swirled you into all of my poems

When you ring late at night, past your normal bedtime, Pope answers with a wrinkle between his brows. He sits up in bed, his back straight and shoulders square, phone gripped in his meaty hand and held to his ear.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

You breathe heavily into his ear. Short, rapid breaths.

“Can you come over?” Your voice trembles. “I did something. Something bad. I need your help. Please, Andrew.”

He blinks. His mind races, trying to piece together what you, of all people, his darling, sweet angel who wouldn’t harm a fly, could have done to warrant such distress.

He gently shushes you when you break out into a sob. “I’ll be there. Don’t worry.”

No questions asked.

Pope hesitates when he’s just outside your door. He texts you that he’s here instead of knocking. He doesn’t want to attract unwanted attention.

You respond instantly.

The door is unlocked.

He curses himself for not checking first. Love and worry make him stupid. He opens the door and closes it behind him, locking it with a soft click.

Right away, he can sense that something is off.

Light in the apartment is faint, pouring in from where it’s flipped on in the restroom in the hallway that leads to your bedroom.

He can smell it.

The sickly sweet, rusty smell of blood that he’s spilled time and time again. More familiar to him than water, now.

His heart pounds against his breastbone, an erratic thundering. Are you hurt? You didn’t sound hurt when you spoke over the phone.

What have you gotten yourself into?

His footsteps are heavy but silent across your carpet, as stealthy as Pope can manage for a man his size and weight. He hears squishing beneath his feet as he nears the restroom, something oozing out from under his sneakers and seeping into the fibers of the carpet. The door is a quarter of the way open, and he raps on it lightly so you know he’s just outside.

The smell is strongest here. He looks down at his shoes, illuminated by the flickering light of the restroom. They’re covered in red.

“Come in,” you whisper.

The door creaks open.

“What happened?” he asks, crouching beside you on the bath mat.

You’re seated on your knees in front of the bathtub, bloodied and beautiful, face wet with tears.

You wipe your eyes with your forearm, tracking blood across your cheekbones. The blood is everywhere: on your exposed skin, on your clothes. Not to mention the coppery trail of it leading to the tub. Your top looks as if it were spray-painted red.

You’re wearing a virginal white sleep set. Soft and flowy. Splattered and tainted with blood.

You sniffle. “I killed him.”

Pope hates seeing you cry. He feels his eyes water, but he manages to hold back the tears.

“Who is he? Why’d you kill him?” he asks calmly, non-accusingly, eyeing the corpse in the tub before returning focus on you.

“This is—this was—my coworker. He found out where I lived and showed up here unannounced. Shouldered his way inside and wouldn’t leave.”

So, this is him, Pope thinks. The pushy coworker you complained about to him before. You told him not to get involved, said you could handle him yourself.

Looks like you did.

“Did he hurt you?” Pope asks, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“No, but he would not leave. I threatened the cops on him, but he knew that I was just bluffing.”

Pope is nowhere near the paragon of patience, but he is struggling to understand why you would have killed him over his refusal to leave. You could have called him, and he would have been over in an instant to kick him out for you.

His brows furrow. “I don’t get it.”

You bite your lower lip hard, your fists clenched. “He knew about you. Your family’s reputation. About us. He... he said some things.”

“Like what? You can tell me.”

Pope rubs your back gently when you fall silent, wordlessly urging you to continue.

“I was defending you from the bullshit he was saying about you,” you spit, your tears halting to make way for the anger bubbling over, “things got heated, and we got into a fight. He said that you’re not good for me. That you’re dangerous. He cornered me in the kitchen, threatening to turn what he knows about you and your brothers in to the police unless I broke up with you, and so I—I grabbed a knife, and the rest is history.”

Pope takes a second to scrutinize the man in the tub.

His throat is slashed. The blood flow has tapered off, an inky scarlet swirling down the drain.

“I didn’t mean to do it. I thought I’d just nick him and he’d back off, but he said that he was a better, safer option, that he could take better care of me than you can, and I… I got so mad. Next thing I know—”

“It’s okay,” Pope reassures, “I’ve done a lot worse for a lot less. You dragged him in here?”

You nod. “There was so much blood. I panicked. I figured it’d be easier to deal with him in the tub, but it got everywhere on the way. I couldn’t move him fast enough to keep it from spilling onto the carpet.”

“Dead bodies are heavy,” he grunts in agreement, “but you did a smart thing. Where’s the knife?”

“Left it in the kitchen.” You turn your body to face him directly, gathering your legs to hug your knees. “What are we going to do now?”

“You’re not doing anything. I’m taking care of this.”

“Andrew, no. This is my mess. At least let me be of help.”

He holds your chin between his fingers, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve been through enough. I know some guys that can replace the carpet, and I can get rid of the body. I’ll make it like it never happened.”

Abruptly, you push him back by the shoulders so he sits on the floor with his back to the wall, and settle yourself over his lap, a wild look in your eyes. His brain stalls for a moment.

“You’re going to make my problems go away, huh, Andrew?”

“I’d do anything for you.” earnest, truthful.

Your lips are on his before he can process what’s going on. The shock of the situation must be wearing off, and with Pope taking things out of your hands, you must feel like you owe him this as a sort of repayment.

He breaks the kiss and pulls away, even as much as he would like to keep kissing you.

“Stop. You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” You pout. “You’re so good to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He glances at the graying body, blood-drained in the bathtub.

“Isn’t this… uncomfortable for you?”

You shake your head. “No, as a matter of fact,” you clutch his wrist and hold his hand to your breast, your heart thumping, “I’m a little... excited?”

“That’s the adrenaline. You’re going to crash come morning,” he warns.

“Then let’s make the most of it tonight?”

Pope thinks. The sun won’t be up for another several hours, and all that needs to be done is the cleanup and the drive out to the dumping spot. He also needs to make a phone call to one of his contacts about the bloodied carpet, but that can be done quickly. The last thing he wants to do is involve his brothers, or worse yet, J, but he can rely on them if need be as well. It’s worth sparing some time if it means it’ll get your mind off what happened.

“Let’s not take too long.”

You offer a watery smile, returning your lips to his. You rock your hips against his bulge, thick and trapped in his jeans. He can feel the heat radiating off your cunt through your thin sleep shorts. He sneaks a hand beneath the waistband, a rumble in his chest that you swallow down when he finds you aren’t wearing underwear.

“Fuck, Andrew,” you breathe out against his lips when he rubs your clit in tight circles, “you know I love you, right?”

That’s all it takes.

In combination with your words, your weight settled over his erection, grinding and humping him for your own pleasure, your cunt warm and wet, he comes in his pants, his fingers twitching against your clit as you pepper sloppy kisses along the side of his neck. He’s learned to not get embarrassed over how fast you can get him over the finish line.

He groans, reaching his other hand up to lift your face from where it’s tucked between his neck and shoulder so he can pant against the side of your neck, pressing his lips to the salty skin as his hips jump from the aftershocks of his orgasm. He breathes the scent of you in to calm himself down, traces of blood, salt, and a hint of your shampoo hitting the back of his tongue when he licks and nips your pulse point.

“I love you, too, angel,” he says, slightly out of breath, “let me return the favor.”

The bathroom isn’t well suited for rolling around, so Pope drags you to your bedroom. And as much as you throw a fit, “want to have sex in front of a dead body. Never done it before,” he refuses to buckle.

He doesn’t like to rush, not with you. He prefers slow, sensual lovemaking. He is pretty sure you do, too, but tonight you’re not yourself.

Your face is pressed into the mattress, back arched and ass up, toes curling over the edge of the bed. You both will remember this night for the rest of your lives. This moment in particular for him.

Turning your head over your shoulder, you plead, “please, Andrew, fuck. Harder. I want to feel it in the morning.”

He pants, catching his breath. A bead of sweat rolls down his muscular back. He pulls out of you, and you whimper from the loss.

He’s being rough as it is. Most likely you’ll wake up with bruises from how hard he’s been gripping your hips and thighs, a sore cunt from how deep he’s been thrusting into you at this angle.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“C’mon, I just… I want you to be rough with me.”

He shakes his head. He’s had a lifetime of roughness. But with Smurf dead now, he’s no longer under her control, no longer her mutt to unleash upon whoever she thinks deserves a bite from a set of sharp teeth. He wants a softer life with you, if he can help it. That translates to sex, too.

“Is that what you think you deserve? To hurt?” Pope asks, his voice grave.

You ignore his question, instead asking, “can I take over?” You scramble into a kneeling position and point to the headboard. “Flat against the pillows.”

Pope huffs but relents, not pushing you to talk if you don’t want to. Not right now, at least. What happened tonight is still too fresh.

He crawls up the bed and adjusts himself so he’s leaning against the headboard, looking at you in all your naked, sweat-slick glory.

You straddle and hover over him, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before dragging it along your slit to tease yourself and then slowly sinking down on him.

The dim light of your lamp is bright enough that he can clearly see the blood splattered on your skin. He licks his thumb and brings it up to your face, wiping some of it away.

You ride his cock, lifting up and lowering down on it in quick succession, eager and needy for your release. He helps speed things along by rubbing his fingers on your swollen clit, his other hand kneading your breast, pulling mewls from you.

You wrap your arms around his neck and drag yourself down on top of him, your upper body connected to his, grinding and rocking against his pelvis now more than bouncing on his cock.

He feels tears, hot and plentiful, drip onto his neck.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, though right away he knows it was stupid to. The reality is crashing into you at full force. “We should stop. Don’t cry. I’ve got you.”

He twines his arms around your middle, holding you tight to him as your hips still.

Between tears, you puff against his neck, “just want to come. For a second, just want to forget. Please help me.”

What kind of man would he be not to heed your call for help?

He lifts your head from the crook of his neck, his hands cradling your cheeks, kissing all over your teary face. One of his hands reaches down between your bodies to your clit, twitchy and wet with slick, rubbing it with just enough pressure to make you come but slowly so as not to overwhelm you.

You breathe out a little sigh as your orgasm washes over you, a gentle, soothing wave more than a wild crashing of water.

You lie there for a moment, resting your head against his chest, your tears drying, your heart rate slowing.

Pope rubs your lower back in soothing, mindless shapes, almost lulling you into sleep. Before your eyes close, though, he carefully sits up, holding you to his chest as he pulls you up with him. If it weren’t for the body slowly decomposing in your tub, he would stay here with you for as long as you need.

He gets out from under you and collects his clothes from the floor, throwing them back on. “Sit here for a minute. I need to get rid of the body. I want you to take a shower once I get him out of the tub.”

“What... where are you taking him?” you ask.

“It’s better you don’t know.”

“I’m going with you. This is all my fault. I need to see things through to the end.”

He huffs in frustration. There’s little he can do to change your mind once you’ve decided on something. It’s not as if he can’t force you to stay put, but he has the tendency to give in to you, to crumble in your loving hands.

“I’m going to put him in the trunk. I still want you to take a shower. Wash off the blood. Then we’ll go. You don’t mind me using one of your rugs, do you?”

Pope drives and drives. You sit by his side on the passenger seat of his truck, looking out the window, despondency rolling off you in waves. You washed tonight’s events from your skin and mopped and wiped them from the kitchen floor and knife, but they'll forever be imprinted on your mind.

He takes back and side roads where he can, exercising caution in case this problem of yours comes back to haunt you. Fewer cameras capturing the two of you heading out to where the dumping spot is this way.

The adrenaline of the kill is well worn off by now, and you’re feeling it: the guilt, the worry, the shame of what you’ve done. Though Pope has been through what you’re going through a concerning amount of times, he doesn’t quite know what to say to console you.

Do you regret killing your coworker? Should you? He knows you well enough to know that you’re fighting with yourself in your head, asking yourself these questions, working the past few hours over with a fine-toothed comb to see if there was not another path you could’ve taken.

Pope doesn’t have room for judgment, and especially not room to judge you. He doesn’t care what you did. The man forced himself into your home and threatened you, though not with his fists but with his words. Still, in his eyes, it was self-defense.

He reaches across the center console to hold your hand in his, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles, physical touch, something he has been so lacking in before you, the only way he knows to ease your mind. His touch relaxes you, your thrumming heart rate slowing to something steadier against the thin skin of your wrist.

“It’ll be okay,” he says, clearing his throat of the rasp. It’s been just under an hour since leaving your apartment, and this is the first time he’s said anything. You haven’t had much to contribute to the conversation, either. “I’m here.”

You face him, then, a weak smile pulling at your lips. “I know.”

A field of sprawling, lush green grass, still wet from a week of the rare bout of summer rain, the soil loamy and soft enough to dig a hole the size of a man’s full-grown body, is where Pope drives out to.

“Stay in the car.”

You won’t be of much help with only one shovel to go around. You nod tiredly, not bothering to put up a fight, which he is grateful for.

He lets go of your hand and hops out of the truck, popping the trunk and pulling out the shovel.

Hours later, the hole is dug, and Pope drops the rug-rolled body into its grave with an unceremonious kick to the torso, sunlight peeking out from the far horizon, spilling onto the surrounding field of grass in soft hues of orange and yellow.

It takes him only a quarter of the time to pile the dirt back into the ground and return the shovel to the trunk, the sweat cooling from his skin with the decrease in effort.

Once he shuts the trunk, he hears the side door open and watches as you step out of the car.

He cocks his head in confusion. “Where are you going? The job is done.”

You don’t respond, your back facing him, and walk out further into the field. You sit down on a patch of grass a few yards away, leaning back on your hands and watching the sunrise.

Not but a few seconds later he approaches, crouching down beside you.

He says your name, worry creeping in on the edge of it. “We can’t stay here. Don’t you want to go home?”

You glance at him and then face the sky again. “Not even for a little while? The breeze is nice.”

He plops down on the ground with a grunt, stretching his legs out and rolling his neck and shoulders against the bite of the growing ache. “Just for a few minutes.”

“That’ll do.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. He sits there with you for a few precious minutes, indulging in the cool breeze running its fingers through his hair and the sun kissing his skin and your scent enveloping him in a hug.

Your voice pulls him out of a trance.

“Andrew.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t feel...” you sigh, running your fingers through blades of grass. “I don’t feel as guilty as I think I should. I killed someone, but I feel more guilty that I don’t feel guilty about it, if that makes sense. Does... does that make me a bad person?”

Pope holds back a bark of laughter. “You’re asking me? You know what I’ve done in the past. You’re... you’re nothing but an angel compared to me.”

“I’m asking you because I care what you think.”

“No. No,” he repeats, “you’re not a bad person. You did what you thought you had to do. Something I would have done if it meant protecting you. You gave him a chance to back off, and he didn’t take it. That’s on him.”

“I don’t scare you?”

Pope cradles the line of your jaw, turning your head in his direction. “Is that what you’re worried about?” He presses a kiss on your forehead, putting forth all the emotion he can muster into it. “You’ll never scare me.”

You hum, reaching your hand up to wrap your fingers around his wrist, tilting your head to press your lips to his hand. “We are quite the pair, aren’t we.”

You sit there for a little while longer, watching the sun inch higher up the sky.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

You smile, and shake your head. It’s the third time she’s asked in the last half hour. You appreciate the invitation, but the thought of being a fifth wheel is somehow more depressing than spending your Friday night holed up in your bedroom eating an egregious number of peanut butter cookies by yourself.

“I’m sure, Lena.” You try your hardest to sound convincing. “It’s been a long week, anyway. I’m just going to relax and catch up on some laundry.”

She gives you an understanding look. At this point, you know she expects you to find some kind of partial truth based excuse to avoid whatever plans she, Bob, Walker and Ava have.

You can’t help it. It gets to you more than it should - seeing Walker and Ava walk hand in hand while Bob has his arm around Yelena’s shoulder and you awkwardly stand to the side or trail behind them.

It wouldn’t be as big of a deal if Valentina hadn’t used it as a marketing tactic to win people over. The New Avengers: not only did they save all of New York from being consumed by interconnected shame rooms, but four of them found their soulmates in the process!

It’s an effective strategy, you’ll give her that much. Really pulls at the heartstrings. People go fucking crazy over it.

“If you change your mind, you know where we’ll be,” she tells you gently before exiting the kitchen to catch up with the others, leaving you to finish baking your cookies. You exhale, roll up your sleeves, and turn back to the bowl of dough on the counter.

Everyone on the team has their own little rituals. Walker wakes up at the ass crack of dawn every morning to go on a run, no matter the weather. Yelena drinks peppermint tea before bed every night. Baking is your thing.

It’s usually a good distraction. It keeps your hands busy and your mind quiet enough. But tonight, on the six month anniversary of the New Avengers forming, your thoughts are louder than usual.

Tonight makes six months of watching almost all of your teammates fall into the kind of love that you have only ever dreamed about. Walker and Ava. Yelena and Bob. Even Alexei has his soulmate in Melina, Yelena’s mother figure.

You drop another scoop of dough onto the baking sheet and for probably the millionth time, you wonder how different your life would be if your soul mark had survived. If you’d only been old enough to remember what it had looked like before the Red Room erased it. Like Yelena. Hers too had been taken from her, but not before she was old enough to commit it to memory - the initials RR written in black cursive letters on her wrist.

But you’d been even younger than her when the Red Room took you, and you have no memory of what your mark looked like or where it had been on your body.

They vary person to person. Some soulmates are born with matching tattoos, others identical birthmarks or scars. Had yours been your mate’s initials, like Yelena and Bob? Or a constellation like Walker and Ava? Maybe a small, heart shaped scar like Alexei and Melina.

Whatever it had been, the Red Room did a phenomenal job of getting rid of it. You’ve inspected your body from head to toe more times than you can count throughout the years, and you’ve never been able to find the faintest trace of what could have once been a soul mark.

“Chocolate chip?”

A familiar voice interrupts your thoughts as you place the cookie sheet in the oven. You glance over your shoulder to find Bucky taking a seat at the kitchen island, undoubtedly returning from the gym or an evening run.

“Peanut butter, actually,” you hum, trying to ignore the way your heart rate spiked at the sight of him, flushed face and glistening skin.

“Peanut butter? You must be feeling adventurous. Friday night is usually chocolate chip night.”

“What can I say?” You sigh, unable to stop the way the corners of your lips quirk upwards. “Felt like changing things up.”

“It’s my lucky night then. Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your cheeks heat up. You know peanut butter is his favorite, but you don’t tell him that. Just like the way you’ve memorized how he takes his coffee, or the exact protein powder he prefers - details he’s never actually said aloud, yet somehow, you know. Little things that stick in your mind without effort, even though he isn’t yours to take such notice of.

No matter how much you may wish that was the case.

You might know what his favorite kind of cookies are, but you don’t know the one thing you wish to know the most about him. Where or what his soul mark is.

You’ve never seen it, so it’s safe to assume that it isn’t somewhere highly visible, like his wrist or neck. But you can’t stop yourself from wondering sometimes - what does his mark look like? Has he found his soulmate? He’s single now, but has he always been alone? Maybe it was someone he knew a century ago, before the war? Before Hydra? Before his innocence and bodily autonomy were stripped away? Someone old and gray now, or someone that he’s already lost?

Or is he still searching, all these decades later?

As curious as you are, you don’t ask. Asking someone about their soul mark is like asking about their weight or salary. It’s taboo - you just don’t do it. If they volunteer the information, fine. But Bucky has never mentioned his mark or his mate, so it remains as much of a mystery to you as your own mark.

You realize that you’re staring at him and try to play it off. “Really? I would’ve guessed chocolate chip’s your favorite by the way you ate over half of them last week.”

There’s a look of exaggerated hurt on his face, but he can’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “I can’t believe you’d say that to your most loyal taste-tester.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, my most loyal taste-tester is going to have to start pulling his weight if he’s going to keep eating half of the product.”

“Pulling my weight?” His brows shoot up. His eyes dart back and forth from yours to all of the ingredients and baking supplies spread across the kitchen island. “I mean, I’d be happy to, but you’re gonna have to teach me.”

“Teach you?” You snort, unsure if he’s just messing with you. “Have you never made cookies before?”

“Well, not from scratch, no,” he admits with a sheepish grin. “But it’s better to learn at 110 years old than to never learn at all, right?”

You purse your lips to refrain from looking too excited at the prospect of getting to spend your Friday evening teaching him to make cookies, but you don’t doubt that it reaches your eyes. You can think of very few ways that you’d rather spend your time, but you don’t want to seem overeager. He probably just doesn’t have anything better to do tonight.

“I suppose it is your lucky night. I just so happen to have enough ingredients left for one more batch.”

He comes to stand beside you on the other side of the island. With all of the ingredients already on hand, you slide the mixing bowl in front of him. If he really wants to learn to bake cookies, the best way to do so is a little hands on experience.

You can’t help but think he looks a little apprehensive as he picks up a measuring cup. “Don’t tell me the Winter Soldier is intimidated by baking.”

He rolls his eyes, his already flushed cheeks turning a deeper red. “By baking? Psh. No. By how you’re going to critique my cookies? Maybe a little.”

“I’ll try to go easy on you,” you promise. You hand him a piece of paper with your handwritten recipe on it. “Now start by combining the peanut butter, unsalted butter, brown sugar, granulated sugar, and vanilla. Then mix all of that together until it’s smooth. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle that.”

You take a seat on one of the barstools beside him and watch as he takes his time measuring each ingredient before dumping them into the mixing bowl.

Right away, he’s focused. His brows knit together and his lips are pressed in a firm line - by looking at him, you’d think he’s trying to diffuse a bomb instead of measuring out a cup of peanut butter. You try not to stare too hard, but you find it quite endearing.

It’s impossible to not notice the way a thick lock of his dark hair falls into his face when he leans over the bowl, or the way he seems to bite the inside of his cheek when he’s concentrating particularly hard on getting the measurement of the brown sugar just right.

It’s a far more gentle and domestic version of him than you see most days. It hits you how much you long to see this side of him more often. No training, no missions, no teammates surrounding you almost always.

For a moment, you allow yourself to pretend that soulmates don’t exist. That no one has marks that tell them who they should be with. It would be so much easier, in a lot of ways, you think. At least for people like you.

He turns to you, interrupting your thoughts as he shows you the pale brown mixture in the bowl. “Like this?” He asks, an almost eager smile on his face.

“Perfect,” you hum, hoping that your face doesn’t give any of your thoughts away. He smiles, visibly pleased with himself at your praise, and waits for the next set of instructions.

So you do all that you know how to do - push your thoughts down and enjoy this moment for what it is. Even if it’ll never be anything more.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had lied to you, and he doesn’t regret it.

Well, partially lied.

Peanut butter cookies aren’t his favorite anymore. They had been - but these days he’s more partial to chocolate chip, thanks to you making the best chocolate chip cookies he’s ever had.

But an excuse to spend the evening with you is a valid reason for telling a white lie, in his opinion. He had been telling the truth when he told you that he’s never baked cookies from scratch before.

What can he say? Baking wasn’t exactly something he was interested in back in his twenties, and he’s been busy, to say the least, since he was pardoned a few years ago. For the first time in over seventy years, life is just now settling down enough for him to think about something as mundane as baking.

No, he’s never cared about baking too much, but that started to change about six months ago. Not even forty-eight hours had passed since The Void had nearly succeeded in turning New York into a giant cloud of shame rooms when he followed the scent of cinnamon and vanilla to the Watchtower’s communal kitchen, where he found you making cinnamon rolls from scratch.

You had been so immersed in rolling the dough into a perfect log that you hadn’t noticed him enter the room. Right away, his eyes were drawn to the dusting of flour that you’d somehow managed to get all over your cheek. He couldn’t help but think back to just forty-eight hours prior when instead of flour on your face, it had been blood and grime from the aftermath of The Void. You were just as pretty then, he thought, but there was something so peaceful about you in that moment that he couldn’t stop himself from watching you.

Until you inevitably looked up and saw him staring at you like a creep.

He had yet to decide whether he wanted to stay at the Watchtower or go home. Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all members of the New Avengers and an invitation to live in the Watchtower had been extended to the whole team, but Bucky already had his own place in Brooklyn - a city that had just started to feel like home again.

Did he really want to terminate the lease to his private apartment and move into the Watchtower with a bunch of people that he barely knew and Walker?

But as he stood there and watched you cut the rolled dough into equal sized pieces, the answer became clear to him: with you here, this is place could easily feel like home to him, too.

He felt a little crazy for thinking so. He barely knew you. He’d only met you a few days ago, but every time he was in close proximity to you, he felt it - a faint, phantom tingling sensation deep in the vibranium plating of his left forearm.

Right where his soul mark used to be.

Six months later, he still has to convince himself that he’s imagining it. Even if his mark hadn’t been ripped from his body when he fell from that train nearly a century ago, that isn’t how soul marks work. They aren’t magnets. They don’t tingle or glow or ache when one is in the general vicinity of their soulmate.

It’s wishful thinking for something that he’ll never have. That’s all. His mate is probably in a senior care facility or six feet under already.

He knows this. Reminds himself of it as he falls asleep each night. You and him - the two of you aren’t Bob and Yelena. Or Walker and Ava. No, the two of you didn’t get quite so lucky. His mark exists only in his memory and yours is a mystery even to you.

He wonders though, when he’s reminding himself of these things, if it would really be so crazy to forget about it all - soul marks, destiny, fate - and just choose each other.

Because when he looks at you, he finds it hard to care about the lack of ink on your skin. He thinks about what his own mark looked like, and the thought of yours having been different doesn’t lessen his feelings for you.

Maybe it should. Maybe he should hold out hope that his mate is still out there, waiting for him with a mark identical to the one he once had.

But the thought of that doesn’t excite him like it should. It fills him with a sense of dread. Because in the unlikely event of finding his soulmate at 110 years old, he’d be forced to face the reality that it isn’t you.

So instead, he hangs onto the tiniest sliver of hope he feels every time the phantom itch in the crevice of his vibranium arm flares up.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“This sure would be a lot easier if someone could fly.”

The twelve foot tall tree in the middle of the New Avenger’s common area is almost fully decorated. Through the combined efforts of all seven of you, the branches of the bottom two-thirds of the tree now twinkle with ornaments and lights of every shape and color.

There’s no theme whatsoever, and it looks like a bunch of five year olds got their hands on it, but it’s been a lot more fun than you expected it to be. You don’t remember the last time you decorated a Christmas tree. Plus, Walker has only been somewhat of a control freak.

Bob rolls his eyes at Walker’s teasing and hands Yelena another ornament from where he stands at the base of her ladder. “Why don’t you try to fly, Walker?” says Yelena, always quick to match his energy. “Just step right off of that ladder and give it your best effort.”

You shake your head at them, focusing on the shimmery gold ornament in your hand. Unlike Yelena and Walker, you don’t have a ladder, instead choosing to add a final few ornaments to the bottom half of the tree. The branch you want to hang it on is just out of reach, even standing as tall as you possibly can on the tips of your toes. You lean a little farther, wishing your arm was just an inch longer—

Yelena yelps and Walker curses as the entire tree shifts slightly. Your foot slips on the tree skirt and you brace yourself to fall directly into the tree when firm hands grab onto your hips from behind, steadying you.

You instinctively step back, trying to put space between you and the gargantuan tree before you can completely knock it over, your back colliding with a solid mass that stops you in your tracks. You’re vaguely aware of Walker scolding you to be careful, but all you can focus on is the stark contrast of warm skin and cold metal on either side of your waist.

“I assumed that Alexei would be the one almost accidentally knocking over the tree,” Bucky laughs lowly. You feel the soft vibration of it against your back. Only when you tilt your head to look up at him does he drop his hold on your waist and step back.

“He doesn’t have enough eggnog in him yet,” you mumble, your cheeks hot from the sudden close proximity. “Give it another hour and we’ll see if this tree is still standing upright.”

Without taking his eyes off of you, he takes the ornament that you’d been attempting to hang on the tree out of your hand and comes to stand beside you. “Where did you want this?”

“Oh - uh,” you look away from him, back to the tree in front of you. Your eyes dart around, suddenly unable to pinpoint the branch that had seemed like the perfect spot just moments ago. “Just…right here,” you shrug, motioning to a random branch in the general vicinity of where you’d been reaching.

He smiles, placing the ornament on the branch without any difficulty. Show off.

“Is that good?” He asks, his gaze back on you.

“That’s perfect.” You nod a bit too quickly and your voice sounds breathier than intended, but if he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

He’s just being helpful, you tell yourself. He didn’t want you to fall into a tree. You would’ve knocked the entire thing over and dozens of ornaments would have shattered and then—

Yelena calls your name, breaking the tension between you. She’s climbing down from her ladder with an amused expression. “We are completely out of ornament hooks. Will you come with me to buy more?”

Something about the look on her face makes you nervous to say yes, but the alternative is to stay here and try to pretend like Bucky didn’t just make your brain completely short circuit, so you agree.

As soon as the elevator is in motion, she turns to you with a smile that makes your stomach tie itself in knots.

“I have a confession to make.”

You exhale. “Let me guess. We aren’t actually out of hooks?”

“Nope.”

You brace yourself. This would not be the first time she’s broached the subject - you and Bucky. She’s made little teasing comments here and there over the last few months, but she’s never pushed you too much. But between finding an excuse to get you alone and the look on her face, you know your luck has run out.

“So,” she continues, infuriatingly casual. “Who do you think will be the first to break? You or Bucky? Personally, I think it will be Bucky. Bob thinks it could go either way, but I suppose only time will tell.”

You snort, refusing to look her in the eye. Not that it matters - she can see right through you, anyway. “I hate to disappoint, but you’re wasting your time placing bets on me and Bucky. We’re just friends. That’s all. You know that,” you add in a smaller voice.

From your peripheral vision, you can see her shaking her head. “Just friends do not look at each other like that.”

“And how do we look at each other, exactly?”

You can’t help it. The question leaves your lips before you can stop yourself. It shouldn’t matter. The answer serves no purpose other than satisfying a selfish curiosity. Whatever she says won’t change the truth of the matter: you and Bucky will never be anything more than you are right now. Whatever that is.

“He…looks at you like you hung the moon and stars. Like you are the moon and stars, really.” She may have been joking about her and Bob betting on your love life, but she’s completely serious now. “And you…well, you look at him like he is the only thing you really want but will not let yourself have.”

The elevator comes to a stop at the first floor of the Watchtower. A large group of people are waiting to enter as soon as the doors open, and you can’t help but feel grateful for the brief moment it gives you to process what Yelena had just said. She grabs you by the arm, looping hers through yours as she guides you through the throng of people.

You don’t even bother trying to argue. Do you really believe that Bucky looks at you as if you hung the moon and stars? No, but Yelena does, and when she has truly made up her mind about something, there’s no point in trying to convince her otherwise.

“I don’t suppose it really matters, does it?” You sigh. “At the end of the day, facial expressions aren’t what make people…” You trail off, unable to bring yourself to say the word. It tastes a little more sour every time you do.

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah,” you grimace. “Soulmates.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just hums to herself in thought. Then, she hugs your arm tighter, as if you might go sprinting down the street at what she says next.

“Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?”

You tense beneath her touch. “That’s easy—”

“Easy for me to say, I know,” she interrupts. “I know our situations are not exactly the same. I do not know how you feel. But I am not blind. I see the way you look at each other…it reminds me of how Bob and I look at each other. How Walker and Ava look at each other. How every pair of soulmates I have ever known have looked at each other.”

When you don’t respond, she continues. “It is only natural for you to wish to know the truth. But you may never get the answers you long for. Does that really mean you should resign yourself to being alone for the rest of your life when love is right in front of you?”

You swallow hard, trying to force down the sudden lump in your throat. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Maybe not,” she agrees. “But simple or not, it’s still a choice that you have. The Red Room tried to take that choice away from you. All I’m saying is that you should not let them.”

You could tell her to drop it. Part of you wants to. Part of you wants to say but they already did. But deep down, you know she isn’t entirely wrong.

Truthfully, you’ve never had much of a reason to care. For as long as you can remember, you have told yourself that it doesn’t matter - the lack of answers. The matter of choice. You had resigned yourself to a life of solitude a long time ago. You’d made peace with it all. At least, as much as you could.

But that was before you met someone that made you want to say screw destiny and question all of the rules.

That was before Bucky.

“You’re really nosey sometimes. You know that?”

She snorts a laugh. “I might be nosey, but I am also right. Usually. Most of the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s reassuring.”

“Let me ask you this,” she implores. “If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him? Or would you still love him?”

“No pressure to answer me,” she continues quickly. “Just…give it some thought, yes?”

As if it doesn’t already consume your every waking thought.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky had been naive to think that he’d actually get to sleep in today. He hasn’t had a Saturday off in nearly two months, why would today be any different?

No, he isn’t surprised when his phone buzzes with a text from Valentina to the team’s group chat demanding a last minute meeting at the crack of dawn this morning.

Zero indication as to what is so urgent, of course. That’s not Valentina’s communication style. Just be at this place, at this time, and don’t ask any questions.

He’d been having the best dream, too. A dream he’s had more times than he can count - not all that much different than what he daydreams about while awake, but it always feels more lifelike when conjured by his subconscious.

You, prancing around an apartment that overlooks the city. He doesn’t recognize the place, but it looks how he’d imagine home to be. Low, soft lighting and a vase of fresh wildflowers on a dining room table just big enough for two. Occasionally, a small white cat makes an appearance, weaving herself between Bucky’s legs and purring in an effort to get his attention.

You never say a word. You don’t need to. He’s content to watch as you chop vegetables at the kitchen island, bare-faced and wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Every few minutes, you glance up from your task and smile at him.

It’s simple. Impossibly so. There’s no New Avengers, no missions or impending doom. It’s just you and him, somewhere entirely your own. And it always ends too soon.

Reality is never quite as sweet.

Listening to Walker, Yelena, and Valentina all try to talk over each other at seven o’clock in the morning on a Saturday, before he’s had a chance to take a sip of coffee… that’s his reality.

You sit directly across from him, slouched back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose with your eyes closed. Bucky is at least attempting to hide his displeasure at this morning’s agenda, but yours is on full display. This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest, as you aren’t much of a morning person even in the best of circumstances.

“Alright, alright!” Val snaps at Yelena and Walker with enough bite to shut them up. Then, addressing the whole group with a sarcastic smile, “How lovely of you all to join me this morning.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, did we?” Ava mumbles.

“No, you didn’t,” Valentina agrees. “I have a flight to Mumbai to catch in a few hours so I need to get this over with.” In front of her are a stack of manila folders. One at a time, she slides the folders across the table to each member, starting with you.

Bucky watches as you open yours with a yawn, your tired expression morphing into something between confusion and unease within seconds of skimming the first page. Your eyes dart back and forth between Valentina and whatever it is you’re seeing. Bucky opens his folder the second it lands in front of him.

“What the hell is this?” You ask, not bothering to hide the annoyance in your voice.

Bucky’s eyes scan the first page. Key words catch his attention: Slovakia. Decommissioned Hydra warehouse. Low frequency signal detected. Encrypted, Hydra coding.

He knows this facility. He’s never been there personally, but he knows someone who has.

Someone sitting directly across from him, looking like she’s seconds away from jumping across the table and throttling Valentina or throwing up.

“This should be straight forward,” Val answers. “Details can be found in the dossiers I’ve given you all. All you really need to know is that there’s some kind of low frequency signal pinging from what should be an inactive Hydra base in Slovakia. The site was flagged three days ago. It’s weak and intermittent, but seeing as how Hydra fell over a decade ago, it should not exist.”

“So? What?” Yelena huffs. “You want us to do a welfare check on a haunted warehouse?”

“You’re verifying that the site is empty,” Val clarifies impatiently. “If it’s not, you neutralize whatever is there and secure anything of value. Files, tech, archives.”

Your eyes snap back to Valentina at that.

“You know your way around, I presume?” Val directs the question at you. “You were stationed there for a brief time, after all.”

Your face is unreadable. Bucky normally prides himself on being able to read you like an open book, but right now, he’s drawing blanks. When you’d first opened the folder, you looked like you were seeing a ghost. Now, your expression is impassive - eerily calm for someone who has just learned they’re being asked to return to a place they were once held prisoner and pumped full of drugs that took away their free will.

Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, you’re doing a great job at hiding it.

“If by brief time you mean over ten years,” you say flatly, “then yes. I know my way around.”

“That’s why you’re running point on this operation. No one else has been—”

“It can’t be too difficult of a place to navigate, can it?” Bucky speaks up for the first time since entering the briefing room. “Most Hydra bases are roughly the same. I’m sure that the five of us can handle it ourselves.” He glances around the room at Yelena, Ava, Walker, and Alexei. “I don’t think it’s necessary to make her go back—”

“I’m fine, Bucky,” you interrupt, gentle but firm. “No one is making me do anything.”

“Perfect.” The annoyed look on Val’s face is quickly replaced with a satisfied smirk. “The jet leaves in twenty-four hours. You’re dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting is over. Chairs scrape back against the floor. Ava and Walker are already halfway to the door, Walker muttering something about Val wasting his weekends under his breath. Alexei follows, declaring he’s going to sleep the entire flight to Slovakia. Only Yelena hesitates, looking at you as she stands. She seems to be searching for the same answers as Bucky, but when you don’t look up from the folder in front of you, she reluctantly follows the others.

Bucky doesn’t move.

You slowly close your folder with a steady exhale. When you finally stand, you don’t look at him. You’re the only two left in the room, and you don’t say a word to him as you start to walk towards the door with the folder clutched to your chest.

“Hey,” he calls softly, standing to follow you. “Wait.”

You stop just short of the entryway. For a second, he thinks you won’t turn around at all. When you do, your expression isn’t quite as stoic as it was moments ago. Your face mostly remains neutral, but there’s a storm of emotions in your eyes.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” He asks, his voice low even though you’re alone now. “Going back there?”

You give a small shrug. “We’ve had plenty of missions far more complicated than this.”

He frowns. “That’s not what I asked. I’m asking about you.”

“I know what you’re asking, Bucky,” you say flatly, “and I said I’m fine. I’m going with you guys. Alright? Drop it.”

You’re turning around and walking away before he can get another word out. He stands there, staring after you with his mouth agape and your name on the tip of his tongue.

He feels it as he watches you disappear down the hallway. The faint but undeniable phantom itch in the bend of his vibranium arm. His flesh hand comes to rest atop the spot where his soul mark used to be.

It may as well be a tiny devil perched on his shoulder urging him to chase after you.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

You don’t go back to your room.

You take the file and go straight to the roof of the Watchtower. It’s windy, and cold, but the alternative is your bedroom where the silence is just a little too loud right now.

There’s something about the hum of the bustling city below that serves as calming white noise to your mind when it’s whirling. So, you often come up here when you need to clear your head.

There’s a small part of you that expects - and selfishly hopes - that Bucky will follow you. Still, you aren’t surprised when he doesn’t. You’d been short with him when he had shown concern for you, and he didn’t deserve that.

You’ll apologize to him later. It’s probably for the best that you aren’t near him at the moment, anyway. Looking at him will only make you second guess what you’re about to do.

Of course you don’t want to go back to Slovakia. Going back there is something that had never even crossed your mind until Val said the word archives and a lightbulb went off in your brain.

Archives that might not even exist anymore. That might have been destroyed ages ago. That might have never existed in the first place.

Archives with information about you.

You had been stationed there for over a decade, after all. You and dozens of other widows at various points. There had to have been some sort of records about all of you. Personal history, special abilities, weaknesses. Operations and procedures you’d undergone throughout your life. Maybe, just maybe - the smallest maybe possibly ever - documentation about your soul mark and its removal.

It’s a long shot. But it isn’t impossible.

And if you’re ever going to get an answer to the question that most people never even have to ask themselves because the answer is displayed on their bodies, this is your chance. What are the odds that you’ll ever have another?

You tighten your grip on the file in your hands as if the wind might carry it away. You try to read through the first few pages of the dossier, but all of the words just run together on the page. After trying to read the same paragraph for a fifth time, you slam the folder closed with a huff.

You can’t retain any of the information because you can’t get his fucking face out of your head.

Every time you picture his ocean eyes, or his plush pink lips, or his effortlessly perfect hair that most people would only be able to achieve with the help of a Dyson Airwrap, it makes your conversation with Yelena replay in your mind.

Have you ever considered that it doesn’t matter as much as you think it does?

If you were to find out today that he is not your soulmate, would it change the way you feel about him?

Or would you still love him?

Deep down, you know the answer. No, it wouldn’t make a difference. You’d love him. You’d love him no matter the truth.

But he has a mate. There’s someone for him, somewhere. And maybe, just maybe, if you can see proof that you have a mate - that there’s someone, somewhere meant for you - it’ll at least lessen the ache that you feel in your chest every time you look at him.

That’s what you’re going to keep telling yourself, anyway.

“I can tell that you’re plotting something.”

The sudden voice makes you nearly jump out of your skin. You jerk your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash, though you know who it is before you see him.

“I’m not sure what it is,” Bucky shrugs, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his jeans. “But I know you well enough to know you’re plotting something.”

You huff, though this time it’s more out of amusement than frustration. You look away from him, back to the morning skyline in front of you. “How’d you know that I’m up here?”

Soft steps thud against concrete until you feel his shoulder brush against yours.

“Like I said. I know you well enough.”

You hum. He might be a little cocky, but he isn’t wrong.

Here you are, as suspected. Plotting.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you say, partially because it’s true and partially because it’s easier to apologize than it is to confirm or deny his assumption. You glance at him to find that he’s already looking at you.

He shrugs again. “I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you came up here to think about.”

You sigh. You know him well enough, too. Well enough to know he isn’t going to drop this easily. You breathe in, bracing yourself for what you’re about to say. Bracing yourself for whatever his reaction may be.

“I’m thinking about something I’m going to do in Slovakia.”

He shifts his weight, turning to face you fully and leaning against the railing. “Okay,” he says patiently. “Do you want to tell me what that is?”

You swallow hard, choosing to stare down at your hands instead of meeting his eyes.

“There might be files in the base,” you start. “Might be leftover archives. Records with information about the widows that were stationed there.” Your face warms under his stare but you still can’t bring yourself to look up. “I want to check. I want to see if there’s anything about me. About my past, what was done to me as a child. About what was…taken from me.”

For a moment, the silence between you is filled only with the sound of traffic below and the low howl of wind. And then—

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Your head snaps up. You blink. “Okay..?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “If you think there’s something there worth looking for, then we will look.”

We.

You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice is gentle, but there’s no trace of pity. “I know I don’t have to. But you shouldn’t have to face that alone.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You aren’t entirely sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t this - no hesitation, no questions asked.

It makes your chest ache in a way that you can’t fully explain. There’s gratitude, but there’s also fear. Gratitude that he’s willing to help you with something so deeply personal. Fear that maybe the outcome - should you actually succeed in finding what you’re searching for - won’t affect him either way.

It crosses your mind, just for a split second, that you should ask him right then and there. What is your soul mark? Is it on your chest, your ribcage, your back? Do you hope that mine looks exactly like it?

But you don’t. You’re too scared of the answers.

“It might be a giant waste of time,” you murmur instead. “I don’t even know for certain if there were ever any files to begin with. Let alone all these years later…”

“If it helps bring you peace of mind,” he says softly, his gaze unwavering, “then it isn’t a waste of time.” He offers a small smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You deserve answers. Whatever they may be.”

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

Best case scenario? A slight tremor in your voice when you try to say thank you.

Worst case scenario? You word vomit every thought you’ve had since learning you’ll be returning to Slovakia.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky wishes that he could be selfish when it comes to you. With every fiber of his being, with every molecule, he wants to be selfish.

And if he loved you just a little bit less, he would be. If he didn’t love you enough to care more about your happiness than his own, he wouldn’t hesitate to tell you that he doesn’t want you to step foot anywhere in Slovakia.

But he does love you that much. He loves you enough to stand by your side as you search for the revelation that fate says you belong with someone who isn’t him.

Not only stand by you - actively help you make that discovery.

Because if anyone deserves to know the truth, if anyone deserves that shot at finding true love, it’s you. Even if it leads to you eventually finding your soulmate and he has to watch you fall in love. Even if it isn’t with him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bucky murmurs low enough that none of the other super-soldiers in the jet can hear him, taking a seat directly across from you. “Val put you in charge here, so I’m assuming you have a plan. What are we doing?”

Yelena is piloting with Ava beside her in the cockpit. Walker is cleaning his guns a few yards away and Alexei appears to be sleeping, but he isn’t snoring loudly enough to rock the whole damn jet, so Bucky isn’t convinced.

A couple hours into the nine hour flight to Bratislava, you’re curled up in one of the leather seats by the window with the mission folder open across your lap. You sit up straighter, your knees brushing against his.

“My memory is a bit hazy since I was under chemical subjugation the whole time I was there,” you say quietly, closing the file and glancing out the window beside you. “But from what I can remember, the building’s layout was relatively straight forward. I doubt it has changed very much.”

“We’ll sweep the basement,” you continue, now looking at him. “You and me. If there are any sort of archives, that’s where they’ll be. Yelena and Alexei will take the east wing and Ava and Walker will take the west. If they find anything of concern, we abandon our little side quest and go to them right away. Even if things go smoothly, we won’t have a lot of time to search. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes max.”

He nods in agreement. “However much time we have, we’ll make it count.”

You purse your lips, once again looking back to the endless expanse of ocean and sky outside of the jet. You’re nervous - he can tell by the tension in your jaw and the way you’re fidgeting with a ring on your thumb. He just isn’t sure if you’re more scared of not finding answers… or finding them.

“Hey.” He leans forward and braces his forearms on his thighs. His hand comes to rest on your knee - a featherlight touch to remind you that he’s there. That he’s with you, no matter how this goes. Your gaze flashes down to his flesh hand on your leg and then to his face.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “We’ll take however much time we can get it. If there’s anything down there worth finding, we’ll do everything in our power to find it.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “You seem awfully sure for someone who’s never seen the place.”

He shrugs, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Call it a gut feeling.”

That’s what he’s been calling it, anyway. Because he doesn’t know how else to explain the way he just knows that by this time tomorrow, everything will be different.

For better or for worse.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The abandoned base is somehow even colder than you remember it being. Despite the well below freezing winter temperatures, you’re sweating through your tactical suit.

Yelena had noticed that you were distracted. Of course she had noticed. You’d barely been able to give everyone their mission instructions because your thoughts were running wild with all of the unknowns - all of your questions that may or may be answered by the time you’re back on the jet.

You’d tried your hardest to lie through your teeth and assure her that you’re fine. You doubt you were very convincing, but thankfully she didn’t have time to hound you before she needed to land the jet.

Like muscle memory, you find your way down to the lowermost level with Bucky right beside you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since your conversation on the flight to Slovakia, but the warmth from his arm brushing against yours every few steps is enough to keep you from completely spiraling at the unwelcome familiarity that has crept into your bones since you crossed the threshold of the building.

The overhead lights are long dead, leaving only the illumination of your flashlights to guide the way. Every sound feels infinitely louder down here, from the scuff of your boots against the concrete to the slow, steady drip of water from somewhere in the distance.

“This is it,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “This is the last level. I think.”

Bucky nods. “You’re doing good.”

You want to laugh at that. Your hands won’t stop shaking and your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s trying to break out of your ribs. You’re barely keeping your composure.

A left turn. Then a right. You don’t have to think about it. Your body begins to remember the path, even if your brain wishes it didn’t. Soon, you stop in front of a rusted metal door. An old biometric lock is nothing but a dead panel now, a spiderweb of cracks running across the busted screen.

Bucky steps forward without hesitation. He wedges his metal fingers into the seam of the door and pulls. The screech of rusted hinges ricochets down the empty corridor, loud enough to make you flinch.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t looking at the door - he’s looking at you, checking if you’re still with him. “You okay?”

You swallow and nod once.

Inside, the room is dark and the air is thick with dust and disuse. But the outline of shelves and dozens of tall, metal filing cabinets are visible in the glow of your flashlights.

Your stomach somersaults. This has to be it. If anything is to be found, it’s in this room. Bucky called it a gut feeling, but you feel it in your bones.

You don’t even know where to start. This had been one of the very few rooms completely off limits to the widows. Of course, you’d never questioned it at the time, but now you hope that the restriction had been in place to prevent you and the other girls from discovering certain information.

Bucky shines his flashlight towards the far right of the room. “We’ll start on opposite sides,” he suggests quietly. “Meet in the middle?”

He pauses, his gaze settling on your face before taking a step inside the room. He looks like he wants to ask are you sure you’re ready for this?

You wouldn’t know how to answer that if he asked. But you came all this way, so you suppose you have no choice but to be ready.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You move to the nearest cabinet. The metal handle is icy beneath your fingers. You hesitate for half a heartbeat and then pull it open with a rusty screech.

Inside are rows and rows of old manila folders, each labeled in Russian. You curse under your breath - your Russian is a bit rusty to say the least. You primarily spoke Slovak and Hungarian.

Dates. Identification codes. Names that you don’t recognize. Words in a language you aren’t fluent in.

You take a deep breath and begin flipping through the files. One by one, line by line, until you’re confident that each one contains nothing of value.

You try to move as strategically as possible, forcing yourself not to rush even though the voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you that you don’t have much time. Any of your teammates could call for help at any given moment.

Most of the files are filled with incident logs and mission reports, some are behavioral assessments of girls who may or may not still be alive. You don’t recognize any names.

You grab one at random and flip it open.

Not you. Another widow - someone you didn’t even know that you remembered until right now, looking at a grainy, black and white Polaroid of her young face.

You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Is she still alive? Did she make it out of this place? Has she found safety? Happiness? A life for herself, like you have?

“Any luck yet?”

Bucky’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You clear your throat, quickly closing the file and cramming it back in the drawer.

“No,” you murmur, voice strained. “Nothing yet. Nothing about me.”

You keep going. Third cabinet, then fourth, then fifth.

Your stomach feels as if it is tying itself in knots, each drawer that turns up empty making bile rise higher in your throat. Maybe this was stupid. Maybe there’s nothing here. Maybe Bucky was wrong, maybe you were wrong, maybe this is a waste of time and—

Your fingers halt on a tab. The label is faded and the ink is smudged with age, but the writing is still visible. Still legible. Numbers - it’s how they identified you. Widows were just numbers to them. Just assets. Not people worthy of names.

“Bucky.”

Your voice is only a notch above a whisper, but he hears you. He pauses what he’s doing right away and walks the short distance to where you stand frozen with the manila folder clutched in your trembling hands.

“68465,” he breathes, then glances up at you. “That’s you?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “This is me.” You place the flashlight you’re still gripping tight on top of the filing cabinet to take the file in both hands.

You could be seconds away from answers. From closure.

Still, you hesitate. Your mouth goes painfully dry and your fingers hover over the cover as you’re hit with the overwhelming realization that whatever you see when you open this file cannot be unlearned. Once you open it, there’s no going back.

But you came all this way for this. 4,263 miles, to be exact.

You take a deep breath and start to pull the cover back.

“Wait.”

Bucky’s vibranium hand closes around your wrist before the folder opens a fraction of an inch. You freeze, looking up at him. He’s already looking at you, mouth parted like he’s on the verge of saying something but holding himself back.

“What?” You breathe. “What is it?”

He doesn’t drop your hand. His grip is loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you’re still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Before you open that, there’s something you need to know. Something that I should have told you before now,” he says, voice low.

You nod because you don’t trust your voice enough to speak.

“I don’t care what that file says,” he starts, looking at you with a kind of intensity that you’ve never seen from him before. “It doesn’t matter to me.” He pauses, exhaling a shaky breath.

You shake your head meekly. “I don’t understand—”

“Because I’m in love with you.”

The confession is followed by the kind of silence that would allow you to hear a pin drop from down the hallway. You blink, trying to convince yourself that this isn’t your subconscious playing some kind of twisted joke on you.

Your body feels numb except for where the icy vibranium of his fingers still grip your wrist. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird for you to hear,” he continues, swallowing thickly. “I know my timing isn’t great. But I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes. I’m in love with you. Even if you open that file and find out that you’re meant to be with someone else. Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you. I’ll love you just the same as I do right now.”

You hold your breath the entire time he’s speaking, only exhaling when heavy silence settles over the room and you feel lightheaded. A thousand different questions race through your mind.

“Bucky—”

Crackling static from your comms interrupt whatever thought hasn't even finished forming inside your head when you speak his name.

Yelena’s voice fills the silence and Bucky finally drops your hand.

“Guys? We think we found the source of the signal,” she calls, blissfully unaware of what she is interrupting. “Looks like some old equipment came back online. Probably just wires short circuiting from the recent snowstorm.”

Walker’s voice pours from the comms next, muttering some complaint about traveling so far for nothing, but you’re not paying attention to him.

Neither is Bucky. His gaze drops from your face down to the file in your hands.

“Barnes?” Yelena calls, followed by your name. “Can you two hear us?”

You click on your comm without looking away from him. “Yeah,” you answer, your voice cracking. “We hear you. Let’s get out of here.”

It’s not that you want to walk away from him. It’s that you can’t fucking think straight while he’s looking at you the way that he is. Like you have the ability to break his heart into pieces with whatever you choose to say next.

And even if you didn’t know that was possible until two minutes ago, breaking his heart is the last thing you ever want to do. But he just dropped a nuclear level bomb and said the last words you ever fucking expected him to say to you.

You don’t know what to think. What to feel. You’re torn between kissing him, looking in your file for the answers you came here for, and screaming at the top of your lungs.

You do none of these things, of course.

Instead of doing something in the heat of the moment that you might regret, you tuck the file under your arm and turn to walk away.

You haven’t even taken three steps when a hand closes around your wrist again. This time, warm skin instead of vibranium. You immediately come to a halt - both your steps and your breathing.

“Say something,” he pleads, voice low. “Anything.”

You don’t look back. Can’t quite bear to face him. At least until you’ve had a chance to clear your head and attempt to make sense of what you’re feeling right now.

But you don’t pull your hand away, either.

“I just need some time to think,” you whisper, though it feels like you’re shouting in the eerily quiet warehouse basement. “I don’t know what to say, Bucky. I just..need some time.”

His fingers twitch around your wrist like he’s debating whether he should let go or hold on. “Okay,” he whispers back. “I can wait. When you know what to say, you know where to find me.”

God. He’s so good. Gentle, patient, understanding. Even now, when you can’t bring yourself to say the one thing he most wants to hear.

You nod because your throat is too tight for words. You nod because if you open your mouth, you’ll let your heart make a decision that you aren’t ready for.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

The flight is calm in the familiar way that they usually are after missions. Everyone is ready to be home, and annoyed that the trip to Slovakia was essentially for nothing.

Well, to their knowledge, it was for nothing. Everyone except for Bucky remains unaware of what transpired in the warehouse basement, as you had managed to conceal your file in the interior of your tactical vest until you made it back to the jet.

Yelena was quick to curl up under a blanket across the aisle from you, her face now lit by the glow of her phone as she FaceTimes with Bob. Walker and Ava are cuddled up on a cot that is far too small for the both of them, already fast asleep. You’re not really sure where Alexei is - probably raiding the nonperishable food supply in the back of the jet.

Bucky, who detests flying and usually does everything in his power to get out of doing so, took it upon himself to pilot the trip back to Manhattan.

As soon as everyone was properly distracted, you crammed the file into your duffel bag. Out of sight, but far from out of mind.

You’d been so sure that you were moments away from answers. And you had been - just not the answers that you were expecting.

Bucky loves you. He’s in love with you.

You haven’t gone a full minute without replaying his exact words in your head since he first said them.

I don’t care what that file says. It doesn’t matter to me. Because I’m in love with you. I needed you to hear it. At least once. Before everything changes.

Say something. Anything.

But it isn’t any of these words that echo the loudest in your mind. Not the confession or the pleading for a response. No, it’s something else that he said - something that answers a question you’ve had since you met him but never had the courage to ask.

Even if your mark looks nothing like mine, it won’t change the way I feel about you.

The implication of the words isn’t lost on you. Maybe your mark doesn’t match his - but there’s a chance that it could. There’s a chance it could because he’s never found his soulmate.

Not at any point in the thirties or forties. Not during the war. Not when he was in and out of cryofreeze for decades, not during his time in Romania or Wakanda, not after the blip.

The weight of that truth sinks in as you lift your gaze toward the cockpit. You can only see the edge of his profile from here, the line of his jaw illuminated by the soft light of the controls.

The sight of him makes your chest ache. You dig your nails into the leather of your seat to resist standing up and going to him right now.

He loves you. Not because he’s meant to, not because a mark on his skin tells him to, but of his own free will. And that’s enough for you. More than enough - enough to keep the file closed and choose him, too.

And when you get back home, that’s exactly what you plan to do.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

Bucky doesn’t remember the walk from the jet to his bedroom. He barely even remembers going through the motions of showering five minutes ago, let alone flying a jet from Slovakia back to New York.

Honestly, it’s a miracle that he got everyone back safely. The last thing he should have been doing was piloting a fucking jet, but he needed something to focus on other than you.

You, and what he said to you, and how you looked at him in the old archive room where he begged you to say anything.

Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. Maybe he should have just let you open the file. But he knew that once you did, he may never have the chance again. He knew that if he didn’t say it then, he may never say it at all.

And saying it hadn’t felt wrong. How could it? He meant every word. He meant it when he said he loves you, he meant it when he said that he doesn’t care if your mark doesn’t match his, and he meant it when he said that he can wait for you.

He sinks down on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hair still damp from the shower and dripping onto the floorboards. He should be exhausted. He is exhausted. The digital alarm clock by his bedside reads that it’s nearly four in the morning. But his mind hasn’t stopped spinning since the moment you pulled away from him in that cold, musty archive room.

He has yet to stop replaying the look on your face. Equal parts disbelief and shock mixed with something that he wants to believe was longing. You may not have verbally returned his sentiments, but the way you’d looked at him had given him hope. At least a little.

He doesn’t blame you for not answering. Hell, what answer had he expected? You’d literally been holding the file in your hands and he physically stopped you from opening it when you were seconds away from learning crucial information about yourself.

Information you’d been denied your entire life. Information that he had no idea what it was like to not have. At least, not in the same way as you. He may have lost his arm, and with it his soul mark, back in the forties when he fell from that train - but he eventually regained his memories. This was your only chance to know what most people know about themselves their whole lives.

And he’d essentially asked you to choose him without knowing it. Without knowing anything other than he loves you.

That wasn’t fair.

He wonders if you’ve opened the file yet. Or if you crawled in bed and fell asleep as soon as you closed the door to your bedroom. Or if you happen to be wide awake and borderline spiraling like he is right now.

A quiet sound pulls him from his thoughts. A soft, tentative two tap knock against his bedroom door.

He freezes. For a split second, he thinks he imagined it - that it’s just sleep deprivation and he’s hallucinating. But a moment later, he hears it again.

“Bucky?” You call softly from the other side of the door. If he didn’t have heightened senses, he likely wouldn’t have heard you at all.

He’s on his feet before his brain makes the conscious decision to move. When he opens the door, you’re standing there. Barefoot in plaid pajama shorts and a tank top, file clutched to your chest.

“Hi,” you whisper. Your voice is hoarse, like you haven’t used it since the warehouse.

Bucky swallows. “Hi.”

“I know it’s late but…” You shift your weight nervously, looking down at the ground. “Is it okay if I come in?”

“Of course,” he murmurs, stepping aside and opening the door wider for you. “Always.”

For one, impossibly long moment, neither of you speak. You pause near the foot of his bed, looking like you aren’t sure if you should sit or continue to stand.

He parts his lips to speak when you take the words right out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out.

He stiffens. “Sorry? For what?”

“For…back there.” You lift your eyes to meet his. “For not saying anything. For just walking away and leaving you hanging.” Your throat bobs as you swallow. He opens his mouth to tell you that you don’t owe him any kind of apology, that he shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that, that he understands - but you keep speaking before he can.

“I haven’t looked,” you murmur, looking down at the file in your hands. You release a shaky breath and toss the folder onto his bed. “Haven’t opened it. I didn’t even touch it again until I came here.”

His breath catches in his chest. He tries not to look relieved - knows he shouldn’t feel that way, but selfishly does. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You shake your head. “There’s something else I want to do more.”

You take a step closer to him. And then another. And another, until you’re close enough that he can feel warmth radiating from your chest and smell notes of vanilla from your perfume. Until you’re close enough that he can count each individual eyelash.

He doesn’t move. Couldn’t even if he tried.

Your eyes lock onto his, seemingly searching for some hint of hesitation that you aren’t going to find. Then, your gaze flickers to his lips and he swears his heart stops beating until the moment he feels your lips touch his.

The first brush of your lips is featherlight and still manages to send a shock through him. Your hands hover against his chest for a brief moment before curling into the fabric of his t-shirt and pulling him down to you.

He melts. There’s no better way to describe the way his vibranium hand grips your waist and flesh hand raises to cup the side of your neck, tilting your head slightly to deepen the kiss.

You’re somehow even fucking sweeter than he imagined you’d be. One taste of the birthday cake flavored balm on your lips and it suddenly makes sense why he fell from that train over seventy years ago.

He tries and fails to swallow a groan as your fingers trail up his chest, over his shoulders and into the still damp strands of his hair.

You let out the tiniest whimper against his mouth when his tongue rakes over the swell of your bottom lip and he’s convinced he’s dreaming. He had to have passed out when he got home and this is one of his dreams on steroids.

He’d happily stand here and kiss you until you both pass out from lack of oxygen or exhaustion, but you pull away all too soon.

“Did you mean it?” You breathe, spearmint breath fanning across his lips.

He doesn’t need to ask what you’re referring to.

“Yes,” he whispers, immediate and more sure than ever. “More than you know.”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, cupping his face in your palms. “That’s all I need. That’s all that matters to me.” You lean up on the tip of your toes, pressing your lips to his once more. It’s brief but still knocks the air from his lungs all over again. Before you pull away, he notices that your cheeks are damp and he can’t tell if it’s from your tears or his own.

“I love you, Bucky,” you whisper. “And I choose you. Of my own free will. Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says, I love you.”

He doesn’t know who kisses who this time, but that doesn’t matter. All he can think about is the way you said you love him.

I love you, Bucky. I choose you.

Regardless of what any mark or piece of paper says.

It would be so easy to lose himself in this. Too easy to pick you up and carry you the short distance to his bed and continue to kiss you all over as you tell him exactly what he wants to hear until the sun rises.

Which is why it takes every ounce of strength he has to tear his mouth from yours - breathing hard and eyes squeezed shut like it physically pains him to stop.

“Wait,” he manages, missing the way you taste the second he pulls away. “Hold on just a second, baby.” The petname slips from his lips without a second thought.

Fuck, he hopes he won’t regret his next words.

You look up at him, dazed, and drop your hands from his face. “What’s wrong? Did I do something—”

“No, no. God, no,” he huffs, planting his hands firmly on either side of your waist. “Not at all. You have no idea how badly I want this. How badly I’ve wanted this for so long. But the last thing I want is for you to have any regrets. You deserve to know the truth. The whole truth.”

You shake your head, your eyes boring into his. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter—”

“Look… whatever is in there, it changes nothing for me. But it’s yours. It’s a piece of you that you deserve to have before making any decision. So please… don’t do it for me. Do it for yourself. Look in the file. And no matter what you find, if you want me, I’m yours.”

You exhale something between a sigh and a laugh. Then, a smirk blooms on your face. “If I look in the stupid file, will you let me keep kissing you?”

He releases a breath that he hadn’t even realized he was holding in. He smiles. “Of course.”

You stare at him for another moment before reluctantly stepping out of his hold and turning to where the file still rests on his bed.

His hands fall to his sides and he forces himself to stay still. To let you walk two steps without reaching for you again, to give you space until you’re ready to share whatever you may find. He doesn’t move, doesn’t sit, doesn’t even breathe. He just watches as you sit down on the edge of his bed, taking the file into your hands.

You glance up at him one final time, as if you’re expecting him to change his mind and tell you to stop. When he doesn’t, you take a deep breath and flip open the cover.

He watches as your eyes skim the first page before flipping to the next. At first, your expression is impassive, giving nothing away. Then, upon flipping to a third page, he hears a sharp intake of breath. He can’t see what you’re looking at from where he’s standing, but the way your teeth dig into your bottom lip and your brows knit together tell him what it must be.

“It’s your mark,” he murmurs. “Isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. Your fingers trace over something on the page. Then, slowly, without looking up at him, you nod.

His stomach sinks. He knew it was coming, but yet his stomach still sinks. He hesitates for a moment longer before taking a tentative step towards you, still unsure if you want him to see. Then, you angle the folder enough for him to catch a glimpse.

A Polaroid. A three inch by three inch square picturing a tiny arm. Too small. Barely the size of his fucking hand. And on that tiny arm, right in the ditch - right where his soul mark once decorated his own skin - is dark lettering. He can’t make out exactly what it says, but the location and positioning is so similar to his own that his knees nearly buckle.

“It’s in Russian,” you huff, holding the photograph out to him.

The brief hope he’d felt immediately disappears.

His soul mark hadn’t been a word in Russian - his had been a word in English.

Home.

“My Russian is rusty. What does it say?” You ask softly.

He reluctantly accepts the picture. His heart plummets at the sight of your tiny arm. You couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. He focuses on the soul mark in the bend of your arm. The picture quality is grainy but he can still make out the Russian letters.

The picture nearly falls out of his hands.

“дом.”

“дом?” You repeat, dumbfounded. “What does that mean?”

But his brain is reeling. His heart feels like it’s beating a mile a minute.

“Bucky?”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a breathless, incredulous laugh that leaves you looking more confused than ever.

He’s going to answer you. He’s going to tell you what your soul mark translates to in English. But first, there’s something he wants to find.

In just three large strides, he’s to the closet on the opposite side of his bedroom. He flings the door open and crouches down, sifting through random storage totes and boxes on the floor as you question what the hell he’s doing from behind him.

He knows he looks like a lunatic right now. But it’ll all make sense to you in a matter of moments, if he can just find—

There.

A manila folder. Similar to yours that lies on his bed just feet away. A folder that, years ago, Natasha Romanoff had managed to get her hands on. A folder that she gave to Steve when he first began his search for Bucky after learning that he was still alive. A file that, like yours, contains photographs of him.

Various photographs. One of him at just twenty-seven years old, in his army uniform. One of him in a cryofreeze chamber. And lastly, the one he’s about to show you.

A picture taken the day he fell from that train in 1945. A picture that has made him sick to his stomach every time he’s looked at it, until now.

Because now, it isn’t just the last picture ever taken of his left arm - mangled and bloody and barely attached to his body before Hydra fully amputated it and replaced it with a metal appendage.

Now, it’s physical, undeniable proof of what that pesky phantom itch in the ditch of his vibranium arm has tried to tell him since he first met you.

That you’re his soulmate.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

It’s the third time you’ve asked that exact question in the last sixty seconds.

You can see what he’s doing - rummaging through his closet on his hands and knees. What you don’t know is why. He hadn’t given you any explanation as to what he’s doing - what he’s looking for.

He said a word in Russian - presumably the word that was once displayed on your arm - and started ripping shit out of his closet like his life depends on it.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “If you’re not going to tell me what you’re looking for, will you at least tell me what дом means? I didn’t bring my phone with me so I can’t exactly ask Google Translate—”

He turns around, a rectangular photograph visible in his hands. You freeze mid sentence.

“It means home,” he murmurs, his expression calm. A soft smile that reaches his eyes. He stands up and walks over to you, stopping when he’s standing directly before you. He holds the picture out.

“Home?”

You take the picture. At first glance, you grimace at the sight, not even entirely sure what you’re looking at. It’s an arm - barely attached to a human body cut off from the rest of the picture. No face, but you quickly deduce that it’s him. Then, after processing the initial shock of what you’re looking at, your eyes settle on black lettering in the middle of his arm.

Home.

It’s English. Not Russian like yours. But it’s on the exact same arm, exact same location, exact same font. Same word. Just a different language. Like Yelena’s and Bob’s marks - each other’s initials. They may not be identical, but they’re still a perfect match.

You look up at him to find him smiling at you. “Home,” he repeats quietly, as if he’s still trying to believe it himself.

“Does this really mean what I hope—”

“Yes.” His answer comes before you can finish your question, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s exactly what it means.”

You blink rapidly, fighting a losing battle with the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my soulmate. I’m your soulmate.”

They aren’t questions. Just facts - beautiful facts that you want to scream to the skies, but it’s the middle of the night and everyone else in this tower is undoubtedly asleep, so you’ll settle for saying it loudly enough for the two of you alone to hear.

“I am,” he hums. “You are. Always have been.” He crouches down in front of where you still perch on the edge of his bed, kneeling on both knees before you. “I’ve waited more than a century to be able to say that.”

You lift one hand and rest it gently on his jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He seems to melt into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. You just stare at him, overwhelmed with emotion and at a loss for words.

He’s so fucking pretty. You can’t help but feel a little silly for thinking so at a time like this, but it’s true. He’s so pretty. His hair - his beautiful hair that you get to run your fingers through. His gorgeous ocean eyes that you get to gaze into. His lips. Oh god, his lips that you get to kiss because he’s yours.

He’s really yours.

“Come here,” you murmur.

He braces his hands on either side of your hips on the mattress, pushing himself up just enough that your faces are inches apart. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. He’s close enough that you can see every fleck of blue in his eyes. Close enough that he could kiss you if he leaned forward a fraction of an inch.

“I love you,” you hum. He swallows hard, like he’s having to physically hold himself back from pinning you to the mattress at the sound of those words leaving your lips.

His hands settle on your sides, one warm and one cold. You aren’t sure which causes goosebumps to erupt across your skin. His intoxicating scent, his close proximity, the feeling of his fingers twitching against your waist - it all makes you feel lightheaded. If you weren’t already sitting down, your legs would surely turn to jelly.

“I love you,” he breathes, his eyes darting between your eyes and your lips. “Remember how I said you could keep kissing me if you looked in the file?” Heat pools in your core. Your mouth goes dry. Too dry for you to form a verbal response, so you just nod dumbly.

“Yeah? You should do that now.”

Your heart thuds at the gentle command. You barely have time to register it before he leans in and closes the last sliver of distance between your lips and his.

This kiss makes the first ones seem tame by comparison. You quickly realize you had both been holding back, but there’s none of that now. No caution, no restraint. Just months and months of tension and longing pouring from one into the other.

You pull him onto the bed with you by the collar of his shirt until you’re lying flat and he’s hovering above you, caging you to the mattress. He supports himself with his vibranium armed braced next to your head, his flesh hand caressing the side of your neck as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against you. Through his sweatpants, you feel the firm press of his erection between your legs and involuntarily roll your hips, earning a low, guttural groan from him.

He pulls his mouth away from yours with a breathless laugh before attaching his lips to the column of your throat. He sucks the flesh between his lips and then soothes the bite with a kiss before peppering more down your neck, all while you rock your hips against his.

There’s an unprecedented type of want blooming within you. It isn’t a want, it’s a need - like if you don’t get as close to him as humanly possible, you’re going to fucking combust.

You grab the hem of his shirt and begin to tug the fabric upwards. He realizes what you’re doing and leans back on his knees to yank his t-shirt over his head, tossing it to some far corner of the room.

With his long brunet hair falling around his face and his pink lips kiss-swollen, he looks ethereal staring down at you in the soft orange glow of the lamp light. Your gaze drifts to the jagged scar carved along his shoulder, and then lower - over the broad planes of his chest, the sharp dip of his hips revealed by low-hanging sweats, and the unmistakable outline straining against the thin fabric. Heat coils low in your belly, wanting nothing more than to touch every inch of him.

“You’re so pretty,” you hum, voice unrecognizable with adoration and arousal. Pretty is the understatement of the century, but you can barely form a coherent thought.

He blushes pink. “Pretty,” he scoffs lowly, shaking his head, though he can’t conceal the smirk growing on his lips. “You’re one to talk.” He trails a vibranium finger along the waistband of your pajama shorts before hooking it inside, pausing before moving the fabric. “Is it okay if I take these off and make you feel good?”

“Yes.” You can’t find it in you to care if you sound too eager, because you are. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky and the ache in your lower belly is growing by the second, desperate for release. “Please.”

He eases the cotton material, along with your underwear, slowly down your thighs and calves and then discards them haphazardly behind him. Feeling awkwardly half-dressed in only your tank top, you sit up just enough to yank it over your head before you can talk yourself out of it.

You’re left completely bare before him. Normally, if someone looked at you the way he is right now, you’d feel the urge to hide - to cover your chest with your arms or turn away. But with him, you feel none of that. You feel the opposite. You feel seen in a way that doesn’t make you feel like you need to shrink. You’re happy to open yourself up for him because you’re made for him. And he’s made for you.

His gaze drags down your body and back to your face, his normally bright eyes dark. “Ты идеальна,” he whispers, voice strained but still soft.

Heat blooms across your cheeks and you exhale a shaky laugh. “Gonna have to tell me what that means,” you murmur. “My Russian isn’t the best, remember?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly parts your legs, his hands splayed over the skin of your inner thighs as he presses them down to the mattress. You bite your bottom lip to refrain from hissing at the sudden sensation of the tower’s chilly night air washing over your wet, sensitive folds.

“I said you’re perfect.” He answers at the exact same moment that he presses the pad of his flesh thumb over your slit, not taking his eyes off of your face as he massages the digit over your clit. A small gasp escapes you and you arch into his touch, giving your hips another roll.

He pulls his thumb away and you practically whine at the loss of pressure, but the digit is quickly replaced by his index finger teasing your entrance. He swirls the tip of it around your opening, coating it in your arousal before pulling it away, too.

Before you can so much as utter a noise of complaint, he brings the slick-coated finger to his mouth and wraps his lips around it. His eyes roll shut and he groans at the taste. “Perfect and so sweet.”

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Fuck, Bucky. Please.”

You aren’t even sure what you’re begging for. Something. Anything. There’s a fire blazing in your lower belly begging to be put out.

He hops off of the bed, hooking his arms under your knees and easing your body across the bed until your ass is level with the edge of the mattress, your legs dangling over. He crouches down, nestling himself between your legs, his face just inches away from where you need him most.

“What is it, baby?” He croons. “Tell me what you want.” Two cool vibranium fingertips tease your hole and you fight against the overwhelming desire to sink yourself onto them. “Do you want my fingers?”

Just as you open your mouth to plead with him, he glides those two metal fingers inside you - just up to his middle knuckles, but you still see stars at the welcome but sudden stretch and fullness.

“Or my mouth?” His breath fans across your cunt and he presses his lips to your clit in a brief kiss. Your fingers thread through his hair, nails digging into his scalp with just enough pressure to draw a half laugh, half hiss from him. He shakes his head in amusement, the tip of his nose brushing over the sensitive nub.

“Take your pick and stop being such a menace,” you sigh. “You’re really gonna torture your soulmate like this?”

“Sorry,” he huffs a laugh. “I’ll be nice now.”

His definition of nice, you quickly find out, is plunging the two thick digits the rest of the way inside you and curling them at the same time that he sucks your clit between his lips until you look like you’re having an exorcism. His flesh hand glides up your stomach and settles over your breast. He kneads it with enough pressure to send heat rushing through you, each squeeze making that coil in your abdomen grow tighter and tighter.

He alternates between sucking your clit and soothing it with soft kitten licks of his tongue while pumping metal fingers inside you at a torturous pace and in no time, you’re a borderline delirious mess, gasping out pleas and desperate sounds.

The sound of you whimpering his name has him moaning into you, the vibration of it giving you the tiny push you need to go tumbling over the edge. Your walls clench around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through the height of your climax, not ceasing until your body goes slack against the mattress.

Bucky presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising. He lays down on the bed beside you, propping himself up on his elbow. You’re still catching your breath when he tilts your face towards him in his flesh hand and leans down to kiss you slowly.

When he pulls back, he looks down at you hesitantly. “We don’t have to do anything else tonight. We can stop right here, if you want. We can take our time. We have all the time in the world now.”

Your heart swells at the promise. The promise of simply being with each other, for all time. You tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear and shake your head.

“Bucky,” you whisper, your voice shaky but sure. “I want you. All of you. Now that I have you…I’m always going to want all of you.”

“You have me,” he murmurs, flesh hand trailing down your arm, pausing when he gets to the spot where your soul mark once adorned your skin.

“All of me.”

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑ one year later ✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑

“If we do the chicken marsala and the lemon rosemary chicken, is that too much chicken? That’s too much chicken. Right?”

Before Bucky can give you an answer, you’re switching topics and rambling about the seating chart - something about how Sam and Walker can’t sit too close together because even after all this time, they still bicker every chance they get - as you flip pancakes with your back to him.

It’s Sunday - the one day of the week that always looks the same. He wakes you up with fresh coffee, you cook breakfast for the two of you, and you spend the morning lazing around your Brooklyn apartment. From catching up on housework, going grocery shopping for the week, and eating lunch at that one sandwich shop you love so much, it’s usually a day of familiar comfort and routine.

But you’re on edge this morning. Frazzled. The wedding is a mere six months away and it’s time to lock in final decisions about the menu, seating arrangements, and all of the other things you’ve rattled off of your mental checklist before nine o’clock this morning.

Bucky had practically felt the stress radiating from you as soon as you woke up. He’d done what he could to help you relax, of course - not letting you leave the bed until he had taken his sweet time making you moan his name in that raspy, sleep-laced voice of yours that he adores so much.

Unfortunately, the effects of that had been temporary and your fretting returned tenfold by the time you started cracking eggs into a bowl.

Even Alpine seems to take note of your stress. The usually mellow white cat is perched on top of the fridge, tail switching as she watches you pace around the kitchen. Every few minutes she lets out a little mewl, like she’s trying to ask if you’re alright.

“And we need to decide on a wedding cake flavor this week, too. The lemon one tasted like floor cleaner, so that narrows it down a bit, but we still have to decide between red velvet and—”

Bucky doesn’t give a shit if the cake tastes like Pine-Sol or if Sam and Walker knock each other unconscious in the venue parking lot. He just wants to marry you.

“What about…no chicken, no Sam or Walker, and no cake?”

You glance up at him with an annoyed expression. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugs, trying not to smirk. He knows that even propositioning something like this is risky, but it’s worth a shot. “What if we just…didn’t? Didn’t worry about any of it? What if we just go to the courthouse and get married? Tomorrow morning.”

You freeze where you’re standing on the other side of the kitchen island, plating up the food. Your expression shifts from annoyed to amused, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s joking or not. He quirks his brow and takes a sip of his coffee.

“You’re serious,” you scoff. It isn’t a question.

“Dead serious.”

“But we - we already sent out invitations. And paid a deposit on the venue. And booked a photographer, and videographer, and—”

By this point, he’s already made his way to the opposite side of the island where you stand, pulling you to him by your waist.

“Look,” he starts softly, cutting off your panicked rambling. “If you want to have a wedding, we’ll have a wedding. Of course. I want you to have whatever the hell you want.” He takes your left hand in his, staring down at the ring on your finger. His mother’s ring, from the early 1900s, passed down to his sister, Rebecca, and then given to Bucky to give to you.

His soulmate.

“But I’ve waited a very long time to marry you. All I care about is that I get to call you my wife. None of the other stuff really matters to me. Not the color of the table linens or the—”

“Okay.”

“Wait. What?” He takes an involuntary step back as if you’ve physically shocked him. Whatever the next words out of your mouth were going to be, he definitely was not expecting okay. “Really?”

You’re smiling from ear to ear. “Really. I mean, a wedding sounds nice in theory, but…this is a lot.” You gesture vaguely to the dry erase board that you had used to sketch potential seating arrangements and an array of fabric swatches littered across the dining room table. “You’re right. None of that stuff really matters. In fifty years, we probably won’t even remember any of it. When we’re old and gray, all that will matter is our vows, the rings on our fingers, and the fact that it’s me and you.”

A soft laugh escapes him. He cups your face in his hands and leans down to bring his lips to yours, vibranium thumb grazing across your cheekbone. “Speaking of vows…” He sighs, pulling back, “if we’re doing this, I should probably finish writing mine.”

“Finish them? I haven’t even started mine. I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with how many fucking gluten free entrees we need to order.”

He cackles at that. “Well, you better start writing, then. Because tomorrow morning we’re driving to the county clerk’s office and I’m making you my wife.”

He starts to lean down to kiss you once more when a melodic purr sounds from the floor at his feet. He glances down to see Alpine weaving herself between your legs, her bright blue eyes blinking up at you both.

“What do you think, Alpine?” You coo, leaning down to scoop her into your arms. “Do you think your mommy and daddy should get married tomorrow?”

The cat nuzzles your chin in answer. Bucky grins, scratching behind her ear. “See? She thinks it’s a great idea, too.”

You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head before setting her back down. Bucky slides his arms around your waist the moment you straighten, pulling you against him. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs into your hair. “I can’t wait.”

You smile up at him, cheek still pressed to his chest. “Tomorrow,” you hum in agreement.

Right in his line of sight are the scattered linen samples, dry erase board, and a planner all taking up the majority of the small dining room table. “Should we, uh…do something about all of that?”

“Hm?” You follow his gaze to see what he’s talking about. “Oh. We can chuck all of that off the fire escape for all I care.”

He was so hoping you would say that.

✧˖*°࿐⭒.⋆˖࣪⭑