment here in LA. at this point, you can’t afford to screw up any interviews, no matter the position or the company. you’re about to be completely jobless post-grad otherwise, so your anxieties are going to have to leave you alone for the next 24 hours. you have so much more on the line than your stupid little fears about what’s going on with Bucky. 

it doesn't help that this interview isn’t just any interview. the job is actually very well aligned to your interests, and the pay can’t possibly be beat. 

if you’d heard from Bucky recently, or if you were fessing up to the fact that you were only interviewing for LA-based jobs, you would be gushing to him about how excited you are for the opportunity and how badly you want the job. he’s always been your number one supporter, no matter what, so he would tell you that you’re going to do amazing. he would tell you you’re perfect and if the interviewer can’t see it, then they’re the ones missing out. 

you do wish you could have an Uncle Bucky pep talk right now, but you can’t tell him, not yet. you’ll find the right time sooner or later. 

when you get home that evening, you think you’ve calmed yourself down enough from your worries and nearly gotten yourself into the right headspace for the interview. except apparently, you’re not doing as good of a job as you think you are, because your roommate comments on your depressed attitude. 

“are you alright?” she asks as you put your bowl in the microwave, the inquiry taking you by surprise. 

“yeah, why?” you reply, feigning ignorance as you shut the microwave door. “do I not seem alright?” 

“definitely not, dude,” she tells you bluntly. “I see you like this all the time, all pouting and sad but pretending to be fine. but I know you have a big day tomorrow, so, out with it. what’s going on?”

the suddenness of her statement shocks you. you know your anxiety is a persistent issue, and that being away from Bucky doesn’t particularly help. but are you really that obvious about it? 

“it’s just nerves,” you assure her. “I’ll be fine.”

as you deliberately avoid telling her the truth about your real concerns, you feel a pang in your stomach. the realization that you’ve never even mentioned his name to your friends here for fear of your crush being found out, and now the possibility of your relationship being discovered. 

people that love and care about you, and you’re still too paranoid to tell them the truth. you truly can’t blame yourself for being hesitant, though; the circumstances are sketchy, you realize that. and you can’t fathom pushing everyone away in the same manner you’ve done with your family all because of who you love. 

“you can tell me,” she tries, and the microwave beeps then. you take a deep breath and try to shake her off by focusing on your bowl, ready to eat so that you can avoid the topic. except your food is cold, and now you have to wait thirty more seconds to get out of this.

“I’m fine. promise,” you tell her. another pang in your stomach. you’re going to have to tell her, and the rest of your friends, the truth if you expect Bucky to become a part of your life here in LA.

you don’t know if you could handle the negative reaction you’ll get from admitting the truth. 

she speaks your name, and you know this isn’t going away. the microwave continues to whir. 

“come on. talking about things helps, and there’s no way you’ll be able to do well on your interview if you’re all worked up–”

“I’m not worked up!” you nearly yell back at her. “can you just leave it alone? for fuck’s sake! I told you, I’m fine!” 

she doesn’t respond immediately, pausing for a minute after your outburst. the silence between you is deafening, and you immediately know you fucked up. 

“fine. I’ll leave you alone,” she says before walking away, leaving you alone with the microwave now beeping at you once more.

you wish you could say that you weren’t quite sure why you reacted like that, why you felt the need to get so defensive over it, but you know exactly why you did: because you couldn’t handle it. you couldn’t handle the realization that you haven’t told her, and you can’t tell her, because how are you supposed to be able to say yeah, I’ve been fucking my dad’s best friend for the better part of a year now. oh, and we’re dating, because that will go over well. 

you feel terrible. you just snapped at her while she was trying to help you feel better, all because of your fear and territorialism over this relationship that you’re still far more concerned about protecting than you should be.

it’s just because it’s been so long, you think, and that you’re freaking out because you haven’t spoken to him recently that you’re wired so tightly.

it’s because you’re petrified of what other people will think of you if you tell them the truth, a truth that they simply can’t handle, why? sure, maybe your relationship is wrong from most standpoints, but…

you love each other. you love Bucky, and he loves you. that’s all you need. 

everything will fall into place. you’ll find a way to man up and tell your roommate and all your friends about your relationship before Bucky comes to LA, and it will surely go over far better than it did with your parents.

everything is going to be just fine. 

more than fine.

~~~

when you wake up the next morning, you feel exhausted even after a full night’s sleep. you pray that it isn’t an indication of how the rest of your day is going to go. 

when you look around for your roommate, you find that she’s already gone for the day. of course she is; why would she want to be around you and your sour mood after you went off on her last night?

it is what it is, you determine. there’s nothing you can do about it until you see her this evening and have the opportunity to apologize to her. 

the very next thing you do is pick up your phone, searching for a text, a voicemail, anything from Bucky.

nothing. 

it’s okay, you assure yourself as you take a deep breath and stand from your bed. you can worry about both of them later after your interview. 

until then, you have to try not to let your thoughts consume you alive. thoughts of pushing away your roommate in favor of protecting, nay, hiding your relationship. thoughts of pushing Bucky too much until he just doesn’t respond to you anymore. 

you know that isn’t the case. that’s not the case with him, it never would be. he’s not the type to just ghost you out of nowhere; he’s busy. that’s all. you don’t need to be that clingy, annoying girlfriend that constantly texts and seeks validation every five seconds that he’s still interested in you. 

as you walk around campus, though, you’re still thinking about calling him. you think about telling him about your plan the next time you get a chance to talk to him, but will that push him even further away?

you’re going to have to tell him eventually, though, about your plan to stay here and your hope that he’ll follow you across the country. to get away from the critical eyes of your family. 

you just hope your community here doesn’t look at you the same way.

you ponder simply sending him a text that might grab his attention, like, “hey! I have an interview today!” something that’s just enough to catch him in a few brief seconds when he isn’t busy, just to get a “good luck!” in return. anything. 

worry about it later, you remind yourself. focus. 

the more you consider your practiced interview responses in your head, the more you’re able to distract yourself from your concerns. it’s easier to fret about everything going on in your personal life than your professional one, but now is not the time. 

you become an expert in how to explain what interests you about the company and the position, why you want the job and what benefits you would bring to them if you were to be hired. you pore over last minute research to ensure you’ve stored every possible piece of information in the small space in your head devoted to crushing this interview. 

when the time comes, you’re ready, you think. your laptop is charged, your water bottle is full, and your hair is tidied. 

except as you sit in the waiting room of the Zoom meeting, you can’t stop worrying. as quick as you can, you pull out your phone and hurriedly open your text messages. first, a message to your roommate—I’m sorry about last night, let’s talk later?—and a second, one you begin to type out that’s intended to go to Bucky. 

I haven’t heard from you, are you alright? Can I call you in an hour?

just as you’re about to hit the little blue button to send the text, your laptop screen flashes at you, and the interview is on. you hurriedly drop your phone into your lap, forgetting about the text and readjusting in your seat to steady yourself.

here goes nothing. 

the woman, Monica, is friendly and charming right off the bat, you acknowledge. a good back and forth between the two of you as you begin to exchange pleasantries, learning that she’s an alum from your university and that she used to hold the position you’re now interviewing for. all good signs, so far. 

as you begin to give your elevator pitch, your phone begins vibrating in your lap. you try to focus, cursing yourself for not turning it off before the meeting started. reluctantly, you glance down at it for a mere second: it’s your mom calling you. your gaze flits back to the laptop screen before darting down to the phone once more when it has stopped ringing. Call me, her text reads. 

you stutter over your words, but you refuse to let the small instance distract you, not right now; you can’t screw this up. 

ven though you want to worry about it, you can’t. even though there’s something in your gut telling you, something is wrong, it’s not the time. 

you take a deep breath to center yourself once the interviewer speaks again. you can do this.

and despite the minor setback, the rest of the meeting goes astonishingly well. 

“keep your phone nearby,” Monica tells you once she’s done going through her list of questions for you. “you should be hearing from me very soon.”

“wow, thank you,” you reply with a bright smile. “thank you so much!”

as the meeting ends, you can’t contain your glee. there’s no way that actually went as well as you think it did, right? you have to be deluding yourself into thinking that this might finally work out for you, that everything might actually be going your way for once. 

you pack up your things into your bag while your smile never once falters. the last time you felt this giddy and excited about something was when Bucky came to visit for Valentine’s.

it’s nice to have something to well and truly hope for, you think. to actually know what it means to be excited for the future. 

as you pull your purse over your shoulder and walk out of the conference room, making to leave the building and head home, you begin to scroll through your texts. your roommate responded telling you that all is forgiven; that’s one relief, at least. 

you check the text from your mother, the ominous Call me staring you back in the face. except you’re still over the moon with joy as you walk down the street and begin to head back to your apartment, ecstatic about the good news that you can’t wait to share with her. you click on the contact in your phone and dial her back as you walk. 

“hi, honey,” she says into the phone, and yet you don’t catch her solemn tone as you practically speak over her.  

“you’re not gonna believe this,” you ramble in your excitement. “remember I told you about the interview I had today? well, I just got out of the meeting, and it went amazing. she even told me—Monica, her name was—that I’m going to hear back very soon. she specifically said very soon, and it sounded like a good sign to me. I think they’re going to give me the job, Mom! can you believe it?”

“that’s amazing,” she replies, trying to remain excited for you, but her tone finally breaks through your enthusiasm and you manage to hear it this time. “I’m so glad it went well. I’m sure they’re going to offer it to you.”

“yeah,” you say, your smile fading. “what’s up, though? what did you need to tell me?”

she pauses for a moment, and your heart sinks into your stomach as her lack of response resonates in your mind. 

“what is it, Mom?” you ask more firmly. your walking pace begins to slow, your heart beating quicker in your chest. something is wrong, and deep down, you know it. 

after another beat, she continues. “I’m sorry I have to tell you like this, after your interview went so well. but I know you’re going to want to know this.”

“what’s wrong?” you reiterate more harshly, your voice beginning to strain. 

“your Un-” she begins, but curtly interrupts herself. 

except you catch it. you know exactly what she was about to say.

your uncle.

a million thoughts begin to race through your head. 

the slip-up was a mistake, one made out of habit. of course she’s not going to refer to him like that anymore. you haven’t even brought him up in months, skirting around the topic instead, none of you willing to talk about it until the time becomes absolutely necessary. 

is this it? has the time become absolutely necessary? 

 “Bucky,” she corrects herself, “has been in an accident.”

and it’s like the world stops. 

your feet stop moving, and you freeze in place in the middle of the sidewalk. all the joy and excitement you felt just a few minutes before is gone, replaced by a soul-crushing agony from deep inside yourself. 

“what?” you whisper, voice coming out small and fractured. 

“he’s okay,” she assures you with a tone that’s somewhat more confident, “but he’s in the hospital.” 

you blink a few times as your eyes grow watery, tears spilling over before you’re evening consciously aware of it. after the initial shock wears off, your brain goes into overdrive and you begin to panic. your feet suddenly begin moving again as you walk as fast as you can back to your apartment before you lose your composure in public. 

“what happened? when did it happen?” you question as you begin piecing things together in your head. it’s been days since you’ve heard from him, why has no one felt the need to tell you about this sooner?

“there was an accident at work. it happened on Monday. he… he fell off a ladder. he has a serious concussion, and he broke his right arm. he’s beyond lucky he wasn’t hurt any worse than he is.” 

you thank whatever higher power there is for saving him, you think, because you’re going to kill him yourself. 

“Monday,” you utter, your anger growing along with your volume, “it’s Thursday! it’s been three whole days, and no one thought to tell me until now?”

“we didn’t want to upset you before your interview today,” she excuses of the decision, and you scoff before cutting off her next words. 

“you don’t think something like this matters enough to tell me? are you serious? I don’t care what you think about me, or him, or our relationship. I had a right to know when this first happened. you should have told me, you don’t get to keep things from me, lie to me like this–”

“–don’t you start,” she bites, interrupting you in return. you’re still walking at full speed down the road, tears pouring from your eyes, and you want nothing more than to burst into full-blown sobs and start screaming. 

it’s for the best that you’re still in public because having a meltdown would only make this far worse. 

“don’t argue with me about keeping secrets and lying. not about this, not about him, not about anything. your father and I decided it was best to wait to tell you because your interview is more important, young lady, do you understand?”

you grit your teeth and force yourself not to yell back at her. more important than something this serious, more important than Bucky? 

“and what about Bucky? why didn’t he tell me?” you ask. 

she sighs somberly on the other end of the phone. 

“the doctors have kept him in a medically-induced coma for the last few days until the pressure in his head came down. they woke him up this morning, and he agreed with us that it was best to wait until after the fact to tell you.” 

“I want to talk to him,” you announce, “put me on the phone. now. please, Mom. please.”

“he’s asleep right now, okay? but I’ll make sure to give you whatever updates the doctor gives us?” she offers, and you shake your head even though you know she can’t see the motion.

“no. no, I’m coming home. I have to see him, I need to make sure he’s okay–”

“–no, you need to focus on classes and finishing your semester. he is fine–”

“Mom,” you cry out, and your soft tears finally turn into ugly sobs, unable to stave it off any longer. through your cries, you continue, “please. I know you don’t approve, I know what you think of him now. but, please, Mommy. I love him. I need to come home, I– I have to see him. please.”

it’s been a very difficult few months with the rift in your relationship with your parents over the last few months, but now, you can’t dance around the situation. right now, you need her to understand how pained you feel, for her to forget about how much she disapproves and understand how badly you need this. 

“okay. alright,” she gives in, her own voice a near whisper. “try and get on the next flight out tonight and we’ll get you back by Monday.”

“thank you,” you say, relieved. “thank you. okay. I’ll see you soon.” 

you pull the phone away from your ear, ready to press the button to end the call, when you hear the words softly through the phone. 

“I love you, sweetie,” she says, and the words punch you right in the gut. you can’t help but shed a few more tears at the sound of it. 

you bring the phone back to your ear. “I love you too, Mom. I’ll be home soon.”

when you finally get back a few minutes later, the race is on to pack your bag and get to the airport as quickly as possible. it’s as though you’ve gained a second wind as you begin to break down all over again, cries erupting from your throat against your will as the stress of the situation hits you now that you’re away from prying eyes. 

“oh my god, are you okay?” your roommate asks you the second she sees you. “what’s wrong? was the interview that bad? it’s okay, there will be other–”

“I have a boyfriend at home,” you admit to her through your whines as you start pulling random clothes from your drawer. “and– and he’s been in an accident. my mom just called me, and she told me, and I have to go home. I have to see him.”

“boyfriend?” she questions. “you never told me about… never mind. we can talk about it when you get back. is he okay?”

you wipe at your nose with the back of your hand, all the while you’re going crazy running around your bedroom grabbing everything you need to get on the plane. your mind is a jumble of mostly unintelligible thoughts as you try to remember everything you need and explain what little you can to her at the same time.

“yeah, I think so. but I can’t be here while he’s there, hurt, and alone. my family is probably there, but–” you pause, gulping and trying to figure out what to tell her. you’ll tell her the truth when you get back, when you’re in the right headspace, but now isn’t that time. “they don’t really approve of us.” 

“right, of course,” she replies, and it’s clear she doesn’t know what else to say. you don’t blame her; you probably wouldn’t know what to say in this situation, either. “just be safe and text me along the way, okay?”

“I will,” you agree, throwing the last few things you need into your bag before turning to face her. “I should be back Sunday night.” 

“it’s going to be okay,” she whispers before wrapping her arms around you in a hug. 

it takes all your effort not to break down for a third time in her arms, but you finally manage to hold yourself together as you get ready to walk out the door.

“yeah, I hope so,” you whisper. “I really hope so.” 

~~~

the lights are blinding, stark white shining into your eyes as you walk down the corridor towards his room. the scent of alcoholic sanitizer in the air doesn’t ease your nausea in the slightest as you anticipate the worst. 

they say that the side effects of the concussion are minimal given the impact of the fall he took, that he’s lucky to not be suffering any symptoms worse than the ones he’s experiencing. they say that he’s okay. 

you’ll make that determination for yourself when you see him.

when you approach the doorway leading to his room, your nerves spike. flashbacks filter through your mind of the last time you found yourself here, waking up in a similar room after your very own fall and resulting concussion. 

maybe yours was your bad karma for corrupting him, and perhaps now he is facing his own karma for choosing to hold onto you after allowing himself to delve into sin with you.

you inch closer towards the open door and peek inside to see him laying in the bed, his eyes gently shut. the television plays quietly in the background, announcing the local news to anyone listening as though it could possibly distract a soul from the horrors that brought them here.

your feet move of their own accord as you finally enter, turning to shut the door behind you and latching it as quietly as possible. except despite your best efforts, it emits a sound louder than you’d hoped, and your eyes cinch tightly shut in mild frustration with the door, hoping you haven’t woken him.

“hey, kid,” you hear a hoarse voice speak from a few feet behind you. 

you hurriedly whip around to face him, finding him awake and alert, smiling at you so beautifully. you race to the side of the bed he lays in as your heart rate spikes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter, eyes scanning him up and down. he waves you off, unconcerned. 

your fingers begin threading themselves through his hair ever so cautiously as you take in the sight of him. dark bags sit just beneath his eyes, redness circling his irises as your gaze finds his. his right arm sits across his chest in a cast, held up by a sling. 

“you’re a fucking idiot,” you whisper, your free hand joining your hand in his hair as you lean in to press a kiss to his lips. “how the hell did this happen?”

he just chuckles softly. “it was an accident,” he says, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t care if it was an accident or not, you need to be more careful,” you tell him, looking back and forth between his eyes. “getting the phone call that you were in the fucking hospital was not a fun one, do you hear me?”

“yeah, yeah. I remember something like that last year. hated every second of it,” he mumbles. “but it’s better me in this bed than you.”

your eyes nearly roll back in your head when he says that. “neither of us should have to be here. and I’m not the one who fell off a ladder, you dipshit.” 

he laughs again. 

“I’m fine, kid,” he whispers, bringing his metal fingers to your arm, drawing your hand away from his hair and bringing it towards him to place a kiss on your knuckles. “I’m tough. I’m going to be fine.” 

you shake your head, beyond exasperated with him, but relieved that you’re finally here to see his state for yourself. hearing from others that he’s okay means nothing to you, because how are you supposed to be able to judge what exactly that means? 

“you didn’t need to come all this way,” he tells you, and you scoff.

“of course I was going to come. I haven’t heard from you in days, and the first news I get is that you’re hurt? no way in hell I wasn’t getting on the first flight. you’d do the same for me.”

“yeah, well. you have more important things to focus on,” he says.

you know he’s trying to reassure you about his situation, but hearing him say that he believes he isn’t the most important thing in your life hurts. you love him more than life itself; you always have. he’s always come first for you. 

“enough,” you whisper, wiping your eyes before your tears begin to fall. “I’m here, and that’s all that matters.”

he slides over in the tiny bed, his large frame already taking up the majority of the space, but he doesn’t seem to care very much as he adjusts to make enough room for you to lay down with him. you’re hesitant to do so because of his injuries, but at the same time, you’re selfish. you want to be here for him in every way possible. you want to give him this comfort, the safety and security of knowing you’re here for him. you want more than anything to just feel him. 

you lay on your side beside him and his free arm wraps itself underneath you and around your waist, tugging you in tightly against him. you rest your head carefully on his shoulder and look down to see where his arm sits in a cast. 

“you can’t afford to be breaking your arm in ladder falls, old man,” you tease of him, “you already lost one to a stupid accident. imagine having two stupid stories to tell.” 

“nah, I’ll just tell people the shark liked the first bite so much that he came back for seconds,” he jokes, and you can’t help but laugh. you lightly smack his chest as you break into a fit of giggles.

“you’re never letting me live that one down,” you say through your laughter, and his chest rumbles with his own laughter.

“of course I’m not,” he assures you as his face tilts downwards, leaning in just enough to place another kiss to the top of your head. 

the two of you lay there for a few minutes in silence as your fingers trace patterns over the fabric of the gown covering his skin. you’re finally able to relax thanks to the close contact, thanks to being able to see him with your own two eyes.

“was it your parents that told you?” Bucky whispers, reluctant to break the peaceful moment, but his curiosity grows too great to avoid asking the question. 

you swallow. “yeah, my mom did,” you admit, and he hums in response. “why? have you seen them?”

“they were here when I woke up yesterday. filled me in on what happened, and all,” he says. “they told me you had an interview yesterday? how did that go?”

your heart nearly stops beating in your chest. you’re not ready to have this conversation with him, not right now. except you have no choice but to address it, so you try your best to be casual about it in your response. 

“uh, yeah,” you mumble under your breath. “went well. dunno if I’ll get the job, but maybe.”

you hope that the casual, non-chalant tone you use will throw him off the scent, that he’ll get the hint you’re not interested in talking about it.

because how can you? how can you tell him right here, right now, that you have a plan you’ve been keeping from him? 

he’s going to agree to it, though. he will agree to it, because he loves you. there’s an opportunity here for the both of you, and he’s going to see it. 

or maybe you know that you’re lying to yourself, hiding your deepest fears in a locked box in your mind so that you don’t have to face the pain that you know may follow from having this conversation. 

except you know now, after not just the last year but the last four long years, that you’ve found where you’re meant to be. albeit by a happy accident, you know that LA is where you’re meant to be, the same way you know that you’re meant to be in Bucky’s arms for the rest of your life.

so why can’t you make both of those things happen?

“I’m sure it went great,” he continues. “they’ll be more than lucky to have you. I know I am.”

the sentiment makes your lips turn up into a soft smile, and a flush of warmth passes across your cheeks.

“yeah, it was actually great,” you admit. “the woman I spoke to seemed pretty eager to have me join the team.”

“that’s amazing, kid. where’s it at? somewhere close by, I hope?”

fuck. 

you begin to sit up from your position on the bed, looking down at him as you do. 

“actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” you admit. the look on his face is almost indeterminable, except you know him well enough by now. you know he’s confused, wondering what bad news it is you’re about to share with him. 

“it’s there. in LA,” you start, and continue to ramble on before he can say anything else. “it’s an amazing opportunity, and I know you seemed to like being there when you came to visit in February, didn’t you? when we talked about it, you said–”

“I said that the city isn’t my scene,” he interrupts you with a biting tone, and you’re taken aback by his brazenness. you continue, your eyes narrowing in mild anger with his inflection.

“you said that you’d be interested. that it would be nice to have a place out in the valley, somewhere close enough to the city–”

“kid, stop,” he interrupts you. “that was all… that was all just talk. I had a great time coming to visit you, sure. but you seem to have gotten this idea in your head, that, what? I’d be interested in moving there?” he says it almost condescendingly, as though it sounds like a joke. finishing his sentence with an unamused laugh underlining his words. 

your jaw stutters as you try to think of what to say next. 

“just hear me out for a minute,” you try. “this is a great job opportunity for me. excellent, even. if you just listen to me for a second, then maybe you’ll realize this is exactly what we both need. a fresh start away from everything, where we can just be ourselves and not worry about people looking over our shoulders, judging us at every turn. how are we supposed to be together like that? it’s not like people don’t know us, don’t know–”

“who cares what they think?” he says, raising his voice. “who cares? I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that, because I love you, kid. and your parents– we can figure that out, you hear? we don’t need to keep running and hiding! I know I’m getting real fucking sick of it, aren’t you?”

“of course, I am, but that’s why we should do this! we need to get away, somewhere–”

“what are you really trying to run from here, kid?” 

the question takes you by complete surprise, and you do a double take. you have no clue how to answer that as he stares you down, waiting for your response. 

“I’m not running,” you whisper. except your words come out low and broken, as though you don’t even believe them yourself. 

“except you are,” he argues. “you’re running, like it’s the only option you have. but we can figure this out, if you come home, and we figure it out together.”

“are you implying that we can’t work things out if I stay there? that if I choose to move, then, what? that’s it? you’ll give up and won’t even try to work this out with me?” 

he sighs, realizing how harsh he sounds. “no, no. that’s not what I’m saying. I don’t want to give up, I just… don’t see how it can work out if you’re there, and I’m here.”

“so, come with me,” you urge, and his eyes fall shut, his head shaking.

“I can’t move to California, kid. I have a business, and a whole life built here. you have to know that moving isn’t in the cards for me.”

he goes quiet, and you remain silent, too. you don’t know what to say now, what it is you’re supposed to do.

you sit there for a few moments, every sound from outside the door sounding infinitely louder in your ears as you suffer in silence, unsure what comes next. just when your lips part to say something, anything, he speaks up. 

“listen, kid, my head is starting to hurt. let’s talk about this later,” he suggests, and you tilt your head back down to avoid his gaze..

“of course,” you mumble, quickly standing from the bed and stepping away. “yeah, sure. I’ll let you get some sleep. we can, um… talk later.”

“hey, no, you don’t have to leave–”

“I’m sorry, Bucky. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, refusing to look back up at him as you step away, opening the door and ignoring whatever he says as you walk out. 

how can you face him right now, when you feel so stupid? why did you think that this could work out as well as you had hoped and dreamed it would? 

because you’re just a stupid kid, you remind yourself. you’re a dumb kid who doesn’t know anything about the real world or real life, the same reason you’ve managed to find yourself in this position with your parents and now with Bucky. 

what the hell do you know?

~~~

when you walk in the door at home, you don’t know how to feel.

over the last twenty-four hours, you’ve gone through quite the whirlwind of emotions. from your nervousness, to blissful excitement, then to pure fear and panic, you’ve been through the ringer and don’t quite know what you’re supposed to feel now. 

you’re mad at yourself for bringing up this discussion with Bucky while he’s in the hospital before having the opportunity to do it on better terms, before you could find a way to be more graceful about the discussion. you’re frustrated for letting yourself get this idea stuck in your head that Bucky would move with you, that you could both have your cake and eat it, too. 

you’re sad that you left him there, alone, now that you’ve made it back to your parents’ house. you flew all this way just to see him, and for what? you’ve run away from him, again, and you’ve now let yourself end up butt-hurt just because you ended up in an argument that didn’t go your way?

there’s too much going on in your life right now for this to be at the forefront of your concerns, and yet, it is. because that’s what Bucky means to you. he’s your everything. 

as you walk towards your bedroom, you’re exhausted, and a deep part of you has a terrible thought. a thought that you almost hope you don’t get the job, because then, you would no longer be obligated to stay in LA and you could move in with Bucky as you’d told him many months ago that you would. 

you hate yourself for thinking it, recalling how ecstatic you were just the night prior upon the success of your interview. you love LA, but you love Bucky more. you think. 

at what point do you have to start putting yourself first? 

all these years, you’ve pined over Bucky. you’ve longed to have him, to be with him, to call him yours the way you finally do now. for the majority of your time on this earth you’ve placed him at the center of your universe. 

moving to California was the only thing you’d ever done for yourself, even if running away from him was the primary reason for doing so. even if he was still at the root of that decision, you’d done it because you knew you needed to grow up once and for all. 

you never did get over Bucky like you’d intended to when you told yourself that college was the opportunity for you to do that “growing up.” 

and yet, regardless of that fact, you’ve grown in so many other ways. Bucky aside, this move was one of the best choices you ever could have made for yourself. 

would you be throwing it all away if you came back to New York just to continue choosing him over yourself?

as your thoughts continue to circle, you hear a soft knock on the door jamb, and you turn your head to see your father standing there. 

“hey,” he begins cautiously, “how was Bucky today?”

you take a deep breath, unsure of how to approach this discussion with him. you’re soon reminded of the time you found yourself standing right here, in your bedroom, the vision of your father punching Bucky out after walking in uninvited. 

except the look on his face now is forlorn. he’s hesitant, likely even more confused than you feel about how he feels about the situation. 

at the end of the day, you remind yourself, Bucky and your father have been best friends for over three decades now. the kind of familial relationship that develops after knowing someone for so many years doesn’t just go away overnight; he is likely genuinely concerned just as you are. 

“he seems to be doing alright,” you say, plopping yourself down on the edge of your bed. “you wouldn’t be able to tell that he just came out of a coma yesterday, that’s for sure.” 

a gentle smile passes his face as he steps inside the room, slowly sauntering inside before taking a seat next to you on the bed. 

you take a deep breath. he’s going to bring up your relationship with Bucky, you know it. and if the past few conversations you’ve had about the exact same topic are any indication, then this isn’t going to go well.

“when we were in high school,” your father begins, “Bucky was… kind of an asshole.”

you laugh at that. “you could say the same about him today,” you joke, and he laughs along with you in response. 

“yeah, well. more so back then than he is now,” he continues. “he was the kind of guy who went around chasing skirts, you know. didn’t really care about the women he went out with, and… it took him a while to grow out of that. 

“when your mom and I started going together, though, he knew better than to cause any trouble. he knew that I was serious about her. and, well, some of her girlfriends at the time had been on the… receiving end of Bucky’s stupid shenanigans, to say the least. it took a really long time for him to finally win her over, before they finally became friends, too.” 

“I didn’t know that,” you mumble, and he nods. 

“it wasn’t until we were in our mid-twenties, when Bucky finally grew out of his womanizing phase, before he and your mom finally began to get along. I was so glad when they finally became friends, because I didn’t know how I was supposed to choose between them if they hadn’t. your best friend, or the woman you love? that’s not a decision to be made lightly, and I never wanted it to come to that.” 

he pauses for a few minutes, staring down at his hands crossed in his lap before continuing. 

“when you were born, Bucky adored you. he vowed to take care of you, to be there for everything, every milestone. all of it. he watched you grow up.”

“dad, please, I promise you that nothing untoward ever happened when I was a kid, he never–”

“I know, I know,” he nods. “I know he would never do anything of the sort, but I also never expected that he would–”

he cuts off mid-sentence, and a pit settles in your stomach. here comes the argument, the part where he tells you he forbids this, that Bucky will always be the same idiot he was as a teenager. 

“when I saw… what I saw that day, I was livid. beyond anything I’d ever felt in my life, because how could he? how could he take advantage of my daughter like that?”

“dad, please–”

“let me finish,” he says calmly. “I didn’t understand how anything like that could ever happen under our noses, under my own roof. I didn’t understand how he could betray our family’s trust like that.”

you’re still waiting, waiting for the outburst, waiting for the ultimatum. waiting for whatever awful thing is happening next. 

“I still don’t understand it, and I don’t know that I ever will. but the point I’m trying to make is this: I don’t want you to think that your mother and I aren’t still here for you. I don’t want you to think… that you have to choose, between us and him.”

you blink once. twice. 

what? 

“I can’t say that I’m okay with any of this, but what I have come to realize is that you’re an adult who can make her own decisions, now, and I am not willing to lose my only daughter over this.”

you’re honestly shocked beyond belief as the sentiment he’s expressing to you settles in your mind. 

choosing to sleep with Bucky, choosing to be with him, you were never going to get to have the fairytale romance you dreamt of as a little girl simply because of who you were to each other. there was never going to be an open-armed welcome from your family upon telling them you were in love; there was always going to be a fight, a terribly disagreeable reaction on their end from learning such news, albeit a very warranted reaction. 

it was never going to be smooth sailing, and no, you never expected your parents to approve in the slightest.

but this, what your father is telling you right now? 

this might be the best possible outcome you ever could have hoped for.

“your mom is still working on getting over her anger, as am I, but we’re in agreement that you are too important to us to let you go over this. so… we aren’t going to interfere, or argue with you over it anymore, alright?”

you’re rendered entirely speechless, instantly reaching your arms out and wrapping yourself around him in relief. 

“thank you, Dad,” you mumble into his shoulder as you hug him. “thank you.”

you sit there for a few minutes as the tension you’ve felt between the two of you for months finally begins to melt away, as you finally begin to feel like you might be able to find a way back to normal. that what felt like the end of your world wasn’t truly the end. 

“we’re here for you,” he says, “and if he ever pulls anything funny, he’ll regret it until the end of his days.”

you laugh, although somewhat somberly, as you finally pull away from the embrace. “yeah, well. we’ll see if it even works out. my interview yesterday went amazing, as I’m sure Mom told you. and… I really want the job, Dad,” you confide in him, “but it’s in LA. and I’m going to miss him. and both of you, too, of course.” 

“look at me,” he encourages, and your soft eyes find his. “you’re strong, and you’re smart. and while the decision is yours whether or not you take the job, if you get the offer, I want you to think about what’s going to be best for you, not anybody else. the rest of us will still be here. but you owe it to yourself to seriously consider the offer, even if it means…”

“losing Bucky,” you mumble. 

“yes. and I don’t just say that because of everything that’s happened, but I say that because it’s true. you’ve worked so hard for your degree, and you deserve the job, if that’s what you want.”

“I do really want the job,” you whisper. “I really hope I get the offer.”

“then you should take it. you’ll have our full support. we’ll just have to come visit you more often,” he tells you with a smile, and you return it with a laugh.

“that would be great, Dad. thank you.”

~~~

you walk down the same corridor to the same bright, ugly hospital room as the day before. the same sterile smell permeates your senses as you walk more confidently to his room now, although you’re still nervous after your conversation the previous day. 

no matter what happens, you’re not leaving his side. you’re going to spend every minute you can with him today until you have to get on a flight back to LA tomorrow, argument or not. 

when you see him this time, he’s already awake, eyes fixated on the television as he eats jello from a plastic cup that rests on the table in front of him.

“that’s not a very healthy breakfast,” you say as you walk into the room, and he looks over at you for a few seconds before breaking into a smile after processing your words. 

“yeah, well, when you’re a sick man like myself, they let you have whatever you want for breakfast.”

you walk up to the side of the bed and look over at the screen on the wall. “you also should not be watching TV with a concussion, Bucky!” you exclaim, reaching for the remote where it sits in his lap, immediately clicking the off button. 

“I was watching that,” he says, but there’s no fervor behind his words. instead, he slowly shifts over in the bed as he did the day prior, once again allowing you to sit with him. 

the both of you go quiet, the elephant in the room making itself known after your argument the night prior. 

“let me help you,” you whisper, reaching for the spoon in his hand. with only one free hand available to eat from his cup, it falls over on the table as he reaches for it, and you immediately reach out to help him. 

as you extend the spoon of jello out in front of him a few moments later, he mumbles, “I’m not a baby,” but doesn’t hesitate to wrap his lips around the plastic. 

“thank you,” he says shyly afterwards. you softly hum in response, slowly feeding him the rest of the jello in the cup while you both remain in silence. 

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he finally says once he’s done eating. “I shouldn’t have blown up on you like that. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“it’s alright,” you assure him with a smile as you lay down next to him. “I don’t know… where I got that stupid idea in my head from. it’s fine.” 

“it’s not stupid,” he assures you, metal fingers tracing up and down your back. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I thought it was.” 

you hum in acknowledgement. “thank you,” you whisper. “but, can we talk about this later? I have to leave tomorrow, and I’d rather just be here with you than try to make any monumental decisions right now.”

“of course,” he says, planting a kiss on your head. you sigh in relief and settle in closer to him. 

“how are you feeling?” you ask him as you settle in next to him. “are you in any pain?”

“not now that you’re here,” he says, and he hears you scoff. “what? don’t believe me? it’s the truth, your presence instantly cures all my ails.”

“if only it worked like that,” you jest, and he continues. 

“seriously, though. I’m feeling better than I should given the circumstances.”

“or maybe you’re just loaded up on pain meds,” you giggle. 

“yeah, maybe I am, but at least that means they’re working.” 

after your conversation dies out, you both go quiet for a while, your eyes shutting as you lay with him. even though the circumstances under which you’re here are far less than ideal, you’re still elated to see him, to be able to spend time with him. 

you hope it’s not one of the last times you get to have this. you still hope that you get to have this forever, until the end of your days you wish you could be wrapped up with him. 

who knows if that’s in the cards for you, though. 

when his eyes have fallen shut and you hear the soft sound of his breathing telling you he’s asleep, you carefully stand from the bed, trying not to jostle him as you make your way to shut the door and turn off the lights. 

he just barely stirs when you get back into the bed beside him, rousing just enough to wrap his prosthetic arm around you once more and pull you in tight before dozing off again. 

you look at him carefully as he sleeps, as though memorizing the sight of his beautiful face, the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks. the bags under his eyes have improved slightly since the day before, and you’re still cautious to reach out and touch his broken arm. 

you wish more than anything that you could stay and take care of him until he’s all better, to watch him carefully and make sure he doesn’t do anything that might make his injuries worse. even if you’d been here on Monday when the accident happened, you know there would have been nothing you could have done about it; you couldn’t have stopped him, couldn’t have protected him from it, no matter how much you wish you could’ve.

there’s no bigger wish in your heart for him to have nothing but the best. 

yet here you are, telling him you want him to uproot his entire life just to make you happy. in hindsight, it was a far bigger ask than you made it out to be, yet for some reason you couldn’t see that. perhaps you’d been blinded by the fact that now that you’re together, and now that you’ve survived the absolute worst situation that could have possibly happened when you were discovered by your parents, there was nothing else bigger than that in your head that you believed could tear you apart. that if you could survive being found out, you could survive anything. 

you just wanted to have everything, for it all to be perfect. 

yet you know the world isn’t perfect, and it’s never fair. it’s not fair that the love of your life is a man you never should have gotten with, and it’s not fair that you both can’t just be normal. 

you’re going to have to leave him tonight, and it’s going to hurt, knowing that you won’t have clarity on where you stand and what the future holds. it’s going to be painful knowing that you won’t know the next time you’ll get to see him, the next time you’ll get to touch him, if you accept the job and don’t come back to New York in the near future. 

it’s going to absolutely destroy you if this doesn’t work out, you think to yourself. 

but even deeper down, you know that you’ll survive. you know that you’ve suffered heartbreak because of Bucky before, and if it happens again, you know you’re going to survive it again. 

you just have to hope that it doesn’t come to that. 

✦ masterlist ~ series finale coming soon. ✦

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you wish you had a crystal ball in times like these, shiny reflective glass showing you the outcomes of all your dilemmas. the pain of knowing what comes next doesn’t compare to the pain of living in uncertainty, because you can deal with that pain. you can learn to accept the situation, learn how to move past it. so long as you know, then there’s an end in sight. you can survive so long as you know what comes next, and you’ll be able to just get over it. 

but not knowing? not knowing how things will work out, not even having a clue about how to atone for your misconduct when no one cares what you have to say? how are you supposed to navigate that, especially when no one is making any attempt whatsoever to hear you out?

that’s all you could ask for anymore, is to be listened to. to be given a chance at being honest and for your words to be believed and taken as the truth. 

asking for forgiveness and understanding of your situation beyond that, well… that’s another story entirely. 

you’ll cross that bridge if you ever get to it.

~~~

behind the screen, Bucky’s guilt eats him alive. 

the cruelties he repeats to himself in his mind never cease, like a broken record he can’t fix, can’t stop. but why should he stop when he deserves every terrible word he iterates to himself? 

he’s a terrible man who deserves to suffer for his atrocities.

but you don’t.

you don’t deserve to suffer simply because he’s been selfish, self-serving in giving into his disgusting desires for the one he vowed to protect. this isn’t your crime to pay the price for.

which is why no matter what, he will continue to pick up the phone when you call. he’ll listen to you talk and cry and seek solace in him every single time you need him, because you shouldn’t be the one beating yourself up over everything that’s happened. he is. 

no matter how selfish of him it is to continue to be the one to console you, to continue to be there for you because he wants to be, he’s not going to deny you whatever comforts you need for the sole purpose of making himself feel like he’s doing the right thing in letting you go. 

besides, leaving you to deal with your pain on your own isn’t the right thing to do, either. 

his choice to stay for you is a decision he’ll make over and over again without hesitation because it’s better that way. it’s better for him to continue living with his own guilt as long as it means you’re not alone. 

despite how much he hates himself for being with you, despite the fact that nothing will ever be the same again?

he’s still happier than he’s ever been when he’s with you. 

~~~

this time of year has, historically, never been particularly exciting for you. 

with winter in full bloom, the celebration of the new year long past, comes the time for happy couples to proudly and publicly profess their love for one another on a holiday that’s always left a weird taste in your mouth.

Valentine’s Day.

since the moment you knew what it meant to have a crush on someone, a feeling you discovered later in life than most of your classmates did, you knew that the holiday of love would likely never work out in your favor.

how could it, when you’re fourteen years old and realizing that you have a crush on the man who is the closest thing you have to an uncle, for all intents and purposes?

after a while, though, your mindset changed. getting over a stupid childhood crush would be easy. in a few years, you’d be 18 and off to college, a real adult once and for all; you wouldn’t be so stupid as to still have a crush on him all those years later. 

that’s what you thought when you were a teenager. now? 

now, you haven’t been 18 for years, and you’re still a prisoner to the same feelings and despair that you were nearly a decade ago. 

candy hearts and teddy bears and cupid’s arrow have long been a reminder of the shitty position you’ve put yourself in by falling for the one man who would eternally be out of reach. they’re the fantasies of what your life could have been in another universe where you got to be with him, fantasies of what it might be like to feel his skin against yours, to know what it felt like to be loved by him. 

that was, until the universe flipped your entire world on its side and turned all of your fantasies into realities, giving you everything you’d ever wanted with him and more. 

more, meaning a life filled with fear and anxiety about what your situation entailed for the both of you. more, meaning a relationship permanently haunted by a guilt that you would never face should you be with someone else. more, meaning thousands of miles of distance between the two of you for your first Valentine’s Day together. 

you’ve lived with the rest of it for months now, learned how to cope with it. but being so far apart for February 14th…

that's the part that hurts the most as the day approaches. 

screw your 18 year old self for trying to do what she thought was best for you.

~~~

“I miss you,” you whisper into the phone, your voice low with your roommate just in the next room over. “how are you? how are things there?”

“well, you know,” he responds, the words purposefully clipped and spoken under his breath. “but I been missing you too, kid.” 

your eyes fall shut as the words seep in. his reassurances are all you have right now, and you’ll relish every word he says to you. 

“I wish I could come home next week,” you breathe, your voice slightly shaky as you speak. 

“why next week?” he questions. his voice is deadpan, but you know better than that. despite the fact that he’s soft under his humorous exterior, he’s still a sarcastic asshole through and through. 

“oh, you ass,” you mutter back with a laugh, smiling to yourself as you continue, “forget I said anything at all. you know, you could even–”

“I bet I could even get you to try something new, something really nasty, if you were here. butter you up with dinner and pretty flowers, and–”

“–oh, shut up!” you tell him as you try to keep your tone low and your giggling to a minimum. “I am not that easy, you know.” 

“oh, you definitely are. anything for your uncle, right?” he asserts. 

you can practically hear the way he’s smirking as he speaks. he can probably visualize you rolling your eyes right now, too. 

even if he already knows it, you’ll never tell him that he’s right. 

“oh, whatever… keep thinking what you want to think. now go to sleep, it’s late there,” you try to encourage him. 

“seriously? what if I want to listen to your voice a little bit longer?” he chirps back. 

“you know, you’re not as charming as you think you are,” you fire. his ego could benefit from the hit, not that he’d even take any of your words to heart. 

“you really do just like to rile me up when I’m not there to do anything about it, don’t you?” 

he’s insatiable, you think, continuing to poke and tease and goad you on. 

he already knows you love it. 

“that’s what you’ve got a left hand for,” you taunt back. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” 

“alright, fine. good to hear your voice, kid. love you.”

“love you, too, Bucky. goodnight.” 

and with that, you hang up the phone, and you’re immediately thrown back into a pool of loneliness and worry. a basin of nervous thoughts up to your chin, surrounding you as your whole body fights to stay afloat, as you force yourself to continue trying not to drown in the darkness even as it works to drag you under. 

because you can’t help but wonder, who are you without him? 

you know that making one person your entire life, making them the main character of your feature film, isn’t healthy or sustainable. you have to stand on your own two feet. 

clearly you can, though, can’t you? 

you know you can. you’ve proven time and time again that you’re capable of surviving on your own. 

but surviving doesn’t equate to thriving. and when you’re with him, you flourish. 

if only everyone could see that.

~~~

you don’t know how long you’ve been staring at this screen for. 

the words are all blending together, a jumble of letters that are now completely unintelligible as you try to decipher their meanings. 

they’re all the exact same thing, anyways: job openings that claim to be for entry-level applicants but expect years of work experience, multiple references, and a number of other qualifications that you simply don’t have. 

you would have started planning for this sooner, you think, had you known any better. had you not spent the last year too preoccupied with your little rendezvous with Bucky and instead put a little more time and effort into planning for your future. 

Bucky would take care of you, you know he would. it’s not like you’ve wasted the time, nor has the time been spent in vain; but perhaps you have been too distracted, too caught up in him to think about yourself. 

you know that’s not true. you’re just upset with yourself for innumerable reasons, on top of the fact that you’re struggling to find the right job openings back home in New York, let alone get any interviews. 

scrolling through job offerings more local to your university would be pointless, anyways. 

the words on the screen continue to mock you as you begin to feel more and more defeated, realizing how much trouble you’re in. 

shutting your laptop, you roll onto your back atop your mattress and stare aimlessly at the ceiling above you. a million questions race through your head, unsatiated curiosities about what comes next for you and internal debates about how you’re supposed to survive entirely on your own in just a few short months. 

because with how up in the air your situation is right now, you don’t have a choice. letting everyone continue to perceive you as nothing more than a helpless child will only make your argument about your relationship with Bucky that much less credible. 

you’re not entirely sure how long you lay there, questioning yourself and every decision you’ve ever made in your life. it doesn’t feel that long, though, when you’re being startled from your impromptu nap with the sound of your phone ringing. 

ignore it, your sleep-addled mind tells you. 

against your fatigued brain’s wishes, you sit up and reach for the phone anyways, sliding to answer without even reading the name on the screen.

“hello?” you murmur, wiping your face as you do. 

“were you sleeping, kid?” the person on the other end of the line asks you. 

“what? no…” you pretend, your own voice trailing off in your haze. “of course not.” 

“yeah, like I’m gonna believe that. you should go for a walk instead of sleeping, you know. it’s better for you.”

“oh, fuck you, Bucky,” you mutter. “I don’t care.”

“what, you think I’m lying to you? don’t you think some fresh air could do you some good?” 

“no.” 

“I think it could.”

“no. why do you care so much, anyways?”

“come on. it’s still sunny out, you still got time to enjoy the day,” he argues as he continues to insist. 

why does he care so much? 

there’s something about his words that don’t sit right with you. something isn’t adding up. 

“how do you know that?” you inquire as you finally shake your sleepy state. “that it’s still sunny out?” 

“call it a lucky guess,” he chuckles. “come on. would you just do it for me, kid?”

for some reason, you listen. any other day, you’d think that it’s simply because you’re incapable of saying no to him. 

today is not any other day, because you’re already suspicious of him based on how insistent he is. it is most definitely not because you’ve spent the last week dreaming about whether or not he’d surprise you with a floral or sugary delivery for the holiday that’s only a day away.

you find yourself standing from your bed, searching for your shoes and your keys to go on a “walk,” as he keeps trying to convince you to. 

“this is stupid, you realize that?” you ask him as you walk down the stairs of your building. “I was having a really nice nap, catching up on my sleep debt, but no, you just had to–”

your voice dies in your throat as you approach the front door leading to the outside of your apartment complex, a vision of a familiar head of hair on the other side of the window. 

the phone in your hand falls to the floor as you race to push open the door to find him standing there, in the flesh.

“Bucky?” you whisper, your lower lip trembling as your emotions begin to boil over. “you’re here?” 

you instantly wrap yourself around him, your arms ever so tightly clasping themselves around his waist and forgetting all about the fact that you’re outside, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, unable to give a single fuck about anyone who may see you in this position right now.

because Bucky is here, by what feels like nothing short of a miracle. 

“how? why?” you whisper as you cling to him. 

“airplane. you know, those metal things that fly through the–”

“shut up, you jerk,” you laugh, burying your head deeper into the crook of his neck. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“of course I am. happy Valentine’s Day, kid.” 

your heart could melt from the gesture, you think. you could die happy right now, because he’s here.

after a few more beats, the sensation of his chest vibrating against yours seeps in as he begins to softly laugh. “gonna have to let go of me sometime, you know that, right?” 

with a sigh, you lean back and finally look up at him once more. one of your hands extends itself to his hair, another to the side of his jaw, your hands trying to conceptualize that he is truly standing in front of you. 

he continues laughing as you simply look at him in awe. 

“enough of that. lead the way upstairs, would ya?”

~~~

his warm flesh nearly burns your own as he presses himself closer and closer against you, your hands scrambling for purchase as you try desperately to meld your bodies together as though it will keep him from ever leaving you. 

metal fingers curl in your hair as his flesh yanks at the waistband of your pants, both of your shirts already discarded on the floor somewhere. 

“y’know, your roommate could walk in any moment,” he whispers to you breathily between kisses. 

“then let her,” you breathe back, your lips attacking his once more. 

you’ve had it with worrying about getting caught. you’ve had it with being more concerned about what the rest of the world might think in moments like these, moments that are supposed to belong to nobody else but you and him.

his mouth trails down the side of your face before nipping at the lobe of your ear, the crook of your neck, each pinch another reminder of his presence, of the fact that things finally feel normal for once.

as normal as they could ever be in your situation, that is. 

“got a real fancy hotel, you know. just for you. could take you back there, make you–”

“I thought you were all about the thrill of getting caught, right, Uncle Bucky?” you taunt him, a smirk playing on your lips as you look at him. 

“you’re really in for it now,” he taunts back. 

the chill that races through your veins does nothing but excite you further. 

you’re hypersensitive to it, the way every touch sears your skin, the way every movement he makes feels so much more intense than the last time. his tongue darts down your collarbone, and your own hands immediately reach to grab at the straps of your bra where they lay. 

“please,” you whimper unconsciously, your voice acting of its own accord with each moan and whine you utter. 

“please, what?” he snaps back, to which your mind instantly goes blank. 

please, anything, you think, but the words fail you.

“ah, she’s so used to letting me do all the work, ain’t she? no, that ain’t gonna work this time. you gotta tell me what you’re thinking, kid,” he urges. 

you slowly blink your eyes back open and glance down at him, your chin nearly knocking his nose as you do. 

all he does is chuckle as he sees the look in your eyes. “no way you’re that drunk on me already, huh? when I haven’t even touched you yet?” 

now is when you wish you had jabbed your chin into his face. 

“you’re evil,” you muster, your clarity returning. “make up your mind already. fuck me, or don’t.”

“I have. you use your words, or else,” he tries, but you’re already knocked out of your haze. 

“or else? or else, what? you’ll make more empty threats?” you snark back.

“or else you’re not going to–”

“you know, these little threats of yours are starting to lose their effectiveness,” you tell him, to which his jaw all but drops at the shock of your blunt defiance. “I bet I can last longer without finishing than you can.”

he loves to torment you and play games. who’s to say you can’t do the same to him?

“oh, you think so?” he asks, “you really want to bet against me, kid?” 

it doesn’t matter whether or not you think you can win against him, no. all that matters is that you make him suffer even a fraction of the way he likes to make you suffer. 

“you bet I do,” you whisper back before placing a gentle kiss on his lips. 

and then you’re shoving his heavy figure off of yours, to his complete surprise. his voice stutters a few times, as though trying to come up with the words to fight you on this. to convince you that this is stupid, that you should just let him do whatever he wants with you. 

that would be giving you exactly what you wanted, though, wouldn’t it? telling you, proving that you’re correct. 

which is most certainly not going to happen. 

“you’re a fucking menace, you know that?” he hisses as he watches you tug your shirt back over your head. “fine. you’re on. and when you lose, you’re going to regret this.” 

clothes back in place, you turn to where he’s seated on the bed and plop yourself down next to him. your hands find his hair, pulling him in for another kiss. 

only to push away from him once more, proceeding to challenge him with, “we’ll see about that.” 

it’s in that moment, with those words and that smirk of yours, that he realizes how much he truly missed you. 

~~~

the sun has long past set, the sky fading into dark hues of indigo and grey as the hustle and bustle of the city turns into an even more lively night scene. tens of passersby make their way past you down the pier, scattering down a million different pathways as they follow wherever the night takes them. 

you and Bucky sit at a creaky picnic table, the sounds of the wood struggling under your weight with each move either of you make. a plate of none other than your very favorite loaded nachos sit in the center of the table between the two of you, your fingers brushing against each others’ each time you reach for another bite. 

“cheers,” you had said when you first said down, clinking your cocktail glass against his beer bottle, “to your first time in LA. and to being together.” 

“cheers, kid,” he’d laughed, all too infatuated with the joyous smile painted across your face. 

you watched the way his eyes followed the individuals walking by, his curiosity and intrigue of the eccentricity of the city clear in his gaze. 

“so, you, uh. you like it here?” he questions now, clearing his throat and clearly struggling to keep his tone neutral. 

“I take it you don’t,” you smirk back at him before taking another bite. “don’t worry. the people here don’t bite, you know, unless you ask them to.”

“fuckin’ smartass, you know that?” he claps back with a smirk of his own. “you know me. never even go down into Manhattan. the city scene is–”

“–not your scene. pun intended.” 

his eyes nearly roll back into his head, and it takes all your might not to laugh at your own joke.

“we should go, sometime. to the city, when I’m home,” you suggest, watching his eyes carefully to see his true reaction, not the fake one he’ll give you with his words. 

“let’s see if I survive Los Angeles, kid, then we’ll talk,” he assures you. 

a soft quietness falls between the two of you for a few moments as you work on the food in front of you, both of your gazes settling on the people as they walk by. 

when you speak up again, the words are instinctive, not well thought-through. 

“how are my parents?” you ask him, the sense of normalcy and ease you currently feel overshadowing the reminder of what your actual normal is right now. 

he coughs once, twice, eyes not meeting yours as he responds. 

“well, you know,” he says casually, as though there’s nothing left to be said there. as though the situation isn’t far bigger than the both of you are making it out to be; as though he’s brushing it off to try and ignore it, for both of your sakes. 

“not really, I don’t,” you mutter, mind too focused on your meal. 

he pauses for a few more moments, and when he doesn’t say anything, you look back up to his face. he appears apprehensive, his lips slightly parted as though he’s about to speak but doesn’t quite know what to say. 

you finally catch the look in his eyes, the one that tells you he’s confused. he’s wondering why you’re asking, calculating what it is that you want him to say.

because what is there to say?

“well,” he tries again with another short pause, “they ain’t talking to me. that’s for sure.”

his attempt to remain calm and neutral in his response does not fall on deaf ears. it’s clear that he’s trying to give you an answer without blowing you off entirely and without ruining the mood of the evening. 

it’s not that you forgot about everything that’s happened, no. but as it hits you once more, that the question you asked is way beyond loaded, you realize you got too comfortable. too used to the friendship between the two of you, too used to the feeling of comfort you felt with him before beginning your rendezvous. 

“they don’t know you’re here,” you speak up as the pieces fit together in your mind. 

“no,” is all he says. 

you feel stupid. what’s wrong with you? why would you even bring up such a thing?

“sorry. should have known,” you tell him with a soft, sad smile. 

“it’s alright, kid. just glad to spend some time with you.” 

you are too, you want to tell him. you’re beyond grateful that he’s made the trip, that he’s gone to all of this trouble to be here for this weekend, knowing what it must mean to you. a number of sappy responses come to mind, various things you might respond with to show your appreciation. 

instead, you appeal to a side of him that’s far more receptive than his emotional side. 

“yeah, bet you’re just glad to spend some time naked with me,” you quip. 

“oh, but you’ve gone and told me that ain’t possible, kid, what with your stupid little game an’ all,” he begins, at which point you promptly interrupt him. 

“I never said we couldn’t have sex,” you taunt, the most devious smile crossing your face as you say it. 

his eyes meet yours, and you know the game is on.

~~~

“fuck, Bucky,” you can’t help but whine out, “needed– been needing–” 

“yeah, I know you been needing this, haven’t you?” he breathes as your hips drop once more, seating yourself further down into his lap, the burn radiating throughout your whole body with the sting of his cock stretching you open. 

absolutely not, is what you told him when he knelt in front of you, his fingers pulling at the lace of your panties as his lips kissed up the insides of your thighs. it doesn’t matter how he touches you; he always succeeds at making a complete mess of you, anyways. 

but you weren’t going to make this easy on him, and you most certainly were not going to give him the opportunity to try and make you lose your bet. 

and, if you’re honest, you’ve missed the glorious pain of feeling him like this, completely unprepared for it and yet forced to take him anyways. 

your eyes roll back in your head each time his hands tug you further down, the heat between the two of you already manifesting itself in the way you’re both covered in a sheen of sweat. his grip on your hips is a firm reminder that you’re not going anywhere, that you’re stuck, that you’re his. 

a reminder you crave every time you’re away from him. 

in a moment of lucidity, you can’t help but laugh out loud to yourself as your thoughts race through your mind. 

“what’s so funny?” he questions, his own voice completely wrecked and distinctly breathy as he struggles to get the words out. 

“you’ll never know how good this hurts,” you murmur while leaning forward and taking his chin in hand. your lips find his, unable to help yourself from shamelessly biting at his bottom lip, the action encouraging a moan of his own to emanate from low in his throat. 

“you’re something else, kid,” he tells you when you let up on your attack on his lip, his hands tightening their grip on your waist. he proceeds to surge his weight forward and pushes you onto your back, not daring to let go of you as he follows you with the motion. 

the instant your back hits the cold sheets of the hotel bed underneath you, he thrusts his own hips forward, sheathing himself inside you entirely as your breath is entirely expelled from your lungs. 

“that’s better,” you hear him mutter under his own breath, coupled with a sense of self-satisfaction inside, you’re sure. 

when he begins moving atop you, your hands find his shoulders and press against him, softly urging him to pause.

“what’s wrong?” he breathes, at which point you finally open your eyes to meet his gaze. 

“jus’ enjoy it. unless, of course, you want to lose even quicker,” you remind him. 

you note the way his jaw clenches when you say that, the way the cogs in his head are surely turning as he debates whether or not the potential blow to his ego is worth it. 

except his ego is too big for that. no way he’d let you win, especially when he knows for fact that he can hold out for longer than you can. 

“alright, kid. you wanna just keep me warm for a while? think I can make that happen,” he tells you, summoning every ounce of willpower he has to calm himself down and focus on what’s important: winning, so that he can lord it over your head every time he tortures you in bed from here on out. 

you take a deep breath and nod your head yes against his, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck and pulling him in tight. his chest meets yours, the weight of his figure resting on you. he’s a wall of muscle, like a weighted blanket on top of you, and it once again reminds you that he’s real. this is real. 

despite the craving in the back of your head itching for him to fuck you properly, the same one you’re sure he’s feeling right now, you can’t help but feel peaceful. enjoying the fact that you get to have such a close moment with him right now, this entire surprise visit something you never could have anticipated happening. 

you’re so in love with him it hurts. 

but then again, when hasn’t it? 

his hands dance over your skin, tracing indeterminate symbols and patterns against your hips where he holds you. warm puffs of air graze the flesh of your ear and your neck as his lips taunt you with feathering kisses. 

“I’m gonna win,” he whispers. “you know I can last longer. admit it.” 

“that’s bullshit,” you immediately mutter back. 

what you won’t remind him of is how you spent years without him, years of hating yourself for wishing for exactly this sort of thing. this, being something that was never going to happen. 

until it did. 

this was never supposed to happen. 

you won’t remind him how patient you’ve been, how you’d wait a lifetime just for a sliver of his attention, a single featherlight touch of his skin against yours with more than just friendly, familial intention. 

so, yes. you know you can win against him, because he’ll never know the depths of the pain and desperation you’ve endured just to get to this point. 

“we’ll see about that, kid,” is the last thing he whispers to you before beginning to place kisses over your face, across the planes of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the cupid’s bow on your lips. his words are clearly a facade, a falsehood to try and throw you off as you can tell he’s growing restless and impatient, his hips beginning against yours with soft, tormenting thrusts that do nothing but remind you of how full you feel with him inside you. 

you let him do as he pleases, slowly rutting into you as you watch him slowly begin to lose his composure. 

“that’s what I thought,” you murmur under your breath, watching the way his eyes cinch tightly shut as his shallow movements grow erratic as his self-control continues to dissipate. 

it’s quite the sight, you think, the vision of him losing himself in you in a way you’ve never seen before. or, perhaps, you’ve always been too drunk on his cock inside you to notice how beautiful his face looks like this. the way his jaw alternates between clenching and falling, his breaths becoming quicker and sharper. fingers dig into the flesh of your waist, holding you below him as he ever so softly uses you to pleasure himself. 

“you feel too good, kid,” he tells you with a strangled voice. you’re shocked at the implication of his words, the complete 180 he’s pulled, now hinting to you that he’s putting his ego to the side to instead simply enjoy the feeling of you beneath him. 

when his flesh hand begins to trail its way between your legs to rub at your clit, you immediately bat it away, taking his hand in yours and returning it to its seat in the curve of your waist. “no,” is all you say, too entranced by watching his blissful face to let him interfere. 

“not fair,” he groans, to which you scoff. 

“suffer through,” you smirk. 

you can see the cogs in his head turning as he tries to decide what’s more important, winning against you and protecting his ego or saying fuck it and letting himself go. 

the moment he decides, you know immediately, as his lips crash back into yours and his hands grip you tighter and hold you firmly in place as he finally fucks into you with abandon. 

it’s not long before he begins whining into your mouth and his motions lose their fervor as he rapidly approaches his release. 

“inside me,” you breathe out, nothing more than an encouragement for him to finally let go, to give in to the desire and make himself lose. 

he doesn’t even hesitate as he gives you exactly what you asked for, the warm sensation of his release blossoming in your tummy as his facial expression goes slack and his breaths grow heavier. 

you run your fingers through his hair, softly brushing long strands behind his ears before he finally collapses on top of you. laughter bubbles up in your chest, the pressure overwhelming you as his weight presses into yours. 

“you’re heavy,” you tease, turning your head towards his where it lay next to yours on the pillow. 

“yeah, well,” he says, voice hoarse and breathy, “you’re gonna keep me warm a little longer. til I’m ready to fuck you dumb.” 

a smile forms on your face as he meets your gaze, your noses brushing against each others’. 

“you didn’t even last a day, Bucky,” you tease. 

you watch his eyes roll before shutting once more. “shut the hell up,” he murmurs.

and for a moment, the world stops. 

you’re alone with Bucky, and nobody is going to walk in on you. you’re alone with Bucky, and not a soul in this city will know the two of you. there’s no need for sneaking around, no need to go an hour out of town just to go out together and avoid being caught by someone you might know. 

you’re together, and every worry and anxiety you’ve ever had is simply gone. 

this is how it should be, you think, to love someone. to feel so carefree and happy, to not care about what another soul on the planet thinks because all that matters is the two of you and your happiness.  

the future doesn’t matter right now, nothing does. 

this kind of happiness is all you could ever ask for. 

~~~

you wake disoriented a few hours later. 

your eyes open to the darkness of an unfamiliar room, a soft light filling the room from the cracks in the curtains allowing the passage of the bright fluorescents that light up the city at nighttime. your whole body feels heavy, and your arm is asleep with pins and needles beginning to prick at your nerves. 

the hotel room. 

Bucky. 

it wasn’t a dream, you realize, as the faint scent of his shampoo fills your nose. his head is buried in the crook of your neck, his hair fraying in every which way and tickling your skin. you pick up on the soft sound of his snoring as he sleeps so peacefully on top of you, crushing you and causing your chest to ache because of it. 

there’s another ache because of him, too. 

your body clearly hasn’t forgotten that despite your slumber, and despite the fact that it’s likely been hours since you fell asleep, you haven’t gotten to finish. 

this isn’t something to wake him for, though, is it? of course not. you shouldn’t bother him when he’s finally getting some rest after a long flight the day before. 

you could excuse disturbing him with a more valid excuse that you need to get out of bed for water, only to then bombard him with a heinous request to use his mouth to help relieve some of the heat between your thighs. 

but… you know Bucky. you know he’d be more than amenable to help fix your little problem. 

you weigh your options, debating whether or not you should just try to fall back asleep or onslaught him with your sexual dissatisfaction, before eventually coming to the selfish conclusion that he’s only here for a short period of time. you should make the most of it. 

besides, it’s Valentine’s Day now. how can he say no to you? 

you can’t stop yourself once your decision has been made, slowly pulling free your arm that’s stuck underneath him before bringing both of your hands to take his prosthetic hand in yours. your chin tilts downwards as you direct your gaze to him, watching to see if he’s still asleep as you move. 

you could just wake him up. 

but as you slowly part your thighs, bringing his hand to rest against your cunt, the idea leaves your mind entirely. 

a soft gasp falls from between your lips as you gently angle his fingertips up against your clit, rocking your hips up against his hand once, twice, a few more times as you firmly hold the metal in place. 

you bite your lip between incisors as you drag his hand lower and begin to crook two fingertips up into yourself, still dripping with his release from hours prior. the sting takes you by surprise, and you let out a sharp hiss of pain under your breath, your eyes flying open to see if the sound has woken him. 

it hasn’t, you don’t think. 

you’re undeterred as you continue to use his fingers like a toy, pushing them deeper and trying to maintain a careful hold on your breath and the sounds that threaten to escape your throat. 

“you could’ve woken me up, you know,” you hear all of a sudden, giving you the scare of your life despite knowing he could’ve woken at any instant. 

“what the hell, Bucky…” you utter, the frightened feeling going straight to your clit and heightening the sensations where his fingers sit inside you. “come on, help me out here.”

“I think you’re doing just fine on your own,” he murmurs, bringing his free arm to press into the mattress and lift his weight up and off of you, allowing his gaze to slip between your bodies and find the sight of where your hands are tucked between your legs. “just keep doing what you were doing.”

you can’t help the humiliation you feel from suddenly being put on display for him to watch, his own little show centering you and your desperation to get off. your cheeks instinctively heat up as your actions have halted, barely able to move under his keen eye. 

“if you wanna get off, kid, then you gotta work for it. come on, let’s go,” he instructs, his eyes finding yours once more. his hand next to your face moves to cup your cheek in his hold, brushing his thumb over your soft skin for a few moments, all the while you stay frozen in place. his voice lowers and he sounds far more firm when he speaks, “now.”

a groan of embarrassment falls from your throat as you look away, only for him to grab your chin between two harsh fingers and force you to look back at him. “you keep your fucking eyes on me, you got that?” 

you can’t stop the way you clench around him when he speaks to you as such. 

“knew you fuckin’ like that,” he murmurs, his eyes darting back and forth between yours. “you like when I tell you what to do, no matter how much you whine and bitch about it. admit it.”

“yes,” you whimper, hoping it will appease him. 

it only spurs him on. 

“yes, what?” 

“yes, Uncle Bucky,” you breathe.

“better,” he replies, eyes darting back down to where you’re holding his prosthetic hand hostage. “you like using me to get off, too?” 

another involuntary whine falls from your lips before you affirm, “yes, Uncle Bucky.” 

“then hurry up before I change my mind.” 

you force yourself to do as he’s instructed, deliberately embarrassing yourself for his entertainment as you finally start rutting your hips up against his hand once more. your moans that follow do nothing but worsen your humiliation, degrading yourself even further as proof of how badly you need him and how much you love being in this position. 

“that’s a good girl,” he coos at you, continuing to hold eye contact. “you like that, don’t you? using me to make yourself feel good?” 

“yes, Uncle Bucky, please–” 

“tell you what, kid. you come for me, like this, right now, and I’ll make it worth your while, yeah? how’s that sound?” 

“please,” you whine again stupidly. “please, I need…”

“please, what?” 

“please, I need to come,” you beg of him. 

“good girl, asking nicely. go ahead, make yourself come. do it for me.” 

it drains every ounce of your energy as your breathing nearly stops, your whole body tingling as you race towards the orgasm you’re more than desperate for. 

“Uncle Bucky, I–” you begin before the words die out in your throat. 

“what is it, kid?”

“I love you,” you breathe out, and then it hits: the beautiful drop, the release of all the pent up energy in your body you’ve been dying for. a pleasure you’ve only ever felt with him, something so unique and perfect. 

it’s beyond heavenly. 

“you know I love you, kid,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your lips as you come down from the high, your breathing ragged as your hands find his shoulders, clinging to him as your body tries to calm itself. “more than you know.”

“now spread your legs and let me reward you for being so good for me.”

~~~

the sun beats down on your skin, every step you take exhausting you further as you trail a few yards behind Bucky. 

“why the hell are we doing this?” you ask him, reaching to adjust the brim of your cap on your head as you take a large step over a tree root protruding from the dirt beneath your feet. “oh, that’s right. because you love to torture me, that’s why.” 

you hear him chuckle from up ahead without bothering to stop walking to give you a break. “hiking is fun. you’re just used to sitting around on that pretty little ass of yours.” 

you have to resist the urge to throw something at him upon hearing that. 

“why the hell is it so hot out? isn’t it supposed to be winter?” you question, the sweat on the back of your neck beginning to stick to your hair. 

“would you quit complaining?” he says, finally stopping and turning to look at you. as you step up closer to him, a small pout forming on your face, you see his demeanor crack as he decides to take pity on you. 

“okay, fine. maybe we aren’t used to winters this warm, I should have thought of that.” he concedes. “let’s just get to the viewpoint at the top and then I’ll carry you all the way back, deal?” 

“you’ll blow your back out doing that, old man,” you tease as you continue walking ahead of him up the hill. “but that’s nice of you to offer.”

“you little shit,” he says with a laugh as you hear his steps begin to pick up behind you. “I am not that old.” 

“you kind of are,” you toss back, turning your head in his direction to flash the smirk on your face. you clock the way he’s smiling even in his exasperation with your antics, and it fills you with a sense of giddiness. 

“hey, kid, look where you’re–” he says quickly, but it’s too late. you’re already halfway to the ground, having tripped over another tree root sticking up from the ground while you were too busy looking at Bucky’s gorgeous face behind you. 

“shit, you okay?” he asks as he steps in front of you and reaches his hands out to you. as you take them, he hauls you to your feet, at which point you look downwards to assess yourself. you’re practically covered in dirt from the waist down, and there’s blood pouring from your knee where you scraped it. 

you can’t help but giggle even as your knee stings. “I’m fine,” you assure him, reaching to brush the dirt from where it coats your shorts, sticks to your legs. 

“let’s get up to the viewpoint and I’ll clean up that knee for you, yeah?” he offers, and you nod your head in agreement. 

he keeps hold of your hand the rest of the walk up the hill, carefully watching every step you take to make sure you don’t take another tumble, almost tripping in the process himself. he tosses jokes left and right, yet never teasing you for the fact that you fell, to your utter surprise. 

only a few minutes later, you find yourself standing in the most perfect spot to look out over the whole city. the buildings that look so ominous when you’re standing next to them on the street now appear so small, the cars driving by looking like ants as you stand so far away.

“you know what, as much as it pains me to say it, you were absolutely right about–” you begin, turning to find where he’s standing, but you quickly pause when all the breath is stolen from your lungs. 

instead of finding him somewhere behind you, he’s next to you, getting down on one knee. 

“what–” you begin with bated breath, overtaken with bewilderment. 

that is, until you see the bottle in his hand, where he begins to pour the water over the cut on your knee. 

“sorry if this stings,” he tells you, completely oblivious to the massive heart attack you just had at the vision of him getting down on one knee in front of you. “but I gotta try and…” he trails off.

“it’s fine,” you mutter, turning to look out at the city again, unable to let yourself fixate your gaze on him in such an assuming position.

after a few more moments, he rises to his feet and leans in to kiss the top of your head. “I’ll finish getting you patched up when we’re back.” 

you hum in acknowledgement, too busy coming down from the sudden spike in adrenaline you’d just experienced. 

you hardly even know how to feel about it.

on one hand, you’re relieved. you know you’d mentioned it to him, but you haven’t even graduated from college yet; you’re way too young and nowhere near ready to make such a huge commitment. you’d always planned that you would have done so much more with your life before you got married, before… before you got to where you’re at in life now, too.

how did the time go by so quickly? where did it go, how have you let yourself just coast by without doing everything you’d always planned to by now? 

it’s for the best that it was just a scare, you think. there’s absolutely no way he’s even thinking of asking such a preposterous question, especially with where he currently stands with your parents. where you currently stand with them, unsure of what the reaction would be if you came home with a ring on your finger. 

with Bucky’s ring on your finger.

fuck, if the idea doesn’t turn you on. part of you is relieved, yes; but the other part of you? the part of you that’s spent years dreaming of him loving you in the same way you love him, dreaming of him as the groom in your imaginary wedding fantasies? the part of you that you’ve always tried to shove down and move on from because it could never be real?

that part of you is so disappointed you might just start crying immediately.

you know he’s completely unaware of what he just did, that he had absolutely no intention of sending you into the spiral you now find yourself in. he’s done absolutely nothing wrong, but you feel like you’ve been stabbed through the heart, and it hurts. you feel like that little girl again, looking at her dad’s best friend and dreaming of stupid, idiotic love stories that would never come true because you’re just an idiot kid, and he’s the closest thing you have to an uncle.

it feels like a slap across the face reminding you that everything you’ve ever wanted is unattainable and laughable. 

you hate yourself for feeling so fucking selfish and self-pitying when nothing happened, when he didn’t do a thing wrong. 

you suppose you can’t control how you feel about it. you’ve never been able to control how you feel about him, otherwise you wouldn’t be in this position right now, feeling like your heart is being ripped out of your chest, tossed to the floor, and stomped on. feeling like your family is falling apart, like you’re about to lose everyone who has ever loved you. feeling like your relationship is always going to be haunted by demons in one way or another. 

if you could control it, maybe you’d be standing here with a nice boy your age that your parents, and your uncle, approve of. someone you’ve never had to worry so much about whether or not you could make a life together, whether or not he loves you the way you love him.

if you could control it, maybe you’d be standing here with that boy with a ring on your finger, your heart overjoyed at the prospect of getting married instead of feeling like your whole life is crumbling. 

your mind stops. 

how dare you think such things when the man you love is here with you, standing next to you on some random hill, having travelled thousands of miles from home all to make you happy? 

what the fuck is wrong with you?

“you know, I thought you’d want to take a bunch of pictures of the view up here,” he says after a few minutes of silence, knocking you out of your haze.

“oh, yeah, just… trying to enjoy the moment,” you reply, still intently staring out at the city below. 

you love Bucky more than anything and you always have. you wouldn’t give up this, give up him, for the world, even if it did mean things were easier for the both of you. being with him is more than worth all the pain and uncertainty. 

you just hope he feels the same once what you now consider to be the future soon becomes the present.

~~~

when you get back to the hotel, he does exactly as he said he would, sitting you down on the countertop in the bathroom and tending to your knee. 

your throat nearly closes up with the memories that come with it. all the times he used to sit you down and clean your knees and elbows you scraped while running around at the park when you were a kid. 

there’s something disgustingly wrong with the both of you, you think. 

“Bucky?” you murmur, your voice coming out as though you hadn’t fully thought through whether you should ask before speaking. 

“what’s up?” he asks casually, unaware of everything going on in your mind at the moment.

you shouldn’t do this. you shouldn’t, you shouldn’t…

“you still have the, um… the stupid bracelet?” you question. it’s truly a bad idea, you know it is, to reminisce on the past. 

except there’s something about the fact that things have felt so much more normal recently, so much more like the friendship you used to have before last summer. it hasn’t felt this normal with him in so long. 

neither of you deserve to feel normal with the grave sin you’re committing simply by being together. 

and yet you crave it, crave the synergy of what you had before in conjunction with the sex and romance the two of you have now. 

you suppose you’re finally getting to have both, yet only now while you’re thousands of miles from home. thousands of miles from reality, from the life you have waiting for you when you return, a life where you don’t know if you’ll be able to have both. 

“sure do,” he says curtly, and you know that he’s picking up on exactly what you’re thinking. “and don’t… don’t call it stupid.” 

the tenderness in his voice is all too apparent to the both of you.

“told you I did, didn’t I?” he continues, clearing his throat and forcing himself to sound more casual as he finishes bandaging your knee and washing his hands in the sink. 

“yeah, just… just wanted to check,” you excuse. 

the tension in the room is thick, like an inescapable humidity in the dead of summer.

neither of you dare say another word on the matter. 

his hands find your hips as he pushes his way in between your legs, spreading them enough for him to stand in front of you and fit his figure against yours just perfectly. your forehead rests itself on his chest and you let out a sigh of contemplation as he holds you against him. 

“made us dinner reservations for tonight,” he tells you, bringing flesh fingers to the back of your neck and gently massaging your skin. “you’re the local here. got any ideas for what to do before then?”

you pull back just enough to look up at him and meet his gaze. “how many days are you in town for?”

“a couple more, at least.” 

“sightseeing can wait, then,” you whisper, bringing both your hands to his hair and dragging his face in close to yours before kissing him. 

it’s an intense feeling as he kisses you slowly, deeply. the both of you so infatuated with one another, clearly both tired of everything and everyone telling you that this is wrong. 

it can’t be wrong. not when you love him, not when he loves you. 

you hope he loves you. 

“I–” you begin as you pull away, but you manage to stop yourself before the words come out.

“what is it?” he questions, voice raspy. 

“I– I want to be on top,” you recover, the first words you think of to backtrack and throw him off the scent that you’re still thinking too deeply. still thinking about what the hell is going to happen in just a few short months to your relationship, to both of your lives. 

he hums in agreement as his lips find yours once more, arms wrapping themselves around you as he lifts you from your seat on the marble and moving the both of you to the massive bed in the other room. 

you both move slowly but with a clear goal in mind, stripping clothes off one another until you’re finally skin to skin once more. 

he doesn’t let you stray away from him as you slowly rock your hips back and forth against his, his hands gently cupping your breasts as his mouth goes back and forth biting and tugging at each of your nipples. your moans continue to softly fall from your throat as you move over him, your mind overwhelmed with the heat of the moment and the heavy thoughts that still weigh on your mind. 

“Bucky,” you whisper, unable to help the concerns that keep bubbling up in your mind. “Bucky?” 

“what’s wrong?” he utters back, his lips finding yours and brushing against each other as you speak again. 

“Bucky, please,” you try, to his concern.

“what’s wrong, kid? you okay?” 

another particularly deep thrust of his hips against yours causes another moan to escape your throat before you finally find your words. 

“do you love me?” you ask. your voice is so low that if you weren’t directly in front of him, the words would fade away into the space between you, likely to be misunderstood and forgotten forever. 

his hands span from your chest to your waist then, gripping you firmly. 

“of course I love you,” he assures you, his own tone of voice gentler than you think you’ve ever heard it before. “you don’t ever need to doubt that. you understand me?” 

you’re helpless to stop the way your eyes begin to heat up, the way tears begin to prick at your eyes. 

“Bucky, please,” you whine, years of your self-hatred and self-denial bubbling up in this moment. you should stop, need to stop speaking before you humiliate yourself further. 

you can’t. 

“please, Bucky. please? I need– I need you to love me, I–”

“fuck,” he utters, scared by the sight of your tears falling down your face, accompanied by the soft sounds of your beautiful whimpers turning into pained cries. you can feel the way he tries to still your hips to stop you, and you immediately begin to protest.

“no, don’t stop, just… just tell me you love me. please,” you whisper. 

he listens like it’s the only thing he knows how to do, the only thing he can do.

“I love you, more than you’ll ever know, baby. I mean that,” he whispers back, your name passing his lips as he repeats, “I love you.” 

since you were a kid, you’ve always relied on him, always needed him in some way or other. you’ve always trusted him with your life and with your secrets, trusted him to keep you safe, because that’s what you needed from him. 

but this? him loving you, showing you this kind of love and attention?

this is all you’ve ever wanted from him. 

you need to know that he loves you with everything in him, because otherwise, you’re going to lose him. if he doesn’t love you like you love him, then there’s nothing worth fighting for, and he’ll let you go in favor of pushing you towards the life he thinks you should live. 

but if he loves you the way you need him to, he won’t let you go for anything. 

that’s the only way your relationship will survive. 

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper, your movements growing more erratic and desperate as you crave your impending release. 

“come on, go ahead. I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I fucking love you, so much.”

as your orgasm crashes over you, your tears falling harder as you cry out his name into the room, you just pray that he means it with his whole heart. 

~~~

your dinner that evening is beautiful. 

the reservations had to have been made weeks ago, you’re sure, one of the higher-end restaurants in the area that you’re sure has earned at least one or two Michelin stars. you sip champagne that’s older than you and order from a prix fixe menu. 

red rose petals adorn the white tablecloth over the table, an assortment of fake candles set as the centerpiece between each of the two place settings. 

the lighting in the corner you’re seated at is dim, each of his facial features looking far sharper and more defined in the favorable lighting. he’s slicked his hair back and wears a black suit you didn’t even know he owned. his arms barely fit in the jacket, the seams struggling against the thick muscle of his biceps. 

you love the typical rugged look he sports, but he looks so fucking hot like this. 

it was a struggle not to jump him once again before leaving the hotel to make your reservation on time. 

who knew that your suburban, laid-back, loves-to-get-his-hands-dirty Bucky would fit in so well at a place like this? 

maybe he has more surprises up his sleeve than you realize. 

“knowing you, I’d have thought our dinner reservations would have been at some place like Olive Garden,” you tease as you sip from your flute of champagne.

“you think you’re real funny, don’t you?” he asks, but dons a smile of his own. “nah, I thought you’d like something like this.” 

“I do,” you affirm. “thank you, Bucky.” 

“you don’t gotta thank me for nothing. just eat your food,” he jokes. 

~~~

you find yourselves inside a Taco Bell an hour later. 

“next time I try to do something fancy like that, I’ll consult with you first,” he laughs as you both eat your combo meals. 

“maybe just consult the menu first,” you suggest. “but I appreciate the gesture.” 

if everyone else is staring at the both of you for being dressed up so fancy, neither of you even realize it. it’s unfortunate that your high-end dinner was a bust, but at least the food at the establishment you’re currently sitting in is far more appetizing. 

“you ever think,” you begin with a mouth full of food, “that you’d let me peg you?” 

“what, you think I haven’t tried it before?” he replies, completely unfazed by your question. 

you’re completely taken aback, the element of surprise you’d hoped to spring on him being turned back on you. 

“seriously?” you ask him, the word coming out high and squeaky, but you’re too focused on his answer to care. 

“fucking Christ, of course I’m not serious,” he tells you. “I thought you’d know when I’m messing with you by now, kid.”

oh. of course. 

“jerk,” you fire back. “but, seriously. would you?”

“not if you paid me a million dollars,” he replies. “nice try, though.” 

you continue staring him down, observing his expression as you chew, looking for any signs that might indicate he’s fibbing, maybe any nervousness surrounding the suggestion 

nothing. he’s still unfazed.

you smirk to yourself. you know better, though. he’d do anything you asked him to, simply because it’s you. 

“so, when are you actually leaving?” you inquire next. 

“Tuesday. are you that desperate to get rid of me already, hmm?” 

“no, just planning ahead. we have actual sightseeing to do, you know, sights other than the walls of your hotel room,” you inform him. 

“good point. we can do it in front of the mirrors and the windows,” he retorts. 

you kick his shin under the table. 

“what the hell are you kicking me for?” he asks, unable to contain his laughter. “are you saying you don’t want me to fuck you?” 

“would you keep your voice down?” you hiss before looking around to make sure no one overheard his vile words. 

“of course you can show me around this fine city of yours,” he says, genuinely looking into your eyes. “I have to see what all the hype is about. figure out why you keep coming back.” 

“it’s cool,” is all you can think of to say. “I want you to like it here. I do.”

“well, maybe if we lived out in the valley, you know. coming in to the city on weekends for whatever fun plans you dream up,” he suggests, ever so casually. 

and you freeze. 

moving here? no, you’d given up on your dream to stay here after graduation when you and Bucky started sleeping together early last summer. 

choosing to attend university here had only been a desperate attempt to get away from him, to create a life of your own where your feelings for him wouldn’t rule your life anymore. you hadn’t planned on loving the city as much as you do. 

but you’d completely eliminated the possibility of moving here permanently when Bucky suddenly started showing interest in you, even when it was nothing more than shameless sex. no way in hell were you going to give that up once it had been offered to you, once it became something you actually got to have. 

getting into a relationship only solidified the fact that you wouldn’t stay here any longer than you had to. 

so why is he talking like it’s something he’s actively thought about?

now isn’t the time to delve into it, you think. that’s a conversation better left for another day. 

“so, in front of the windows, you think?” 

~~~

the thought stays with you that night as he touches you, as he holds you afterwards. it stays with you over the course of the next few days as you ignore all your responsibilities in favor of spending every waking moment you have with him before he leaves. 

part of you thinks it’s a bad idea. you’d only be stirring the pot with your parents when they find out Bucky is moving here, that you’re moving in together. 

you’ll be in the same situation if you move back home and move in with him, anyways. 

there’s truly no right answer here, you don’t think. that’s simply the curse of your relationship; it’ll never be perfect, never quite work out as easily as it would for any other normal couple. 

maybe, if he did move here, it would at least be easier than the alternative. you’d get to have a fresh start, in a way. you’ll have a better chance at finding a job, and it’s a huge city. there’s no way Bucky couldn’t find one, too.

when it first came up the other night, it seemed like a fever dream. but the more you think about it, turn it over and over in your head, it seems more feasible. it seems more doable, more realistic. 

you see the look in his eyes, the way he seems beside himself with joy the entirety of his trip, away from all the strings and weights holding him down back home. how he feels so much more carefree, as though his own doubts and concerns about your situation have dulled, that they don’t have as much of a hold on your relationship here. 

maybe it’s possible. maybe there is a future for you where you can have everything you want, where you can have your cake and eat it, too. 

the future suddenly seems so much more hopeful. 

~~~

as it always does, the day comes when it’s time for you to part once again. 

“thank you for everything, Bucky,” you whisper into his ear as you hug him one last time. “really, this… this meant the world to me. it does mean the world to me, I mean. that you came all this way just for me.”

“kid, you know I’d move heaven and earth for you,” he says, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “you hear me?”

you nod, his hands both pressed against the sides of your head as he stares into your gaze to make sure you’re getting the message. 

“good. I love you, yeah?” 

you nod again, trying to stop the tears from falling. 

“I love you, too,” you reply. “I’m going to miss you.” 

“don’t you worry. I’ll be here for your graduation real soon. the time will fly by, yeah?” 

yet again, you nod. 

“good girl,” he whispers before pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “love you.”

“love you too,” you mutter as he steps back, watching as he opens the door to the taxicab waiting for him. 

“call me when you get to the gate,” you tell him just before the door shuts. 

you give him one last wave as the car begins moving, the car driving off into the distance and taking him away from you once again. 

a deep breath in, and out. another. 

you’re going to be okay, you tell yourself. the world isn’t ending; there’s hope for you yet. 

because Bucky loves you, and you believe him. 

that’s what will get you through the next few months and the rain of hellfire that’s likely to follow. 

✦ masterlist ~ next part ✦

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from the position he’s put you in, you can feel every inch of him as he fucks into you, your knees underneath you struggling to refrain from buckling and giving out on you the way your hands did the moment he first pressed inside. 

every part of your body hurts, and you know for fact that you’re going to be sore for days. 

you don’t particularly care.

“stop fucking holding back already,” you bite, not a part of you daring to hide your own anger as you snap at him. it’s not enough, it’s not enough.

“stop fucking mouthing off, brat,” he hisses in response before tightening his grip on the back of your neck and pressing the side of your face deeper into the pillow. 

despite his discordant response, he does seem to listen to you as you feel his weight shifting behind you, harnessing all his pent-up energy and giving it to you the way you’ve asked. 

“gotta fuckin’ fix that attitude of yours, kid,” he mumbles as he doubles down on his movements, the words he’s spoken almost eluding your ears as the sensations of how he touches you makes your thoughts fade away.

the ache in your back worsens, and your knees threaten to give out on you once more. you can hardly even breathe, but it’s beyond worth it as the drag of his cock inside you burns in only the best way as you begin to go lightheaded on him. 

you can barely withhold the yelps and screams that continue to develop in your chest, and it’s all you can do to hold your breath and bite down on your bottom lip to keep your debauched noises from reaching either of your ears. 

“don’t do that,” he instructs, an order you dare to ignore in favor of focusing on your orgasm as it slowly rises within you. you don’t have the energy or the attention to spare for him as you race towards release. 

you practically choke when his hand spans around to the front of your throat, a performative measure as he wraps his other hand around your torso and yanks you back tightly against him, leaning back on his haunches and pulling you back with him. you lose your balance in less than a second, but his arms around you keep you from falling. 

“I told you to stop being a fucking brat,” he mutters into your ear from behind, both his hands on your skin pressing down harder. 

the restricted circulation to your brain makes you go fuzzy, your eyes rolling back in your head in bliss as reality grows more and more distant. 

yet you would never dare try to escape the feeling of him so deep against your cervix, his heavy metal hand sharp up against your lower abdomen, forcing you to feel him where he’s sheathed inside you where pleasure borders on pain. 

“what are you s’posed to do when I tell you to do something?” he says as though it’s a threat. as though you’re not here of your own volition, as though you don’t already blindly listen to every word he says. 

you instead choose to bite your tongue, further goading him on, provoking him into doing something to actually make it hurt.

“don’t wanna respond? fine,” he murmurs to himself. 

his metal fingers trail up the flesh of your torso, tickling at your skin like feathers as he carefully brings his hand to your mouth. that softness is soon replaced as he harshly digs his forefinger and thumb into the sides of your jaw, forcing your mouth to open just wide enough for him to all but gag you on three thick fingers. 

“you come after me,” is all he says as you choke, drooling all over yourself as a result of his torments. 

and for a moment, your brain finally stops, and all you can feel is him. 

~~~

you must nearly black out for a moment, because the next thing you’re consciously aware of, you’re whining and shaking as your body comes down from the most incredibly fierce orgasm you’ve had in weeks. 

his chest rises and falls as he heaves, still pressed up against you, although his hands fall to your waist in a gentle hold as he guides the both of you to lay down on the sheets beneath you. 

not a word is spoken between the two of you as each of you struggle to come back to yourselves, neither of you sure what to say. 

you haven’t had sex, or even seen him since before…

when you eventually regain your strength enough to sit up, you slowly turn to face him where his face is now the one pushed into the pillow, both his eyes dully shut. 

“look at me,” you instruct with as much force as you can manage. “come on, Bucky.” 

a rough grunt, followed by him turning his face fully inwards against the pillow until you can’t see an inch of his face. 

god fucking damnit, the words play out in your head, gritting your teeth and forcing yourself not to yell at him in your anger. 

because it’s the only emotion you’ve felt for weeks: pissed. frustrated. pure, unadulterated anger being the only feeling at the forefront of your mind. 

you know he’s pissed, too. doesn’t mean he can ignore you like this. 

a deep breath in, and out. 

you extend your hands out in his direction, bringing one to delicately massage at the back of his scalp for a few long seconds. 

your other hand swiftly yanks the pillow out from underneath his face, taking him by complete shock and forcing him to do as you say when you quickly reach for his chin and turn his head towards you so he has no choice but to actually look at you. 

and there it is, what he didn’t want you to see: the remnants of the bruising on the other side of his face, the evidence of your deceptions etched into his skin still unhealed even after weeks have passed. 

you know he’ll lie about it if asked. you know this bruise is far more recent, proof that there was another altercation. another conversation between your father and his best friend, a meeting that nobody will tell you about. 

you know they’re both just trying to protect you. 

but what if you don’t need their protection anymore? 

“seriously?” he quips when you grab his face, but you know he’s not just mad. you know that underneath his facade, he’s insecure. scared. and, yes, far beyond angry, just as you are. 

but where you’re angry with your parents, he’s angry with himself, for reasons you’re already fully aware of. 

he hates himself for ever getting involved with you. 

but at what point does that bleed over into him hating you? 

he lets you analyze what’s left of the bruise, the shiner he’s been trying to hide from you, to protect you from. 

whether it’s a measure to protect you from him or to protect you from hating your father for it, you’re not sure. 

you notice the cut underneath his eyebrow, the way his eye itself is still red from the brunt of the impact. the way he softly winces when you try to trace a finger so delicately over the edges of the bruise. the way he avoids meeting your eyeline, the look on his face one of pure shame. 

“alright, enough of that, kid,” he murmurs after a few more moments, gently turning his head away from you and staring down at the bed underneath him, now forced to hold himself up on his forearms after your sudden seizure of his pillow. he speaks again with an forced clearing of his throat, “so, you leaving now or what?”

“oh, so you want me gone, now?” you can’t help but retort in your own hurricane of emotions. 

of course he wants you gone. how can he even look at you? you’re the reason he’s in this position, the reason any of this happened. 

it’s all your fault, and it always has been from the start.

“that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he immediately replies with fervor, snapping his head in your direction as he clarifies his inquiry. “I just didn’t know, what with your folks and all…”

your eyes automatically roll unconsciously at the sound of that. “ugh, you really think I want to go home to that right now?” you ask of him as you finally lay back down and stare up at the blank ceiling.

“kid, you know they got a right to be pissed. more than you or me. hell, even if your dad had killed me, I wouldn’t blame him–”

“enough!” you force out, unable to even consider that as an option right now. your next words come out softer, your anger fading into vulnerability. “don’t… don’t talk like that, Uncle Bucky, please.” 

he lets out a long sigh and nods to himself in silent understanding despite the fact you’re not looking at him. the next words he intends to say are a mystery even to his own tongue, completely unsure of how he’s supposed to respond. how he’s supposed to move forward. 

how do either of you move forward? 

“it’s going to be okay,” he eventually whispers, eyes darting to your side profile as you continue to gaze at the white paint on the ceiling above you. 

you want to believe it. 

you wish you could. 

~~~

everything that happened that day was chaos. 

the yelling and screaming still rings out in your ears when you’re alone. the vision of your father repeatedly punching Bucky right across the face still looms over your head, like it’s your shadow behind you that follows wherever you go, unable to escape it even in darkness. 

your own cries that day had been in vain, a mere side effect of the situation at hand that no one dared bat an eye at. your feelings, invalid. disregarded. unwanted.

but more than that, how you feel is stupid and pointless, no matter the fact that it’s your own sentiments that led you to this point in the first place. 

it’s stupid, and it’s pointless, because how could they ever see it the way you do? how could anyone ever understand that you love him, that it’s not–

you’re not completely stupid. you know how bad this is, how bad it looks on Bucky’s part in particular. which is why the second he was gone, out of your house and most likely to never return, the yelling stopped. 

then the heated interrogations began, inquiries to which you refused to answer.

“how long has this been going on?” 

“how many times have you lied about where you were going?” 

“did he force you into this?” 

in that moment, you couldn’t breathe. there was no room for you to process the conversation that you and Bucky had earlier that afternoon, no room for you to recover from the last week of absolute torment you’ve been suffering without him. 

there wasn’t an inch of room for you to process the fact that your worst nightmare was finally coming true, Bucky’s attempts at reassuring you not having had the time to settle into your mind before the worst outcome imaginable finally happened. 

you were both emotional that afternoon, acting illogically and irresponsibly in such a manner that caused you both to completely forget about where you were. completely forgetting about the fact that this fate was even a possibility. 

how could you be so deluded? how could you let yourself go like this?

but you know the truth. you’ve both been acting illogically and irresponsibly since the first day you got together, since the moment your tryst began. 

and in the mix of your tears and despair coupled with the vehement questioning by your parents, the yelling began once again. this time, your own voice was the one cracking through the air as you tried to excuse your actions, tried to explain it, anything to try and get them to understand. 

you can’t even remember what was said. the adrenaline in your veins coursing too quickly for your conscious mind to keep up with whatever thoughts you were voicing.

all you know is how you cried yourself to sleep that night. how Bucky didn’t text or call you for days afterwards. 

how your departure from home to the life of the alias you embody at university was sullied by the reveal of your deceits, how detached you’d already felt from yourself and your family the moment you left it all behind.

how even your holiday season so many weeks later was muddled by the fact that you’d done something so terrible that it should have ripped your entire life to shreds. 

that’s what you had expected would happen when the secret finally came to light: that you’d be the villain in this situation, the perpetrator of the terrible, nasty situation that you’ve managed to get yourself into. 

but they won’t believe you. 

the entirety of your time at home following your return for the holiday season, there was not a word of the event that you know was on the forefront of both your mother and your father’s minds the same as it was yours. you skirted around the topic as your family did whatever they possibly could to ignore it, to pretend like everything was normal, to pretend as though your lives had not been completely turned upside down since the day your father found his best friend naked in his daughter’s bed. 

you knew it was always going to happen, but it was quite cruel of the universe to put that image in anyone’s heads. 

but the pretending and the ignorance began to eat away at you like sandpaper abrading your skin. slowly, painfully, torturously. 

and everything you’d tried to shove down for the sake of keeping the peace finally erupted.

you’d sat on the couch with a book, hoping and praying for the distraction to take over and to be able to escape your own reality. trying to pretend like everything was normal, like you weren’t more distraught thinking about the reality of your relationship, of your future. 

yet somehow, sitting in the silence and trying to disillusion yourself only made it worse.

“it’s all my fault,” your voice spoke without any warning, tears immediately beginning to well up in your eyes as the emotions consumed you. “it was all because of me, I swear–” 

“enough,” your father interrupted as you spoke. “unless you plan to tell us the truth, this conversation isn’t happening.” 

“I am telling the truth,” you insisted as your voice cracked. “I’m sorry I lied to you, I am. none of this was ever supposed to happen–” 

and once again, you were suddenly cut off. 

“no. it shouldn’t have,” he affirms. “Bucky never should have put you in this position. we should have known better, paid more attention to the fact that he was capable of doing this.”

your jaw fell as did your tears, the reminder that their image of Bucky was forever ruined because of your actions, because of something you had done. 

“it wasn’t his fault,” you try again, “I am trying to tell you–” 

“–stop lying to try and protect him–”

“–that I love him!”

a terrible choice of words, you realized, the instant after you said it. the room going quiet once more, the appalled look painted on each of their faces telling you that you said the wrong thing. 

your name spoken into the dull air, and the lecturing began. 

telling you that you’re wrong. telling you that you’re the victim. telling you that you should never have lied, and that you’re never to see him ever again. 

you’re an adult. why does everyone keep telling you that you’re crazy, that you don’t know what you want, that you’re just a kid?

as you should have expected, the yelling began once more, your mind no longer grasping the concept of what it means to know peace and quiet. 

it doesn’t matter what you say, or what you do. 

their minds are made up. 

and you’re still more concerned about Bucky.

Bucky, who sounds so sad every time you call him. Bucky, who you haven’t seen in weeks since the incident. 

Bucky, who you’re sure is beating himself up on the inside. 

and after the discussion that evening, this evening, your anger didn’t leave you. your anger about everyone in your life making decisions for you, trying to tell you what’s best for you. 

your anger about the fact that Bucky is getting the short end of the stick when you know you’re the one who deserves it.

your anger didn’t leave you when you walked away from the yelling that evening, doesn't leave you as you try to fall asleep late into the night. it only seems to keep growing as you continue going over the situation in your head, replaying the scene as you inevitably find yourself stomping out the front door in the middle of the night when no one can stop you. 

what’s worse is that you know that he’s in full agreement with your parents that this is his fault entirely. that he’s the one poisoning you, that he’s not good enough for you. 

and he’s exactly like them in the manner that he won’t fucking listen to you when you tell him that he’s wrong. 

why would anyone listen to you, the helpless little girl who doesn’t know what she wants? barely an adult, not even graduated from college yet. what the hell do you know about life and love?

you never claimed to be an expert.

but despite your periods of denial, you’ve never once doubted how you feel about Bucky Barnes. 

you fist pounds against his front door when you get there, screaming and yelling in your emotional state for him to open up and let you in. 

“what the fuck, kid? it’s three in the morning,” he groans when he opens the door, rubbing his face with both hands as you push your way inside. 

“I need you,” you mutter, forcing yourself past the entryway and grabbing the hem of his shirt. “I don’t– I can’t think, I just need you to–”

“hey, come on. now isn’t the time, okay? you’re clearly sleep deprived, and emotional–”

“oh, I’m emotional, now am I?” you snap at him. “you think I’m not capable of making my own fucking decisions just because I’m emotional? you think I’m insane to want to fuck you, just because I’m emotional?”

his own anger begins to grow in tandem with yours as you speak. “haven’t we been over this already? about busting my door down and picking a fight with me? I love you, but you’re–”

“no. no buts. you don’t get to pick and choose when you want to be with me!” you yell back, ignoring every word he says that you know you’d be listening to if you were in a calmer state of mind. “I know what I want, and it’s you. now. I need to just…”

as your words trail off, and your gaze directs itself upwards, your mind focuses just enough to notice the way he’s standing. facing away from you, not looking you in the eye. 

“what are you doing?” you mumble. “why aren’t you looking at me?”

“I’m… I’m looking at you,” he tries to cover, meeting your line of sight while still hiding from you. what he’s hiding, you’re not sure. 

“you don’t understand,” he murmurs, pacing back as you try to step closer and try to reach for him to force him to look at you. “it’s not… this isn’t–” 

“I don’t understand? what the hell don’t I understand?” you cry. 

his lack of a response tells you everything you need to know. that he’s trying to hide from you the reminder of the fallout of when you both got caught. that he’s still trying to shield you from the real world, the real consequences of which you’re already facing, a fact that no one seems to accept or understand but you. 

and then you start in on him.

“no, Bucky. you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” you assert, this time devoid of any emotion whatsoever. “I understand. you think my parents haven’t been down my throat trying to tell me that I’m just an idiot kid, that I didn’t know what I was doing? of course I know. of course I make my own decisions willingly, whether I show up here angry, or emotional. I am an adult, goddamnit. you never would have touched me if you believed that I wasn’t capable of making my own decisions or facing the consequences of them. and now, you’re pushing me away–”

“–I am not–” he tries, but you refuse to let him get a word in.

“of course you are! you won’t even look at me!” you yell. 

and with the sound of that, something in him changes. 

he turns towards you and stalks closer without hesitation, and you’re barely able to keep up with him as he grabs you by the waist and tosses you over his shoulder. you almost caught a glimpse of the bruise on his eye. 

“I put up with enough of your shit, you know that? fine. I’ll give you what you’re practically begging for,” he says. 

“fucking finally,” you whisper to yourself, grabbing onto the back of his shirt as best you can to hold on and avoid falling. 

he picks up on your words and chuckles lowly to himself. 

“I’ll make you regret that.”

~~~

which is how you ended up here, tricking him into letting you see the bruise on his eye, clearly from a more recent fight that he’ll never tell you about. 

“it’s going to be okay,” he says.

you don’t know if you can believe him. 

you don’t know how to believe those words, because right now, it feels like your entire world is ending. 

being around your parents feels like walking on eggshells. trying to see a future with Bucky is as though you’re looking into a black hole, expecting to see a light on the other side. 

and on top of all of it, you have to leave again. 

how could it get any worse than this? 

“yeah, you’re right,” you agree. “it’s going to be okay.” 

if he can sense your disbelief in saying those words, he doesn’t show it. 

who knows what will happen.

all you can do is pray the fallout doesn't get worse than this.

✦ masterlist ~ next part ✦

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gen tag list

You’re waiting in your father’s office when you get a glimpse of Nick breezing past through the door left ajar. Your father had left you to do a quick mission brief with a few of his employees, but it’s clearly running long since you’ve been left to your own devices for more than his stated time.

“Nick!”

Nick’s footsteps halt, body turning to zero in on you. You give him a sheepish wave, heat flooding your cheeks at the sight of him. 

His face is bruised and battered, dried blood still clinging to the gashes on his cheek. His shirt is rumpled, sleeves rolled up haphazardly where you can see the scars along his forearm. His blue eyes are sharp on you. 

Then he moves. Fast.

One second you’re out in the hall and the next you’re on your father’s desk, the door locked behind you as Nick covers your mouth with his. You taste the iron and mint on his tongue. He completely devours you, licking into your mouth as his hands explore your body with a moan.

“Fuck, missed you, sweet girl.”

Your pussy clenches around his words as he coaxes a whimper from your throat, as his lips drag along the column of your neck. He bites down on your flesh, hard enough to bruise, as his deft fingers begin to unbutton your blouse, revealing more of your smooth skin to him. 

“Nick, stop, let me help you first.”

He chuckles, patronizingly amused as he regards you with that keen gaze. “You know how you can help me? If you spread those pretty legs of yours for me.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. It should prompt you to slap him across the face, tell him to never disrespect you like that ever again. However, you’re a glutton for punishment and Nick seems to enjoy delivering it. 

Your legs fall apart on instinct, an obedient response to his command. Trained. Your father taught you to be good, to listen to those older than you — and he respects Nick like a brother.

Naturally, you do too.

“Nick, please, you’re hurt—”

“I mean it, sweetheart,” he pulls back and his gaze is neither kind nor understanding. It’s stern, scolding you like a child. “This is all you’re going to get from me. I don’t want your help, don’t want your pity.”

“But you’re—”

“What I need is your pussy wrapped around my cock,” he mutters, diving back in to lave at the dip in the base of your neck. His calloused hands pull your tits free, groping them with the kind of hunger you’ve only seen when he’s just returned from a particularly tough assignment. “I want these tits on my cock but let’s save that for another day. I just need that wet cunt on me now.”

You don’t have room to argue, not when Nick bunches your skirt up to your waist, his fingers finding your core. He rubs at your damp panties first, your soul singing to the high heavens with how well he knows your body. The exact places, the exact pace. 

“Pretty little cunt you’ve got, you keep her warm for me?” He smiles, baring his teeth. 

Swallowing, you can only nod.

“You let other boys touch you?”

“N-no,” you shake your head. Not a chance. Once you’ve had a taste of your father’s best friend, you can’t imagine anyone else. Your body is attuned to his touch, responding only to the grazing of his fingertips along your skin. No other boy — or man — have been able to make you feel the same. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs softly, gently pressing his lips against yours. 

Your chest flutters with the kind of affection that you know will never be reciprocated. Regardless of how sweet he can be with you, Nick will never love you. Not in the way he loves his ambition. 

He doesn’t even bother removing your panties. Instead, his fingers pry your legs open further for him to slot in between them as he unzips his pants to free his cock. He tugs the gusset of your panties to the side, exposing your slick folds to him. Your cunt pulses with need at the sight of him, hungry to be filled. 

“Your dad really doesn’t know what a whore his daughter is, spreading your legs for me any chance you get,” he chuckles low to himself. He’s got a hand wrapped around his cock and he maneuvers it to your entrance, tip sliding along your wet lips and nudging your clit. “He might be my boss but I’m feeding his pretty little girl my cock, this greedy pussy just wants older cock, doesn’t she?”

A moan drags out of your chest at his words as your hands clamp down on his shoulders. Nick grabs you by the ass and pulls you further forward as he pushes himself inside of you in one swift thrust. You’re immediately engulfing him, pussy shaping around his cock like it’s made for him. There’s a burn that feels familiar but still wholly intoxicating. 

He doesn’t waste a beat, fucking you hard and fast. He’s rough on you, fingers digging into your hips and the swell of your ass in a way that you know you’ll feel the ghost of his grasp for days. His mouth pants hot breaths against your lips, your neck, as he continues grunting what a sweet little cunt you have and how you’re such an obedient slut. 

Your chest aches with the throbbing between your legs, the stretch of your pussy around his cock, but it also stings from the knowledge that this is all you’ll ever get. You’ll always only be a tool for him, a plaything, some sort of reparation for being your father’s underling. 

“You’ve got such a perfect cunt, sweet girl. Dripping all over my cock, soaking me. Look at you squirting all over your dad’s desk. Gotta cum fast, gotta clean up before he gets back. You don’t want him seeing you like this, do you? Cunt spread around a man twice your age.”

“N-Nick, please,” you whine. You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Some form of mercy on your physical and emotional self? Unlikely. 

Every thrust is a promise that this is the last time.

Every thrust is a promise that he will continue to break it. 

Every thrust is a promise that this will be nothing more than this. 

And you just take it because you’ll take anything you can get from him. 

When he finally reaches his climax, body tensing and shuddering as he groans into your neck, cum pouring warmth into your insides, you don’t say a word. The taste of your tears is familiar company on your tongue. 

He thinks it’s from the intensity of your orgasm.

You know it’s tears mourning a love you’ll never have. 

When all is said and done, Nick tucks himself back in, presses a kiss to your forehead, and leaves you in the mess of papers with cum leaking down your legs — and you’re alone again. 

Because Nick Fowler doesn’t love. At least not with you.

request: now, i must admit im a fin of your darker fics, so i want my meal to have as a main ingredient a very dirty Nick Fowler with a Dad's Best Friend side if possible 🤸‍♀️🙂‍↔️ If we could add as a seasoning a lot of smut, and plenty of angst, would be great! 

nick is betraying (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @erina00 @idkbeautiful @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @fruitypebsworld @awkwardgiraffe726 @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @nbhrhn @wickedfun9 @w1nchesterfiles @67-angelofthelordme-67

Bucky's alone in his department, laptop open on the bed, his door locked even though no one's coming over. It's become a routine—every few nights, sometimes more, he finds himself here… waiting.

The notification pops up: StarryKitten is live.

He clicks immediately.

The stream loads, and there she is. No face, she never shows her face—just that perfect body in black lace, the camera angled to show everything from her neck down. She's on her knees on the bed, and even through the screen he can see how her skin would feel under his hands.

"Hi everyone," she says, and her voice—fuck, her voice is what hooked him in the first place. Soft and breathy and just a little teasing. "Missed me?"

The chat explodes. He watches the usernames scroll by, all desperate and pathetic, and then he types his own message.

oldsoul17: Always.

She laughs, and he swears, he can hear the smile in it. "Well, aren't you sweet."

He's been watching for months now. He found her by accident—late night, couldn't sleep, scrolling through sites he probably shouldn't be on. And then there she was. Something about her pulled him in and wouldn't let go. The way she moved, the sounds she made, the little freckle on her left hip that the camera caught sometimes when she shifted positions.

He's spent more money than he cares to admit. Tips, private requests, custom videos. He's become one of her regulars, and she knows it—she calls him out by the username he uses, thanks him specifically.

"I see you there, old soul," she says now, shifting onto her back. "That mean it's going to be a good night."

His hand is already on his belt.

She touches herself slowly, teasingly, and he follows every movement. He's memorized her body at this point—the curve of her waist, the way her hips roll, the little sounds she makes when she's getting close. He knows what she likes, what makes her gasp.

When she comes, he's right there with her, and afterward he sits there in the dark, heart pounding, feeling like a fucking creep.

He doesn't know who she is. Doesn't know her real name, her face, anything beyond what she shows on camera.

It's safer that way.

The July heat is brutal, but your dad's summer house has a pool, and you're taking full advantage. You're stretched out on a lounger in your new bikini—white, high-cut, the kind that shows off your legs and draws the eye.

Bucky's here this weekend. Your dad invited him up, something about work and fishing. You've known him for years—he's been your dad's friend and business associate since you were sixteen—but lately, something's shifted.

The way he looks at you has changed.

You've noticed it over the past few months. The lingering glances, the way his eyes track you when you walk into a room. The way he stands just a little too close, lets his hand rest on your lower back a second too long when he passes behind you.

You've started testing it, wearing shorter dresses, leaning over in front of him to grab something, brushing against him in hallways… just to see.

He always reacts. A sharp inhale, a tightening of his jaw; but he never acts on it.

You're starting to wonder what it would take.

"You want something to drink?" your friend calls from the pool.

"I'm good!" you call back, adjusting your position on the longer. You tug at the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling them a little higher, and that's when you feel it.

Someone's staring.

You glance toward the patio, Bucky's standing there, frozen, beer in hand. But he's not looking at your face, his eyes are locked on your hip, on the small exposed stretch of skin where your freckle is visible. His face goes completely still. You watch his throat works as he swallows, his knuckles white around the bottle. His eyes are dark, intense, and when they finally drag up to meet yours, there's something in them that makes your stomach flip.

He looks almost… stricken.

Then he turns abruptly and walks back inside.

You sit there with your pulse racing, wondering what the hell just happened.

The afternoon drags on. Your friends eventually leave, pilling into cars with promises to meet up next week. Your parents head out for their dinner reservation, and Bucky claims he's not feeling well, that he'll just stay back and relax.

"Make yourself at home"your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder.

The door closes. The house goes quiet.

You're in the kitchen, still in your bikini with denim shorts pulled over it, bare feet on the cool tile. You're pouring yourself water when you sense him behind you.

You turn, leaning back against the counter. "Hey. Feeling better?"

Bucky's standing in the doorway, and the way he's looking at you it's different from before.

"Yeah," he says, but his voice sounds restrained.

You take a sip of water, watching him over the rim of the glass. "You sure? You left pretty quick earlier."

"Just needed to cool off."

"It is hot," you agree, setting the glass down. You stretch, arching your back slightly, and you don't miss the way his eyes track the movement. "I might go for another swim later."

"You should put more clothes on."

The words come out harder than he probably meant. You tilt your head, playing innocent. "Why?"

"Because—" He stops. "Because your parents will be back soon."

"Not for hours." You push off the counter, taking a few steps toward him. "It's just us."

You watch him fight it. Watch the tension coil in his shoulders, the way his hands curl into fists. You're close enough now to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breathing change.

"You should go upstairs," he says quietly.

"What if I don't want to?"

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then you do something reckless—you reach up and adjust your bikini top, fingers grazing the tie at your neck, and his eyes follow the movement like he's starving.

"Shit," he mutters under his breath, turning away. "I—I'll be right back."

He disappears down the hall, and you hear a door close. The bathroom.

You bite your lip, because you know exactly what he's doing in there.

Bucky braces his hands on the sink, his head bowed, trying to breathe.

This was insane.

He knows that freckle. He's seen it dozens of times, hundreds, in videos and live streams and photos. Right there, just under the waistband of your left hip.

StarryKitten. You're the girl he's been watching for months, the one he's jerked off to more times than he can count, the one he's tipped thousands of dollars… you've been right here the whole time.

And you had no fucking idea he knows.

He's watched you parade around in those little outfits, leaning over in front of him, brushing up against him. You think you're just teasing your dad's friend. You don't know he's seen everything.

His cock is painfully hard against his jeans. He palms himself through the denim, groaning quietly. He shouldn't. He should get the fuck out of this house, drive back to the city, block your account and never think about this again.

But then he remembers the way you looked at him just now. The way you've stretched, arched your back, adjusted your bikini.

You want him.

Maybe not the way he wants you—you don't know about the months of watching, the obsession, the desperate need—but you want him.

He unbuckles his belt with shaking hands,.

Just once, just to take the edge off. Then he'll get his shit together.

He wraps his hand around himself and the relief is immediate. He braces against the sink with his other hand, eyes closed, and all he can see is you. In that white bikini, in those videos on your knees, on your back, touching yourself while saying his username.

"Fuck," he breathes.

It doesn't take long. He comes hard, biting back a groan, and in the aftermath he just stands there, forehead against the mirror, trying to catch his breath.

This can't happen.

But he knows deep down it's going to.

When Bucky comes back, his hair is damp like he splashed water on his face, and his eyes are darker than before.

"Better?" you ask innocently.

"No."

The honesty in his voice makes you shiver. You're standing in the living room now, the evening light slanting through the windows. The house feels huge and empty, but also full of possibilities.

"Your parents will be back soon," he says again, but it sounds less convincing this time.

"Two hours at least," you take a step closer. "Maybe three."

"You should—" He stops, exhaling roughly. "You don't know what you're doing."

"Don't I?"

You close the distance between you, and you can see him fighting not to back up, not to run. You're close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him, to see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"I see the way you look at me," you say softly. "I've seen it for months now."

His hands curl into fists. "You're my best friend's daughter."

"I'm also an adult."

"You have a boyfriend."

"Do you care?"

The question hangs between you. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the war happening behind them.

"I should," he says finally. "But no, I don't."

Your heart is pounding. "Then why are you holding back?"

"Because I'm trying to be the responsible one between us."

You reach up and untie your bikini top. It falls away, and his eyes drop immediately, his breathing going ragged.

"There's no need to be responsible here," you whisper.

And that's all it takes. His hands are on you in a second, pulling you against him, and his mouth crashes down on yours. It's not gentle—it's months of build up tension breaking all at once, desperate and overwhelming. You kiss him back just as frantically, fingers tangling in his hair.

"We should go upstairs," you murmur against his lips.

He takes you to your room, and the second the door closes,he's on you again. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your hips, sliding up your ribcage to cup your breasts. You're pulling at his shirt, desperate, and when it finally comes off you run your hands over his chest, his shoulders.

"I've wanted this for so long," he mutters, backing you toward the bed. "You have no fucking idea."

"Tell me," you breathe.

"Every time you walk into a room, every time you lean over in those little dresses, every time you brush against me—" He groans, his hand sliding into your hair. "I've thought about bending you over and making you mine."

"Do it."

He pushes you back onto the bed, and you land with a gasp. He's over you in a second, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth on your neck.

"Do you know how perfect you are?" He murmurs against your skin. "How fucking gorgeous?"

His hands slide down to your shorts, and he makes quick work of the button and zipper. You lift your hips and he drags them off along with your bikini bottoms, and then you're completely bare beneath him.

"Christ," he breathes, his eyes raking over you. His hand slides up your inner thigh, and when his fingers finally touch you, he groans. "You're soaked."

"For you."

"Yeah?" He pushes one finger inside, and you arch into the touch. "All for me? Not for that little boyfriend of yours, huh?"

"Yes—fuck—Bucky—"

"That's it baby, say my name." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and you're already trembling. "Does that little punk makes you feel this good?"

You just can shake your head while he works you with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit, and you're already gasping and writhing beneath him. But before you can get too close, he pulls away.

"Not yet," he says, and there's something wicked in his smile. "I want to taste you first."

He moves down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip—right over that freckle that started all of this. Then he's settling between your thighs and the first touch of his tongue makes you cry out.

He eats you out like a man starving, his hands grip your hips, holding you in place as his tongue works over you, and the sounds he's making—low groans of appreciation, like you're the best thing he's ever tasted—are almost as overwhelming as the sensation itself.

"Bucky—oh my god—"

"That's it," he murmurs against you. "Let me hear you, gorgeous. Let me hear how good I make you feel."

You're already so close, the tension coiling tight in your belly, but then he pulls back. Before you can protest, he's moving up the bed, lying on his back.

"Come here," he says. "I want you to ride my face."

"But I can suffocate you!"

"Get up here, sweetheart, it wasn't a question."

The command in his voice makes you move without thinking. You straddle his chest, thighs shaking, and he grips your hips and pulls you forward until you're positioned right over his mouth.

"Perfect," he breathes, and then he's pulling you down.

The sensation is overwhelming. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and fucking into you, and his hands on your hips are guiding you to grind against him. You're gasping, one hand braced on the headboard, and the other tangled in his hair.

"Fuck—Bucky—that's so good."

He groans against you, the vibration making you jolt, and his grip tightens. He's relentless, working you higher and higher until you're shaking, until you can't hold back anymore.

"I'm gonna—oh god—I'm—"

"Come for me," he growls against you. "Come all over my face, kitten."

The nickname hits you like a shock. Your eyes fly open, but before you can process it, your orgasm crashes over you. You come with a cry, hips rolling against his mouth as he works you through it, licking up everything you give him.

When you finally slump forward, trembling, he eases you off and you collapse next to him on the bed, your chest heaving.

"What—" you start, but your voice won't work. "Did you just—did you call me—"

He sits up, and when you see his face—lips swollen, chin wet—your stomach flips. "StarryKitten," he says, and his voice is pure gravel. "That's you, isn't it?"

Your heart stops. "How did you—"

"This freckle." He reaches out, thumb brushing over the spot on your hip. "I've seen it before, dozens of times, in your videos."

Oh god. "You're oldsoul17," you whisper.

"Yeah," he moves over you again. "I've been watching you for months, baby, touching myself to your videos. Tipping you, messaging you… and the whole time, it was you."

You should be embarrassed. Mortified even, but instead heat floods through you. "Bucky—"

"I've wanted you for so long," he mutters, his fingers rolling your nipple, making you arch into his touch. "Both versions of you. The girl who walks around here in those little dresses, teasing me. And the girl on my screen who makes the sweetest sounds when she comes."

His other hand finds your other breast, and he's playing with both now, watching your face as you writhe beneath him.

"I've watched you touch these," he says. "Watched you pinch and tease yourself. But I've always wanted to be the one doing it."

"Then do it," you breathe.

He leans down and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, and you cry out. His hand continues working the other, pinching and rolling, and the dual sensation is overwhelming. He switches sides, teeth grazing sensitive flesh, and you're already getting wet again. But you need to touch him too.

You push at his shoulders, and he pulls back, confused. "What—"

"My turn," you say, and push him onto his back.

"Baby—"

"You've watched me," you say, moving down his body. "Now let me show you what I can do in person."

You settle between his thighs, and up close, he's even more impressive. Hard and thick, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, and the groan he lets out makes you clench.

"You don't have to do this—" he grits out, but his his jerk against your touch.

"I want to," you stroke him slowly, base to tip, and lean down to press a kiss to the head. "I want to taste you."

You take him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue, and his hand immediately tangles in your hair.

"That's it," he mutters. "Just like that."

You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he's making are even better than you imagined. Low groans and muttered curses and your name over and over. You work him with your mouth and hand together, finding a rhythm, paying attention to what makes him grip your hair tighter, what makes his thighs tense. You pull off to lick along the underside, tracing the vein, and he nearly comes off the bed.

You take him deeper again, and his control starts to slip. His hips rock up slightly, and you relax your throat, letting him.

"Look at you," he groans, propping himself up on his elbows to watch. "So fucking perfect with your lips wrapped around me. I've imagined this, but nothing compares to the real thing."

You moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse. You can feel him getting close, his cock pulsing against your tongue, and you double your efforts.

"I'm close, you don't have to—"

But you want to. You want to taste him, feel him come apart because of you. You take him as deep as you can and swallow, and that's all it takes.

He comes with a shout, hips jerking, and you take everything he gives you. When you finally pull off, you look up at him through your lashes, and the look on his face is of someone absolutely wrecked.

"Come here," he growls.

You crawl up his body, and he pulls you into a filthy kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands are on your breasts again immediately, kneading and teasing, and you're so turned on you're trembling.

"I need you inside me," you whisper against his mouth. "Please, Bucky—"

"Greedy girl," he mutters, but he's already hardening again. "Want more already?"

"Always."

He flips you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth finds your breast again, sucking and biting while his hand works the other. You're writhing beneath him, desperate for more.

"Bucky— fuck—I need—"

"I know, I know sweet girl."

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly and the stretch is perfect and overwhelming. You grip his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groans against your neck.

"You feel incredible," he grits out. "So tight and wet."

He starts to move, slow and deep, and every thrust makes your toes curl. His mouth finds yours, kissing you deep and filthy while he fucks you into the mattress. One hand is braced by your head, but the other finds your breast again, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

"You're so perfect," he mutters against your lips. "My good girl, taking me so well."

"Faster, please—"

He shifts the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You're gasping and moaning and he's talking you through it.

"That's it, baby. Let me hear you. Let me hear those sounds you make. I've heard them through my speakers for months, but this—" He thrusts harder, deeper. "This is so much better."

"Oh god— please—"

"You're close, aren't you? I can feel you getting tighter." He pinches your nipple again, and you cry out. "You gonna come for me, kitten? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl?"

"Yes—yes—Bucky"

"Come on, let me feel this perfect pussy squeeze me."

Your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. You cry out, back arching, and he fucks you through it, his rhythm getting rougher, more desperate. The hand on your breast slides down to grip your hip, fingers pressing into that freckle that gave you away.

"You're so fucking perfect when you come." He mutters before burying himself deep and groaning your name as he comes, and the feeling of him spilling inside you sends another wave of pleasure through you.

After, you're tangled together in the sheets, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back. Your breasts are pressed against his chest, still sensitive from all the attention, and every time you shift you feel the pleasant ache.

"Your parents," he says eventually. "They'll be back soon."

"I know."

"This is insane."

"I know."

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. "I'm not done with you yet."

Your stomach flips. "Good."

"This isn't a one-time thing," he says, and there's something fierce in his voice. "Now that I have you, I'm not letting you go."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you're mine now." His hands slides from your breast down to your hip, over your freckle. "Secret. No one else gets to know. Not your boyfriend, not your parents…"

You should feel guilty. Your boyfriend, your parents, the risk. But all you feel is a thrill running through you.

"Okay," you whisper.

He kisses you again, slower this time. You can feel him hardening against your thigh again.

"Again?"

"I've waited months for this," he says before rolling you onto your back. "I'm not wasting a single second."

And he doesn't.

By the time you hear your parents' car I the driveway two hours later, you've come three more times, and you can barely walk straight. But you both know this is just the beginning.

Looking for anyone to be a tether in the whirlwind that was your mind, your hands instinctively reached for your best friend on campus, Bucky Barnes. "Bucky…" his name came out elongated, surrounded by a giggle you couldn't suppress.

Your arms flung around his neck, the beer he had been nursing all night sloshing dangerously while he steadied you. "Think we should get you back to your dorm." Under his amusement at your inebriation though, concern was peeking through.

"Yeah…" you agreed without protest, once your head had landed on his shoulder, your legs suddenly decided to take on a jell-o like consistency.

"Alright princess, let's go."

Bucky held you steady, even when you almost spilled the contents of your stomach in the bushes outside of the psychology building.

"Determined not to throw up in front of you again," you managed to say triumphantly, walking with all the grace of a newborn deer.

Bucky only shook his head fondly, letting you babble drunkenly about Natasha's new boyfriend and Yelena's fling, leaving you without a partner for the semester.

Finally falling onto your mattress, you grabbed his arm. "Tell me a story, it'll help me sleep."

There was no hesitation, only Bucky toeing off his shoes and sliding into your twin size bed and letting you curl around him. "Tell you a story…" he mused, a hand sliding up and down your back in comfort.

"Once upon a time, a boy fell in love with a beautiful girl…"

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"Daddy?" Winnie murmurs sleepily.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" Bucky whispers, sat on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair with a tender touch.

It's 9PM now, the glitter's (partially) cleaned up, Winnie's freshly washed and now curled up in fluffy pyjamas under her covers. Her eyes flutter at the soothing motion of Bucky's hand raking through her hair.

"Mama's not coming back tonight?"

"Stuck in traffic, remember? She called whilst we were cleaning you up in the bath," He says softly, "She'll be here when you wake up."

"M'kay."

Silence's stretches, Winnie's nightlight glowing faintly in the room, a soft yellow night plugged into the wall. Bucky offered to read a story, but Winnie shook her head and said she just wanted him to sit with her until she fell asleep.

He feels the change in her breathing like they're connected— growing heavy and slowing down, eyes shut and her mouth slightly agape.

Bucky smiles, thumb brushing over her temple.

"Daddy?" Winnie mumbles, eyes fluttering stubbornly.

"Don't fight it, sweetheart," He soothes, "I'm not going anywhere, I'm gonna stay until your asleep."

"But I've got a question." She sighs, peeking up at him through half-lidded eyes that're fighting to close again.

"Winnie—”

"How did you get your shiny arm?"

Bucky falls short.

Words die on his tongue, mouth suddenly dry, his throat closing up.

His mind races for a cover-up, something to say, but nothing comes.

"It happened a long, long time ago," Someone supplies from the doorway, "Daddy lost his arm, and needed a new one."

Bucky turns, tongue-tied and thankful for your arrival, watching you walk in and crouch down in front of Winnie, your hand on Bucky's knee for balance.

"Mama?"

"Yeah, I'm here," You press a gentle kiss to her forehead, "Sleep, honey."

Winnie finally surrenders to sleep, and you turn your attention to Bucky who looks like he's had his life flash before his eyes.

"Thanks for the save." He rasps.

"We'll have to tell her eventually," You tell him softly, "She's still young, but. . . when she's old enough to understand."

"I know."

"We'll do it together, make sure she understands." You promise softly, "but you'll always be her dad, that'll never change."

He nods, letting you take his hand and pull him along, leaving Winnie to sleep peacefully.