falling into an existential funk

Alexei was slouched back in his chair, arms folded, halfway into a pout and 100% still bitter he couldn’t wear his suit to the meeting.

Yelena was eating out of a bag of off-brand popcorn. Loudly.

Walker sat with both arms on the table, chin lifted just enough to pretend he wasn’t being judged.

Ava was in the farthest corner, half-faded, watching everything and nothing.

And Bucky? Bucky looked like he was calculating how fast he could jump out the window.

At the head of the table stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine—heels clicking, posture stiff, holding a coffee she clearly didn’t like and an attitude sharp enough to slice glass.

Her assistant, Mel, stood beside her. Silent. Tall. Holding a tablet and radiating the vibe of someone who’s seen five too many NDA breaches.

Val tapped the screen behind her.

The monitor flashed up a still from the yesterday’s press conference: Alexei blocking a camera lens with his massive hand while Yelena flipped someone off in the background.

“Let me be clear,” she began, voice sugar-coated poison. “This—this is what the American public now associates with the term ‘Avengers.’”

“Iconic,” Yelena said around a mouthful of popcorn.

“Disastrous,” Valentina snapped.

Mel cleared her throat gently and read, without inflection, “Social media sentiment is currently down 83% across all demos under 35. Trending tags include: #WalmartAvengers, #BudgetCrisis, #YikesTeam, and #WhoEvenIsThat.”

Walker perked up. “Well at least they’re talking—”

“About how pathetic you look,” Val interjected smoothly.

She turned on him. “John, you smile like a campaign ad for expired cereal. You can’t speak without sounding like you’re reading from a teleprompter in hell.”

He blinked.

“Do you even like the team?”

“I—”

“Exactly.”

She pivoted.

“Alexei. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“I was protecting camera woman!” he protested.

“You were about to throw her into traffic because she got too close.”

“Is not my fault she was squishy.”

Mel, without missing a beat, “Three civil suits pending.”

Val turned.

“Yelena. You flipped off a priest.”

“He was filming me,” she said blandly. “And staring at my chest.”

Val nodded slowly. “And you said, quote, ‘God gave you two hands—use one to hold your phone and the other to go f—’”

“I’m sorry, is there a point?” Bucky interrupted.

Bad move.

Val beamed.

“Oh. Bucky.”

The room got real quiet.

“You were an actual a congressman,” she said sweetly, venom practically dripping. “A congressman. You were on the floor of the House of Representatives, and you still don’t know how to string a sentence together for press.”

He scowled. “I’m not here to charm people.”

“No,” she agreed, sipping her awful coffee. “You’re here to grunt monosyllabically in public like you’re allergic to communication.”

Mel clicked through another slide. “The phrase ‘Is Bucky okay?’ has been trending for 48 hours. Also ‘blink twice if you’re in trouble.’”

Val took another sip of her coffee. Winced. Put it down like it had personally offended her.

“I’m going to be honest—because none of you seem to grasp reality,” she said, stepping closer to the table like a headmistress about to assign detention to six grown adults.

“I don’t know how this team came together. Seriously. You’re all walking liabilities with shiny backstories and anger management issues.”

Alexei raised a hand. “I have good management—”

“You threw a vending machine at a janitor.”

“He insulted Mother Russia.”

Yelena rolled her eyes, slouching deeper in her chair. “You act like you didn’t cause this disaster,” she said. “You sent every mercenary you’ve ever hired to the same mountain and told them to kill each other. That was our team bonding exercise.”

Val didn’t blink. “Great point, but wrong,” she chirped.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “How.”

“Because I didn’t send all of my mercenaries.”

She straightened, like she’d been waiting to say this.

“In fact,” Val continued, spinning slightly to pace, “there’s one I kept in my back pocket. A… contingency. Someone smart. Refined. Lethal—but good for optics.”

“Sounds fake,” Walker muttered.

“Sounds expensive,” Bob whispered.

“Oh, God, please let it not be another American," Ava added under her breath.

Val ignored all of them. Her eyes lit up like a stage light had just turned on.

“You see, unlike the rest of you drama magnets, this one knows how to handle a camera and a kill order. This one knows how to wear leather without looking like a sex cultist. This one, ladies and gentlemen…”

She turned toward the doors, gesturing with a graceful, almost dramatic sweep.

“…might actually be beneficial to the New Avengers brand.”

Yelena snorted. “God, what a speech.”

Walker leaned back. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Val didn’t miss a beat.

“I would’ve sent her to that little mountain retreat with the rest of you,” she said, voice low, satisfied. “But I didn’t. Because I knew she’d be the only one to walk out of it alive.”

Silence.

Mel glanced at the door, tapped something into her tablet, and said flatly, “ETA: thirty seconds.”

Val smiled.

“Time to meet your upgrade.”

The door opened.

And the entire room fell silent.

You stepped inside like you owned the place—not loudly, not theatrically. Just… completely. Like the room had always been yours and the rest of them were lucky to be invited.

A black suit dress, cut sharp as a razor and cinched at the waist with a leather belt, hugged your frame like it had been tailored by regret itself. Legs for miles beneath it. Heels that made actual noise. The kind of confident click that didn’t just announce you—it warned people.

Hair perfect. Expression unreadable.

You looked like you’d walked off the cover of a Vogue magazine, stopped to kill someone on the way, and still arrived early.

Valentina grinned like a mother presenting her favorite child at a beauty pageant-slash-funeral.

“Everyone,” she said, clearly savoring the effect, as she introduced you.

You smiled. Not a grin. Not a smirk. An award-winning, dazzling, dangerously pretty smile.

And that’s when the team snapped out of it—sort of.

Yelena sat up straighter in her chair and shoved her popcorn aside, her gaze narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to fawn over you or interrogate you.

Walker’s jaw did something unfortunate.

Bob knocked over his water.

Ava blinked—once, sharp, observant.

Alexei just exhaled, reverent, like he’d seen a vision.

Only Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes?

They didn’t leave you. Not for a second.

Valentina clapped her hands once, sharp and smug.

“Well, don’t all drool at once.”

Yelena leaned forward first, elbow on the table, eyes sharp. “So what—did we order you out of a catalog or something?”

You gave her a half-smile, sultry and lazy. “Would’ve been a premium subscription.”

Walker raised a brow, trying to reclaim some footing. “What exactly is it that you… do?”

You tilted your head slightly. “You mean besides everything you can do, but better?”

He blinked.

“Excellent start,” Val said brightly.

Ava crossed her arms. “She’s too polished. What’s the angle?”

You turned to her without hesitation. “Polished is what you call it when someone doesn’t announce their trauma within thirty seconds of arrival.”

Alexei let out a choked laugh. “I like her.”

“Of course you do,” Yelena muttered.

Bob finally found his voice, though it was somewhere between a whisper and a sigh. “You, uh… you have a codename?”

“Nox,” you said, still smiling. “Like the night.”

Valentina beamed. “See? Magnetic and discreet.”

Ava’s eyes narrowed again. “So you’re here to do what, exactly?”

Before Val could answer, you did. Voice smooth. Impossibly calm.

“Damage control.”

The room went tense.

Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and even. “Whose damage?”

You looked at him then. Met his stare with one of your own. Held it. And smiled—just a little.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

────────────────────────

Service Corridor, Just Before Midnight [3 Months In]

He caught you between meetings.

Not planned. Not really. But Bucky had gotten good at learning your patterns—how you moved through the Watchtower with that unbothered grace, all silence and purpose and elegance wrapped in something almost dangerous.

You didn’t flinch when he stepped into your path. Just looked at him. Calm. Composed. Head slightly tilted like he might be a puzzle piece out of place.

“James,” you said. Voice even. Smooth.

A pause.

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Everyone’s already obsessed with you, you know.”

You raised a brow. “And you’re not?”

That threw him. Just a little.

He gave you a half-shrug, like he couldn’t help himself. “I don’t trust you.”

“Good,” you replied. “Means you’re not stupid.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping closer—not threatening, not dramatic. Just enough. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe right.

“Everyone thinks you’re the reformed soldier,” you continued. “Quiet. Broody. Tragic. But I don’t buy that. You don’t keep looking over your shoulder like that unless you think someone’s still coming for you.”

He swallowed once. Hard. “And what—are you?”

“Am I coming for you?”

You smiled.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

The space between you shrank by inches, thick with something sharp and burning. You smelled like danger and something softer—something expensive and clean. And the way you were looking at him?

Like he was a locked file you’d already memorized.

Then, softer—just for him, “You’re different than the others.”

“How?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You stepped even closer, eyes flicking over him like a readout. “Because you know what it’s like to be used. Bent. Broken. Rebuilt.”

You said it without pity. Without fear. Like it didn’t phase you at all.

He looked at you then—really looked. And there was something in his chest that twisted hard.

You leaned in. Close enough for your breath to hit the edge of his jaw.

“But you’re still here.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t dare to touch you.

And then—like it never happened—you stepped away.

Back to your perfect posture. Back to composure. Back to safety.

“Good talk, Sergeant,” you said with a wink.

And you walked away.

Leaving Bucky in the hallway, staring after you, already desperate for another interaction.

────────────────────────

4 Months Ago

The office was dim, filtered in violet and amber light from frosted glass and a skyline too expensive to care about. You stood across from her desk in silence—hands folded neatly, eyes unreadable, your silhouette painted against the city like an omen.

Valentina didn’t look up right away. She was typing. Slowly. Carefully.

Then, without ceremony, she said, “I have a job for you.”

You blinked. “That so?”

She looked up now. Chin high. Lipstick perfect.

“The New Avengers.”

You tilted your head slightly. “The ones you recently just named on live television?”

She gave a humorless smile. “Yes, those ones.”

There was a beat. A pause that settled between you like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“You want me to kill them?” you said flatly.

“I want you to handle them.”

“‘Handle’ as in seduce? Sabotage? Slit throats?”

Val smirked. “Dealer’s choice.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Why?”

She leaned back in her chair, folded her hands over her knee. “Because they’re liabilities. All of them. Unstable, unmarketable, emotionally broken liabilities. Half of them have kill orders from former employers. One of them’s a war criminal. Another literally fades in and out of visibility depending on how she’s feeling.”

“And you made them the face of American heroism?”

“PR move. Politics. Theater. I needed the chaos to stop. Now I need it… cleaned.”

You arched a brow. “So you created your own monster and now you want me to put it down.”

Val’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t be dramatic. I tested them. Now I’m correcting the curve.”

“And why me?”

She stood now. Walked around the desk. Her heels were quiet, but deliberate.

“Because I trust you,” she said. “Because you’re efficient. Elegant. Indisposable.”

You met her eyes.

“And because I know you,” she added, voice low. “You don’t get attached. You finish what you start.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just let the silence hang.

Then you said, dry as bone, “You really think I can take them all out?”

“I don’t think, sweetheart. I know.”

Another pause.

You glanced at the manila folder on her desk—labeled with the team’s photos. A cross-section of broken people and barely-contained chaos.

You nodded once. “Fine.”

Val smiled. “I knew I kept you for a reason.”

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Living Quarters, Late Afternoon [5 Months In]

They were spread out across the common room like children too exhausted to cause more trouble. The air was warm. Dimmed light poured in through the angled windows, golden against the muted steel of the Watchtower’s architecture. For the first time in weeks, they weren’t training. Weren’t fighting. Weren’t trying.

And so you watched.

Not because you had to.

Because you couldn’t not.

Yelena was curled sideways across one of the oversized chairs, legs draped over the armrest, eating a half-melted popsicle from a coffee mug like it was a normal thing to do. She was laughing at something Bob said—sharp, bright, uninhibited.

She kept trying to hide her warmth. But it spilled out anyway.

Ava sat opposite her, perched on the floor with a half-disassembled gadget in her lap, fingers working silently. She hadn’t looked up once in twenty minutes. But you could tell she was listening—tracking every conversation, every breath. Her gift wasn’t just stealth. It was restraint. Self-control wrapped in bitterness.

If Yelena burned like a firecracker, Ava was a cold fuse waiting for permission.

Bob had taken the corner of the sectional, crisscrossed like a teenager, a tablet balanced on one knee, a half-eaten sandwich dangling from one hand. He spoke too much. Said too little. But he was sweet. In a world that didn’t reward softness, he still had it. Still offered it.

Which made him the most dangerous one in the room... besides the fact he was a walking bipolar superhuman.

Walker was slouched back with his boots on the table,remote in hand, flipping through channels without watching a single frame. Restless. Bored. Trying too hard not to feel inferior. You knew his kind. Soldiers trained to think they were legends before they ever earned the scars. His righteousness would rot him from the inside eventually.

But you weren’t sure whether he’d burn the world down out of pride—or loneliness.

Alexei had commandeered the entire loveseat and was loudly, badly retelling the story of how he once arm-wrestled a mutant in a Siberian prison. Again.

He told it differently every time.

Today, there were two mutants. And a polar bear.

He was a relic, a fossil with fists, but the strange thing was—he never lied to impress. He believed his stories. Like they were sacred. Mythic. And somehow, that made it easier to let him speak.

You sat on the edge of it all. Legs crossed, drink untouched, eyes half-lidded.

…And then there was him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The soldier-turned-congressman-turned-reluctant superhero.

He wasn’t like the others. Never loud. Never performative. Always lurking just outside the center of the chaos, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged or if he even wanted to.

You watched him now—seated on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, watching Alexei lie through his teeth for the fiftieth time. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll his eyes. Just… watched.

Observant. Withdrawn. Dangerous in the way old scars are—quiet and unflinching.

His face had been sculpted by war, but it hadn’t dulled the beauty. The high, sharp cheekbones. The straight line of his nose. The furrow carved into his brow like regret lived there rent-free. And those eyes—God, those eyes—sad and blue like a glacier swallowing itself.

But it was his mouth that always caught you off guard.

Unnaturally pink. Like it didn’t belong on a man so grave. So heavy with history. Like softness had been stitched into his mouth as a joke.

You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He didn’t speak to you unless he had to. But when he did, it was always measured. Calculated. Like he was searching for something in you he couldn’t name.

There was something pulling about him. Like gravity in reverse.

You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or fuck him.

Maybe both. Maybe at the same time.

And that unsettled you more than any mission brief ever had.

────────────────────────

Rooftop in Prague.

The rain came down in sheets. You stood at the edge, scope aimed dead-center on Alexei's exposed silhouette as he darted through a broken alley, backlit by gunfire. The kill shot was lined up. He’d never even feel it.

You lowered the rifle.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t fire.

“Target repositioned,” you muttered into the comm.

Your finger never touched the trigger.

────────────────────────

Warehouse In Marrakesh.

Yelena was bleeding from the side, back to a concrete pillar, breath ragged as the wall exploded beside her. You could’ve let her fall. Easy. Clean. Too much noise, not enough cover. Her odds were terrible.

You moved anyway.

Tossed a flash. Dragged her out by the collar. She laughed through a mouthful of blood, saying, “I was handling it.”

“Sure,” you replied, voice flat, pulse louder than the bombs.

You never explained why you’d done it.

────────────────────────

Helicopter Extraction Above Bangkok.

Walker was hanging off the side of the landing rail, barely gripping the bar. The metal was slipping in the rain. Bucky was piloting. Ava was too far. You were closest.

You watched him dangle.

Then grabbed his wrist and hauled him up with a grunt.

He looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t,” you replied. “You’re heavy.”

He never brought it up again.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower – Your Bedroom

The dossier was spread out on your desk.

Pages torn. Notes scribbled. Photos frayed.

Each marked with opportunities.

Moments you could’ve taken.

Didn’t.

You stared at them in silence. Lips parted slightly. A strange pressure blooming beneath your ribs—one you couldn’t quite place.

Not guilt. Not fear.

Something worse.

Attachment.

You shut the folder. Locked it back inside the drawer.

And told yourself the same lie you always did:

It’s not over yet.

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Eastern Europe, Nightfall

The city burned behind you. Smoke coiled through the rain-slick streets, orange glow flickering against soaked concrete. Gunfire had finally stopped, but the echoes still rang in your ears like the ghosts of enemies who didn’t get out fast enough.

You and Bucky moved as one.

Shoulder to shoulder. No orders. No plan.

Just instinct.

You’d both bled for this one—him from a deep graze on his thigh, you from a cut along your temple—but you hadn’t stopped moving. You never did.

It was the alley, two blocks from the evac point, where it finally snapped.

You pressed your back to the wall, pulse hammering in your throat, blood trickling past your eyebrow. Bucky stood across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild and locked only on you.

No words passed. Just tension. Just truth.

And then he moved.

Fast. Certain.

His hand hit the side of your face, pulling you to him, and his mouth crashed into yours like something that had waited too long to be allowed.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

And instead of reaching for the knife at your thigh—

Instead of taking advantage of the distraction like you'd trained your whole life to do—

You grabbed him by the collar. Fisted the fabric. And devoured his mouth like you’d been starving.

The kiss turned sharp—teeth and breath and need—his metal hand on your waist, the other in your hair, your back hitting the alley wall like it had been waiting for this moment, too.

The blood didn’t matter. The bruises didn’t matter.

Only the way he kissed you. Like he didn’t know if he’d ever get to again.

And the way you kissed him back? Like maybe you wouldn’t let him stop.

────────────────────────

Late Night — Days After the Kiss [7 Months In]

It was never supposed to go this far.

You weren’t supposed to let it.

You’d trained your whole life for control—for the cold clarity of distance, of mission, of orders. You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get close.

And yet—

His hands were on your hips, bruising and reverent all at once, as you moved above him like the war inside you was the only truth left. Your thighs clenched around his waist, slick heat swallowing him again and again, his name bitten off your tongue like something sacred and forbidden.

Bucky.

You weren’t supposed to crave him.

You weren’t supposed to know what it felt like to be wanted like this—devoured like this. His lips had trailed down your collarbone, your chest, worshipped the slope of your neck like he was memorizing a language only your body spoke. He said your name like it was the only word he remembered.

And now he lay beneath you, naked and sweat-slicked, muscles straining, head tilted back in awe as you rocked your hips harder, chasing your release on top of him.

“You weren’t supposed to be this,” you whispered, breathless, the confession splitting you open.

His hands gripped your ass, guiding your pace, mouth parted with a groan that made your spine arch.

“I don’t care,” he rasped. “I don’t fucking care.”

He looked at you like he’d give anything—everything—just to keep you here.

And that was the most terrifying part.

Because you felt it, too.

The break. The fracture. The pull of him inside you—not just physically, but the way his presence cracked something in you you’d spent a lifetime keeping sealed.

Your fingers tangled in his hair. Your hips met his again, harder, faster, like if you just kept moving you wouldn’t have to think. Wouldn’t have to feel.

But you did.

You felt him everywhere.

And the conflict that had haunted you for days—the guilt, the mission, the lie—faded to static when his hands slid up your spine, pulling you down to him, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so desperate, so hungry, you could’ve drowned in it.

“You ruin me,” he murmured, voice low, trembling.

You didn’t respond. You just kept moving.

Because if you stopped—if you let the silence in—then you’d have to admit the truth,

You weren’t a weapon anymore.

You were his. Even if only for tonight.

Your breath hitched as he thrust up into you again, your hips slamming down to meet him—harsh, unrelenting, perfect. The headboard rattled behind him, a soft percussion against the wall, drowned out by the slick, obscene sounds of your bodies crashing together again and again.

Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your waist, dragging his fingers over the curve of your breasts like he didn’t know what to touch first. His lips were parted, flushed, pupils blown wide as he looked up at you like you were something he was praying to and falling apart under all at once.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel so good—God, you—”

You cut him off with a kiss, crushing your mouth to his, swallowing every ragged sound like it would keep you from shattering. His tongue met yours with the same hunger you were trying to deny, messy and wet and real, your teeth grazing his bottom lip as you rocked harder, faster, chasing the rush that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with him.

He met every grind of your hips with thrusts so deep, so precise, they had you moaning into his mouth, your fingers digging into his chest hard enough to leave half-moons in his skin. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Look at me,” he said suddenly, voice wrecked, one hand curling around the back of your neck to keep you there, close. “Please, baby, look at me—”

You did.

And that was your end.

The way he looked at you—like you were the last thing in the world worth bleeding for—sent a white-hot spike down your spine.

Your body trembled as you fell over the edge, your orgasm tearing through you like a current, your thighs shaking around him, a broken gasp ripped from your throat as you came—hard, clenched tight around him.

Bucky cursed, bucking up into you, desperate and lost.

“I’m not gonna last,” he choked, voice raw as he held your hips down, driving into you faster, deeper, chasing his own high. “I—fuck, I’m—”

“Do it,” you whispered, still breathless, your lips brushing his ear. “Come in me.”

That shattered him.

With a guttural groan, he spilled inside you, hands fisting in the sheets as his hips stuttered beneath yours, jaw clenched, body taut like a drawn bowstring.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you breathing like survivors. His hand cradled the back of your head. Your heartbeat thundered against his ribcage.

And for a moment—just one quiet, burning moment—you let yourself stay there.

In the ruin. In him.

────────────────────────

The light outside was a soft gray, bleeding through the curtains like regret. The room was still. Still humid with the afterglow, your bodies tangled in a quiet that should’ve been peaceful. Should’ve felt like a victory.

Instead, it sat like a blade in your throat.

You lay on his chest—skin to skin, heart to heartbeat—listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breath. He was asleep. One arm loosely slung around your waist, the other resting against the sheets, fingers curled gently inward like he’d been dreaming.

His head tilted slightly down, as if instinctively drawn to you even in unconsciousness. His brow, usually furrowed, had smoothed. And his lips—those soft, ridiculous, obscenely pink lips—were parted just barely, like a secret trying to escape.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem.

Because he looked so human like this. So real. So unguarded.

You could kill him.

Right now.

Your knife was in the drawer next to the bed. Seven inches of forged steel. You could reach it in half a second. Press the blade to his throat in one. End it all before he even stirred.

And he wouldn’t fight back.

Not like this. Not with the way he held you.

He trusted you.

Fool.

Your chest tightened.

What were you doing?

You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be with him. This wasn’t affection. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

You were the contingency plan. You were the weapon Val sent to finish the job.

And here you were—laying on the man you should’ve gutted by now. Letting his breath warm your hair. Letting his heartbeat lull you into a sleep you didn’t deserve.

This wasn’t mercy. This was weakness.

You clenched your jaw. Blinked slowly.

His arm tightened slightly around you in his sleep, like his body knew you were thinking of leaving. Like it would pull you back in even if his mind couldn’t.

And the worst part? You didn’t move. You didn’t reach for the blade.

You just stayed. Hating yourself for it. Hating that you didn’t know why.

His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady as ever. Unaware. Unafraid.

And that only made it worse.

You closed your eyes—but the darkness behind them felt louder than the room. Thoughts crashing like gunfire, one after another.

You were supposed to kill them.

That was the job. That was always the job.

Every decision Val made, every lie you echoed—it all came down to this: infiltration, then execution. Simple. Cold. Efficient.

And they’d made it so easy. They trusted you. All of them.

Bob with his stammering kindness. Ava with her guarded nods. Yelena, teasing you with every spar but pulling you closer with every glance.

Even Walker—dumb, righteous Walker—looked at you like maybe you were the one person who didn’t pity him.

And Alexei… the fool. He already had your name etched in some bizarre corner of his broken heart.

You could end it tonight. Slit throats. Slip poison. Vanish before sunrise.

And yet—

You couldn’t.

Not to them. Not now.

Especially not to him.

You looked up again—his face still soft in sleep, lips slightly parted. Hair tousled across his brow.

The man who should’ve been your first target. The one whose past was wrapped in so much pain, you recognized it in yourself.

You were never supposed to touch him.

But now you knew how he tasted. How he whispered your name. How he looked at you like you weren’t a weapon, or an operative, or a mask.

Like you were worth saving. You could never hurt him.

But you already had.

Every kiss, every touch, every breath you took beside him—a lie.

If he found out—if he ever knew why you were sent here—he’d never forgive you.

And you couldn’t blame him.

It was a no-win scenario. There was no exit that didn’t leave something broken behind.

Tell the truth? He’d turn on you.

Run? He’d never understand why.

Either way, it would end the same—

In ruin.

Because you weren’t built for happy endings. You were built to destroy them.

And he’d never see it coming.

Unless you stopped this now. Unless you left. But you stayed.

Even when every cell in your body screamed to run, to vanish, to disappear before the sun came up and this all became something real.

You stayed.

Because there was no happy ending for people like you—not with him. Not with anyone.

But God, you wanted it. You wanted him.

And that need burned louder than the guilt.

So you shifted—slowly, carefully—until you were hovering above him again, chest brushing his, hair falling forward around your face like a veil of shadows.

His arm was still around you, limp in sleep. His face turned toward you, jaw soft, lashes fluttering against his cheek. He looked younger like this. Human.

Yours. And it hurt.

Your lips brushed his jaw first—light, tentative. Then his cheek. His temple. And finally—finally—his mouth.

A soft kiss. Then another.

He stirred beneath you, lashes fluttering, lips parting as he blinked himself awake.

“…hmm?”

He was groggy. Beautiful. Confused.

You kissed him again—firmer this time, lips trembling now, your hand resting on his chest like it was the only thing holding you together.

And against his lips, you whispered—

“I need you again.”

He blinked, still caught in the haze. “You—what?”

Your hands slid to his shoulders as you straddled him, slipping fully over his waist, grinding down slowly, purposefully. “I just—need you,” you repeated, breath catching. “Don’t ask why. Just… have me.”

His hands found your hips, warm and grounding. His voice was still rough with sleep, but the way he looked up at you—that gaze—it was like you could ask for anything in this world, and he'd be willing to give it.

And you leaned down—pressing your mouth to his again—like it was the only thing keeping you from breaking completely.

Because it was. Because he was.

And even if it would all burn down soon, for now, you could pretend there was something here worth saving.

Bucky was still half-asleep, blinking up at you with those soft, dazed eyes, his voice low and rasped with confusion.

“You okay?” he asked, hands instinctively anchoring at your hips, warm and callused and so steady it nearly undid you.

You didn’t answer.

You just rocked against him once—slow and deep—and watched his lips part with a breathless gasp as your heat slid over him again. Not teasing. Not playful.

Just aching.

“Shit,” he whispered, his brow furrowing, but his hands didn’t stop—they gripped tighter, like he was scared you’d disappear. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You kissed him instead of answering. Pressed your lips to his jaw. His cheek. His mouth. Each one slower, deeper, needier. You weren’t trying to get him hard. You were trying to feel him—to burn every inch of him into your skin like it would somehow keep you from unraveling.

He was already thick and aching beneath you, body reacting to you even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

But it didn’t matter.

You reached between you, lined him up, and sank down slowly—so slowly—with a broken breath that scraped the back of your throat. His hands shot to your thighs, mouth falling open in a groan as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck—oh shit—” he hissed, jaw clenched as you took him inch by inch, your nails digging into his chest for balance. “What is this—why now?”

“Don’t talk,” you whispered, voice barely there.

He didn’t. He just watched you. Let you move. Let you set the pace.

And God, you moved like it was the last time you’d ever get to—hips slow and deep, rolling in a rhythm carved from sorrow and want and a need to forget everything else.

Bucky’s hands roamed—your hips, your thighs, your waist. He kissed your sternum. Your ribs. Over your heart. He whispered your name like it was a prayer, trying to read you, trying to understand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And still—he gave you everything.

He thrust up just enough to meet you, not rough, not rushed. Just there. With you. Matching your rhythm, matching your breath, letting you take and take and take.

Until your head dropped to his shoulder and your body trembled against his, thighs quivering, your moan caught between a sob and a plea.

His arms locked around you.

Holding you as you shattered again, pulsing around him in a slow, aching climax.

And still—he didn’t ask.

He just kissed your temple. And held you tighter.

Like that would be enough.

────────────────────────

Weeks Later

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not just what you did, but how it felt.

And that was the problem. Because it wasn’t just sex.

It was him.

Bucky.

The way he held you. The way he whispered your name like he knew you. The way he looked at you with that stupid, open-eyed devotion, like you hadn’t spent every hour of your life perfecting the art of being unlovable.

And now… you hated yourself for how easily you let him in.

Your unbreakable mask—gone. Your hardened shell—disarmed.

That perfect, glacial facade you built with blood and bone and discipline was slipping more every time he touched you.

And he touched you a lot.

Not just in bed, but everywhere.

His hand brushing yours in passing. That lazy, half-smile he wore only for you. The way his arms curled around your waist at night like he couldn’t sleep without anchoring to you.

It was addicting. And it made you sick.

Because every time you let yourself melt into his warmth—his breath against your throat, his lips pressed to the curve of your shoulder, your bodies tangled beneath sheets—you felt less like a weapon and more like a lie.

He trusted you. And you couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror.

You were supposed to be stronger than this. Sharper. Smarter.

But now all it took was his voice in the dark and his fingers on your skin to make you forget that this was all a fucking trap.

That you weren’t supposed to feel this way. Want this.

Crave this.

────────────────────────

Late Night [10 Months In]

The sheets were a mess. Twisted low on your hips, warm with the heat of two bodies tangled together and wrecked by want.

Bucky’s chest rose beneath your cheek, slow and steady. His arm was wrapped around your back, fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

The room was quiet.

But not empty.

He broke the silence first.

“Can I ask you something?”

You didn’t lift your head. “You already are.”

His chest shook with a soft chuckle. “You’ve been on this team for ten months,” he said, voice low, rough with exhaustion but laced with something… earnest. “And I still don’t know anything about you.”

You stayed still, heart tightening.

“I mean—” he continued, “I know you. I’ve fought beside you. Slept beside you.” His hand slid up your back, palm warm. “But I don’t know where you’re from. Or how you got to this point. Or what made you… you.”

You exhaled through your nose. Still didn’t lift your head. “That’s three questions, James.”

“I’m serious.”

“I can tell.”

He sighed. You could feel the frustration in his chest. Not anger—just that same yearning that always bled into his voice when it came to you.

And maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the warmth of his skin. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept in days without him beside you, because of the team's last mission.

But something in you cracked just enough.

“My favorite color’s blue,” you said softly.

Bucky blinked. “Blue?”

“Mhm.”

He smiled at the ceiling. “Okay… blue. What else?”

“I like summer.”

“Yeah?”

“And I’ve always wanted to go to Fiji.”

That made him laugh—soft and surprised, mouth curved against the crown of your head. “Fiji? Seriously?”

“I said I wanted to. Doesn’t mean I ever will.”

A beat passed. Then another.

“You just…” he started, then stopped. His voice was lower now, honest in a way that made your skin itch. “You say things like they don’t matter.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.”

You finally lifted your head.

Looked at him.

And the weight of that gaze—so open, so damn earnest—made your chest tighten in ways you hated.

“I don’t do sentimental,” you said flatly.

He nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just… let me know you.”

The silence returned. That soft, almost sacred hush that filled the space between your breaths. His fingertips brushed slow circles over your lower back, his heart steady beneath your hand.

Then, softly—almost like it didn’t want to be heard—you whispered, “If I told you all my secrets… you’d probably hate me.”

His hand stilled.

The words hung heavy in the air, and you swore you could hear his heartbeat stutter once. Then,

“I could never hate you.”

He said it so firmly. So damn sure. Like it wasn’t even up for debate.

Like he didn’t care what you were hiding. Like he’d already decided you were still worth loving. And that was too much.

And it hit you square in the chest.

Too deep. Too close.

You couldn’t let it linger.

So you leaned in—lips brushing his, then pressing harder, swallowing whatever else he might’ve said. Your kiss was slow at first, soft and searching—then it shifted. Changed. Turned sharp and demanding.

A distraction.

The best kind.

You kissed him again, your tongue slipping against his as your hand slid down his chest, and then you shifted—swinging a leg over and settling into his hips, your thighs bracketing his waist.

Bucky pulled back with a breathless laugh, still half-caught in the tangle of sleep and heat. “Already?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, that familiar hunger blooming in his gaze.

“Shut up,” you whispered against his mouth.

And you kissed him again.

Harder this time.

Grinding down slowly, deliberately, feeling him already hard beneath you.

He let out a small grunt, fingers gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide whether to slow you down or help you go faster.

You rolled your hips again, chasing that friction, burying the ache in your chest beneath the ache in your body.

Because this—this—you could control.

This, you understood.

You kissed him again. And again.

Until the words you didn’t say disappeared into the dark.

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

It was quiet again.

That kind of stillness only the early hours knew—when the world outside was asleep and nothing dared to move. The room was cloaked in shadow, the only light spilling from the streetlamps outside, soft and gold against the sheets.

Bucky slept beside you.

One arm wrapped around your waist, his body pressed close, legs tangled in yours like he was trying to become a part of you.

He held you like you were home.

And it broke you.

You watched him, barely blinking, your eyes tracing every line of his face like they were sacred. The furrow in his brow. The faintest scar near his temple. Those lips—soft and parted in sleep, exhaling slow, even breaths.

You wanted to remember him like this.

Wanted to keep him like this.

But that was a fantasy.

And you didn’t get fantasies.

You got orders.

And you’d failed them.

Worse—you’d betrayed them.

And now everything was coming to a head. Every secret. Every night. Every lie you fed into his mouth while he kissed yours like it was salvation.

So you made your decision.

The coward’s way out.

Not a confession. Not a fight. Just… disappearing.

Slowly, carefully, you shifted.

His arm around you was heavy—solid, warm, safe. You held your breath as you lifted it just enough to slip free, your chest clenching at the soft noise he made in his sleep.

His brow furrowed, his body shifting toward yours, almost instinctively trying to pull you back.

You froze.

Waited.

Watched him settle again.

His hand landed on your side, reaching for you like he could sense your absence even in sleep.

You closed your eyes.

Bit your lip.

And pulled away anyway.

Each movement felt like a sin. Your feet hit the cold floor like a finality. You turned, standing there in the dark, watching him one last time.

And for a second, you almost climbed back in.

Almost said fuck it. Almost stayed.

But instead—

You walked out.

And didn’t look back.

────────────────────────

The Next Morning

The first thing Bucky felt was the cold.

A strange emptiness across his chest where there had, without fail, been warmth. Soft, steady breath against his skin. A thigh draped lazily over his own. Fingers curled into his shirt like they belonged there.

But not this morning.

This morning, there was only space.

He blinked awake slowly, groggy and disoriented, the light through the window pale and early. He ran a hand over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, your warmth, the familiar curve of you still curled against him.

Instead—just linen. Cool. Still.

His brow furrowed.

He sat up slowly, glancing around the room. Your clothes weren’t there. The chair where you always dropped your heels was empty. The bathroom door was open.

He rubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight.

She probably went back to her room.

That’s what he told himself. Logical. Reasonable. No need for alarm.

He slid out of bed, standing slowly, cracking his neck as he moved to the bathroom. The shower hissed on—he stepped under the spray, the water beating against his shoulders, grounding him.

She had an early start. Maybe she had to prep something for Val. Maybe she’s just avoiding feelings again.

He pushed down the gnawing feeling at the back of his mind.

That sense that something was… off.

That you never left without kissing his jaw. That your heels were still gone. That your scent wasn’t lingering the way it usually did.

He shook it off.

Don’t spiral, Bucky.

You were probably fine. Probably just fucking with him. Playing aloof like you always did after things got too soft between you.

He stepped out of the shower, drying off quickly. Dressed. Pulled on his boots.

Still—

That feeling didn’t leave.

That cold in his chest stayed.

But he forced it down. Forced a breath into his lungs.

He stepped into the kitchen, toweling off his damp hair, still trying to shake the unease from his bones.

The room was already buzzing.

Yelena sat on the counter, eating cereal straight from the box like it was an art. Walker leaned back on the couch, boots on the coffee table, scrolling through his phone. Ava sat curled in an armchair, sharp eyes flicking toward Bucky as he entered. Alexei was… well, loudly chewing something questionable. And Bob was somewhere behind the fridge door, mumbling to himself.

Bucky grunted a quiet greeting, opened the cabinet, pulled a mug from the shelf.

“Anyone seen… her?” he asked, voice low, neutral. Too casual to be casual.

Yelena looked up first. “Probably passed out in your bed,” she said around a mouthful of cereal. “Or under you. You know, standard Tuesday.”

Bucky froze mid-pour.

Walker snorted. “Took long enough, honestly.”

Alexei thumped his fist on the table. “I knew there was something! You always look at her like she’s the last shot of vodka in the room.”

Bucky turned slightly. “What are you all talking about?”

Ava didn’t even glance up from her tablet. “You’re not subtle, Barnes. The way you stare at her? Please.”

Bob peeked around the fridge door, cheeks already red. “Yeah… you uh… you hover. A lot.”

Yelena grinned, sharp and smug. “I am jealous you didn’t let me ride your motorcycle first.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Hmm.” Ava finally looked up. “Sounds like deflection.”

He muttered something under his breath, jaw tight, the discomfort turning into quiet agitation. His eyes flicked toward the hallway. “Forget I asked.”

He set the mug down—untouched—and turned on his heel, heading straight for your room.

Bucky reached your door, knuckles lifting halfway to knock—

But something stopped him.

A feeling. A chill.

He frowned, then pushed the door open. The room was… still. Not quiet. Still. Like no one had moved in it for days.

And that was the first red flag.

He stepped inside slowly, his boots too loud on the floor. The bed was perfectly made. Not military-perfect, but untouched. Not slept in.

He blinked.

The chair in the corner—empty. No discarded jacket. No shoes. No weapons.

He moved toward the dresser, a cold weight forming in his stomach.

The top was bare. No hair ties. No mug. No trace of your usual chaos. And then he pulled open the drawers.

Empty.

He turned to the closet. Swung it open. Gone. Everything. Your clothes. Your gear. Your dresses. Your coat. Even the scent of you—faint, fading.

His stomach dropped.

Hard.

The realization hit like a punch to the ribs. Sudden. Brutal.

You were gone.

Not just left-for-the-morning gone. Not “I’ll be back later” gone.

Gone gone.

Completely erased. As if you’d never been there at all.

Bucky stood there, frozen. His hands at his sides. His breath shallow. His jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

The room blurred. His throat burned. And somewhere, under all of that…

A voice whispered, She left you.

Bucky stood frozen in the center of the room, the emptiness of it clawing at his chest—

When something caught his eye.

A folder. Sitting alone on the dresser. Plain. Unassuming. Perfectly placed. Like it was meant to be found.

He stepped toward it slowly, his breath shallow. His fingers brushed the cover.

A small note sat on top. Folded once.

He flipped it open. Four words.

“Please don't hate me.”

His chest tightened instantly. Something hot twisted in his throat.

He stared at the handwriting—familiar now, too familiar—and turned the note over with a slow hand.

Scrawled in the same ink:

“Valentina still wants you all dead.”

His blood turned cold. The air left his lungs. With shaking fingers, he opened the folder. And there it was.

Page after page.

Files.

Meticulous, terrifyingly detailed notes. About all of them.

Yelena Belova: Range, reaction time, pressure points. Preferred weapons. Known trauma responses. Jonathan F. Walker: Blind spots in combat. Trigger phrases. Patterns of behavior. Ava Starr: Phase irregularities. Nervous system anomalies. Strategic isolation preferences. Robert Reynolds: Emotional leverage. Psychological profile. Manipulation tactics. Alexei Shostakov: Adrenaline patterns. Hand-to-hand vulnerability. Mental deterioration markers. James Buchanan Barnes: …his stomach clenched.

Your notes on him were brutal. Precise. You’d seen everything.

Handwritten notes. Tactical sketches. Surveillance photos. Labeled files. Bullet-point lists.

It was you. All of you.

Strengths. Weaknesses. Combat habits. Psychological profiles. Interpersonal tensions. Detailed analysis of the the New Avengers.

And suddenly he understood.

You were the failsafe.

The one she kept hidden. The one she trusted to take them all down if they became a liability.

And you’d been with them the whole time.

Sleeping in his bed.

Waking up in his arms.

Loving him.

Lying to him.

His fingers curled around the folder so tight the edges bent.

And still—he couldn’t let it go.

Because beneath the weight of betrayal, beneath the rising devastation, one thing stood out above all:

You’d told him without telling him. You’d warned him. You left him the truth.

This was your assignment. Your mission. And you didn’t complete it.

Instead—

You left this behind. For them. For him.

Bucky’s hands trembled slightly as he lowered the folder. He stared at the wall in front of him, jaw locked, heart pounding.

And somehow… even now—

He still didn’t hate you. He didn’t think he ever could.

Six Months Later

The skies above the compound were slate gray, a low growl of thunder humming across the horizon as if the world itself was unsettled.

Inside the facility—steel, silence, surveillance. Maximum security. Triple-reinforced cells. No exits that didn’t require biometric clearance, retinal scans, and six layers of authorization.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine sat in the center of it all.

She wasn’t in chains—of course not. Not her style.

But she was contained.

Her hair had grown out. Her posture was still impeccable. And her smirk? Untouched.

Through the glass, a monitor flickered with news feeds: charges listed in bold. Conspiracy. Treason. Unlawful black operations. Attempted political destabilization.

The Thunderbolts—no, The New Avengers—had done what she never expected.

They had turned on her. And they had won.

The victory had been quiet. Painfully methodical. But every step had followed the trail you left behind: the file you abandoned in your room. The names. The operations. The buried contracts. The coded transactions.

Every lie she’d built unraveled. Every secret surfaced. And now? She was a traitor to her country. A ghost of her former power.

And the world was watching.

────────────────────────

Time passed.

But not in the way that healed.

Not for him.

The New Avengers, now officially recognized—were busier than ever. Diplomatic calls. Rogue cleanups. Recovery missions. Global surveillance detail. Big threats. Bigger egos.

And Bucky? He did the work. Showed up. Fought hard. Kept his head down when he had to, stepped in when it mattered. The world was grateful. Headlines were clean.

But the ache never left.

Because even in the victory—even with Valentina locked away, even with the press finally calling them heroes—you were gone.

No sign. No contact. No coordinates.

Just silence.

And it haunted him.

Every mission, he looked.

Not deliberately—never enough for the others to question it. But it was there, always. In the way his eyes lingered too long on unfamiliar silhouettes. In the way he checked behind every mask, paused too long on female contacts with a certain walk. In the quiet that came after every debrief, when his jaw tightened just slightly as he scanned the room.

You weren’t in Moscow. You weren’t on the Omega Bunker list. You weren’t at the safe house in Tbilisi, even though it still smelled faintly of your perfume, though that was definitely his imagination. You weren’t on the encrypted black ops list Ava recovered from the Andes.

You weren’t anywhere.

And that—that—was what hurt the most. Because if anyone could disappear, it was you.

And you’d chosen to. You didn’t leave a signal. Or a clue. Or a damn apology.

Just that folder. That warning. And him. Alone. Still reaching for something that wasn’t reaching back.

────────────────────────

The briefing room was quiet.

Dim light. Flickering monitor. Stale coffee left forgotten on the edge of the table. The latest mission files spread in a neat arc—intelligence, recon, target maps.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at any of it.

He sat in the corner, arms folded, brow furrowed—not in focus, not really there.

Yelena noticed it first. Of course she did. She always noticed.

She crossed the room slowly, boots soft on tile, then leaned against the edge of the table across from him—arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Hey,” she said, flat. “Earth to Sad Eyes. You here or still hoping Ghost Barbie shows up mid-mission?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Yelena snorted. “Jesus Christ. Still with this?”

He looked up, jaw tight. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t have to.” Her voice sharpened. “You haven’t been present in months.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been chasing shadows. Running recon like you’re not hunting leads, and we all know who you’re really looking for.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I said drop it.”

Yelena stepped in. “You do remember she betrayed us, da?”

He stared.

“She was Valentina’s insurance policy. The kill-switch,” Yelena went on. “Sent to eliminate us if we got out of line. Got information on all of us—every weakness, every flaw—and you still look at her like she’s gold.”

Bucky stood. “She didn’t use it.”

“Yet.”

“No,” he insisted. “She had it. And she didn’t use it. Not once.”

Yelena scoffed. “You think that’s love? That’s not loyalty, Barnes. That’s indecision. That’s unfinished business.”

“She had every chance to kill us. You. Me. All of us. And she didn’t.”

“Because she got in too deep. Doesn’t mean she loved you.”

Bucky’s voice dropped, rough. “It means something.”

Yelena didn’t soften. Not even a little.

She crossed her arms tighter, her stare unwavering as Bucky stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, drowning in every word she’d just thrown at him. But she wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

“You need to wake the hell up, Barnes,” she said, her voice low but sharp, the kind of voice that cut because it had to. “You’re chasing a ghost. And I get it—I do. She had that perfect face, that mystery, that voice—we all felt it. We were drawn in.”

Bucky didn’t look at her. Just stared past her, like maybe if he stayed still enough, he could hold onto the last pieces of you.

“But I need you to feel this,” Yelena continued. “She played us. Every single one of us. For months. She gathered data, memorized habits, logged vulnerabilities like a fucking Hydra operative. She knew how to kill us before we even started to like her.”

She stepped closer.

“And you let her in the furthest. You let her crawl into your bed, into your chest, into your head. And now? Now you’re acting like maybe she was the victim in this. Like she just didn’t know any better. That she was confused.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, but he didn’t speak.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Here’s the thing, she knew exactly what she was doing. Every calculated smile. Every touch. Every slow night where you let her inside and thought she'd actually stay—she planned that.”

His hands clenched at his sides. She saw it.

“And maybe—maybe she cared, somewhere in there,” Yelena added, a bitter twist to her voice. “Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger because some part of her felt something. But she still left. No note, no trace. Like you were just another mission she couldn’t finish and didn’t want to explain.”

She took one more step. Right into his space.

“So you’ve got two choices, Soldat: keep pining like a lovesick idiot and let her haunt you forever, or get your head back in the goddamn game and remember who you are. Because while you’re busy looking over your shoulder, the rest of us are picking up the slack.”

Silence stretched between them.

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just sat there, hollowed out and burning, her words settling like ash in his chest.

And Yelena, finally, exhaled.

“I’m not saying forget her,” she added quietly. “I’m saying either find her and get answers… or stop bleeding for someone who doesn't care.”

And with that, she turned.

Left him sitting there alone, in the echo of all the things he didn’t want to hear—but needed to.

One Year Later

Yelena didn’t look up from the mission tablet at first. Her boots were propped on the edge of the table, fingers tapping absently as she scrolled through next week’s ops schedule. Bucky stood near the window, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his reflection faint in the glass.

“I’m leaving.”

She didn’t react at first. Just blinked, brows pulling together as she slowly looked up.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?”

Bucky didn’t turn around.

“I mean I’m done.”

Yelena sat up straighter. “Done with the mission? Or…?”

He finally turned, his eyes tired—not just from the day, or the month, but from years. From everything.

“With all of it.”

She scoffed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You’re quitting? You?”

Bucky just nodded. No bite. No drama. Just done.

Yelena stared at him. “You can't be serious.”

“I am.”

Silence.

She stood now, closing the tablet, crossing her arms. “Okay. No offense, Barnes, but what the fuck are you even talking about?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’ve been giving pieces of myself to someone else’s mission for a so many years, Yelena.”

Her jaw tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “I’ve been alive a hundred years. Most of it, I’ve been used. As a weapon. As a ghost. As some tragic propaganda machine. First, the Army. Then Hydra. Then the U.S. government, then Congress, and now this—superhero bullshit.”

He looked back out the window. The city shimmered.

“I’ve done what everyone needed. What they told me was ‘right.’ What would ‘make it right.’ And it never did. It never will. There’s always another war. Another mission. Another reason to shove who I am back down just to fit the narrative.”

She opened her mouth. He cut her off.

“And don’t tell me I matter. Or that I make a difference. I know that. I’ve made peace with that. But I’m tired. Bone deep, soul deep. I’m tired. I’ve never done anything just for me. Not once. And I’m not gonna die with that still being true.”

Yelena was silent for a beat.

Then, quietly: “So what? You just walk away?”

He shrugged, voice soft. “Why not?”

“You’re a leader.”

“You’re better.”

“You’re still needed.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be down my partner.”

That one hung in the air.

Bucky exhaled, finally meeting her eyes. “You don’t need me. You never did. You just didn’t want to be alone at the top.”

Yelena’s jaw worked for a moment. But she didn’t argue.

Didn’t because—damn it—he wasn’t wrong.

He looked at her, something in his expression softer now. “You’re the best shot they’ve got. You always have been.”

She swallowed thickly.

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on her shoulder. “But I can’t keep doing this, Lena. I need to figure out what my life looks like without being a weapon. Or a mascot. Or a ghost.”

“…So what does it look like, then?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want to find out.”

She blinked fast. Then, finally—finally—nodded.

“Just… don’t disappear without a damn postcard.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

────────────────────────

Two Months Later

If someone had asked him ten years ago—hell, even five years ago—where do you see yourself? Bucky Barnes would never have answered Fiji.

But here he was.

Fiji.

The sun was hot. Unrelentingly so. Not in the way that choked or scorched, but in a way that settled into your bones, warmed you from the inside out. He’d never felt heat like this without the edge of a battlefield waiting on the other side.

There were no missions here. No directives. No knives tucked under pillows. No coded radio chatter in the dead of night.

Just waves.

Just air thick with salt and lazy breeze.

And quiet.

He sat barefoot on the edge of a wooden deck, knees drawn up, sunglasses slipping slightly on his nose. His metal hand—gloveless, finally without shame—rested on the railing beside him, catching the sunlight like it had been born to. For once, it didn’t feel like a relic of war. It just felt like part of him.

The water below sparkled like someone had poured diamonds across it. The breeze brought the scent of fruit and ocean and something sweet he couldn’t name. Every few minutes, a bird called out, or a scooter whirred by in the distance.

It felt like another world.

One he didn’t belong in. Not really.

But he was trying.

Trying to belong to himself, finally.

He’d never taken a vacation before. Never even thought to. The idea of sitting still without guilt had always felt foreign. But now? Maybe this counted. Maybe this—quiet mornings, soft shirts, no schedules—was vacation. Maybe it was also retirement. If he let it be.

He didn’t have a plan. Didn’t know what came next. But for once, that didn’t feel like a threat.

It felt like freedom.

The beach bar was little more than a thatched roof, a polished wood counter, and a few half-drunk tourists slowly melting into their plastic chairs.

The scent of citrus and rum hung in the air, and some lazy guitar version of an old Marvin Gaye song drifted through the speakers.

Bucky stepped up to the counter, brushing a bit of salt off his sunglasses, the sand still warm between his toes. He leaned against the bar, gave a polite nod to the bartender.

“Beer, please. Whatever’s cold.”

The bottle landed in front of him with a satisfying clink. He popped the cap one-handed and brought it to his lips just as a voice slid in—smooth, familiar, laced with something sharp and knowing.

“You’re a long way from New York, Sergeant.”

He didn’t turn right away.

Just took a sip. Swallowed. Let the faintest smirk touch his lips as he rested his beer back down.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Guess I finally figured I deserved a vacation.”

A pause.

“Why Fiji?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still forward, letting the sea wind hit his face for a beat longer.

“Clear skies. Soft sand. Water so blue it hurts to look at.” He finally turned, his gaze sliding to the left—to you.

“And… beautiful women.”

There you were.

Hair sun-touched and swept back. Skin glowing from the sun. Dressed like you belonged to this place—effortless, radiant, wild. And yet you didn’t blend in. Not at all. You never blended in. You could’ve been wearing armor or silk or nothing at all and you’d still feel like a presence.

His eyes lingered on you.

And when they met yours?

Everything else—every sound, every breeze, every wave—faded.

For just a second.

You leaned one elbow on the bar, casual like the past hadn’t happened, like this was just two people on a beach at the end of the world. Your eyes flicked over him—sunglasses, salt-tousled hair, beer bottle sweating in his hand like he’d actually managed to settle into this place.

You lifted a brow, just enough mischief behind it to crack the tension.

“So…” you said, voice like silk. “Planning on staying?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His gaze was still fixed on you, the way it always had been. Steady. Intent. Like he was memorizing every new beauty mark, every glint of heat behind your eyes.

“I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve got a pretty good reason to.”

Something flickered across your face. The faintest pull at your lips. You could’ve said something sharp, something defensive—but instead, you just turned slightly toward the bar, tapping your fingers once on the counter.

“Then buy me a drink, James,” you said, flashing a sly smile. “So long as you're planning to make it a roundtrip to forgiveness.”

His mouth curled.

And for the first time in a long time, the air between you wasn’t just heavy with uncertainty.

It was full of possibility.

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

The first thing Bucky felt was the warmth.

Not the sun, though that was already creeping in through the wooden shutters, slanting across the room in golden bands. Not the heat from the open window, or the lazy tropical breeze curling through the linen curtains.

No—the warmth was you.

Your body sprawled across his, half-draped over his chest like you’d always belonged there. Bare legs tangled with his, skin soft and sun-kissed, your breath slow and even where it fanned against his collarbone.

He could already hear the waves outside, steady and close. The faint rustle of palms, the rhythmic hum of island life waking up. It should’ve been loud—but it wasn’t.

It was perfect.

For the first time in… maybe ever, he’d woken up before you.

And he didn’t move.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, he just lay there, one arm loosely wrapped around your waist, the other resting behind his head. Relaxed. Grounded. Not braced for attack. Not aching from loss.

Just present.

His eyes drifted over your face—peaceful, still, impossibly beautiful. And he let himself look. Really look.

No dread curled in his chest.

No panic waited behind his ribs.

Because you were here.

You’d stayed.

And he’d woken up to warmth.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

"Oh, sorry." Your eyes flit between him—standing now, casual in dark jeans and a navy tee—and the Senator still sat behind her desk. "I didn't realise I was interrupting."

"No, perfect timing, please." Senator Lee smiles warmly, lifts a hand in an inviting gesture. "Y/n, this is-"

"Bucky Barnes." He's offering a hand across to you, smile exuding that charm and charisma perfected only by politicians and sociopaths. You have a bad feeling about this. "It's great to meet you."

You think you must look like a deer caught in headlights, can feel the confusion on your face and in your smile as you let the door fall shut with a creak and move to shake his hand. "Likewise."

"Sit, please." The familiar voice breaks you out of your daze, another inviting gesture towards the chair next to Bucky's.

There's a beat of silence, three pairs of eyes looking from face to face. You breathe a thoroughly confused laugh. "Why does this feel like being called to the principal's office?"

"Y/n," Lee starts, hands clasped in front of her. "You know you're the best at what you do."

"Am I getting fired right now? I'm not even on payroll, can you fire me?"

There's a light chuckle beside you that you don't turn towards. You're not really sure what the protocol is for superhuman ex-avengers crashing a routine meeting with your boss. Eye contact is still up for debate.

"You're not being fired, Jesus, Y/n." Lee laughs, a shake of her head as she rests back in her chair. "I met Bucky last year in DC during the whole GRC... fiasco. He reached out over the New Year, asking if I had any referrals for a campaign. Congressional 9th."

"Oh." You breathe a tight laugh, still laced in confusion. "Yeah, I mean it's pretty early for a 2028 run, but I would be happy to help with any-"

"Oh, no, not 2028." Bucky meets your eye.

You think, God, he's handsome, then wonder where the hell that came from. You narrow your eyes at him. "... No?"

"No, I kind of had my heart set on this November."

"You want to run this year?" It's more of a scoff than a question, eyes wide now, incredulous. "It's January."

"It's ambitious."

You really do scoff this time, look to Lee for backup and find her leaning back in her chair, buckled in for the ride. Your expression is wide when you look back at Bucky. "You need twelve hundred signatures in three months to even make it to the primary. Then you're up against an incumbent trying to make it a decade with essentially no political or community foundation. And even if you somehow win that, there's nothing stopping him from filing as an independent just in case. Respectfully, it's more insane than ambitious."

"What I said exactly." Senator Lee now, agreeing, nodding, smiling in a way that worries you. "Which is why I told him I knew you could pull it off."

"Katie." Nicknames. Familiarity that lets you express such scepticism.

"Y/n."

"I'm not a fucking magician."

More silence. Lee is watching you, expectant. Bucky is watching you, expectant, a fucking superpowered centurian placing the fate of a fledgling political career in your unwilling hands.

"There's not enough time." It's a statement of fact, clear-cut. "I mean, even if I stop volunteering here, there's no time to put together the people you need for a campaign like this or the image or anything." It's one long, breathless sentence, talking yourself into an anxiety too intense for the hour of the morning. You sigh, cross your arms and your legs as you fall against the back of your chair.

They're both still silent, just watching. You think you might be getting played, especially because somewhere in the back of your mind, that little voice is giving you some completely and truly insane ideas. You start thinking about fonts.

You're squinting again, suspicious, look from Lee to the mass of a man beside you. "Did she tell you that if you just didn't say anything I would talk myself into it?"

"She did."

"I did."

Another long pause. A sigh and a relaxing of your posture, arms still loosely crossed. "You owe me, like, huge time."

"You're in?" Bucky's smiling at you, plan executed as promised.

"Yeah, obviously."

-----

Bucky's got a short-term lease on an old second-story walk-up in the middle of Brooklyn. It's ancient, falling apart at the seams, an old law office almost entirely empty except for a handful of sketchy tenants. There's a woman with a crystal ball set up in the basement, and with the steady flow of women coming in and out into the late hours of the night, you're pretty sure there's an office of callgirls down the hall.

Your own crumbling unit fits four desks fully stuffed, which is fine because there's no time to onboard anybody else but you and Bucky. It has windows, which is something, you guess.

You probably spend sixty hours there in just your first week, one desk pressed flush against the wall, a couch, a black and white printer, and a whiteboard.

You had come fully prepared with the whiteboard on day one. One side to workshop, the other in permanent marker, key policies, key players, key messages. There are two columns of red and green Post-it notes labelled "assets" and "liabilities."

Asset. Existing name recognition.

Asset. Strong policy basis.

Asset. Personable.

Liability. Time.

Liability. Lack of media presence.

Liability. Winter Soldier.

You never directly address any of them, especially not the last one. They're more just facts of the matter. Bucky appreciates that you're always honest.

You get everything up and running in a matter of weeks. Bucky was there, of course, but the sheer efficiency of it all makes it pass him by like a blur. He takes more pictures than he's ever taken in his life, learns lines for quippy videos under the supervision of a particularly mean videographer, has conversations with people on the street, and gets his first group of volunteers.

Every once in a while, you pick up a panicked call and excuse yourself to spend ten minutes trying to calm down the woman on the other end. Bucky picks up a few details: a little sister, a July wedding and an overbearing mother-in-law, a DJ who has to cancel after getting arrested selling cocaine in a 7/11 parking lot. Every time she calls, it ends the same way: No, I have not found a date. No, I have not been on any dates. Yes, I will tell you when I have found a date.

It's 9pm at the end of week three when Bucky says he could use a drink.

You take him to a corner bar a block over. The lone bartender knows you by name, lets you behind the bar to wrap you in a too-big hug when he sees you. He's got a russian accent and a beer belly and no hair, and Bucky has absolutely no idea how you know all the people he's met over the past few weeks. It's just another fact of the matter.

"Can you even get drunk? Is that a myth?" You're slipping into opposite sides of a booth, cushioned seats so old and worn they might as well be concrete.

"Well, yeah, I have to drink a lot of it in not a lot of time if I want to feel it. But I can still enjoy it for what it is."

"Huh." You're nodding into your glass, first taste of the dark whiskey making you wince a little. "I can hook you up with my moonshine guy, if you want."

Bucky laughs, surprised, furrows his brow at you. "You have a moonshine guy?"

"Yeah, Dimitri." You gesture at the Russian national behind the bar, rag over his shoulder like a caricature. "It'll probably kill fewer brain cells to just drink straight isopropyl, but I'm sure it'll get the job done."

You're smiling ear to ear when Bucky looks back at you. You're too bright for the dinginess of your surroundings, wide-eyed, soft around the edges. Bucky wonders how the Hell he even got here, wonders why it hurts a little to sit across from a smile that big and that beautiful.

"What?"

"... What?"

"You're staring at me."

Bucky takes a beat. "I feel like I don't know anything about you."

"What, you haven't googled me?"

Bucky smiles, real, not the politician's smile you've been training into him. You have this image of him in your mind, in high school textbooks and documentaries and 6pm news highlights. They're mostly glum, broody, straight-faced. Having him in front of you laughing at your jokes makes you a little queasy, a little something else that sits right in the centre of your chest. "Have you googled me?"

"I didn't need to."

"Exactly."

You raise your eyebrows at him, nod slowly like you've just solved his little riddle. "I don't think I'm as interesting as you are."

"Something tells me that's not true."

You sigh, sink into the booth a little, stare at the centre of the table with your glass clutched to your chest as you figure out how to summarise your life in a breath. "I mean, I don't know, I was born here, I spent my entire life here. And then the world almost ended, so I went to work in DC until it almost killed me. Then, I came home." You take a sip, liquor thinner now, finally meet his eye again. He's looking at you like he understands you completely, so you look away again, push yourself up on the firm bench to straighten your posture. "I told you, not very interesting"

"Why'd you leave DC?" It's instant, genuine, interested. You get that feeling again, nausea and what you're trying not to call affection mixing in the pit of your stomach.

You sigh, long and deep, look at him with your head tilted. "Well." Another sigh. "The answer I give everyone is that I worked too much and I met too many people playing the game for the wrong reasons, and it just kind of crushed me. Just kinda chewed me up and spat me out. I spent six years right in the middle of it, and eventually I couldn't take it anymore."

"And the real answer?"

"The real reason," you start, emphasis denoting a need to prepare, strap in. "Is that I was working 80-hour weeks and that I met some really fucking evil people who were really good at hiding the fact that they were evil, which, yeah, I mean, that was demoralising. But it was also that when I wasn't working, I was having a very, very intense love affair with my very much married, very much age-inappropriate boss."

It comes out so quickly, Bucky needs to take a second to register, eyebrows raised. He nods slowly. "That part's interesting."

You scoff out a "Yeah," a smile and a nod as you tip back the rest of your drink. You don't really know why you keep going, blame the booze and the fact that you had eaten your only meal of the day at 3pm. You justify it to yourself without anybody asking, something along the lines of sharing and the importance of mutual trust "I mean, I was in love, not that that excuses anything. I quit because at a certain point, it was eating me alive, like it consumed me in my entirety. I couldn't live with myself. On top of the fact that I stopped loving what I did, my personal life was just like guerrilla fucking warfare, and DC just... isn't worth it."

Somewhere during your haze of a story, Bucky had ordered another round of drinks, two glasses being slid across the table towards you with a Russian huff. Bucky's still watching you, nodding, almost in morbid fascination with this retelling of the implosion of a life. "Intense."

"What, you've never had an affair with a married man old enough to be your father? I thought the military was all about that in those days."

Bucky chokes on his whiskey, moves to clear his throat and is met with your incredibly self-satisfied grin.

"I guess it would be harder to date someone twice your age now."

-----

Bucky wins the primary. Somehow. Maybe it was luck, or maybe you had just well and truly outdone yourself. Either way, July rolls around and James Buchanan Barnes is officially the Democratic candidate for New York's 9th Congressional District.

With his name on the ballot, the campaign kicks into another gear. You call in every favour you have, exploit every connection and show up at every office you can think of to get Bucky in the media, at community events, get him speeches that hit home and a social media presence that can be shared and seen.

Bucky spends more time with you than he has with anybody in a long, long time. The logical part of him knows it's just the proximity of it all, the hours and that tiny office and your voice in his ear.

The rest of him can't help the fact that knowing you makes him feel normal. He had met a lot of people in DC who were convinced he was something other, convinced he was an essential perversion of human nature, convinced that his only use was his transferable skills as a hired gun.

You spend six months knowing everything you need to know about him, never ask anything more. You know he's spent his whole life being dissected by the public, by the government, make a point to never make him dissect himself for your sake. You understand what he stands for, learn his habits and his tells, learn how to make him laugh when it's late and it's cold and you've been working for hours. Bucky doesn't think he's let his guard down this much since 1943.

You're watching Bucky land the final notes of a 4th of July address from stage right when you spot him in the front row.

"James Barnes, folks, Congressional nominee. Thank you so much for your time today." The blood is rushing so loudly in your ears that you don't register the end of the speech or the applause as Bucky crosses the stage towards you. "Now, we've got a last-minute special speaker for us tonight. He's the current ranking member of the Senate Committee on Veterans' Affairs. Please give a warm welcome to our friend, Senator Samuel Brown."

There's an uproar in the crowd, applause and whistles and hoots and hollers. It's a reputation you spent four years helping to build.

"Hey, you okay?" It's Bucky behind you, eyes narrowed with concern. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

You snap yourself out of it in an instant. Turn with an unconvincing smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

He finds you after the speeches, slips through the mingling crowd, says your name with a hand on your shoulder. You and Bucky turn in sync.

"Sam, hey."

He's leaning down, a hand at the small of your back and a polite air kiss to the cheek as he delivers that cookie-cutter politician's smile. "Been a long time."

"Yeah, it has." You give him a tight smile, nod, hold his eyes for a long moment. Bucky clears his throat beside you, draws both of your attentions.

"And this is the man who poached my best girl from me." His best girl. You think you might throw up. "Bucky Barnes, I have been meaning to meet you."

"Absolutely. Senator Brown, it's a pleasure."

Bucky's not an idiot, registers the situation instantly, shoots you a glance out of the corner of his eye. But he's also learning how to be a good politician, and he knows that making nice with a man of Brown's stature can only mean good things.

"Listen, uh, me and a bunch of the VA guys booked out a bar downtown for later tonight. Why don't you come down, take some pictures, make some new friends." Your throat goes dry. You think about gouging out his eyes with your thumbs. "If your manager here doesn't have bigger things planned for you, of course."

You open your mouth to speak, at a loss for words for the first time in you don't know how long. Bucky turns to you, meets your eyes with a softness. "Yeah." You say, smile still tight but polite. "We can definitely swing by."

-----

Somewhere on a park bench in Flatbush, you and Bucky Barnes eat Chinese food in silence.

You don't look at him when he clears his throat, but you interrupt him before he can get a word out. "I really don't want to hear it right now."

"I wasn't-" Bucky sighs, sets his takeout box on the wood beside him. "I was just going to say that we really don't need to go tonight."

You're still not looking at him, shovel a too-big bite of rice and brocolli into your mouth. It takes you a long moment of silence to get it down. "Have I ever been anything other than professional when it matters?"

Your look is so sharp when you turn to him Bucky instantly regrets bringing it up. "No, never."

"Exactly." Your attention is back to your food, chopsticks stabbing in a manner not conducive to eating. "There's no reason this is going to be any different."

-----

As a former tortured super assassin, Bucky Barnes is impressed with your ability to compartmentalise.

If he didn't already know better, he would think that you still had an incredibly positive working and social relationship with your former boss. You still accept his introductions and his drink refills, still laugh at his jokes, and towards the end of the night, he lets slip a secret.

"I have noticed you've been spending an awful lot of time with Thaddeus Ross lately." You're in the middle of a conversation you don't remember the lead-in to, plied with enough vodka sodas that your short-term memory is starting to slip a little. That promise of complete professionalism might have come a little too hastily.

Sam smiles at you, a little too fond and a little too familiar. "Can you keep a secret for another couple weeks?"

You smile back. A little too fond. A little too familiar. "You know I can."

"Ross is announcing me as his running mate at the end of the month."

It sobers you up in an instant. It's an immediate realisation. Everybody knew Ritson had no chance of a second term. Thaddeus Ross being the next President of the United States was almost set in stone already, and with it, the future of his Vice President. "That's incredible, really." It's all you can manage. "Congratulations."

You don't know what excuse you come up with, but you find something to get you outside, a blur so fast Bucky notices from all the way across the bar. He watches the back door fall shut with a thud, and the man who follows you out moments after.

Bucky manages his own excuse, takes him a couple of minutes, but soon enough finds himself at the back door. It's quieter, a cool breeze filtering in as the door rests ajar. He doesn't know why he doesn't just open it, but he doesn't. Your voice is raised.

"Are you being fucking serious right now? How can you even ask me that?" Bucky's never heard you so angry. He knows he shouldn't be listening, but he does.

"I don't know why you think it's such an egregious suggestion. You've always been the best, Y/n. You quit without even a simple explanation, and I'm still asking for you back. You should be flattered."

"I should be flattered?!" You scoff, heels clacking harshly across the pavement. Bucky can tell that you're pacing. "Are you so fucking self-absorbed that you still don't know why I left DC?"

There's a long pause. "Why did you?"

"You don't deserve an explanation."

"I know I don't."

You sigh hard. More pacing. Bucky thinks about interrupting just to save you from the answer. "I was killing myself over you, Sam. You were my entire universe."

"You were mine."

"It's not a good thing. I had nothing outside of you. You had a wife, and it didn't matter how many times you told me you were going to leave her, because I knew that you knew it would be political fucking suicide. Everything was always for you, and you never even told me to take so much as a break. I left because I got some fucking self-respect."

Silence. Long. The air thick with it.

"I really am happy for you, Sam. VP is, I mean, it's everything you always talked about... But I could never, ever go back to that."

Bucky should probably hear the footsteps approach the door, but he's still too busy processing to register the sound. The door swings open, and for a moment, he's face to face with the Senator. He scoffs, then he's gone. "She's all yours."

You've already lit a cigarette by the time Bucky steps into the alley, back pressed against the brick. You don't look at him when he slots into place beside you.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't." You take a long, slow drag, tiny light glowing in the dark alley. "So you heard all of that, huh?"

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, pauses, considers lying. "I... Yeah, I heard all of it."

You take another drag, silence filled by the pop of fireworks somewhere nearby. You both follow the arc of the projectile into the air, the alley briefly lit in red and blue before dimming again. You sigh.

"So... Vice President, huh?"

You laugh, genuinely, meet his eyes in the dark. You're smiling, which is better than he thought he would get. "Can you fucking believe it?"

Bucky returns your smile, holds your gaze for a long moment. "You know I wouldn't blame you. If you wanted to work for him. It's a huge opportunity."

You're still smiling, look away only to snuff out the flame of your cigarette against the cool brick. "Why would I want to do that? I like you."

Bucky thinks his breathing might falter a little, thinks it's really not the time to be acting like a teenage girl. "I like you too."

-----

"Oh, you like like him."

"Oh, shut up, Soph, you have no idea what you're talking about."

It's too loud in this bar. Even shoved into this corner booth, it's still a Saturday night in the middle of Manhattan, and you're all at least four drinks into this bachelorette party.

"Hey, don't tell me to shut up, I know you, Y/n. I haven't seen you this happy since... yknow... he who shall not be named."

You're shaking your head, take a long sip of your drink, extra-strong and burning on the way down. "He's basically my boss."

"It's never stopped you before."

You kick her in the shin under the table.

"You should bring him to the wedding."

It comes out of nowhere. You scoff at her, mouth agape, expressions a little exaggerated after all those pornstar martinis. "You're joking."

"I'm being serious!" She's smiling at you widely, leans in to squeeze your arm. "It's next week, who else are you planning on bringing?"

"Not him. Do you think I'm that insane?" You tip back the rest of your martini. "I do need another drink, though."

You're halfway through drink number seven when he appears in front of you in a blink. You wonder if he's a figment of your imagination. "Bucky?!"

Bucky looks almost as confused as you do. "Hey, yeah, I, uh... I got your text?"

"You got my text?" You're yelling louder than the music necessitates, but you're drunk and you're confused and you're wearing a mini skirt in front of Bucky Barnes and you're still not certain he's not a hallucination.

"Oh, hey! He got my text!"

Sophie appears next to you, arm slipping around yours, leans so hard she almost knocks you over.

"Your text?" You say it in unison.

Sophie's still beaming, leans in to whisper in your ear. "I might have texted him from your phone." She's laughing when she pulls away, puts her index finger to her lips and shushes as if to say Don't tell y/n.

"Oh, Jesus Christ. Okay, you're going back to the bar. We are going outside."

You put your hands around her arms and physically spin her around. "Ask him!" She yells, gives a smile and a wave at Bucky before falling back into her crowd of bridesmaids.

Your hand is around Bucky's bicep, leading him through the crowd until you can push yourself into the street. It's impossibly quieter, gives you a moment of clarity. You feel about 60% more lucid than you had inside, which is unfortunate. "I don't even know what to say. I am so sorry. She's lost her fucking mind."

Bucky's smiling at you. You resent the amusement in his eyes.

"What did she even text you?"

Bucky pulls his phone out of his back pocket, wordlessly opens up your texts and spins the screen around to face you. The text is succinct. need to see you asap!!! She had clearly been sober enough to remember to send him a pin to your location.

"Jesus Christ." You give a deep sigh, cross your arms as you look back up at him. "I would never use that many exclamation marks, by the way."

"I'll remember that for next time."

You sigh, narrow your eyes up at him. "You came all the way into Manhattan at midnight just because I texted you?"

"I... Thought there was an emergency."

"At a bar?"

"Why am I the one on trial here?"

You sigh again, register your unwarranted temper in your haze of a brain. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to come down here for nothing."

"Yeah, it's okay." Bucky looks at you softly, still a little amused, one of those looks that makes you try to ignore the feeling in your chest. "What did she want you to ask me?"

You swallow, avert your eyes, cross your arms even tighter. "It's nothing. She's been drinking since seven, it's unimportant."

"Seems pretty important if she broke into your phone to get me here."

You should lie, but you're drunk and being faced with a man willing to take a cab 30 minutes in the middle of the night on a whim, just because you asked, just to check you were okay. You would think it was a romantic gesture if that's what this was. Which it wasn't. "Sophie's been pestering me to find a date for the wedding all year, even though I keep telling her I don't have the time to even start to date, I barely had time for this, but, anyway, she's gotten the idea in her head that I should just ask you to go with me, even though I told her it's insane to-"

"You want me to go to your sister's wedding with you?" Bucky cuts you off, probably for the best if your drunken rambling was any indication. His eyes are a little wider, a little incredulous.

"Well... No, I mean... She wants me to want you to go with me."

Bucky narrows his eyes at you, confused, tries to follow your winding train of thought. "So you don't want me to go to your sister's wedding with you."

You don't think you have the capacity to process his tone. You think you might need another drink. "Do you want to come with me?"

Bucky opens his mouth, takes a moment to find the words. "I mean... If it's easier for you. We're friends, right? You've done enough for me, I'd do the favour for you."

You're smiling at him. You blame it on the alcohol. "Okay, yeah."

"Okay then."

You're still smiling when you find your sister at the bar. She reads you like an open book, leans back in to whisper in your ear. "You're welcome."

-----

The rehearsal dinner is only a few blocks away from your apartment, which means that at the end of the night, Bucky offers to walk you home.

You've had a few drinks. Your arm is slipped around his. Bucky tries to tell himself it doesn't mean anything.

It is harder to convince himself, though, when he had just spent an evening with your entire family, when your mom had crowded in and showed him baby pictures on her phone, when your dad had projected up a slideshow of childhood milestones, birthdays and graduations, you at eight or nine with a tiny baby in your arms.

"Thank you for coming tonight, really."

You're in front of the stoop of your building now.

It's starting to rain.

Neither of you is particularly concerned by it.

You could speed up the goodnight, rush inside before the sky opens up, but you don't. You stand under the dim street lights and watch each other in the dark. "Yeah, of course. Anytime."

You're smiling at him, warm, eyes bright. You breathe a light laugh. "I should probably get inside."

Bucky nods slowly, doesn't take his eyes away from yours, smile steady. "Yeah, I should get home."

Neither of you moves, just stand there as the rain gets heavier.

You take a step forward, press up on your toes, lean in. Bucky stops breathing.

Your lips are on his cheek, warm, feather-light.

There's a long moment of silence when you pull away. You're smiling, a little too satisfied with the flustered look on his face.

"Goodnight, Barnes."

You watch the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "Goodnight, Y/n."

-----

Bucky doesn't remember the last time he went to church.

Not that this was church church, just so happened to be an event traditionally held within a church.

Even still, the ceilings and the towering doors and the stained glass make him feel like there's something he should be apologising for.

The back doors opened into the courtyard bring a light breeze through the cavernous building, help to stifle some of the dense July heat.

There's a ray of sunlight filtering through the stained glass pieta above the altar, creates a warm patch of light in the middle of the aisle. Bucky stands in it, looks up into the sunlit face of the Virgin Mary until it hurts his eyes.

"Hey." You're next to him all of a sudden, hadn't heard you coming, look up at him with your arm pressed against his.

You're beaming at him when he looks at you, wide and devastating. Bucky forgets how to speak for a second. "Hey."

"Am I interrupting your moment with the Madonna?"

Bucky smiles, takes you in, sun-soaked and warm next to him. "You look beautiful."

It surprises you a little, makes your face go hot, smile softening. "Thank you." Your voice is a little smaller than you meant it to come out. Bucky's looking at you like you've got the world in your eyes. You swallow down the lump in your throat. "Have you seen my sister by any chance?"

"Oh, uh." Bucky looks left, looks right, realises that probably isn't helping. "No, I just got here."

You sigh, facing falling now, look past him into the courtyard where most of the guests have started to gather. "Okay, I'm gonna go look for her. Will you text me if you see her?"

"Yeah, 'course."

You only get a step away before you're spinning on your heels back to him. "Thank you for coming, by the way. It means a lot, really."

You smile at him, and you're gone before he can find the words in response.

-----

"Oh."

Bucky sees the dress before he recognises the face. He's spent twenty minutes trying to mingle before it all gets to be a bit much, prefers the script of the campaign exponentially to trying to make small talk with your cousins and your aunts and your childhood friends.

He was just trying to find a moment of quiet. He was hoping not to find a runaway bride crouched behind a tree.

"Oh. Hi."

Bucky opens his mouth, doesn't know what to say. "Uh... Your sister's been looking for you."

Bucky watches her sigh, takes a sip of the glass of champagne in her hand as she rests her updo against the bark. He moves to text you as covertly as possible. "Do you want to sit down?"

He can't really say no.

"I should really apologise about that whole... Y'know... Text thing last week. I was wasted."

Bucky laughs lightly, remembers it with something like fondness. "No, it's okay... I think it all worked out in the end."

Sophie smiles at him. He thinks her eyes might be a little red, a little damp in the corners. "She really likes you, you know. Really likes you."

"Oh, I don't know if-"

"Hey, what are you- Oh, babe." You're rounding the corner, features surprised enough that he can tell you hadn't overheard any of the highly incriminating conversation he had just engaged in. Your eyes soften instantly, flits over Bucky before landing on your sister. "Are you okay?"

Sophie moves to stand, smooths out the skirt of her dress. "I'm fine, Y/n, really."

"Are you sure?" Your hands are on her shoulders, frowning, drenched in concern.

"Yeah, I just needed some air, seriously. I'm okay." She's smiling, which is something, at least. "Is my hair still okay?"

You laugh, concern still clear in your eyes as they move over her. "Yeah, you're perfect." You hug her, meet Bucky's eyes over her shoulder, smile and mouth a quick thank you before pulling away.

-----

It's late, and it's cool, and Bucky Barnes' suit jacket is draped around your shoulders.

You've been awake for eighteen hours, but when Bucky asks if he can walk you home, you still say yes. He says the same when you ask if he wants to come up for a drink.

You take opposite corners of the couch, cautious, curling your knees up into the empty space beside you as you turn to face him.

Bucky watches as you take a slow sip, ice clattering. You wince a little. Six months in and he's still not convinced you actually like whiskey.

He's smiling at you in that devastating way that makes your chest hurt, soft and lopsided and genuine. You settle your arm over the back of the couch, resting your head in your hand. You return the smile, squint at him playfully. "What?"

Bucky doesn't say anything, holds your eyes for another long moment. His smile falls a little, but that gleam in his eye, that fondness, can't be hidden so easily.

And then he's reaching out across the couch, hand running along the back cushion towards you before stopping between you. He opens his palm towards you, invites you in.

You hesitate.

Your smile fades, eyes shifted to this offering in front of you. He can see the options being weighed in your eyes, thinks that maybe this is the moment to decide all moments, bigger than your lips on his cheek in the rain.

Your hand is soft in his before the doubt can pull him away, warm, pulse beating under his fingertips. He watches you sigh gently, watching this small connection of your fingers slotted over his.

He feels you squeeze and returns the gesture, smiles softly when your eyes meet his again. He wonders if the pads of his fingers are rough and calloused. He wonders if you'd mind.

"Your heart is racing." He's not sure what he's supposed to mean by it, a simple observation he can make with this small privilege, skin to skin.

"You make me feel like it'll jump out of my chest." It's instant, no hesitation this time, just the truth so bold and plain it doesn't even need a second thought.

Bucky doesn't know what to say, can't find the words to encapsulate how it feels when he's with you, how it feels to sit here with your hand in his. He doesn't realise he's stopped smiling.

You clear you throat, expression muddled and flat, pull your hand away in an instant. He should have said something, missed his opportunity.

You move to rest your glass on the coffee table as you stand, shuffling under the length of your skirt. "I, uh, I'm just gonna get changed, gotta take this stupid dress off."

You're gone without another look.

Bucky sighs as soon as you're out of his line of sight, closes his eyes and falls against the back of your couch with a solid thunk. There's a light ache emanating from the base of his skull. He thinks he deserves it. It's gone in an instant.

When he opens his eyes, there's a soft lilt of music drifting down the hall. Bucky stands up, follows the sound until he lands outside your bedroom door, still ajar.

He presses it open.

You've got a floor mirror set up next to your dresser, dragging a cotton round across your lips and bringing a streak of lipstick up with it. You throw the excess into the basket beside you, and when you look up again, you meet his eyes in the mirror.

You smile at him. "Hey."

Bucky crosses the floor to you without thinking. "Hey."

You're still wearing your dress, hands hovering over the loose satin, eyes raking over you in the mirror. You scoff lightly, draw his attention back up to your face. "You can touch me, y'know."

Bucky swallows. He thinks his mouth might go dry.

His hands settle over your hips, feels the movement of your chest as you sigh into him, lean back into the firmness of his chest.

Bucky dips his head, moves to press his lips to your bare shoulder. The first contact makes you shiver, makes the grip on your hips a little tighter.

He brings a hand up to brush your hair to the side, opens up the stretch of skin along your shoulder and up your neck, lets his lips trail up the path.

"Bucky..." You breathe it, impossibly quiet, tilt your head to the side to let him closer. Your eyes are closed when he searches for your face in the glass.

When you open them again, you're reaching for his hand. You slip your own over it, guide him up your side, rides up your dress slightly as it glides over your stomach, over your breast, lands squarely over your heart.

You let him feel the pulse there, faster, faster, faster. Bucky doesn't think he's ever felt this way in his life. His pants are tight. It's way too hot in here.

You let him pull away his hand after a long moment, let it trail behind you until it lands at the zipper of your dress. He doesn't know what possesses him, but you don't stop him.

He looks for a reaction in your face, finds you staring at him, mouth open. "What are you waiting for?"

The loose fabric pools around your feet. Bucky takes you in, returns his hands to your sides to pull you closer, bare except for the soft lace clinging to your hips. "You are so fucking beautiful, doll."

Doll. It's so Brooklyn, so him, makes you want to kiss him, so you turn around in his hands and you do.

It's soft at first, slow, testing the waters even though you're already in your underwear and he's touching your bare skin. Bucky holds you like something precious in his arms, kisses you like he needs it to breathe. Your arms are around his neck, and your hands are in his hair, and the feeling of fabric against your bare chest makes you want to tear off his shirt with your bare hands.

"You're starting to look a little overdressed." It's deeper when you kiss him next, pull him closer by the tie, hands sliding up his chest to tug it open. You work on the top buttons while Bucky starts at the bottom, smiling into open kisses, fluid and hot and messy.

You step out of your dress, urge him backwards towards the bed.

Your hands are everywhere, smooth planes of muscle along his chest and his stomach, his back and his shoulders, his neck, tangles in his hair and tugs hard until he's groaning into your mouth.

His knees fold under him when he meets the side of your bed, sits upright and doesn't have any time to move before you're in his lap.

It's fast and it's intoxicating and it's real. He's tangible in your hands, holding you, touching you, pressing your hips against the growing bulge in his pants.

Bucky's got his hand between your legs, presses two fingers right against the lace, finds you soaked and moaning into his mouth.

You say his name like it's the only word you've ever known, say it breathless against his lips, speak it into the open air just so the universe knows how it sounds. You gasp it pressed against his neck when he pulls the fabric of your panties aside and pushes two fingers inside you.

You lean back, move your hips to meet the working of his fingers, a hand on his knee to keep you steady while the other grips hard at his wrist. "Fuck, doll, you're the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen."

Bucky leans forward, mouth on your chest, runs his tongue across your nipple and tigtens his grip on your hip when he feels you clench around his fingers.

You know you should be savouring it, but you can't help the growing impatience, want to feel more, want to feel everything all at once.

You reach in between your bodies, find the button of his trousers, the metal warm with body heat.

In a blink, his arm is around your waist, and he's flipping you onto your back. He's fast. He's strong. He's almost unbearably hot. His fingers are still inside you, and when the pad of his thumb finds your clit it almost breaks you then and there.

"There you go, sweetheart." He can tell, in between your legs now, chest firm against yours as he dips his head into the crook of your neck. He kisses you there, sloppy, breathes hot against your ear. "Wanna feel you cum for me."

Bucky revels in the sting on your nails in his back, the heat of you, the whine of his name as you cum around his fingers.

Bucky's got his fingers hooked around your panties when you remember how to think, pulls them down with a trail of slick down one leg. You look down at him. "Please tell me you're not still wearing fucking pants right now."

You push yourself onto your knees, shuffle over to him across the covers as he works down his zipper. Bucky's smiling when you kiss him, a laugh deep in his chest. "Never knew you were so needy, sweetheart."

"Not needy." A hand on his chest, a hand down his boxers. "Just efficient. It's why you like me."

Bucky curses under his breath. You kiss his bottom lip when his mouth falls open, press a grin to his jaw when you feel him buck into your hand.

Finally, mercifully, Bucky drops his boxers around his ankles, presses you back against the bed until your head meets the covers. The orientation is all wrong, but neither of you are particularly preoccupied with fixing that right now.

Bucky's expression is softer when he meets your eyes next, slots between your legs. You think he must be able to hear how fast your heart is beating, can't ignore the sound rushing in your ears. "Do you have any idea how completely fucking incredible you are?"

You smile at him, blushing, face hot, chest tight. "You're a dork."

"I wanna hear you say it." Bucky's completely serious, face straight. He looks like he's never meant anything more in his life.

You narrow your eyes at him. "I'm not gonna say it, Barnes."

"Okay, well then." Bucky pulls away, leans back on his shins. He's still hung like a fucking horse. It's a crude picture, makes you want to laugh, only makes you want him more. "Guess we should probably put our clothes back on then."

You scoff, scrambling forward, shove him back until he's sitting flat against the headboard. You're in his lap again. "You've got a woman asking you to ruin her in your lap, and you're gonna give that up over this?"

Bucky swallows. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"Fine." You sigh, lean down to grab his hands, pull him up until he's sitting upright, warm skin and warm metal on your hips. "I guess I must be pretty incredible to get a guy like you in bed with me."

Bucky smirks at you. "A guy like me?"

"Yeah." You smile, lean in, kiss up his jaw until you land right under his ear. "Have you looked at yourself?"

You're touching him again, soft and firm and Bucky melts into you, voice caught in his throat.

"Satisfied?"

"Almost."

Bucky kisses you, hard, hot, pulls you closer and helps you line himself up with you, holds you tight when you're finally sinking onto him.

You feel it through your whole body, in your chest and in your thighs and in the tips of your fingers, makes your brain go fuzzy with the pleasure of it all.

You're a slurry of profinities and sighs and gasps, voices melting together, utterly fucking filthy.

"Feel so fucking good, sweetheart."

He feels you falter when your legs start to give out, ride out the burn just to keep feeling the rest of it, can't imagine ever not feeling like this.

Bucky stops you with an arm around your waist, a split-second shift as he holds you in place, the bend of his knees to steady himself as he fucks up into you.

"Oh, fuck." It's all-consuming, impossibly better, head tilted back. Bucky's mouth is on your chest, and his hand is between your legs again, tight circles around your clit sending a hand into his hair, a tug and a deep groan against you.

You lean down, catch his jaw and tilt his face up to yours so you can kiss him hard. "Wanna feel you."

Bucky thinks it's over for him, thinks it might have been over the moment he met you, when you had eyed him up the wrong way and sworn at him and talked yourself into an impossible task just for the fun of the game. Bucky lets go because it's entirely, undeniably over for him. It's always going to be this, hands and mouths and tangled limbs as he fills you up.

It's that feeling that does it, that pulsing heat inside you and warming you from the inside out, only takes one, two more swipes of his thumb before you're right there with him, slumped against the headboard.

Bucky keeps you there, holds you to him, kisses you slow, a hand on the small of your back and a soothing thumbing brushing back and forth.

Bucky thinks it's over for him, thinks he might never let you go.

-----

Everything is tight, your chest and your stomach, climbing up your neck, rushing in your ears. You can feel your heartbeat in your entire body, pulsing all at once, thumping, thumping, thumping, eyes darting across the scenes in front of you as the graphics shift. Another percentage counted, another hitch in your breath.

It's unhealthy, objectively—CNN on the TV, NBC muted on your laptop, AP up on his, your phone clutched in your hand, refreshing Twitter every 30 seconds. You think you might be a little itchy, but you don't do anything about it.

You don't move when you hear the door click shut behind you, even though you had sent him out for Chinese twenty minutes ago, hear the jingle of his keys on the counter, the light creak of a floorboard. You only look up when the room goes quiet, the TV suddenly blank and reflecting your wide-eyed expression.

Bucky tosses the remote on the couch.

"Hey, what the Hell?"

He goes for the laptops next, flips the screens and slides them off the smooth wood, collects them in the crook of his arm. "This is for your own good." Bucky turns to you, offers out his hand.

You're squinting at him, eyebrows knit, watch his eyes flit down to your phone then back up to your face. "Absolutely not."

Bucky sighs, settles the stack of laptops back on the table. He sits down, turns towards you. "Look at me."

You turn slowly, suspiciously, move to crisscross your legs. He offers the palms of his hands, opens them to you. You look at them for a long second before huffing lightly, let your phone drop to your lap as you take his hands.

"The votes aren't going anywhere."

"I know, but-"

"Y/n." It's firm, straight faced, so much care and adoration in his eyes you don't want to fight it. "You have given everything you have to this for ten months, and it'll pay off, I believe in that. But it's out of our hands now. You need to take a break."

You sigh, long and deep, close your eyes. If you were a praying woman, you think now is the moment you would pray. Bucky's smiling when open your eyes. "You get that smug smile when you know that you're right."

It breaks into more of a grin, makes you want to wipe it off his face so you lean in and you kiss him, slow, heartbeat subsiding. You rest your forehead against his when you pull away, close your eyes, sync your breathing with his. You're so calm for a moment you forget what you were worried about to begin with. "I love you."

You're hands are still resting in his, so he squeezes them. "I love you."

You sigh, pull away. You reach for your phone but don't flick it on. "Okay. Everything is gonna be okay."

"Everything is gonna be okay." A hand on your knee, firm, grounding. "And even if it isn't, I still met you, so it'll still have been worth it in the end."

You grin at him, eyes narrowed a little. "You're disgusting." You give him another quick peck before you're untangling your legs and standing. You reach for his hand as you toss your phone on top of the pile of electronics. "C'mon, the food is getting cold, what are you doing just sitting around?"