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The last time you saw Bucky Barnes, he broke your heart.

Factually, this statement is inaccurate. You could not actually see him when he did it. Yawns have lasted longer than the phone-call, an abysmal fourteen seconds of cold, scripted, rehearsed words fed into your ear through a scratched speaker. Then the line went dead and all that remained was the static sound of silence.

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Befriending you was part of my efforts to make amends. I’m sorry.”

He wasted no time in blocking your number.

Life takes no prisoners, rolling on and demanding you move forward, trudge through the quicksand of confusion before it swallows you whole and condemns you to a lifetime of wondering why.

Why he walked out your life. Why he chose that day to do so. Why he apologised.

The mind can be a wicked thing in times of distress. In the wake of Bucky’s departure, the rose-tinted frame of friendship cracks, allowing all your memories together to spill over the floor. Picking them up and wiping off the dust, you find yourself staring at captured interactions in a new light, different shades of words and shadows over gestures than you originally remember being there.

Had you hurt him, had you been the one to open the exit door, had you done something wrong that night — even now, you are none-the-wiser to what led him to sever ties.

You’ve always hated police stations.

There’s something sinister about them. A stain on the world, too much grey, and white, and blue lit beneath a sterile light. Metal always seems to clang, all voices fight to yell louder than the rest, and there’s a pervasive stench of bleach — like the building is one big, dirty secret the world is trying to wipe its fingerprints from.

Lump in your throat, you stomach your discomfort for the sake of the soldier. As easy as it was for him to block your number, he forgot to scrub you off his legal records. An emergency contact, a trusted confidant the courts had required him to provide as part of the pardoning agreements — a fail-safe, that’s what you are, someone to call up and pin the blame on should the Winter Soldier ever dare come out to play again.

When the call came in, a tempting siren to rip you from the boat of sleep, a sickness flushed over you, mind racing and heart bracing to hear those awful words. Mr Barnes has fallen off the grid. Reflecting on it now, trapped inside a claustrophobic interrogation room, you’re unsure if fiction would have been worse than the reality of the situation.

Mr Barnes has been arrested. As his registered contact, we cannot release him from custody without your signature. Please make yourself available at the earliest convenience and-

“This only works if you’re all willing to be honest,” declares the woman sitting across from you.

With the little facts you learnt about Dr Raynor, you never pictured her to look so… homely. The blouse almost fools you into thinking this isn’t the sharp-tongue, sharper-minded woman the soldier complained so much about.

“Okay, I’ll go first,” you surprise even yourself. The men sitting at each side of you just about snap their necks as they turn your way. “I honestly do not know why I’m here.”

The soldier was never one for grand displays of affections. Nor minute displays, either. His friendship was not one felt through hugs nor pats on the back, but seen in reassuring glances and the kind of smiles that told you he was still relearning how to form the shape with his lips

Knowing all of this, some foolish part of you had still hoped he would have missed you enough these past few months to lose a little of his composure the moment you walked through the station doors. You’ve flown across state lines just to sign him out of jail, for heaven’s sake!

The least he could do is pretend to still care about you.

“Genius here still has you listed as his handler,” Sam mutters. At least he had been happy to see you, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you in for a side-hug, an silent apology in his eyes.

“No,” you adjust yourself atop the uncomfortable chair. It creaks, far too loudly for a room thick with this much silence. “Why I’m here. In this room. Part of this… weird couples therapy session.”

“Because if James has truly been freed from me by dime-store Captain America, he needs to tie up some loose threads before I let him leave,” the man in question can’t, or won’t, even meet your eyes, stare glued to a corner of the room.

Still, you can feel how you’re infecting his peripheral, can see the way his eyes almost drift towards you, like you’re a magnet drawing them in.

“Oh, trust me, I’m no loose thread. James,” his name is a hiss from your tongue, burning with a foreign flavour. He’s always been Bucky to you — he always was Bucky to you. “Cut me off long ago.”

“I know. That’s exactly why you’re here.”

The guerilla therapy session unfolds about as well as one would expect: in a hypnotic disaster, like a car-wreck you can’t quite tear your eyes away from. Dr Raynor adopts methods used on couples, introducing a seemingly simple prompt: “Suppose that while you’re sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up, what is something you would like to see that would make your life better?”

While the two men busy themselves with snark, you bite back your answer. I’d like to go back in time, to two months ago.

Then a soul gazing exercise comes up, and you’re quick to scoot your chair backwards, out of the soldier’s line of sight, a freshly sharpened knife that promises to pierce the plastic wrap around your heart. But distance can’t save you from the crack in his voice.

“And if he was wrong about you then he was wrong about me!” It would have been less painful to have him dig into your chest and rip your heart clean out from it’s cage.

Hand gripping at the chair beneath you, your fingers jump, a silent plea for your composure to dissipate and allow them to lay themselves atop his shoulder, his brutal aversion to comfort be damned.

You reinforce your hold on the chair, instead, and face Sam, who is halfway through a speech in defence of his decisions. With the blink of an eye, he rises to a stand, smacks a hand atop Bucky’s arm, and turns his sights on you.

“You still a human light-bulb?” The teasing nickname awakens an ache in your soul — Tony used to call you that in the early days of the compound, free for the first time in years and still learning to control your powers. Warmth sizzles through your veins as a crackling light-source ripples from your hands, burning tendrils of electricity warping and dancing between fingertips. “Good, cause I got a favour to ask.”

With that, Sam leaves and lets the door slams on his way out. You’re a moment away from following after him, curiosity itching at your skin that you know he’ll satisfy — unlike the soldier, Sam actually answers when asked a question.

Dr Raynor is quick to intercept, “Ah, no. You sit back down and face James.”

Body barely lifted from the seat, the drop back down still manages to knock the wind out of your lungs. There’s a chance Bucky is to blame for that, a heavyweight gaze that’s pinned itself somewhere past your shoulder, melting you into a blurry stain within his line of sight — not fully in focus, a nuisance in the way of the wall he seems so interested in.

He blinks. Slowly, carefully, an intentional pause taken as he fills his lungs with a stabilising breath. When eyelids reopen, Bucky is finally looking at you.

Blue eyes that do their best to lack any hint of a soul, frozen and robotic in their stare. Humanity, unbeknownst to the soldier, bleeds out of him. It’s in the tightening of his jaw. It’s in the stiffening of his shoulders. It’s in the widening of his pupils.

You itch to ask him how he’s been.

“Now, James, time for a little honesty. And, do me a favour, would you? Really try. You need this more than you think.” The therapist is a horrible reminder of where you are, why you’re here. Bucky doesn’t even flinch at her voice, long ago conditioned to accept being spoken at instead of spoken to. “You crossed her name off your booklet. Why?”

The golden question.

Three simple letters that have shaped your past, present, and future days since the line dropped and Bucky’s number stopped being the one you could dial at any time of the day. Habits die harder than most would think; you sometimes type out the digits, just to tease yourself with the thought of pressing ‘call’ and actually having it go through.

“I completed the assignment you gave me, doc,” Bucky’s response is directed towards Dr Raynor, yet he remains fixated on you, watching you like a predator stalks its prey — too afraid to turn his back, lest you run back off to the burrows with the rest of the cottontails and strays.

“What I told you to do was make amends,” Dr Raynor crosses her arms over her chest, the image of a mother scolding her rebellious teenage son. Any minute now, you expect she’ll drop the classic ‘not mad, just disappointed’ line. “What you did was make a mess. At least tell me you told her the reason.”

Shame overcomes him, casting his stare down to where gloved hands sit fiddling in his lap.

You breath, and it’s like a building has been dropped on your chest. Skipping breakfast is starting to feel more and more like a strategic decision instead of one made on impulse; the cloud of nausea floating around your oesophagus is but an empty threat, no contents in your stomach for it to projectile rain over Bucky’s scuffed boots.

The soldier won’t answer, so you do it for him, “He didn’t.”

“Really, James? I mean, what have you been taking from our sessions? We both agreed her forgiveness would be monumental in your path to reconciliation-”

“I forgive him,” you interrupt, partially because you can’t stand how the pinch between his eyebrows deepens the more she chastises him, and because, as desperate as you are to understand what dictates Bucky’s decisions, you want to hear it from his own mouth, not from the stranger that’s been assigned to analyse his mind. “If that’s all he needed me for, then he’s got my forgiveness.”

The tips of his brows are just about kissing one another.

The soldier lifts his gaze once more, colliding with the intensity of your studying eyes. Red rims the borders of his, spider-webbed and bloodshot with lack of sleep. Who does he call now, when the nightmares leave him stranded and in need of a human life-jacket?

Selfish as you can be, you hope he at least is calling someone.

His lips part slowly. Cracked and bit ridden, a lack of life stains his mouth. He seems none-the-wiser to the state of it, living like there’s still a muzzle covering that half of his face and shielding his voice from the world.

“I don’t need to know why you’re sorry,” you interrupt him before he can possibly begin. It’s a lie you tell both yourself and him, but if you say it with enough conviction, perhaps you’ll start to believe it. “If you don’t want me in your life, I’m not going to force myself into it.”

The chair screams as your stand from it. His head follows your ascent, bending backwards to maintain eye-contact.

This would be easier were he not so naturally attentive. A weapon built to observe, and watch, and study the movement of others as an act of survival.

Is he trying to survive you?

Or, are you another target he needs to exterminate?

The light flickers overhead, product of your own discomforting thoughts as you let them delve into memories best kept concealed in an airtight safe, where all the bad of your past is free to slaughter one another to death. At the first spark of electricity between fingertips, you clench your first shut.

“I’m not like them, James. And neither are you.”

When the door closes behind you, the interrogation room’s light goes back to a cold white, the colour of one’s breath in the chill of winter. The breath Bucky pulls in is ice, a cool burn down into a hollow chest.

“Sorry doc,” his lips pull tight with dishonesty, pain at the edges of his mouth as he forces them to stretch wider. “I broke rule two.”

If anyone was going to drag you back into the fight, of course it would be Sam Wilson.

You had sworn to never step foot back onto the battlefield after the events with Thanos, the war to end all wars. While victory had been secured and families were reunited, too many faces you’d come to admire and adore had perished. Not into particles of dust, but as lifeless bodies strewn across a muddied field. Casualties that no number of glowing stones and no perfected time travelling device could ever bring back.

Cowardly as it may be, you hung up the mantle of hero. Secured an apartment in New York, enrolled as a nurse, and carved out a life of normalcy. Warmth still flowed through your veins, a daily itch that begged to be unleashed, but you learnt to mute it. Dull it. Serrate the weapon implanted into your DNA.

Befriending the soldier had helped take your mind off of it, gave you both common ground to tip-toe over like a mine-field, an unaddressed understanding between two tortured souls. Then he up and left you to fend for yourself.

You could not return the favour when Sam presented you with his plea, fervour behind each word he described the situation at hand with.

A group of mercenaries turned revolutionaries. Gunning for a good cause, yet turning violent. Altering their bodies with a serum, tearing the fabrics of their being apart and stitching it back together with a strength that did not belong to them. The Flag-Smashers are a force to be reckoned with.

Who better to reckon with them than an escaped super-soldier hating convict, the bionic super-soldier, a retired avenger, and the man who passed on the role of Captain America? From Earth’s mightiest to Earth’s most-unlikely, what a fall from grace your career as a hero has taken.

Let the record show, to whom ever it may so concern, that you were staunchly against the liberation of Zemo.

Voicing this was futile, of course, when the man himself was already stepping into the limited light of the warehouse and shooting all three of you an easy smile, like he had not just changed out of an orange jumpsuit.

Through high and low, in a plane bound towards Madripoor and on the ground running from bounty-hunters convinced you had a hand in killing Selby, Bucky has not spoken to you once. You’ve heard his voice, through one-word answers to a cautious Sam and in threats aimed at Zemo, but not once has it been directed to you.

Nor have his eyes, until now.

Neon strobes flash all around you, a dizzying sight that has you craving a drink and the permission to capture the light source and watch it implode on itself. Sharon’s instructions had been to blend in, unfortunately, so you weave through bodies and ignore the pain blooming from your temples.

You feel Bucky’s attention before you spot him. It hovers over you like a force-field, a protective bubble that seems to push the surrounding crowd one step back, heads turning to glance over their shoulders at the man, the myth, the nightmare. The Winter Solider, back pressed to a wall and arms crossed over his chest.

Someone did not get the memo on blending in.

A hand brushes against you. First a whisper of a touch, the kind that makes you doubt you’ve even felt it. And then it’s as loud as a scream, a faceless limb curling over the curve of your waist and entrapping you back against the stiff outline of a stranger. Possessive, yet inviting, coaxing you to sway in a rhythmless pattern to the music blaring throughout the room.

One look across at where he stands is all it takes for Bucky to move. On the prowl, he drifts through the crowd, finding pockets of space to slip past strangers. It triggers a reaction in you, one that yearns to prove you don’t need his help.

Super-powers on lock-down, you lay your own hand atop the stranger’s, who entangles their fingers into the fabric of your clothing and presses themselves closer to you, like they’ve spotted the green-light they were looking for to smother themselves against you. One steadying breath and a quiet mantra on repeat in your mind — disarm, disengage, disappear — you launch your attack.

Taking a deathly grip, you feel as the stranger’s hands mould beneath it. There’s an uncomfortable grunt at your back, one that deepens as you twist a wrist and pair it with a stomp of your foot atop their own. Free from any unwanted touch, you dash out into the crowd, leaving a slew of foreign curses and an aching hand behind.

You steal a look over your shoulder, confirm no one is following you, and run head first into someone else.

The chill of vibranium kisses one elbow, while the heat of flesh burns the other. When your eyes meet, the soldier appears more rattled than you. The red flush in his eyes has grown darker since the police station, the dusting of facial hair now a shadow of brown over his face.

It takes you a moment to register the shake in his hand.

Nearly unnoticeable, Bucky fails to ground himself in your skin. There’s no method behind his breathing, no in and out, no dance of the rise and fall of a chest. Instead, his breathing is scrambled all over the place; inhaling on what should be an exhale, and holding far longer than ordinary lungs would deem survivable.

You’re not sure he’ll hear you over the music. You’re not sure you want him to.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” the first thing he’s said to you in months and it’s a lie.

You don’t call him out on it.

You don’t let him rest thinking you believe it, either.

You do press a hand to his heart.

It races beneath cotton, beneath his suit jacket. A marathon of chaos thrumming throughout his arteries, spreading something dangerous to every cell that encompasses him.

And now he’s watching you, pinning you with a look so disturbed and vulnerable that you ache to flea. From him, with him. A game of tug-of-war between your desires and rationale.

Swallowing down a mouthful of your own nerves, you match the panic in his eyes with a softening of your own. Pressure against his chest, your free hand guides his to lay flat against your sternum.

And then you inhale, slowly, let him feel the rush of air expanding your lungs beneath his fingerprints. He tries, and fails, to do the same.

Holding your breath, you mouth a slow count of seven, making sure he reads over the words you don’t quite speak, and then you exhale. Slower than he does, chest deflating beneath his hand.

Where failure occurs, dust yourself off and try again. That’s exactly what you do with him, beginning a second inhale and forcing him to feel it once more.

Three, four, five breaths are pulled and pushed out both your lungs, slow motions amongst a crowd of pounding hearts. The soldier falls in line, synching himself to the timing of your rise and fall. Upon inhales, the distance between you both diminishes, bodies lingering closer for a counted pause in time, until you exhale and the space returns.

Your hand loosens atop his own upon the sixth breath. Bucky holds it still against your chest, not even a twitch of a finger. Your eyes widen, brows jumping with the proposal of an unspoken question, a nonverbal check-in. He nods, affirmative and slow, confirming the calming of his restless soul.

As you itch to step back, his metal hand clasps over the one atop his chest. You yield to his grasp, let him drag it north to where metal dangles from a chain. The soldier encases both of you around the dog-tags, a tight squeeze that brings no physical harm yet terrorises you with the branding of his name into your skin.

Your breathing is now the one out of line, falling behind in the steady pace you set.

The shape of your name forms over his lips. Before he can speak it, Sam beats him to it, emerging from the left with Zemo hot on his trails and the claim that Sharon has found the intel you were all hoping for.

Hours later, dodging bullets and taking cover amongst shipping containers, it remains stained over your palm.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Chaos does as chaos does best: it spreads.

You chase after it alongside the three men, trailing from one end of the Earth to another. Exhaustion stitches itself into your features, becomes a prominent descriptor for your face. And the silence between you and Bucky persists.

The avoidance is purposeful now, on both each other’s part. An agreement to keep out the other’s way. Yet presence is not something either of you can suppress.

When lights flicker on through every room he enters, Bucky says nothing.

And, when you wake up each morning to find an extra blanket shielding you from the cold, you say nothing.

Somewhere in Europe, an early morning, all hell breaks loose. Minutes from talking down the leader of the Flag-Smashers, Sam has the rug pulled out from beneath his feet by a self-entitled John Walker, storming on the scene with a barrel pointed at the girl’s head and a demand to surrender.

The ensuing events are a blur. An unchoreographed chase-down. Each pounding of your feet to the ground, the electricity pleading to be set free grew louder, warmer, a constant buzz frying your brain with the need for release. Another defeat notched onto all your belts, your meagre team of four dragged itself back to the Baron’s home.

Another fight awaited you there.

The Dora Milaje had their sights set on Zemo, yet they wound up wrestling against Walker and his sidekick. Despite your intentions to remain out of the fight, Sam and Bucky’s interference landed you a bruised cheek and your hands pinned behind your back.

You let the warrior fool herself into believing she immobilised your powers when, in truth, you never intended on using them.

Walker’s bruised ego and Zemo’s fleeing later, the silence between you and the soldier shatters.

“You’re bleeding,” of course you’re the one who has to swing the verbal axe.

Unaware of his injury, Bucky begins to inspect himself. He spots it in the mirror: a gash down his right shoulder blade.

“It’s a flesh wound,” and he’s an idiot, with skin torn open and spilling a river of red into the black cotton of his shirt.

“It would be embarrassing for a super-soldier and war veteran to die from tetanus,” so, maybe you’re being a slight hypochondriac. Working the wards does that to a person, steals any room for doubt when it comes to health and safety. “Don’t be so bull-headed, come here.”

Sam long gone in search of a calming breath and the will to not implode with anger, only you two fill the space of Zemo’s hideout. No other eyes are there to witness nor question as the soldier sits quietly in a bar stool, shirt off and back facing you.

A bowl of cold water and a damp rag, you swipe over drying blood and watch it revive itself, pink rivulets rolling down the stretch of his skin. You catch them before they can reach the waistband of his jeans, and accidentally brush a finger over the silvery mark of a scar long healed yet the pain it brings remains fresh.

You almost apologise.

Bucky almost says it’s okay, your hands could never hurt him.

Instead, you return focus to his open wound and he clamps his teeth down on his tongue.

The mending process is impromptu, the ultimate display of working with what you have. Or, rather, what you find. A half-drunken bottle of vodka to cleanse the wound, a sewing kit to stitch the flesh back together, a bandage to dress it.

The soldier struggles to dress, incapable of angling his arm correctly and pulling the fabric of a fresh shirt over his skin. Against your better judgement, you step in and help, looping over his head and feeding his arm through the sleeve.

“Thanks,” his smile is sheepish, false. A placeholder for whatever he’s really feeling. It sparks something in your heart. Something ugly, and dangerous, looming over all four chambers of the delicate organ, and feeding itself into your bloodstream. “I forget how hard the Dora Milaje hit-”

“Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” it snaps out of you, cruel and aiming right for the soldier with intentions of killing the smile on his face. It doesn’t even waver but his eyes do, sinking to the floor like a kicked puppy. You feel sick with pity, yet ripe with anger. “Not after putting so much effort into proving we’re not.”

“You’re right,” why doesn’t it fill you with victory to hear him say it? “I’m sorry.”

“Stop!” You get him to flinch, but at what cost? It only deepens the nausea in your soul. Still, you press on with irate words. “I’m sick of hearing you apologise. When have I ever asked you to be sorry?”

“It’s not something you ask,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s something you’re owed.”

“You know what? Yes, I am owed an apology!” The pacing begins before you truly realise, boots scuffing over carpet and kicking up a storm in their wake. “Two months, Bucky! I haven’t heard from you in two months! And then I come here, I go out of my way to give up the peace I’ve worked so hard to bring into my life, and you won’t even look me in the eye!”

Tears sting, blurring your vision yet you won’t let the dam break, won’t let him see you so emotional when he’s the poster boy for stoicism. Fog in your eyes, you fail to notice the way his are suddenly pinned to you, following the back and forth pattern your steps engrave into the floor.

“I mean, who does that?” The words are practically ripped from you, painful as you bring them into fruition. Heaviness clogs your throat with a sob, another degree of distraught you have to fight to contain, reducing your voice to a whisper. “I thought we were friends.”

You’re not exactly sure what reaction you were hoping for.

A yelp of pain? A howl of anger? A whimper of sadness? Backed into a corner and speared by you words, the soldier gives you no such thing. He just stares.

Wide-eyed, unblinking, slow-breathing.

“If I deserve an apology, you deserve a ‘thank you’.” The laughter that tears through your chest possess not a trickle of humour. Instead there’s only grief, mourning for the friendship he left to rot. Dead and unburied, you’ve wandered the last few months desiccating through the streets of the city. Now, you reach for the knife he placed in your back and turn it on him instead. “Thank you for reminding me I can sleep through the night, if you’re not there to tear me away from it. Thank you for showing me I’m capable of doing this all on my own. Thank you for liberating me from… this. Us.”

As high as you get off of cruelty, the comedown is a complete crash of your system. Shoulders that deflate, hands that squeeze shut, and lights that flicker like an electrical storm. When one of the light-bulbs shatters under the heat of your ire, your eyes flinch shut and the barrier of tears snaps at last.

The first to roll is the warmest, lulling you in with the promise of oxytocin.

Bucky inches closer and, on reflex, you flinch back. Images flash quicker than all the surrounding lights, memories of the early days. Confinement, experiments, men in lab-coats.

You never forget the first life you take. In your case, you knew nothing about him. Not his name, not his age, not his favourite colour nor his dearest relative. All you have to remember him by is the smell of his body, blood spilling through every orifice and the stench of electricity convulsing his limp body.

Before the guilt could fully creep in, one of the lab-coats clapped and set off a chain reaction, overcome with a joy that did not match the territory of having just watched their colleague unexpectedly die at the hands of a child.

Of course, you were no longer a child to them, but a weapon.

“There’s something wrong with me,” Bucky starts, and pauses instantly to pull himself together, armour almost cracking under the pressure to reach out and wipe the next tear away before it can trail down your face. “Something in me, it… It hungers. I can’t watch it devour you.”

You hiccup over a sob, the gentle tone of his voice a blanket over the chaos of another light smashing. The soldier does not even react, he just keeps looking at you.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that everyone I’ve ever cared about has either died,” the first thorn in his field of roses appears, a twinge of distress staining the calm of his voice. Not fear of your powers, but a plea to be understood. “Or I’ve made them hate me through hurting them. I can’t watch that happen to you.”

“Don’t worry,” you wipe at your cheek with the back of your hand, a futile attempt to dry tears that only spread further over your skin. “You hurt me by making me hate you.”

The events in which your life falls apart are quite simple.

First, there’s a threat posed against Sam’s sister. Second, an agreement to meet with Karli Morgenthau — she demands an audience of one, Sam brings her three: Bucky, him, and you. Third, Cadet America and Battlestar Galactica — or whatever John Walker and Lemar Hoskins are running around calling themselves… The point is, they show up uninvited and wreak havoc. Fourth, a fight ensues.

Despite the work put into suppressing that tingle in your bones, it feels good to finally let it loose.

No fear of frying someone into cardiac arrest, the strength that courses through the Flag-Smashers acts as a padding to your touch. For every punch thrown your way, you block it with an electrifying grip, hand closing over fists and watching as faces flush with fear while you zap a bolt of light through them.

A fist flies at you from the right, crashing against your cheek with a crunch that has your jaw aching and open, a thrum of pain echoing up the side of your face. Before you can unload the ball of electricity conjured in your hand, a Vibranium one interferes, grabbing your attacker by the scuff of their neck and knocking them unconscious.

“You’re okay,” the words carry relief, but it’s unclear who they’re aimed at: you or him. Barely two days have passed since you confronted him, yet Bucky stands before you now, right hand inspecting your jaw, like nothing between you has changed. Like these last few months have been nothing but a bad dream that he’s finally called and pulled you out of. “‘S not broken, just gonna bruise.”

If you have the will to answer, you’re not given the chance.

The fight around you both continues, three fighters caging you against one another. Back to back, you fight your way through them. Bucky is all brawl, fists thrown with his entire weight behind them and slamming into the Flag-Smashers with the intention to deescalate, not kill. You, on the other hand, continue the approach of defence, waiting for them to attack first before you unleash shock-waves over their system.

The fighting comes to stand-still at the first casualty. Lamar lays slumped over, a fountain of blood pouring from his mouth as he stares onward, void of life.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey... c’mon... Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar, Lemar...” Walker’s voice fills the hall, frantic with denial as he checks over his fallen friend.

At Karli’s command, Lemar’s killer flees the scene. Walker is hot on his trail, tightening his grip on the shield of America as devastation and heartbreak settles over him in a blinding cloud. Bucky moves without much thought, dashing to follow the fight and capturing the attention of a handful of Flag-Smashers.

Too many for the soldier to take on his own, instinct comes over you as you raise both hands, eyes squeezing shut in an attempt to channel the power from every flickering light, every outsource of electricity scattered throughout the dilapidated building.

Pain. It infects you like a poison, like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your eyes fly open with a cry, and find Karli’s hands crushing one of yours in both their grasp, bones snapping like twigs under her strength. The amber tendrils flicker in your other hand, unruly and unwilling to bend to the demand of shocking her, as the super soldier continues to hold you within her deadly grip.

“I’m sorry,” the girl is so soft spoken, you want to believe her. “But I can’t let you get in my way.”

The stitching of your shirt’s neckline snaps beneath Karli’s grip. You barely have time to spew any version of Bucky’s name before she slams her forehead into yours.

The light in your palm burns out and the world goes dark.

There’s this street in Brooklyn.

The floor is cobblestone and uneven, a hazard to cross when rain runs a river over it. Trash compacts and lives deep within the crevices that divide road and sidewalk. Business ends before twenty-two hundred hours, a paradox living within the city that never sleeps. No light guides the way — burnt out decades ago, the streetlamps sit as a landmark of time and not as a beacon of safety.

“You know,” you muse, the midnight breeze brushing over your skin in a sweet caress. “You don’t have to walk me home every time we go out.”

“This street is darker than my past. It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to worry about my safety,” even so, the thought heats up your cheeks. “I’m a walking taser, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Not even you can help but laugh, reminiscing your first encounter. Amidst the chaos of the Sokovia accords, his feet escaped confinement and your hands wrapped around his throat in a mock shock-collar. “It’s not your safety I worry about. Someone’s got to be there to call an ambulance when you electrocute a poor unsuspecting criminal.”

Despite the strength that separates him from the confines of normalcy, Bucky gives in to the shove you give his shoulder, drifting several steps out into the empty road only to be sucked back into your orbit, an arm hooking over your shoulders and offering an apologetic pat.

Both your strides grow shorter as your building comes closer. If you hadn’t already taken two unnecessary laps in the search of more time, you’d ask for another walk around the block. But it’s late, way past any reasonable hour, and he has therapy in the morning. You can’t take more from him.

“I want to,” the soldier confesses, gentle tongue and smiling mouth forming the words. “That’s why I walk you home. Know you don’t need me to, but I think I need it.”

A comforting quiet carries you both the rest of the way, delicate thuds echoing as you travel up the steps to your building’s doorway. A moment of panic passes over you as you struggle to find your keys, hand rustling through your purse in search of the precious metal, only for something to jingle in Bucky’s grasp.

“Lookin’ for these?” He drops them into your open palm, a vibranium key-chain glinting beneath the moonlight — a souvenir from his recent visit to Wakanda, Shuri made sure to send you a scathing text detailing how the soldier blackmailed her into making it. “You left them on the bar. Wanna tell me again how you don’t need me?”

“Technically, I never said that,” while you verbally push at his buttons, your pointer finger pushes on his chest. Solid and warm, you’re overcome with a foreign urge. “But, oh thank you, my knight in vibranium armour!”

Standing one-step higher than Bucky, you meet no difficulty in throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a hug. He, on the other hand, goes stiff as a board, smile melting into a thin line as the rest of him freezes. You double down in light of his non-reciprocation, squeezing your arms a little tighter behind his neck and leaning further over the ledge of the step — nothing but trust for the soldier as you unload the responsibility of bearing your body onto him.

Slowly, the arms glued to his side loosen. Rise over your mid-back. Take their own hold around you. His movements are awkward and full of insecurity — when was the last time he was hugged?

You let him decide when enough is enough, unfurl your arms when his slip from your waist. As you shuffle back over the step, however, the moonlight catches over something else.

“Oh, I forgot,” he’s receptive to your voice, patient as he waits for you to continue. “The book I’m reading, it’s set during a fictional war and, well… I’m sorry if this is a bit silly but, do soldiers really gift their dog-tags to people?”

There’s every chance the question catches him more off-guard than the hug you just imposed on him, for it takes a few second for him to answer.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he nods to his own words, flesh hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “To family, friends… Loved-ones. The tags, they have our names, our whole identity engraved on a metal plate. I guess that’s why they usually go the person you’d want to be remembered by the most.”

The beauty in your friendship has always been the lack of curiosity. A safe haven from each other’s histories; neither of you ask things the other would not want to remember.

And so, you swear you do not mean to pry.

“Do you have anyone like that?”

Instead of a name, the soldier gives you a look.

A single trail of his gaze down your face, something unspoken etched into the way his forehead wrinkles with a frown and his throat swallows.

“It’s late,” the distance between you both remains the same, yet his voice sounds miles away. Gone. Removed. Detached. “You should go up. I’ll call you in the morning.”

And then you never see him again…

You wake with an itch in your palm. World still shutout behind the darkness of eyelids, a pained groan coughs out of you when you try and close your fist. Fingers, swollen and bruised, brush against one another in a failing attempt to curl inwards.

“I’m tryin’ to help,” a voice calls out from the left. “Bit pointless if you keep movin’.”

Consciousness crashes down on you like a sledgehammer, reawakening your nerve endings to every ache and throb, ghosts from a fight long gone and passed.

You let the light seep back in, eyes peeling open to face the rays of warmth piercing through a shattered window. But your veins feel empty of it, hollow as you attempt to conjure that familiar lick of heat.

Karli Morgenthau sits at your bedside — a dirty mattress on the floor — gauze threaded through her fingers as she uses it to tighten a plank of wood to your crushed hand, broken bones screaming out in pain as she forces the fingers flat. A makeshift cast, the kind one would expect to be given while shackled in the hideout of an evil mastermind.

Except, no cuffs bite at your wrists and there’s no inch of her that appears evil. She’s just a girl, barely grown past a child, and the weight of the world has already engraved itself into her tired face.

“Where are we?” Your own voice rings in your head.

“The city you call home,” Morgenthau offers up freely, securing the bandage with a knot.

What she lacks in nursing skills, she makes up for with her bedside manners, unscrewing a bottle of water and holding it out for you. Rising slow, you take hold of the plastic and welcome the sweet relief of moisture to sandpapered lips.

Barely a sip slips down your throat before you gag, body rejecting it and spewing down your chin. The pounding in your head feels like it grows tenfold.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A day or so,” Karli surprises you, delivering soft pats against your back and aiding you in your throat’s need to relieve itself of the burning bile. “You’ve been slippin’ in and out, especially on the plane. D’you know you talk in your sleep?”

The dream replays in a montage, memories of Bucky and you on that dark street stabbing you in the gut with embarrassment. What nonsense had you said aloud?

“I think I’m concussed,” unbroken fingers push into your temple, massaging in a circular motion as you try to coax the agony out of your skull. “You need to get me to a hospital.”

“I can’t do that,” the girl’s demeanour shifts, the once soft stare of a child lost in a sea of madness now hardening with ice and sending a chill down your spine. “You’re my leverage, it’s the only way to keep your friends in line.”

“Karli,” as calm as you keep your voice, there’s panic coursing through your system. Your body won’t cooperate; you can’t summon a single wisp of electricity in your non-maimed hand. “This could kill me. And if I die, my blood is on your hands. Are you sure you can live with that?”

“We’re so close, don’t you get it?” Any sense housed within her has departed, leaving nothing but a crazed look upon her features. “The GRC are meeting tonight. We’re going to put an end to the Patch Act, and then we’ll set you free.”

Outside the window, New York is sunny. A blue sky with no clouds, birds fly through the air, and the Sun paints a golden hue over every inch of land it touches.

It wouldn’t be a bad day to die.

Bucky feels like he’s choking.

Perhaps his jacket is too tight, leather wrapped around him like a casket and confining him beneath the rigid material. Maybe adrenaline is stealing his breath, using it as fuel to propel him onwards through the GRC building, eyes scouring for anyone running around like a headless chicken to direct them towards safety. Or, possibly, his lungs can’t remember how to pull in air when you’re not around.

Days have blurred together. Nights have been restless. Helpless and hopeless, it’s taken everything to not turn towards a familiar comfort in your time of danger. A part of him longs for a time where those ten words still hovered over him like a threat, so he could command Sam to unleash the colder side of him and send him on one last mission.

The Soldier would have had you back by now.

Without him, Bucky is nothing but a man frozen in time. A veteran, a cripple, and a man who’s woken every day with torment in his chest.

Self-inflicted, the kind of pain one can only hope to heal with pressure and time.

There’s a call of the soldier’s name. A stranger wrapped in a pencil skirt and sporting a badge around her neck passes him a phone, declaring the call is for him. Before speaker even meets ear, Bucky knows who awaits him on the other end.

“Ain't you tired of fightin’ for the wrong side, Mr Barnes?”

“I've done this before, kid,” lights flash outside the windows, red and blue, and oh so reminiscent of that dance floor in Madripoor. For a moment, he feels you on his chest, like a phantom limb, lulling it to rise and fall with the rhythm of your own. “I know how it ends.”

“It doesn’t matter if I don’t survive this. I’m fightin’ for somethin’ bigger than myself.” Karli spits down the line as he trudges down a flight of stairs. “And with all the bodies you’ve collected, have you ever been able to say the same?”

That strikes a nerve.

Bucky resists the bait as well as he can, “You don’t think I ever fought for something bigger than myself? That’s all I ever try to do, and I failed twice.”

“Three times, if you think about it hard enough. Do you think she’d still be willing to die for you,” his muscles stiffen, every bone in his body locks, and his grip tightens on the phone. “If she knew what you did?”

“I don’t know what you’re-”

“Yes, you do. I’ll do you a favour and tell’er all about it, right before I kill her.”

“Touch a hair on her head and there won’t be anywhere far enough you can run that I won’t find you,” he can’t bring himself to say your name, a cocktail of fear and desperation. Karli can tell you his dirty secret. She can tell the whole world, for all he cares. What she can’t do, what he won’t survive her doing is taking you from this world. His world. “You don’t want to do this, Karli.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Finally, a full breath of air. “Well, thank you. I'm glad you took my call. You've been a big help.”

The line drops and Bucky’s left with nothing but his own reflection, a face of agony in the window as he realises that, despite his efforts, he took the bait.

Hook, line, and sinker.

When you were a child, you loved the smell of gasoline.

Your father was a busy man. Time with him was rare, fleeting, something you had to fight to obtain. Being his daughter did not grant you premier access to him, you had to compete alongside all of his business associates; all those men in suits versus a little girl with skinned knees.

But road-trips, those were the only instance where he put down the pager and gave you all the love and attention any normal father would. Gas stations became a vision of home on the horizon, the promise of lukewarm meals, toilets that had never once been cleaned, and the sweet, sweet burn of petroleum deteriorating your brain cells.

The vehicle you sit in now is not manned by your father, yet it smells of gasoline.

Blindfolded and bound, your body sways blindly as tires screech over asphalt. Polyester slices at your neck, seatbelt fastened too tightly against your body. You know better than to complain.

It’s amazing how quickly old survival instincts return, slipping on like a cable-knit sweater you’d long kicked under the bed and forgotten about. You may not be in a literal cage anymore, dragged out for a routine poke and prod of chemicals and needles, but the process of being a hostage, all these years later, remains the same: sit still, be quiet, and do as you’re told.

What do you do, however, when your captor abandons you?

Bedlam overruns the scene. The vehicle comes to a halt, a door slams to your left, heat begins to pool over your skin. At first you tell yourself it’s nerves, a marker of the anxiety coursing in your veins. But it grows warmer, the air around you scolding to breathe and riddled with smoke.

There’s a ruckus of voices, all loud and none familiar, as several bangs ring out.

“Hold on!” A voice stands out amongst the noise.

Fists bang against metal and glass, pounding over and over, desperation thrown behind every punch. Hinges screech and snap as a door is pried open at the back of the vehicle, followed by the flee of feet over a metal body.

“Go, go,” the liberator of captives commands.

You test your own voice, a wail of distress that’s not loud enough, and your chances of being saved are halved.

Breathing grows weaker as the heat grows higher, a fire burning bright enough you see it in flashes behind the dark of your eye-covering.

“Thank you for saving us,” sleep calls to you through the rush of strangers, begging you to let yourself drift off back to that street in Brooklyn. “But there’s a girl! She’s trapped in the passenger seat!”

Eyelids reunite as your head lolls to the side, a ringing starting back up in your ears at the same time as the throb in your head. Your hand went numb hours ago, wrapped in gauze and tied tightly to your other. The voice of resilience inside your head, one that sounds alarmingly like a certain soldier, is screaming at you to fight.

To pry your lungs open with air. To tear your eyes open again. To let the buzz of electricity simmer from beneath your nail-beds, electrifying your touch enough to burn the bindings scratching at your wrists and to tear the blindfold from your face.

Your attempts leave you empty-handed, control lost from the moment Karli crushed one of your palms, abandoned in a time of need by your own powers.

All that pressure has put Bucky in a race against time.

Fire blazing on along the right side of the getaway car, smoke grows thicker as he rounds the driver’s side. Behind the window lays a cloud of grey, a storm that rolls in and obscures his view of the passenger seat. There’s a blurry shape, a figure slumped over.

The soldier’s fist slams through the glass.

And then he’s reaching inside, two hands grappling a hold of the passenger and hauling her over the van’s console. It’s messy, and graceless, and no doubt a bruising ordeal as he takes the weightless body in his embrace.

Brain switched off to outside stimulus, the only thought that passes through him is safety, get away from the ticking time bomb that is the burning van. Only then can he concern himself with trivial matters, like the state of the girl in his arms.

The girl who stirs, face turning into his chest as her ribs shake with the assault of a coughing fit. The girl whose blindfold slips down her nose and pools around her neck, a noose made of rags. The girl who’s capable of putting him into a state of cardiac arrest with one look alone, starlight sewn into the sparkle of her eyes.

“Took you long enough to rescue me,” you croak up at him between a cough. “Knight in vibranium armour.”

Bucky lowers your feet to the ground at your own unspoken request, squirming in his hold until the tips of your toes step over solid road and he’s loosening the bindings around your wrist.

If the world around you is at war, the soldier is dodging draft, too caught up in the battle of assessing what state you’re in. Wrinkled clothes, and dried blood, and the ash of a fire that’s still burning behind him. A grin creeps onto your face and sparks uproar in his chest.

An overjoyed imposter in a crowd of disaster, something in the stretch of your lips feels off; the corners do not quite reach your eyes. Exhausted and drained, pupils that stare past his own and plea for the gratification of sleep, the blessing of rest.

“Need you to follow my hand,” Bucky can’t help himself, palm cradling your face and a thumb soothing over the bags weighing heavy on your eyes. A cold sweat clings to your skin. “Think you can do that for me, darling?”

“Don’t call me that,” the words fizzle out into a giggle. With a slow wave of his metal hand, he watches as your stare stutters along in a failing attempt to catch up with his movements. “Makes my heart-”

You cut yourself off, body melting against his own.

Bucky won’t let himself make the same mistake, won’t have this moment be a repeat of that night in Brooklyn where his arms froze at his side instead of satisfying the craving he’d been feeling for months, scratching the itch to wrap you in his embrace.

The soldier’s arms slot around you with practised ease, like a lock sliding into place to conceal the greatest treasure. Touching you spreads warmth not only over his hands, but his soul, at long-last finding a breath of ease after months of drowning in himself. Slumping deeper into him, Bucky accepts you with every fibre of his being, heart lurching into his throat as he shuts out the chaos, for just a moment, and rests his head stop your own.

“Bucky.”

“Gimme a little longer,” his mumbles into your scalp, resisting the urge to tighten his biceps as the full weight of you presses into him. “Just wanna hold you, feel you’re okay.”

Karli and all the rest can wait.

If a fight is what they want, he’ll give them it. He’ll kick, and punch, and do all that he can to hold off until back-up arrives — Sam is somewhere out there, wings spread and a shield at his back. But not now.

Now, he’s going to memorise the song your heart sings, and anchor his worry in the wholeness of your existence, and sync his inhales to your exhales.

“Bucky, it hurts,” foolishly, he hums in response, not yet cognisant of what you said.

Until your breath trips over itself.

He lets the world back in too quickly, numbing his vision with flashing lights and a shadow cast from a Flag-Smasher standing ten paces behind you and sporting shock all over his demeanour. When you come into focus, he’s staring down at your back and bearing witness to the spreading of a disease, a dark mass spreading over grey cotton.

And his hands… They’re not just warm, but scolding. Contaminated with a peculiar wetness that’s viscous and sticky, slipping between the crevices of his fingers like a syrup, thick streams that drip from his skin and stain the road a darker shade of black.

Bucky catches you as your knees buckle, soaking hands submerging themselves back into a pond of blood. The logical part of his brain is failing him. Lower-rib, left side, rebar impaled through shirt and flesh. So much blood. Too much blood. It is your spleen? It has to be your spleen.

He’s back to drowning again.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, forcing down the lump in his throat as he pulls back to find you calm, not a single ripple in your features while tears surface over his own. “Eyes on me, remember? Follow my hand.”

Metal plates scream into place as he raises the vibranium to the level of your face, repeating a waving motion. At your back, the stain of you on his flesh is a bloodbath, a sickening sight he knows better than to subject you to.

Bucky’s own private hell grows.

Distant yells move closer as he tunes back into the insanity swirling around you both. Flag-Smashers are fighting tooth and nail with John Walker, flames have completely engulfed the wreckage of the van he pulled you from, and, worst of all, the other vehicle of hostages dangles by a thread atop the shell of a building, bars of metal that are slowly bending beneath the weight of wheels.

“You have to go,” you speak calmly, like every second that passes isn’t making it harder to stand up straight.

“No.”

“You have to stop them-”

“No!” Bucky shakes his head, hoping to block out the screeching of metal and the slamming of fists against skin. He just wants to hear you. “I’m gonna get you somewhere safe, okay? Get you in an ambulance and to a hospital. And I know you hate being a patient but, you don’t gotta worry ‘cause I’ll be there to hold your hand and-”

“Bucky,” there you are again, pushing him away and forcing him to let the noise of everybody else’s terror in, like he too isn’t watching his fears come to life before him. “Those people need you, please.”

“But I need you.”

Unlatched from him at last, you drift a few steps back, head shaking when he tries to reach for you.

A handful of civilians, the very same faces Bucky rescued from that burning van, crowd around you, carefully slipping your arms over their shoulders and hauling your slumping figure up.

“I’m fine,” you choke over a sob, tears to match his own sliding down your cheeks. “Go.”

All Bucky has ever tried to do is the right thing. He chased down the hostages. He pulled them from the van, a man even thanked him for saving them. So, why does it feel like he’s failed once again?

The taste of stale breath.

The smell of peonies.

The sound of a clock.

The touch of a paper gown.

The sight of the soldier at your bedside, one arm folded over the bed and under his head, and the other outstretched, an inch or two of space living between where his fingers end and yours begin.

Bucky snores, a soft whistle floating out with each exhale, while a monitor turns the beat of your heart into a muted beep, a green line pinging across the screen. The muscles in your neck are stiff, protesting as you try to get a closer look at him, but the moon is out and no light is on; you’re left to admire the shadows cast over his skin and the slow ebb and flow of his breathing.

A hiss shoots to the back of your throat.

Blue eyes that open in an instant, from deep sleep to a state of alert in less than three seconds. The hand he lay resting closest to yours shoots for the call button, but you intercept before he can press it.

“Don’t,” even as you coax him back into his chair, there’s conflict in his stare, like any minute now he’ll call the nurses into your room and cause a big scene you don’t need. “I just sat up too fast. Help me?”

Bucky nods, thumbs hooking under your arms and slowly tugging you up the bed while you busy yourself pressing the incline button and delighting in the way the mattress rises.

“When did you wake up?”

“Barely a minute ago,” you finally manage to pull in a full breath of air, and that’s when you feel the scratch of gauze around your torso. “You never told me you snore.”

“You never asked,” the chair creaks beneath him as Bucky struggles to get comfortable, elbows resting over knees only for him to straighten his spine and grasp a hold of the arm-rests.

“That’s kind of a hard thing to do when my number’s blocked.”

It’s an evil thing yet possessing no real malice, said completely out of the desire to see him squirm under the microscope of your eyes.

“How, uh,” he leans forward instead, right arm on the bed, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. “How d’you feel?”

“Like someone took the knife you stabbed in my back and decided to replace it with rebar instead,” this time, your words make him flinch. His fist clenches, retreating from the bed until you hook your good hand around the wrist and stop it in its tracks. “Bucky, I’m just messing with you. You saved my-”

“That night, outside your apartment, I realised something.”

The mask of composure he wears is starting to crack, the shine of something earnest and vulnerable slipping through and forcing you into silence.

“Your life-” Bucky pauses to correct what he’s saying. “I told myself that your life would be better off without me, but I was just being a coward instead of being honest with you,” he’s squirming, uncomfortable with the weight of the truth in his mouth, and it makes you feel sick with the need to comfort and cradle.

“You don’t have to tell me anything if-”

“I’m the reason you ended up as one of Hydra’s experiments,” he practically throws it out, like a grenade that’s one wrong word away from detonating and exploding in both of your faces. “Your dad, he was one of my handlers. I’d been out of the ice too long, I wasn’t taking orders properly, and I… I killed him.”

“I know.”

“They realised his death would leave you orphaned, and so they took you,” not even the dark engulfing the hospital room can hide the shine of wetness his gaze, an visible ache splotching over a palette of blue. “All that pain, all the torture they put you through-”

“I know.”

“It was because of me.”

“Bucky, I know,” your hand engulfs his own, fingers threading like knots you have no intention of letting him loosen. “Steve told me years ago, right before I agreed to fight against the rest of my friends for you.”

“I’m sor-”

“I told you I’m sick of hearing you say that,” you almost lay your other hand on his cheek, only to find a cast — a real one — obscuring it. You settle for tugging him closer with your good hand, until he’s all but hanging off the edge of his seat. “Hydra made a weapon out of both us, Buck. The pain, the torture, all the bad… That’s on them, okay? I would never blame you-”

Soft and sweet, his lips land on yours like a secret.

Not the sinful kind, the ones that tear families in two and bring all but ruin to those who dare keep them. But the giddy kind, the ones that fill people with childish glee and leave them biting at their lips in an effort to contain it, the fear of ruining the greatest surprise.

His kiss is a question, iterations of ‘can I?’, ‘should I?’, and ‘how could i not?’ speaking directly to your heart. If his mouth is wax, then yours must be the stamp, moulding his affections into shape and making something meaningful out of him.

You answer with zeal, covering his cheek in your fingerprints as you pull him in, pull him closer, pull him onto the bed. It creaks in protest as the soldier presses a knee into the mattress, back curving over your body and shielding you away from the rest of the room.

You’re giggling into Bucky’s mouth like a fool, so much so that you barely feel the jolt of your shoulders as he bumps against broken ribs. It’s subtle, yet the soldier notices all the same, mouth tearing away and head dipping to make sure your injuries haven’t mysteriously worsened under the weight of his touch.

“What was it you realised,” you pull his attention back to your face, where your eyes are waiting to trail over the kiss-bitten blush of his rose-bud lips. “Outside my apartment?”

You ask it with every intention of pulling him in for another kiss, so long as he answers.

“That you’re the person I want to be remembered by most.”

There’s an apartment in Brooklyn.

It lives on a street that’s never lit, where the world falls quiet come twenty-two hundred hours, and the neighbours are forever complaining about flickering light-and power-cuts.

It’s insides are full of clutter. Keys strewn across the dinner table, books stuffed unceremoniously in crevices where they’re bound to be forgotten, vibranium trinkets made through blackmail congregate as litter around the TV unit.

A junk-drawer full of movie tickets — dates that end with him monologuing about the death of cinema. A bowl overflowing with arcade stubs — he’s adamant it doesn’t matter that it would be cheaper to just buy the bear, he’s going to earn you it through blood, sweat, and many tears. A bedside table has gained another strip of photos for it’s growing collection — he’s a fiend for dragging you into photo-booths and kissing you until the flash of the camera is a distant memory.

“Stooop,” you’re whining pathetically for all the wrong reasons, slippery hands losing grip and sliding down a tiled wall while you’re bent at the waist and grinding your cunt back against his cock. “This is supposed to be sexy, not sappy.”

“I’m not being sappy,” not even Bucky believes himself, voice trailing off in a chuckle.

He’s cruel, the most evil man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, so of course he grips at your hips and forces them still. Like a punctuation mark ends a sentence, the tip of his dick is poking at that stop-talking-coherently spot inside your walls and threatening to make you gush more than the shower head spilling water over you both.

“Yes, you are,” you somehow find the will to form a sentence, only to gasp something akin to his name when cold vibranium presses into the arch of your spine.

“Maybe I am,” he finally admits, and if you weren’t halfway through a hail-Mary in an attempt to fight off an incoming orgasm that he’s definitely not earned the right to yet, you’d let out a cry of victory. “If admiring how resilient you are makes me sappy, then sure. Arrest me officer, I’m guilty, again.”

That ‘again’ prompts a kaleidoscope of events from Halloween night… Bucky, naked and shackled to the headboard, sporting literal tears in his eyes as he watches the buttons of your sleazy cop outfit strain while you make yourself cum for the third time without a lick of help from him. In your defence, the punishment was well earned — he’d been a little too proud of the number of eyes that had lingered over his gladiator costume.

You're back in the shower the moment fingers kiss over your scar, delicate promises sealed into the caress he brushes over the raised tissue.

It happens more often than not — you raise your arm to grab something out of a cupboard and suddenly Bucky is behind you and trailing over the mark; you wear a dress that cascades down your back and Bucky spends the whole evening brushing his thumb over the scar while holding conversations with friends across the table; you let him bend you over the nearest surface and expect him to have you seeing stars and, while stars are definitely seen, Bucky’s stare burns brighter along your left side. You’ve wondered if it’s a form of torture for the soldier, a bookmark on your skin for the night where your blood stained his hands.

That’s not how you remember the night — the pain, the bleeding, the rebar puncturing through bone and spleen. You remember the strength in his hands as they pulled you from the van, and the relief that fell over his face when you spoke, and the way he held you close while the rest of the world burned away in a cloud of chaos.

“I love you,” who chokes up with tears while standing eight inches deep and damn-near marking up a new blue-print for your organs to reorganise themselves to make more space for him? Bucky, that’s who, and you wouldn’t have him any other way. “So much.”

Okay, so maybe you would have him one other way.

The good man that he is, Bucky slips his cock out of you after a push back against his abdomen, already moulding his hands to the shape of your waist as you turn around to face him.

“That’s it, Barnes,” you try your best to sound authoritative. The shampoo burning at your eye makes it a little difficult, but you pull through and drag him into your hold, arms curling around his shoulders and a leg hooking itself over his hip. The tiles are cold, pressing into your back, a welcome contrast to the heat of Bucky. “I’m sick of you and your wimpy attitude. You’re banned from doggy style, standing or otherwise, until further notice.”

“Don’t be mean, darling,” he drags a thumb over your slit, kissing it against your clit with the practised ease of a man that’s spent the greater half of a year getting to know you inside and out, in every and any position. “Or I’ll cum. And I was really hoping to do that while I bury myself inside you.”

Left palm hovering over his sternum, a muted crackle of electricity burns into his skin, only to fade at your command, “Then I guess you better hurry up and give us what we both want.”

“Hmm, have I ever told you you’re my favourite electro-shock therapy?” He’s laughing at his own ridiculous joke, while gripping your wrist and guiding you up the path to his neck, locking your fingers around him like a collar he’s more than proud to wear. “Now, think you can spread your legs a little wider, baby? Wanna make you cum so hard you blow the building’s fuse.”

+ extra hyde.

Prague, maybe. Serbia, possibly. He's on a mission, one of those shadowy, leather-gloved affairs that probably involves scaling rooftops or disarming a bomb with seconds to spare. You don't know the details. But the ache in your chest? That's all the intel you need.

Ten days.

Ten days since you've felt the heat of his body pressed against yours, since you've tasted the soft, devastating edge of his mouth. Ten days since you've run your fingers through his dark hair, felt the shudder in his breath when you tug just a little too hard. You're unraveling, fraying at the edges, a woman starved for the man who's both her anchor and her storm.

So, naturally, you do what any rational, touch-starved, love-drunk soul would do. You grab your phone. You swipe open the camera. And you pose.

It's not graceful. You're not some sultry vixen trained in the art of seduction. You're just you—heart pounding, towel slipping just enough to tease, hips tilted in a way that feels like a dare. You stare into the lens and think, What would make Bucky lose his mind?

The answer is this: you, glistening from the shower, skin dewy and warm, the towel barely holding on, one hip cocked, your lips parted in a look that's half-innocent, half-come get me. It's a snapshot of longing, of I miss you laced with I dare you.

You snap the photo. Your thumb hovers over the send button for a heartbeat—two, three. Then you press it.

The wait is electric.

Your phone buzzes, and your pulse spikes.

Bucky Jesus, sweetheart.

Another buzz, and it's like his voice is in the room, low and rough, curling around you like smoke.

Bucky What are you doing to me?

I'm in a goddamn surveillance van with two other agents and a shared screen. Had to throw a blanket over my lap like some kid who can't control himself.

You bite your lip, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. The towel feels heavier now, like it's conspiring with your racing heart. You type back, fingers trembling with mischief.

oops! just wanted to say hi... all clean and wet. is that a crime now?

Bucky You're lucky I'm not there, doll. You wouldn't be standing.

Your breath catches, a soft laugh spilling from your lips. Heat pools low in your belly, and you can almost feel the ghost of his hands—calloused, warm, possessive and grazing your skin. You type again.

hmm, i'm all wet and lonely. you're out there being dangerous and armed... we're not playing fair, are we?

Bucky Say that one more time, and I'm on the next flight home. Mission be damned.

You laugh again, loud and unguarded, because you know he means it. He'd burn the world down to get to you if you asked. And that's the sweetest, most dangerous part of all—this love that's so big, so consuming, it's hard to breathe without pulling him into your orbit.

You sink onto the edge of your bed, still clutching the phone, the towel slipping just a fraction lower. Your skin hums with the memory of him, and you wonder how long it'll be before he's back, before you can trade these teasing texts for the real thing—his hands, his mouth, his everything.

Until then, you'll just have to keep torturing him. One sultry selfie at a time.You spend the next three hours doing completely ordinary, non-sinister things like brushing your hair and moisturizing your soul. Also, watching Mamma Mia! for the hundredth time and pretending you don't keep glancing at your phone every seven minutes.

You do. You absolutely do. And yes, you are tracking Bucky's location like the clingy menace you are.

And it turns out he's checked into his hotel.

Which means—oh.

He's alone.

And probably grumpy.

Which means Bucky Barnes, Sergeant of Chaos, is probably somewhere in Europe brooding shirtless in soft lamplight. All sharp jawline and stormy eyes, still simmering from the situation you personally orchestrated.

Your body hums. Full-body anticipation. Wicked little pulses of mine mine mine under your skin. So naturally, you do what any well-adjusted, emotionally stable girlfriend would do.

You hit the video call button.

He answers on the first ring.

His face fills your screen—all chiseled bone structure and dark stubble and mussed hair like he's been running his hands through it since your last message. His voice is a low growl, sleep-rough and laced with something entirely more dangerous.

"Baby,"

You sprawl across your bed, the towel you're still wearing—barely—slipping dangerously low, exposing the curve of your thigh, the dip of your collarbone. You tilt your phone just right, letting him catch the glint of your damp skin in the soft light. "Hi, Sergeant," you purr, your voice a velvet blade, sharp and sweet.

He groans, head tipping back against the headboard, the sound vibrating through you like a physical touch. "Don't start with that Sergeant shit," he warns, but his eyes are already darkening, pupils blown wide as they rake over you. "I'm barely holding it together."

"Why?" You tilt your head, letting a damp curl fall across your shoulder, your lips curving into a smirk that's pure sin. "I'm just being respectful. Honoring your rank." You shift, the towel riding up just enough to make his jaw clench.

"Fuck," he mutters, the word a prayer and a curse. You hear the creak of his hotel bed, the rustle of sheets as he adjusts himself, and it's enough to make your thighs press together. "That picture you sent? I've been hard since. Had to lock myself in this room just to breathe."

You laugh, low and sultry, stretching out on your bed, letting the towel slip another inch, teasing the edge of decency. "Poor baby," you coo, your voice dripping with mock sympathy. "All worked up because of little ol' me?"

"You know exactly what you're doing," he growls, his eyes narrowing as he leans closer to the screen, like he could reach through it and grab you. "You're a fucking menace."

"I miss you," you whisper, and it's not just teasing now—it's raw, aching truth. Ten days without him, without his hands, his mouth, his weight pinning you down. It's too long. Too empty.

His expression softens, just for a second, before the hunger takes over again. "Miss you so damn much, sweetheart," he says, his voice thick, almost reverent. "It's killing me. Ten days, and I'm dreaming about you, waking up hard, thinking about your taste, your smell, the way you fucking move."

Your breath hitches, heat pooling low in your belly. "Then show me," you challenge, your voice a husky whisper. You prop your phone against a pillow, angling it so he can see every inch of you—towel barely clinging to your hips, your skin flushed and glistening. "Show me how much you miss me."

His eyes go molten, and he shifts, the camera catching the flex of his vibranium arm as he adjusts himself. "You want to play dirty?" he murmurs, his voice dropping to that dangerous, filthy register that makes your toes curl. 

He shifts, grunts softly, and sets his phone down too—somewhere low, tilted up just enough to give you the full view. And oh. Oh, God.

He's shirtless. Hair a mess. His thighs spread wide and bare.

And his cock. Thick, flushed, already hard rests heavy against his stomach.

"Like that, baby?" he asks, a little breathless, a little too smug for someone stroking himself with a metal arm like he's trying to kill you with lust via satellite.

You whimper. That's it. That's your only response. A noise of full-body, feral yearning.

Because his vibranium fingers? Wrapped around the base of his cock like a fucking vice. The gold plating catches in the low light, gleaming wickedly as he strokes once—slow and deliberate, like he wants to ruin you before he even touches himself properly.

"I thought about you all day," he murmurs, lazy now, letting his thumb rub over the head, watching your mouth fall open. "Tried so fucking hard not to do this until I saw you. But then you called, lookin' like you wanted me to lose it... Take that towel off, baby. Let me see you."

You comply, agonizingly slow, peeling the fabric away until it pools beneath you, leaving you bare and breathless under his gaze. His groan is primal, a sound that vibrates through your core. "Fuck, look at you," he breathes, his hand disappearing below the frame, the motion unmistakable. "So fucking perfect. You know what I'd do if I was there? I'd bury my face between those thighs. Lick you so slow, so deep, you'd be begging me to let you come."

You whimper, your fingers trailing down your stomach, teasing yourself as his words burn through you. "Bucky," you gasp, your voice trembling with need. "Keep talking."

"Oh, I'm just getting started," he says, his voice a low, filthy promise. "I'd spread you open, taste every inch of that sweet pussy. Fuck, I can still taste you from last time, all wet and warm and mine. I'd suck that clit until you're screaming, until you're pulling my hair so hard it hurts. You'd be dripping for me, wouldn't you? Soaking the sheets, begging for my cock."

Your fingers move faster against your hot core, chasing the heat of his words, your hips bucking as you moan his name. "Yes," you pant, your body arching off the bed. "God, Bucky, I need you."

"You have no idea," he growls, his breath hitching as he matches your rhythm, his camera shaking slightly as he moves. "I'd fuck you so deep, baby. Pin you down, make you take every inch. You'd feel me for days. I'd fill you up, make you scream my name until your voice gives out."

"Fuck, Bucky—" Your hand trails down again, desperate, twitchy.

He smirks. "Go ahead. Touch yourself while you watch me." His jaw flexes, the vibranium grip stroking tighter. "Wanna see how wet you are for me."

And you do. With him watching. With him moaning. With the sound of slick metal pumping against his cock, slow and devastating.

"I'm gonna fuck you so deep when I get back," he growls, voice wrecked now, gaze locked on you like a threat. "You won't be able to walk straight, baby. Not after this. Not after seeing me fuck my fist thinking about that perfect pussy of yours."

You gasp, your rhythm matching his, your thighs trembling.

"I'm gonna come all over this hand," he grits out. "And the second I land, I'm putting my mouth where this hand's been. Gonna taste you, taste me on you. Make you take it."

The words push you over the edge, your body shuddering as you come, his name a broken cry on your lips. He's not far behind, his groans rough and ragged, the camera catching the tense line of his jaw, the way his eyes flutter shut as he chases his own release.

For a moment, there's just the sound of your heavy breathing, the shared silence of two people wrecked and sated. You're sweaty, flushed, your body still trembling, but you feel alive, tethered to him through the screen.

"Jesus Christ," he pants. "I'm booking the next fucking flight."

You collapse into sleep, hard and heavy, your body still humming from the filthy promises of Bucky's voice over the video call. The blankets cocoon you, your pulse a lazy flutter, your skin tingling with the ghost of his words. You're not even sure if you ended the call, too drunk on pleasure to care. One moment, you're sinking into the soft haze of afterglow. The next—

Oh. Fuck.

You wake to a sensation so sinful it rips you from sleep. A wet, searing heat between your thighs, deliberate and unrelenting. Your hips buck instinctively, a sharp, needy jolt as your eyes flutter open, vision blurry with confusion and want.

Another slow, possessive lick drags up your core, and your brain stutters, short-circuits, melts. Your breath catches, a broken gasp, as you blink down and see him—Bucky Barnes, all six-foot-something of him, nestled between your legs like he was made for it. His hair's a tousled mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Those broad shoulders, carved from years of violence and redemption, pin your thighs open against the sheets. And his tongue—fuck, his tongue—is inside you, lapping at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted.

"Bucky—what—?" Your voice cracks, half a moan, as you try to process the impossible. "How—?"

"Shh, pretty girl," he murmurs, his lips brushing your clit, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh wave of heat through you. "Heard you whimpering my name in your sleep. Fuck, you sounded so needy. Couldn't just lie there and listen."

"You're here?" you gasp, trying to sit up, but his vibranium arm curls over your hip, pinning you down with gentle, unyielding strength. "You—ohmygod—Bucky."

"Told you I'd be on the next flight," he growls, his voice rough with hunger, his eyes dark and feral as they meet yours. "Couldn't stay away. Not after that little show you put on." He dives back in, his tongue swirling deep, dragging a wrecked moan from your throat. "You taste better than I remember. So fucking sweet."

Your hands fist the sheets, your hips grinding up to meet his mouth as he devours you, slow and reverent, like he's worshiping every inch of you. His tongue flicks and curls, teasing your entrance before plunging inside, and you're already trembling, your body a live wire under his touch. "Bucky—please," you whimper, your thighs quaking as he hooks them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, claiming you completely.

"Love hearing you beg," he murmurs against your pussy, his beard scraping your inner thighs, the burn only amplifying the pleasure. "Missed this. Missed you. Been dreaming about this pretty cunt every fucking night." He sucks your clit hard, a deliberate pull that makes your vision blur, your body arching off the bed as you cry out. "Gonna make you come so hard you forget how to breathe."

You do. You come so fast, so violently, it's like a supernova bursting behind your eyes, your entire body seizing as you scream his name. He doesn't stop, lapping at you through the aftershocks, drawing out every shudder, every broken gasp, until you're a boneless mess beneath him.

But he's not done. Not even close.

Before you can catch your breath, he's up, his hands—flesh and metal—flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. "Ass up, sweetheart," he growls, his voice a dark, filthy promise that makes your core clench all over again. You scramble to obey, your knees sinking into the mattress, your back arching as you press your hips back toward him, desperate, aching, needy.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, his thumbs spreading you open as he kneels behind you. "So wet for me. So fucking perfect." You hear the rustle of his clothes, the clink of his belt, and then he's there, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

Not yet.

Instead, he presses the hot, leaking head of his cock on your wet pussy and just… holds it there. Teasing. Taunting. Letting you feel the weight of him, the heat, the pressure, everything you want but not giving you an inch.

He grinds in slow, maddening circles, rubbing right where you're soaked and aching, coating his tip in your slick. The sensation is enough to make your knees shake.

You whimper. Push back against him. Beg with your body.

But he only chuckles, low and wrecked. "You want it that bad, sweetheart?" he rasps, dragging his tip up through your folds, nudging your clit before sliding back down and rubbing against your entrance again. "Fuck, look how wet you are for me. Just from my voice. Just from thinking about me."

You sob his name, fingers curling in the sheets, desperate for friction, for fullness, for him.

But Bucky stays exactly where he is. Letting the swollen tip of his cock press against your cunt without breaching it, just enough to make your whole body burn. Just enough to make you feel like you're going to snap.

He groans like he's punishing himself. Like this is torture for him, too. "Could slide in so easy," he murmurs, grinding slow and shallow against you, your slick coating both of you now. "You're begging for it, baby. This tight little cunt's fuckin' fluttering, pulling me in."

Your hips buck helplessly. "Bucky... please—"

"Please what?" he growls, jaw tight. "Please put it in? Please fuck you stupid? You want this cock, doll?"

"Yes—fuck—yes," you cry, nearly delirious. "Please, don't tease, just fuck me..."

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you," he says, his tone dripping with dark, delicious intent. "Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for days. Gonna ruin this pussy." He slides in slow, inch by agonizing inch, stretching you, filling you, until you're gasping, your hands clawing at the sheets. 

"You're mine, baby. This tight little cunt? Mine."

He starts moving, hard and deliberate, each thrust driving you into the mattress, his hips snapping against yours with a filthy rhythm that makes you sob with pleasure. His vibranium hand grips your hip, cool and unyielding, while his flesh hand slides under you, finding your breasts, cupping them possessively. His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them just hard enough to make you gasp, your body arching further into him as he groans against your skin. "These fucking tits," he growls, squeezing them from beneath, his touch rough and reverent. "Been dreaming about these, too. So soft, so perfect in my hands."

"Yes—yes," you moan, your body shaking as he pounds into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. "Love it. Love you. Bucky, harder."

He growls, low and feral, and gives you exactly what you want, his pace turning brutal, his cock slamming into you so deep you feel it in your bones. "Fuck, I want to taste you again," he rasps, leaning over you, his chest pressed to your back, his lips grazing your ear.

It's too much. It's everything. Your body is a live wire, oversensitive and overstimulated, but you can't stop, can't pull away from the way he's claiming you, body and soul. His filthy promises, his bites, the way he fills yoU, it's all-consuming. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, white-hot and blinding, your walls clenching so tight around him you feel him falter. You scream his name, a broken, desperate sound, your body shaking as you come so hard your vision goes dark, your pussy gripping him like it's trying to keep him forever.

"Fuck—fuck," he chokes out, his thrusts stuttering as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you, hot and thick, wave after wave filling you up. His forehead presses against your spine, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as they lock onto your hips, anchoring himself to you like you're his only tether to the world.

But he's not done. Oh, God, he's not done.

He pulls out just enough to catch his breath, his cock still slick and half-hard, and then he flips you over with a strength that steals the air from your lungs. You land on your back with a startled gasp, your legs trembling as he nudges them apart with his knee, his vibranium hand curling around the back of your neck, possessive and grounding. His dark, wild, starving eyes—lock onto yours as he lines himself up again, pushing back inside with a slow, deliberate thrust that makes you whimper.

"Need to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, his lips brushing your temple as he rocks into you, deep and unhurried, like he's savoring every second. "Need to come inside you while I watch those pretty eyes fall apart." His flesh hand slides down to your thigh, hooking it over his waist, opening you up so he can fuck you deeper, his cock hitting places that make your breath hitch.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips rolling with a rhythm that's both tender and devastating. "Feel how full you are? That's all me. Gonna fuck you so deep you'll feel me for weeks. Wanna mark you inside and out, make sure you're dripping with me." His vibranium hand slides up to your breast, squeezing hard, his thumb brushing your nipple until you're gasping, your body clenching around him again.

He bites your shoulder again, harder this time, his teeth sinking in as he growls against your skin, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure of his cock filling you. "Love these fucking tits," he murmurs, his hand kneading your breast, his fingers pinching just enough to make you moan. "Love how you shake for me, how you take every inch like you're made for my cock."

You're a mess, slick with sweat, your body trembling as another orgasm builds, unstoppable and overwhelming. "Bucky," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, his back, anything to hold onto as he drives you higher. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

That's what breaks him. A shattered groan of your name spilling from his lips as he comes again, his cock pulsing deep inside you, filling you until you're dripping, claimed in every way. His thrusts slow but don't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're shaking, your own release crashing through you, your moans mingling with his as you cling to him, utterly ruined.

He collapses over you, chest heaving, his body a warm, heavy weight pinning you to the mattress. He doesn't pull out, just stays there, softening inside you, his lips brushing soft, reverent kisses over the bite marks on your shoulder, soothing the sting he left behind. "Missed you so fucking much," he whispers, his voice raw, trembling with something deeper than lust. "Couldn't stay away from you. Never can."

You hum, too fucked-out to speak, your arms wrapping around his back, holding him close as your body thrums with the afterglow, the marks on your shoulder a delicious reminder of his claim.

"You okay?" he murmurs after a moment, nudging your nose with his, his voice a mix of concern and that smug, bastardly charm.

You manage a breathless laugh, your head still spinning. "I think I died. Twice."

He grins. Smug bastard.

"Good."

You roll your eyes. "You and your fucking audacity," you mumble, barely coherent.

He chuckles, still inside you, still hardening slowly. Still not done.

He comes without a warning.

Thirteen minutes before the curtains rise and the spotlight is set to trace your every graceful step across the stage, there’s a burst of commotion. Two stagehands and a handful of the ensemble cast stand gathered around a tiny screen, squealing and giggling amongst themselves.

“The hunger I feel for that man is insatiable,” a fox-eyed, red-haired spitfire wrapped in the ballerinas’ opening attire throws her head back, clutching the phone against her chest. “I mean fuck congress but… I wouldn’t mind fucking that congressman.”

Like birds of a feather, the squad of cackling voices all fall into perfect harmony.

“And you’re sure he’s actually here?”

“Take a look for yourself if you don’t believe me, Josh,” the command is followed by a hand signalling towards the side of the stage. “Balcony C-3, he’s wearing a tux and sitting alone.”

“Maybe he’s waiting on his date,” it’s hard to tell who’s voice chimes in next.

“Date? Please, that’s my man,” Josh cuts back in after a peak out into the awaiting audience, new excitement in his eyes at having the illusive guest’s presence confirmed. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Just as curiosity gets the better of you, propelling your feet those few steps forward toward the gossip squad, the stage director is at your side and pulling you in for one final pep-talk alongside the rest of the cast.

You spot him in the dark.

Your first big number, a nervously performed romance ballad in which your dear Christine goes from background ballerina to prima donna of the stage. As you cast your eyes to the reserved balcony where your co-star awaits you with a ballad of his own, your gaze latches on to Balcony C-3.

Instinct, human nature. Months of casual affairs bring you to this, picking out his silhouette in a sea of faces desperate to see you dazzle them or crumble into ash beneath their burning stares. Breathtaking as the congressman can be, you’re not about to let a handsome face ruin your first big break. You glance towards the show’s second leading man, just in time to catch the beginning of his verse.

“Can it be, can it be Christine?”

For every song you sing and scene you dance through, he stands the tallest among the sea of cheers.

Something burns at your skin, prickling your nerves as you sway through a scene imbued in fiery passion and red hot anger, playing the role of a seductress sent to disarm the show’s masked leading man. Hands you’ve come to know through chemistry tests and dress rehearsals grapple at your body, pressing you back against a solid figure as they dance up the length of your torso. Ring clad fingers flex around the base of your neck, a possessive claim to match the words being cooed into your ears and through the speakers.

Up in the balcony, he straightens his spine.

Some kind of miracle carries you through to the end of the show and drags you back on stage for curtain call. Bowing out to thunderous applause, you feel yourself become wrapped in a group hug made up of the faceless arms of your co-stars, nothing but pride and joy for one another.

“We did it!” Someone exclaims, a voice of pure ecstasy. “We survived opening night!”

Backstage is all hustle and bustle. Corks are unscrewed and the orchestra’s flutes are traded in for the champagne kind; the theatre’s walls pull in on themselves as bodies flood the space, faces — new and old — filing in to embrace their loved ones.

After a handful of congratulatory obstacles, you spill into the bliss of an empty dressing room. Void of noise and free of strangers, exhaustion finally nestles into your bones when you collapse back into a chair. Still wrapped in the tattered fabrics of a wedding dress, you block out the buzz of notifications flooding your phone and let your eyes slip shut.

“Little Lotte let her mind wander,” familiar words interrupt your peace and quiet; once spoken across the stage, they now fall from the congressman’s lips.

Bucky stands by the door, a bouquet of your favourite flowers in hand and amusement on his face as you jump out your skin at the sudden intrusion — he still moves like an assassin, you hadn’t even heard the door open.

“You’re here,” the words come out a little breathier than you intend, a mixture of abusing your vocal cords for two hours and the bewilderment at his unexpected presence.

“Where else would I be?” Bucky asks with a twinge offence, like him showing up here is nothing beyond ordinary, routine, as natural as all the rest of the supportive audience members who have filtered backstage to praise their loved ones. “It’s your big night.”

The congressman is most definitely not your loved one.

He’s not your anything, in truth. A set of limbs that tangle with your own, and a velvet mouth that caresses your skin, and a body that occasionally fills the emptiness that festers in your soul.

Tied to each other by a common thread — your best friend, who took on the role of managing his congressional campaign. A chance encounter in a hotel bar and two glasses of low self-esteem was all it had taken for you two to wind up tangled in bed sheets. Come morning, you swore to yourself it would only be a one time thing as you crept out the room.

But, like an avalanche, it’s hard to stop once it starts.

After eleven months and a growth spurt in both your careers, the hotel lobbies have been traded in for the safer territories of private residencies.

His a townhouse, a little slice of suburbia nestled in the busy streets of Washington, D.C., and yours a studio apartment, the stereotype of every struggling artist that walks the streets of a movie set in NYC.

“Isn’t there a congressional meeting tomorrow morning?” He’s growing closer as you speak, discarding the boxed bouquet onto the vanity along the way. “I thought you were dedicated to dethroning Miss De Fontaine, Congressman Barnes.”

It must be too early in the evening still, for your usage of his governmental title rouses only a bashful eye-roll instead of the much preferred tightening of his slacks.

“They invented this wonderful thing,” both the congressman’s metal and flesh hand take hold of the chair’s armrests, holding him steady as he dips down and lets his lips brush over the length of your jaw, veering off to whisper in your ear. “It’s called an early flight.”

Like a hot knife to butter, you feel yourself melt as his mouth finds your neck, teasing the delicate skin with marks you know you can’t afford to have him leave — the last thing the poor make-up techs need is for you to show up to the second show baring bruises all over you. But every weak-willed protest dies at the tip of your tongue when Bucky latches onto flesh; a gentle, toe-curling, heart-racing suckle against your pulse.

Moving at their own accord, your arms wind their way over his shoulders and meet at the back of his neck, fingertips grazing over a fresh trim.

“You cut your hair,” you don’t mean to actually say it.

The stretch of his smile against your skin is instant. Your habitual need to speak each thought aloud is ever an endearing trait to the congressman, a man who measures the weight of every word before he dares speak.

A strangled noise threatens to leave you as Bucky pulls back, blue eyes coming into full view and shoulders shrugging beneath the weight of your embrace, “You complained it was getting too long last time I saw you.”

“I wasn’t complaining!” The defensive fit flies out of you, a need to clarify words from your past — whispered in the dark of his home while both of you lay entwined atop a mattress, his head resting against your naked chest and your hand carding through the tresses of his hair. “I was observing. I actually prefer longer hair on a man.”

“Is that so?” He hums in amusement, the tip of his nose bumping against your own before he’s retrieving his hands off the armrests and de-invading your space.

You don’t let him go far, arms still locked at his back and forcing him to take on the burden of your body. He shoulders your weight like any worthwhile super soldier should: effortlessly, as easy as a child lifts a feather.

“Mhmm,” an affirmative hum bubbles up inside your chest when Bucky pulls you to a stand, the heat radiating off his body enough to soothe the tired ache in your bones. Renewed exhaustion slams over you with the force of a concrete wall, months of stress-filled rehearsals, and evenings inflated with the anxiety of willing the phone to ring, and hours of nerveracking auditions all hitting you at once. “Means there’s something to hold onto.”

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise, like the suggestive tone behind your words is not the exact reason he’s here.

Never had you thought your pussy was worth crossing states over — enter stage left, Bucky Barnes, willing to prove you wrong and inconvenience himself just for another rendezvous.

The two of you seem to be swaying to unheard music, the congressman’s hands moving deftly over your hips and guiding you backwards. The sway transitions into something more intimate — slow and sensual, the back of your thighs press against the vanity’s edge and Bucky invades your space once again.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he’s lying — the way his eyes search over your figure, scanning down the length of your costume for scraps of bared skin, a dead giveaway.

“Are you sure?” Head cocked to the side, you make a point of staring him down as you lift your knee and drag it up the expanse of his thigh, all the way to where his bulge lays heavy in tailored trousers.

“That’s not only why I’m here,” Bucky corrects himself.

“What else are you here for then, Congressman Barnes?” There is the reaction you’ve been anticipating, something flickering behind those blue eyes that leaves you aching with need.

“To congratulate you,” there’s a twinge of frustration in his voice, the final threads of his sanity pulled tight and ready to snap at the earliest convenience.

Unfortunately for him, you plan on ripping those threads apart.

“And how are you planning on doing that?” Hands still at the level of his shoulders, you watch him visibly shudder as you teasingly drag your nails up the back of his neck. “The same way I congratulated you in your office?”

Your voice is a vehicle for the past to flash right back into both of your minds.

Mid-afternoon, Bucky’s first day in congress, you figured there was no better way to shake off his imposter syndrome than to show up — no warning and certainly no panties — and help him christen the new office. Bruises on both knees and the taste of super soldier buried into your tongue, you departed with the promise of more and a sweet-as-pie smile for the receptionists.

Head bowing low, the congressman’s answer is a mumble brushed against your collar, “La mia donna intelligente(my clever woman).”

Outside your dressing room door, the halls are alive with ruckus. You can hear every wail of excitement, every cry of laughter, and every sob of pride spilling out of faceless mouths. Stampedes of feet tremble through the backstage area, doors slam shut as often as they screech open, and variations of your name tickle at your ears like a siren tempting you to throw yourself overboard into the ocean of bodies.

Everything falls silent as the congressman falls to his knees.

Inches away from where either of you truly want him to be. The leather of Bucky’s shoes creases under the pressure of his weight, knees pointed to the floor and body leaning back on his haunches. While Bucky’s mouth is an enduring mystery, with which words are shaped rarely and vows are sealed with a press against heated skin, his eyes are a window into his mind.

Soft where the rest of him is stoic. Hardened where the rest of him is calm. Hungry where the rest of him is quiet, an all consuming need that first take over his icy blue stare and turns it into an inky swirl of lust, and later sets its sights on you, devouring any apprehension that lingers within you and digesting it until it becomes a lust equal to his own. With how the congressman’s staring up at you now, one thing is clear.

He is famished.

“Don’t let me buy balcony tickets for any of your shows ever again.”

The game of cat of mouse comes too naturally to you both, instinct directing you to flee as Bucky all but crawls closer, two firm hands taking grasp of your ankles. With nowhere to go but up, the well-organised display of products clutter into a pile as you find rest atop the vanity.

“Why?” You demand an answer, but the congressman at your feet is too enthralled with watching how the ends of the costume slowly follow the path of his touch, spilling out inches of tights like a secret only he is privy to.

A simple tug at his hair — shorter than you’re used to, yet just as effective at capturing his attention — wins you the response you were looking for.

“You weren’t put on that stage to be looked down at,” Bucky moves faster than your fabrics can handle, touch grazing over your lower thigh while the faux wedding dress tangles in a mess beneath your knees. “I should’ve been in that crowd, staring up while you dazzle the room.”

Your throat pulls tight.

The problem with a man like Bucky is that there are no men like Bucky. A man who is equal parts friend as he is a lover, content if the little free-time he chooses to spend on you ends in a tangle of limbs or a series of teasing jokes. A man who listens more than he speaks, absorbs the words you say like he is a sponge and your voice is the last drop of water, meant to be soaked up and held safely within him. A man who spews prose in place of sin, a sharp tongue that willingly dulls itself as to never cut you when he speaks, in measured words and through laboured breaths. A man who takes the casualness of sex between two friends and moulds it into something far more sacred in nature, without even trying.

Call it old-fashioned charm, call it eighty years of being out of the dating pool, call it simply the nature of Bucky Barnes. Whatever name you give it, it’s becoming dangerous. A hindrance that stops you in your metaphorical path and has you questioning why your palms are sweating, why your stomach is fluttering, why you’re having visions in sleep of a life you most certainly do not lead: lazy mornings in bed, breakfast come noon, evenings in a home made by two.

Bucky and you.

Congressman and starlet.

Friend and other friend, and absolutely nothing more.

He keeps making it harder to remember that last part, decadence in the way he speaks to you, nourishing at the neglected sweet-tooth of your heart and rotting it right down to the root.

“Stop thinking,” there he is, pulling you out of your head while his own presses itself to the inside of your knee, eyes closing and nose tickling against your skin.

“Sorry,” you stutter, half-hearted. “Reviews will be out in a matter of hours. Someone could be out there, right now, flippantly writing an article that may make or break my career.”

“Anyone with taste worth writing about knows you were amazing out there,” his touch edges over the inside of your thighs, while his voice lulls you out from the trap of your own mind. “Now is when you should be relaxing, doll. Let me help.”

Bucky’s idea of helping is a lot more heavy handed than either of your anticipate, as he takes a grip of your sheer tights and tears them down your legs. Literally tears them, in tatters and almost completely in half, leaving them null and void of further use as he tosses them blindly over his shoulder.

How fortunate the costume department has an overflowing bucket of spare tights.

Skin now bare to feel, the congressman takes on the ease of a man for whom time will never run out. Patterns trailed over exposed thighs, ends of a wedding dress tickling at your knees and his forearms, danger glued to you in the form of his stare.

“Fuck,” he breathes out against you in exasperation. With the state he’s in, it’s almost as though you are the one on your knees, teasing the beginning of his undoing with feather fingertips and a heavy gaze. “Been thinking ‘bout this, ‘bout you. Didn’t I tell you we need to make more time for each other?”

He did. Adamantly, and utterly unwilling to entertain the excuses rushing off your tongue. But, who could blame you for being so against it?

He sprung it on you when you stumbled out his bedroom, clad in nothing but his shirt and rubbing sleep out of your eyes. As if Bucky’s demand for more time and the image of him cooking breakfast wasn’t jarring enough, the kiss he planted on your cheek before heading out the door for work was enough to send you running for the hills.

An early flight home, a sorry excuse of unexpected rehearsals, and four missed calls from Bucky later, you were back in the familiar safety of your apartment, where no situation-ship nor his irritatingly tender actions could taunt you with visions of something more.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s equal parts truth, equal parts lie. You are apologising, just not for the reasons he thinks. “Things have been hectic the last few months with the show starting, and I’ve been helping a friend do-up her apartment in my free time, and-” a pause for a sigh. “I just haven’t been able to fly out to D.C.”

“Poor girl,” the congressman tuts, having now gathered the fabrics of your skirt and bunched them up the pathway of your thighs, inches away from exposing the very unsexy panties you’re wearing. In your defence, you did not know Bucky was coming and, at the time of getting ready to take the stage, comfort seemed more practical than seductive. “You’re supposed to tell me when the world stretches you thin. Stretching you is my job.”

In spite of the fact your eyes roll, his words dig their talons in and pierce your mind, unleashing a wave of lust down to your loins. Nerves that buzz with excitement, you’re slowly becoming a live-wire that threatens to electrocute the man who’s insistent on torturing you with a gentle prod and a teasing tongue.

“Did those little quips of yours work back in the day?” You press your foot to his vibranium shoulder and give a powerless shove.

In an act of servitude, the congressman pretends to be moved by your uncompelling strength, teetering back only to come back and snake himself a little closer, a littler further up your legs, the press of bitten-to-bluntness nails grazing over the crease where thigh meets glute.

“Things were naughtier than you think in the 40s. A society rooted in modesty breeds dirty secrets.”

Bucky may not mean to, but he’s conjuring something sickening inside of you. Something that is bitter to the taste, and ice cold in your veins, and stings at your pride.

You don’t want to know about his previous conquests; you want to live in the ignorance of believing you’re the first to satiate his appetite, the only to ever do things the way he likes.

“I mean it though,” he unexpectedly continues, rounding the insides of your legs, brushing over the seam of your underwear. “Don’t shoulder stress alone, put some of it on me. If you can’t fly to D.C., let me cross the distance and be here for you.”

How can he so flippantly ask such a thing of you? How does he manage to spew out words not even the most intimate of partners in your life have ever offered, while wearing the smile of a friendly neighbour and the eyes of a hungered lover?

Breathing feels heavier.

You shift your weight atop vanity, distract yourself with a search for balance on top of the aged wood, leaning back to feel the cool press of a mirror against burning skin.

The distance makes no difference, Bucky follows after you with the urgency of a dog pleading for scraps at a dinner table, down at your feet wearing a pleading look and nearly panting for a taste.

Butterflies fluttering around in the walls of your guts, you reach for the security of sarcasm, “Did you come here to monologue, Congressman Barnes, or do you intend to actually put that mouth of yours to good use?”

A squeal is the only appropriate response when Bucky responds with a sharp tap against your clothed core, three strong fingers coming down firmly against the dampening spot of your panties.

“A leading lady shouldn’t be so desperate.”

“And a congressman should be responsible enough to not flee the state the night before an important meeting,” you challenge his stare with a pointed look, nearly unconscious to how his fingers thread beneath the waistband of your underwear and how your hips lift off the surface to aid his ventures in removing them. “Yet here we both are.”

A grimace overcomes you as the congressman tugs your panties off your ankles.

Before Bucky, you had never cared about something as trivial as what kind of underwear you chose to walk out the door wearing. Now, the drawer at the side of your bed is overflowing with all colours of lace and scraps of satin.

In your defence, while it may have started as a way to quell the choir of insecurity ringing in your ears every time a rendezvous between you two sizzled on the horizon, the fancy regalia have quickly become a weapon you wield, something that adorns you like a bow wraps around a gift, the icing on the metaphorical cake that is the gift of you.

Naturally, you’re regretting having opted for something a little more modest, like a part of you is missing and has been replaced by the simple white cotton.

When Bucky shows no pause in their presence and mindlessly tosses them somewhere over his shoulder, you feel a little sick. While you don’t want him to care nor to question the change from the sensual attire he typically sees you in, the least he could do is notice.

Your name echoes between the cracks of the doorframe.

Hands grip at either side of your waist, buried beneath layers of costume, and sharply tug you to the edge of the vanity, “They’re looking for you, prima donna.”

“Then let me go greet them,” you offer with no conviction. Troubling as his presence may be, you would not trade the sight of him on his knees for the world, the galaxy, the entire tangled thread of the multiverse.

“You should know by now,” you feel Bucky’s voice, mere inches from where liquid arousal coats your folds. “I’m too selfish to share.”

Two things knock the air out of your lungs: first his choice of words, and then the kiss he presses to your clit.

Bucky doesn’t like to rush.

Time is nothing but a concept he bends and shapes to his own will, capturing a single second and somehow finding the power to stretch it into an hour or a lifetime. It always starts slow, teasing drags of rosebud lips over your most delicate parts. Kisses smooth as velvet pressed tenderly to a bundle of nerves, teasing the yet to come.

When alas he lets his tongue come out to play — a simple kitten lick over your clit, teasing himself with the taste of you — your legs involuntarily squeeze around his head and a strangled cry rips weakly through your abused vocal cords.

“I know, baby, you’re all sensitive. ‘S been too long for her,” head turned, he speaks into your thigh as both hands grip your knees and tentatively spread you open, fully on display for Bucky to marvel at. “But I need you to relax. These thighs can suffocate me later. Right now I jus’ wanna touch you how I like.”

If not for the tongue delving further down, cutting through the seam of your cunt, you would be keening at his voice alone as it slips into that endearing Brooklyn lilt that so often appears in the privacy of the bedroom — the undressing room, in this case.

The costume clings to your skin with perspiration, the front of it bundled up to your waist while the trail of the dress sits comfortably beneath your ass and dangles down to Bucky’s kneeling figure. Tomorrow, when you tiptoe around a spotlight and toil through song with the two male leads, the memory of tonight — Bucky between your legs and mouthing at your pussy — will tease the fraying edges of your mind, tempting you with distraction.

Like thunder within a stormy sky, a groan rumbles from between your legs. Lighting strikes in the form of his tongue breeching the surface of your hole, the pink tip barely pressing into the tight squeeze of your walls. Where fingers once pressed against your knees, they now burn fingerprints into the meat of your thighs, finding anchor in the heat of skin.

Never has a man devoured you quite like him.

Pre-Bucky, the thought of any lover finding pleasure in serving at your feet, or laying you down like a feast, or dragging you up the length of a wall and forcing your hands to grip at the ceiling in search of stability as two biceps — one muscle, the other metal — pin your thighs down to his shoulders, it had seemed maddening, outlandish, pure fantasy stripped directly from one of those bodice ripper romance novels that line the walls of the clit-terature section at your local grocers.

The congressman brings each of those fantasies to life, proves himself to be more than a willing participant.

He does not eat you out, no — he savours you, peels you apart slowly like a fruit, ripe and ready to have its sweetness drank up by his eager tongue. What starts with a press of lips and a lap of tongue, devolves into something more when his hand joins the mix. Always the thumb first, pressing at the pearl of your cunt and rubbing in a soothing circle. Then the index and middle join the fray, mouth latching back onto your clit as fingers dance over puffy lips and part them as easy as dear Mosses parted the sea.

“Dulcissima (so sweet),” Bucky kisses into your skin, marking you with the seriousness behind his whispered sweet-nothings. “How does she keep getting sweeter, darling?”

“Buck,” an incomplete version of his name is all you manage, lips parting with a repressed moan as you feel him sink into you, knuckles deep in a matter of seconds and curling his digits up against your gummy walls.

Outside, something slams against the door and sends an ice-cold shockwave down your spine.

Before you can attempt to flee from his hold, Bucky winds his hand around your left ankle and guides your foot over the hardened bulge between his legs. No pressure placed against it, the congressman simply holds you there, laying the cards of his desire flat on the table with no shame as he repeatedly edges his fingers out only to burrow them that little bit deeper.

The madness of the situation pounds against the door to the rational side of your brain.

Your dressing room is unlocked, completely willing and able to let any curious outsider spill into the room to be greeted with a most scandalous set of optics: a congressman staining the smoke grey of his suit with dust as he takes refuge against the half naked body of Broadway’s freshest face, her chin nearly glued to her sternum to bear witness to the view below and one foot resting against the boner confined beneath the man’s layers of clothing.

Were such a scandal to ensue, a career ending review would be the least of your concerns.

Teeth clamping down on your bottom lip, you choke back a moan.

“Why so silent, hmm?” The question Bucky poses is casual, as though he doesn’t follow it up with rocking his hips against the pressure of your foot, manufacturing friction straight to his aching cock while he pulls back to watch as pussy lips sit snug around the base of his fingers. “You were so willing to sing fo’ the crowd, but you won’t even give me one measly note? You aren’t playing nice, baby.”

You must be losing touch with reality, you’re sure of it.

Clamping down on the edge of the vanity, you try to rush oxygen into your chest and up to your brain only to have the breath stolen from you in the form of a whine, eyes rolling back while his tongue sinks fully into you, all pretence of opening you up thrown out the window as the congressman deems you ripe to eat.

“You’re not playing nice, Buck-aah,” not quite a gasp, not quite a moan, yet it pleases him all the same.

Head forcing itself impossibly deeper between your thighs, nose clashing against the throb of your clit, cock rutting unabashedly against the curve of your foot — the portrait Bucky paints on his knees may seem glazed in desperation yet he possesses complete control over you.

He’s a conductor, building the symphony that is you to a crescendo certain to put all the greats to shame. A string quartet tangles in your loins, pulling tighter with each note his tongue plays against you. You are the violin, he the bow, and the friction between you births a tune so pure it brings tears to your eyes.

You’re so close, Bucky can taste it, brows furrowing in concentration between your legs as he focuses on guiding you all the way to the sweet relief of-

“Hey, are you ready to leave?” The recognizable voice of your agent calls from outside the door, a series of knocks preceding her words. “The car’s just driving around the block.”

Oh no.

Oh shit.

Oh fuck.

“The after-party!” You whisper-yell, more to yourself than to the emerging figure between your legs. You turn away from where he searches the room for your discarded panties, gaze locking onto the door as you slip off the vanity onto shaky legs. Two measured breaths that do nothing to slow your heart, and then you finally muster the strength to reply. “Just a minute!”

“Are you struggling to get out your costume? I know the corset can be a bit awkward, I can help if you-”

“No!” The exclaim sounds stripped right from a low-budget horror, as your eyes widen and watch the door handle lower. Luckily, your agent releases it before it can unlatch the opening. You clear your throat, hands contorting around your back and shooting straight for the costume’s ties. “Uh, no, thank you, I’m fine! Just packing my bag, I’ll meet you at the car.”

Barely one step falls from your agent before you feel Bucky hovering near your back, panties hooked over his fingers.

“I got it,” he chuckles softly, swatting away your panicking hands, that only seem to have made the knot at your back tighter. One second is all it takes for him to get it loosened, nimble fingers unthreading the strings with precision. “So, should I be offended you’re still keeping me as your dirty secret?”

The lump in your throat is more uncomfortable than the wetness between your legs. It almost feels like it’s pressing against your gag reflex, threatening to spew your heart out onto the floor for Bucky to observe in mockery before he stomps on it with his expensive shoes.

“What was I supposed say?” Deflection is easily hidden beneath an outraged cackle, sweaty palms wiped against the fabric of your dress. “Oh hey, come on in! What was that? ‘Why is esteemed Congressman James Barnes between my legs?’ Because he’s eating me out, silly!”

Unamused by your sarcasm, the vanity’s mirror reveals how the congressman rolls his eyes while re-tightening your corset in an act of punishment. Even then, he’s careful not to hurt you, and quick to undo the ties once more.

“You didn’t need to send her away,” like a child sulking over a denied play-date, Bucky nudges his head against yours, nose brushing over your scalp before he presses a kiss to the crown of it, winding his hold around your waist. “It wouldn’t be a crime to be caught in my arms, y’know.”

It may not be a crime by any laws, but it would certainly be a crime against your own sanity. To be caught would mean to be questioned, and to be questioned would mean to struggle for answers.

Perhaps if Bucky were any other man, one who’s entire existence was not a defiance of both nature and nurture, one who isn’t the unwilling centre of attention of every room he walks into, one who hasn’t just committed himself to a life of politics, or one who hadn’t stood on a battlefield and gunned down alien life forces. If he were ordinary… Maybe then you wouldn’t have to worry.

But the congressman is anything but ordinary.

Wishing it away won’t change who he is, nor the life he has lead, nor the attention fixated on his existence, and so the worry will persist.

You cannot have people know about your complicated friendship with Congressman Barnes, because knowing about that is one step away from knowing about your increasingly complicating feelings.

“It’s more hassle than this is worth,” you speak offhandedly, not meaning to offend Bucky, and yet somehow you feel like you have.

His arms fall from your waist.

“Look, I’m gonna go-”

“Bucky.”

“Let me finish, baby,” he grips your shoulders when you turn to face him, apologies in your stare that he won’t give you the chance to speak aloud. Instead, he’s soothing his thumbs over your arms and offering you a barely-there smile. “I’m gonna go back to your apartment, okay? This is your night, go have fun and, when you’re tired, come home to me. Just… Make sure to text me when you arrive at, and leave the party. I like to know you’re safe.”

The cab rolls onto your street sometime past two am.

Exhausted, wind-swept, and verging on tipsy, the elevator ride up to your apartment is spent with your head against cold metal and eyes shut tight, blocking out the flickering white light above you. By the time you’re pushing the heavy door to your apartment open, you’re just about ready to collapse onto the nearest surface and give in to Lady Sleep.

Until you spot Bucky’s shoes, tucked neatly by the entrance and slotted perfectly beside the miscellaneous mess of your own footwear. A giddy feeling creeps up your spine as you unhook the straps to your heels and lay the pair neatly next to his dress-shoes.

To the untrained eye, both pairs of shoes tell the tale of a respectable couple.

He overworks, she overspends, and they bicker over the lowest stakes imaginable. Fridays are date nights, while Sundays are for takeaways and snuggling into the couch to watch a movie. Each morning he wakes her with a kiss to her forehead, while each night she brushes the overgrown wisps of hair away from his eyes. Their friends no longer question if the two will marry but when, and the future holds more promise than threat.

Oh what a hindrance on the human soul, to be cursed with an overly imaginative mind! The flicker of a candle saves you from yourself.

No, not a candle — many candles, lining the surfaces of your apartment, a beacon of light driving you towards the bedroom. Following a trail of scattered rose petals, you find yourself faced with what might be the most erotic scene splayed across your bed: Bucky Barnes, fully dressed, bow-tie loosened, and snoring into the softness of your pillow.

Carefully treading towards the mattress, your gaze remains fixated upon the sleeping congressman. A basket sits at your bedside, a sarcophagus for petal-less roses picked right down to their stems. Paired with the red tint staining the fingertips of his right hand, it seems Bucky plucked each flower by himself.

One knee pressing down on the bed, you lean over the congressman and brush the nonexistent hair from his forehead, a cruel imitation of the imaginary shoe-couple. Hollow as your heart may feel, something about having him in your room like this — not in pursuit of pleasure and warmth, but in need of rest, seeking refuge upon the very same pillow as you — it makes sense. Like he is a part of the furniture, a permanent fixture in the space you call home.

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow and a groan punctuates his stirring figure. Just when you expect him to wake, he rolls onto his side and snuggles deeper atop your bedsheets. The fist around your heart clenches tighter, just like his grabs at the corner of your pillow.

Emboldened by the lingering buzz of champagne, you trace your touch down from his temple to his cheeks. Time’s spider must have burrowed itself into his skin, for the beginning webs of crow’s feet and frown lines have been weaved into his face. Politics has aged him, his outside slowly catching up to that old-soul it houses within.

Much to your chagrin, it only makes Bucky more handsome.

“You’re staring,” you nearly jump out of your skin as he speaks, eyes still closed and breathing still lax. He looks perfectly asleep — is this another of his assassin tricks?

“I’m not,” your lie breaks his cool demeanour, the tiniest smile splitting across his stoic face. “I’m trying to decide how to punish you for nearly burning down my apartment.”

He springs up so fast you swear you hear his spine snap, “There’s a fire? Where? C’mon, need to get you out-”

“Cool it, Mr Congress, I said nearly,” you push down against his chest, forcing him back onto the bed before his feet can meet the ground. Refusing to lay down, he settles for sitting bent at the waist, one hand snaking round the back of your neck and pulling your forehead to his. “What kind of idiot falls asleep after lighting enough candles to guide a plane to landing?”

“Your kind of idiot,” he musses, moments before his lips capture your own. The kiss is not possessive, nor meant to send your psyche spiralling down into a pit of lust. It’s merely a way of greeting you, like a welcome mat at the door or a wave from across the street. “Sorry, doll, I didn’t mean to. Been so busy lately, guess I didn’t realise how tired I was.”

“And you have the nerve to complain that I shoulder stress alone?” Speaking of shoulders, his right one is full of knots, stiff as a board when your fingers press into the muscle. “You should have called.”

You’re not exactly sure what you wanted him to call about: his busy schedule or his appearance tonight.

“Would you have answered?” Gently as he asks, it still manages to punch you in the gut. “It’s so hard to get through to you, sometimes I think you’re dodging my calls.”

You haven been… But Bucky doesn’t need to know that. “Sorry, I’ve had rehearsals, and costume fittings, and-”

“I know, it’s okay,” his hands hook at the back of your knees, pulling you into his lap as he throws his legs over the side of the bed, feet pressing to the cold floor. “That’s why I decided to not bother you and just… Showed up instead. Figured you could use a little in-person support.”

Why does he have to say it like that, in-person support? Why does he have to leave it ambiguous enough for your heart to long for more? Why can he never just call it what it is? Two adults blowing off steam together, with no strings to bind them.

Shuffling further up his lap, you lay your palm over his jaw and tilt his face back. If Bucky will not outright say it, you’ll take matters into your own hands and satisfy those hedonistic needs. Ocean blue eyes staring up into your own, you count the lashes as your head dips lower, breath ghosting over his lips.

“You were breathtaking up on that stage-” cut off mid-sentence, Bucky melts easily into the kiss you plant on him.

Eyelids flutter shut, shoulders relax, arms wind over your waist — the congressman welcomes you in with open mouthed and flushed skin. Possession is a venom and your lips are the fangs, sinking in and infecting his bloodstream. Blind to the corruption, Bucky holds you closer, palm spread flat against you, mid-back, and pinning you both chest to chest.

Teeth scraping over the swell of his bottom lip, the groan you rouse sends a shiver crawling down your spine and melting into the rising heat of your loins. Mirroring his earlier actions against the vanity, Bucky drinks you in, tongue eager to taste every crevice of your kisses.

Once, months ago, beneath the light of daylight searing through a hotel’s window and between frantic attempts to discard layers of clothing, the congressman told you he hungered for you, craved you like a bodily need. What you disregarded as nothing more than words slurred in a fit of lust are more and more proving themselves to be Bucky’s personal gospel, a prayer dedicated to no other than you.

You taste him too, tongue laving into the molten warmth of him. Peppermint, and whisky, and day-old cigarettes stain his affection, a heady mixture that pulls your mind out from its own orbit and drags it into him, handing over ownership to a man that’s in no better state than you are: panting into your mouth, smushing his nose against your cheek, rolling his hips up into the swell of your thigh, cock hard and aching and straining beneath tailored pants.

The buzz of a phone ruins your fun.

You pull back, a string of spit connecting your lips, untethered when he turns his face over to the nightstand and reaches for the object of interruption. Before you can even attempt to crawl out his lap, that vibranium hand plants itself firmly around your thigh and pins you in place, all the while Bucky remains nonchalant as he swipes up on his phone.

You watch those hawk eyes scan over an offensively bright screen, casting a hue of white across his pretty face and illuminating a shadow over his brows. His hold on you tightens momentarily, metal fingers flexing as if to whisper ‘don’t move’ against your flesh. Then, he tosses the device to the side and pulls you back in.

Your jaw in his grasp, he tilts your head to the side and deepens earlier’s kiss, tonguing so deeply into your mouth it’s a miracle you don’t choke on him. You meet his fire with gasoline, knees dimpling the mattress while you shift your weight fully onto his groin.

A chain reaction sparks, one where his bulge pokes against the damp patch of your panties and your hips wind down against it, a slow burn of friction lighting both your nerves with want.

“My girl,” face turning, he sighs those words against your cheek, baby blues trapped behind closed eyelids. Vibranium grips punishingly at your thigh before trading skin for skirt, tangling itself in fabric. “D’you want some help out this dress?”

There’s a high chance Bucky doesn’t even notice how eagerly you nod your head, too busy focusing on his mission of dragging the dress up your torso and over your head, tossing it somewhere on the bedroom floor and leaving you in nothing but cotton panties.

A hot summer night, no breeze in the air and, yet, goosebumps rise down your navel, a pathway that the congressman’s mouth is quick to walk down. Your nipples harden before a single kiss is even placed upon them, prodding against Bucky’s tongue as he laves over your right breast.

While he covers your chest in kisses, you glide his jacket off broad shoulders and weave his tie from around his neck. With a whine of Bucky’s name, you pull at his hair and arch your back into him, head thrown back while the congressman continues to trace his mouth over your skin.

Bucky is as submissive as a guard dog, aggressive to all but his handler. For reasons unknown to yourself, he appears to have deemed you safe to handle him months ago, willingly giving his body over to your whims.

“Don’t hold back,” Bucky’s lips are swollen and pink, grinning up at you as he shifts you onto his thigh. “Use me.”

You barely manage a single roll of your hips before that damn phone buzzes again.

He reaches for it with immediacy, so much so that you feel a twinge of guilt for wanting to snatch it out his palm and toss it out the nearest window. Who knew it was possible to feel jealous of a hunk of lithium and aluminium?

Because that’s exactly what you are, jealous of the device that’s holding his attention captive while you’re perched in his lap, nearly nude, and dragging your soaked cunt back and forth over his thigh. Seconds blur into minutes of the congressman scrolling his screen, the corners of his mouth stretching wider the longer he stares at the offensive burn of blue light, all the while you’re losing your patience.

Bucky, conscious enough of your desperate efforts for stimulation, pinches at the skin of your hip, vibranium plates imprinting themselves into flesh and forcing you to wear his touch like a branding — the price of his subservience is to match it with equal measure; mind, body and soul delivered into the palms of his eager hand.

A slow grind over hard muscle, the wet patch of your panties grows tenfold, staining the grey of his suit in liquid lust. Madness is the only word tailored to fit the way he makes you feel, a low effort put behind how he holds you in place, metal wrist moving fluidly alongside your hips and aiding you as you continue to ride his thigh.

“Bucky,” you rasp as the cotton snags along the seam of your pussy, outlining the shape of your folds. You lay claim over his cheek, trying your best to turn his stare away from the screen and down to the erotic dance of your body winding down on him. “Look at me.”

“Just a minute,” uninterested as he may seem, Bucky catches you off-guard and clenches his thigh, shooting juts of pleasure up the length of your spine as you grind over the ridge of super-soldier muscle. Nails piercing into his shoulder, you steal his gaze back for a moment, just long enough for him to witness your heavy-lidded gaze and lips parting in the shape of his name. “Let me finish reading this.”

“The only thing you should be finishing is me.”

“You seem to have that under control yourself, baby,” he mutters, his left hand offering a supportive caress from hip to lower back, and down again to pin you against his leg.

There’s an aspect of his touch that hurts, clit flattened and smothered. But then there’s other side of it, where you physically throb into his thigh and taste the headiness of metal beneath your tongue, blood rushing anywhere and everywhere but your cerebrum — thoughts are off the table and all that remains is to feel.

You grant him two more minutes of scrolling and, then, the phone is in your grasp.

Where you expect Bucky to fight back, pin the device against his chest and deny you the view of whatever — or, worse, whoever — has his focus locked onto the very same phone he protested against needing, he instead gives it to you willingly. Eagerly, in fact, brows jumping up his forehead and a cheesy grin overtaking his handsome face.

The bright red font of a breaking headline — Upcoming starlet steals the show with the sound of her music!

“They all loved you,” Bucky matches his voice to the moment, intimate and gentle like the hands trailing up your skin, grounding you to the bed as your mind ascends elsewhere, tears brimming at your eyes as you scroll through the review. “How could they not?”

His phone buzzes in your grasp, a notification bubble that reads a new headline — Don’t worry, Miss Christine Daaé, we’ll definitely be thinking of you.

“Did you-” Your heart clogs your windpipe, choking down the words as you try to speak. “Is this a google alert?”

His nod is sheepish, his ears red and his demeanour sincere, “Needed to see what the rest of the world thinks of my little starlet.”

A chill to rival the Artic washes over you, from top to bottom, as a tear at last slips down your cheek. The congressman catches it before it travels far, mouth pressing against flesh and wiping away the salty residue.

Overwhelmed, under-loved, and wishing he would make things easier on your feelings, you blindly swipe over his screen, vision blurred and searching for a camera icon.

Mind at last made up, you do your best to swallow back the lump in your throat.

Tonight will be the last time you let yourself have this, have him. And so, you may as well leave with a trace, something to be remembered by, something for him to miss.

Pressing the phone back into his grasp, camera open and pointed at where your cunt rests on his thigh, you try to memorise how quickly his pupils dilate at the display on his screen, the effect your naked skin has on a man who’s very existence is composure.

“If you’re not going to lock your phone,” you shift atop him and, a second later, the screen catches up, a mirrored version of you moving too. “You better be looking at me.”

Like fish to bait, Bucky’s hooked within a second, studying the device with more interest than ever before. A display of pure eroticism taking place in 4K, the camera captures the renewed sway of your waist, clothed crotch grinding slowly over his pants. A puddle of desperation and need stains the fabric, and you can’t help but hope he thinks of you the next time he wears these, hope he’ll glance down in the middle of a mind-numbingly boring meeting in an attempt to avoid rolling his eyes at one of his fellow congress members and suddenly he’ll picture you in his lap.

If undressing is the price of being longed for, even if only through physical reminiscing, you’ll gladly pay it to haunt Bucky to the end of the line.

Phone in one grasp, his other hand roams freely over your body — gripping at your thigh, soothing over your mid-riff, tickling down your back, pinching at your nipples. Your head falls to his shoulder as the mutual torture continues, each touch a greater curse than the last.

“You’re so-” Your congressman is at a loss for words, transfixed with watching you come undone on screen, in his lap, atop his thigh.

It’s your turn to cum without a warning, legs locking up and fingers gripping Bucky’s hair, tugging all sorts of noises out of him as you whine and whimper, mouth turned to meet his own as he swallows the song of your pleasure.

Just as you lose yourself in his kiss for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, Bucky pulls back.

“These,” he drags out the word, index fingers sliding over the soiled cotton of your panties. When the tip finds your clit, he delivers two deliberate circled motion against it, delighting in how you throw your head back and your hips twitch with overstimulation, the remnants of an orgasm still lingering along your nerve endings. “Are soaking, baby.”

You still have half the mind to feel embarrassed, heat creeping over your cheeks as you suddenly remember how certifiably unappealing your underwear is. “Sorry, didn’t think you’d show up.”

“Why’re you apologising?” You almost believe Bucky’s confusion is sincere. If ever he decides to give up on congress, he has a promising acting career ahead.

“They’re not exactly the sexiest thing I could wear.”

“Are you messin’ with me?” The congressman is outraged. “They’re cute.”

“I think you mean ugl-” Bucky silences you, grappling at your jaw with one hand and forcing you to look him in the eye.

“You just made yourself cum against my thigh, and now you’re so wet that I can see her through your panties,” every one of his words is dripping in wonder, the most innocent of smiles crossing over his face as he spews sentences congress would crucify him for. “There’s nothing ‘unsexy’ about you.”

“Shut up,” there’s no oomph behind your order, no commanding tone to get the ex-soldier to obey.

All you can muster is a shove to his shoulder, bashful in nature and delivered weakly.

Against your thigh, his cock strains heavy in its confines, begging through fabric to be set free and enveloped in the warmth of your cunt.

You wrestle with the buttons of his shirt, yearning to have him match your state of undress. The sleeves roll down his arms, clinging momentarily where sweat lingers before collapsing to the mattress and pooling around his figure.

“Sit still for me, doll,” Bucky splays his palm over your midriff, tilting you back while his other hand brings his phone back into view, camera app still very much open and tempting someone to press the white circle. “Looks so pretty, she deserves a picture. Am I allowed?”

The nodding of your head comes before the realisation — try as you might to change your ways, Bucky has you wrapped around those vibranium fingers, willing to bend and break to grant his every wish. Fortunately for you, this request only requires you to sit there and look ‘pretty’.

Camera angled down at where your cum marks his thigh, the flash winks at you as he captures the moment.

“Don’t worry,” he says, phone pulled up to his face as two fingers zoom in on you. “This won’t be for sharing.”

Somewhere in the night, this goes from one picture to a feature film.

Splayed out on the bedroom floor, Bucky has you speaking in tongue, eyes rolling into the back of your skull while he splits you open on his cock, every thrust sending you to a new plain of existence. Back against hardwood and both legs dangling from the congressman’s slutty little waist, you lay there losing your bearings.

“Eyes on me, baby,” he directs, right hand effortlessly tilting your hips and burrowing himself deeper, blissfully unaware to the burn in your core as he borders on folding you in half. His left hand though, that is where he wants your attention. “Smile for the camera.”

Blissed out, you let a giggle escape your grinning lips only to throw your head back when Bucky brushes a thumb over your clit.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” the slip of his accent has your walls tightening around the girth of him, forcing his hips to stutter on their next thrust, balls slapping heavy against your flesh. He’s watching you through the screen, a cameraman dedicated to the craft of capturing the art of two bodies merging into one. “Takin’ me like she’s made for me, ain’t she?”

When you fail to answer, Bucky comes to a halt and lands a stinging hand against your clit.

“Ngh-” you grit between teeth, chin pinned to your chest as you struggle to look up at the soldier’s looming figure.

“Words, doll,” he tuts, soothing away the sting out of your clit in apology. “Need you to use ‘em. Reassure me that you’re mine, or I’ll start worrying you’re fooling around behind my back.”

Oh the irony, to tease you with accusations of bringing another lover into your bed and between your legs, while you lay here trying to memorise every streak of pink scar tissue, every line of silver stretchmarks, every freckle that dots his golden skin before you kiss him goodbye, send him off to his early flight, and never speak to him again. A full body cleanse, quitting the drug of Bucky Barnes cold turkey and with the harrowing knowledge that you’ll never want another like him.

“Who could it be, hmm?” Bucky continues to spew his fantasy version of you, the one whose heart doesn’t pick up at the sound of his name and whose mouth doesn’t miss the shape of his own when he’s not around. “One of Christine’s lover-boys?”

The mention of your character while he’s fucking the shape of you both into the floor feels like theatrical blasphemy, something holy mentioned in pure sin.

“Thought they looked a little too comfortable groping you on that stage,” it’s entirely lost on you how the hell he’s able to form full sentences while you’re struggling to even think coherently, toe-curling pleasure pouring into your bloodstream the deeper Bucky fucks you, the head of his cock battering against that spongy, soft spot inside of you.

Just as you expect, the hold he has on your heart is suffocating while yours barely manages to touch the surface of his.

“They can have a taste of you, if you want them to.” Does Bucky realise you’re on the edge of telling him to shut up? Treachery against your own mind, you feel yourself gush more, slick leaking down the swell of your ass and soaking the floor. “And when their cum drips out your unsatisfied pussy, you can crawl back to me so I can remind her why I’m what’s best for her.”

If the suffragettes were to ever know of how down-bad it gets you every time Bucky refers to your cunt like it’s a sentient being, something entirely separate from yourself, they’d likely declare feminism a lost cause and in need of complete reconstruction.

But, then again, maybe they would have decided that the moment you agreed to star in his dirty movie.

You’d always figured your on-screen debut would go a little differently than this, but hey! What screams Hollywood! more than shaky-cam footage of an aspiring actress getting pounded by an ex-assassin, alleged murderer of J.F.K., and now somehow — by miracle of the country’s greatest pardoning — turned congressman?

“‘S that sound like something you need?” Bucky’s back to fixating on the screen, camera flicking up from your joint pelvises to catch the shake of your head. “No? Then what do you need?”

The sweetest torture one could ever bare, he taps the tip of his dick against your clit. Bucky’s lips are parted, tempting you to reach up and kiss them, while he watches on video the slow grind of his cock splitting through the puffy and soaked lips of your cunt.

“You,” your lungs heave under the weight of truth, condemned as much as you are saved by the confession. “Just you, Bucky. Only yours.”

The phone slips out of his hand.

No, actually, he willingly let’s it fall, freeing up the vibranium to lay claim of the underside of your knee before he’s fulfilling that earlier promise of folding you in half.

The position is primal, damn-right animalistic as he pins you beneath your own legs and cages you against the floor with the entire weight of him on top of you, cock sliding back in with little protest from your walls as they stretch and invite him inside your pussy.

While you expect pandemonium — pound-emonium, even — the congressman takes you by surprise.

A kiss to match the fervour of before, his tongue licks into your waiting mouth. It’s sloppy, and sweet, and messy, moans tangling in the back of each other’s throats. Bucky lays a little more weight onto you, trusting you not to break under the pressure of the mating press.

“Repeat it,” finally, he’s losing composure, soliloquy reduced to a barely-there sentence. “Say it again.”

“Yours?”

Ding ding ding, right answer!

The ex-soldier rewards you with something more possessive than a mere kiss, a droplet of his saliva spat into your mouth before he takes ownership of it again.

“You’re mine, baby?” Mumbled between lip-locking, he barely gives you chance to register the fact he’s fucking you again, that slow back and forth leaving pleasure to pool in your loins. “All mine?”

“All yours.”

You’ll repeat yourself as many times as it takes, until you tire of the shape of each letter and the words lose all meaning, until Bucky believes it enough to stop gazing down at you like you’re doing him a favour, answering his prayers.

He saves you from himself, hiding his face in the crevice of your neck.

“The reviews,” he pants, breath pouring into your skin like molten lava. “They’re calling you a star.”

“Bucky! Oh my-”

He’s so deep, you feel him in your cervix, in your guts, in your throat. The greatest conqueror your world has ever seen, not a single cell remains unawakened to how it feels to have him within.

“They’re all wrong, you ain’t no star,” Bucky pauses, breathing heavy and spreading an ache through his lungs as they demand less oxygen and more you. “You’re an entire galaxy.”

You want to cry.

You want to scream.

You want to sing the whole soundtrack of your show and erupt into a big, bright, burning ball of desire set to orbit nothing other than the man pinning you to your bedroom floor and pile-driving you into what is sure to be a happy, though early, death

Le petit mort, or whatever poetry the french use to denote the momentary effect cumming has on the human psyche.

“One more,” Bucky’s pleading, stare holding yours in the most intense display of eye-contact you’ve ever witnessed. He may as well be examining your heart under a microscope, poking and prodding to see what reactions he rouses. “Tell me you’re mine, darling.”

It takes a few strangled attempts —knees knocking against your collarbones every time the soldier’s cock delves even deeper into your pussy — but you finally manage to speak.

“Yours,” there’s every bit of hope he forgot to switch off the recording, phone still open and documenting the blank ceiling with a background of your wailing. “Yours, yours, yours.”

As blinding as a camera flashing, your orgasm crashes over you in wave after unrelenting wave.

The soldier follows seconds behind, the warm, sticky mess of his cum filling your cunt as his thrusts divulge into barely-there rocks of his hips, your walls milking every last drop.

“I’m yours,” you say one last time, voice spent and in desperate need of rest.

You die beneath the weight of him, legs numb at the press of Bucky’s chest against them and mouth panting heavy breaths all over the floor while the congressman trails kisses over sweat-slicked skin.

“Shh, I know, doll," he hushes the whine that slips through your cracks when he pulls out, cum spilling out of you with his dick no longer there to plug it. “Just need to do something.”

Then, Bucky is gone for an immeasurable time.

Warmth brings you back to life, first in the shape of two arms scooping you up into an embrace, and then in the literal heat of a freshly drawn bath, complete with bubbles and the last remaining lights of the candles he lit.

With a heavy heart, you sink into the bathtub, baptised by the water’s skin-tingling burn.

It hits you all at once, heart flattened and soul crushed.

“James,” his name comes out in a whisper, eyes staring down to watch how the bubbles swirl around your chest.

The congressman acknowledges you with a grunt, flesh arm tiring itself out as he reduces toothpaste down to a frothy mixture of grit and spit. He’s slipped back into his boxers and is unknowingly driving the crack deeper trough your heart as he looks over at you, eyes wide and glossy in question, mouth verging on a smile if not for the avalanche of white spilling down his chin.

“I,” want something more than this, don’t think I can see you anymore, think you should leave. Any of the three would have been a perfect choice of words, to the point and loyal to the message you aim to get across. What a shame you say something else. “Think I love you.”

Out of the three people you have confessed your love to, this reaction might be the worst.

Because, sure, while Toby from your 8th grade maths class may have wrinkled his nose and ran away to go eat his own snot, at least he didn’t laugh.

Bucky, on the other hand, is laughing so much that he’s chocking on his own spit.

If it weren’t for the questions it would raise to be caught with a US congressman dead on your bathroom floor, you almost wish the toothpaste would send him to his belated grave.

Your glare must carry a weight to it, for he waves his hand defensively while searching for a breath between inhales of minty freshness.

That’s right, choke on Colgate, you heartless dick!

“Sorry, sorry, I just-” he finally manages, with tears brimming his eyes and foam staining his lips. Two spits into your sink and a rinse of water later, his attention is back on you. “What do you mean think?”

“I mean, I know you wanted this to just be casual but,” oh no, the pitch of your voice is rising and you sound certifiably pathetic. Send in the tears! “You don’t have to be cruel about it. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. Trust me, I’ve been trying to squash down these feelings for months-”

Your name reverberates off the bathroom tiles, not from any yell but from a stern faced Bucky.

“What the hell are you talking about? Casual?” He spits the word back at you, toothbrush clattering into the sink as he all but collapses onto his knees by the porcelain of the bathtub. “‘S that what you think this it? Because, last I checked, this is a partnership.”

“But, you never,” tongue twisting on its own vowels, your lips blubber over silence. All the while, his dry hand is reaching out to wipe bubbles off your wet face, thumb lingering longer than necessary as though to savour the simple pleasure of having you close to him. “We never spoke about being more than-”

“Baby,” Bucky follows the term of endearment with a repeat of your name, this time much slower, like he is trying to hypnotize you into truly hearing what he’s saying. “We have keys for each others homes, half of your wardrobe lives in D.C., you’re the first person named in my will. What the hell about that is casual?”

“I’m named in your what?”

“If I was aware you needed me to write it in the sky, or get down on my knees to say it, I would have, long ago,” water spills over the edge of the tub as Bucky hooks a hand behind your neck and drags you closer. “But I don’t have to think about if I love you. I just know.”

Just like that, Toby’s back in the lead for Worst Confession Ever.

The plane touches down an hour before he’s due in congress.

He waits fourteen minutes at the airport because his assistant is caught in traffic.

The congressional meeting drones on two hours longer than it needs to because politicians love the sound of their own voices.

He treats himself to take-out, too tired to cook once he steps through the door of his home.

He misses you already.

You know all of this because, when he calls, you pick up. Mid-stirring your spoon in a cup of coffee, a face-mask sitting uncomfortably slimy on your face, and a bowl of half-eaten pasta waiting to be devoured, the scene feels horrifically domestic as you lean your elbows on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to your ear and a smile splitting your cheeks in half.

You and your congressman catch each other up on the hours apart, before duty calls and you find yourself back in your dressing room, sitting in a make-up chair instead of perched atop the vanity.

“Fifteen minutes until curtain!” A discombobulated voice seeps beneath the door, reminding you that there’s a reason why your ribs are currently being pinched inwards beneath the pressure of an overly-tight corset.

It’s okay, it’s worth it, it will loosen once you’re out on that stage and sweating under the spotlight. Right now, your main concern is watching the screen in your hand, the same tiktok playing on loop for what must be the fiftieth time.

Posted last night by one of those overly invasive gossip sites — A!News, or GMZ, or whatever the hell it’s called — the first few frames are nothing but a shaky view of pavement, before the camera pans up to capture the shape of the same man who was kissing bubble-bath off your knuckles hours ago, the same man who laughed at your confession, the same man who’s spent the last however-long believing wholeheartedly that you two were a unit while you agonized over being separate concepts.

“Mr Barnes!” The man behind the camera bellows, offensively loud and cutting off Bucky’s much gentler greeting. Discomfort is clear in his stiff posture, yet he still takes the time to greet the paparazzi hounding around the theatre’s entry. “Who knew you were a fan of Broadway! What brings you here tonight?”

Cardboard is thrust into a vibranium hand, followed by a black marker. Bucky blinks in confusion before finally removing the cap and scribbling some form of a signature onto the board.

The frown of concentration is enough to have you giggling at the screen, or perhaps that’s just because you know what’s coming next.

“Oh, I’m, uh-” He pauses to accept another pen and paper, scribbling a signature completely different to the last one. “I’m here to support my girl.”

The statement sends the reporters and your heart into a frenzy.

“Your girl?” One of them echoes, but it’s too late.

Bucky is already gone, a wall of camera flashes casting a heavenly glow over his retreating figure.

Pavement back on screen, you sink deeper into your seat and let the video loop once more, counting down the seconds until you hear it again.

… my girl.

+ extra hyde !

· writing smut sometimes feels like the most sisyphean thing because what do you mean it’s still not done? i got my barbies (characters) naked and banged them together for a few minutes, is that not enough for you (aka me)?! · fun fact! i hate the word 'panties' & it lowkey killed me to add it in to this fic. · no unfunny meme this time around, please all marvel (teehee) at my new beta reader: funko bunky barnes !

“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.

He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.

You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.

It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.

He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.

He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.

“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.

“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”

You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.

It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?

None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.

“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”

His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.

“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”

He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.

“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”

With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

A fortnight passes before you see him again.

Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.

It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.

You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.

You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.

Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.

But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.

It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.

The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.

You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.

All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.

Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.

You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.

Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.

The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.

Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.

From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.

“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.

“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.

He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.

“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”

Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.

The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.

Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.

“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.

He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.

“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”

You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.

You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.

No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.

You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.

“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.

“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”

He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”

The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.

You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.

Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.

They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.

When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.

His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.

“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"

“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”

Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”

He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.

You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.

Kissing.

Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.

Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.

His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.

You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.

You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.

“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”

You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.

“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”

“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”

By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”

“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”

He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.

“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”

He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.

“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”

He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.

You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.

I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.

You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.

When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.

When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.

Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.

You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.

Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.

He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.

You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?

And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?

The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.

You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.

“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”

You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.

“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.

“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”

Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.

Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.

But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.

And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.

The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.

An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.

There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.

It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.

But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.

To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.

A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.

And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.

Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.

Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.

With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.

You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.

You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.

You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.

Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.

There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.

Or whatever else might await you at the end.

The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.

You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.

The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.

When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.

There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.

After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.

If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.

You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.

You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.

You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.

The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.

But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.

Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.

For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.

You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.

The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.

Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.

He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.

“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”

His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”

“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”

“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.

He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.

“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”

“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”

He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.

You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.

“On the count of three?”

You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“One. Two…”

He doesn’t say three.

Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.

The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.

He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.

“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”

“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”

You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.

Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.

But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.

Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.

“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”

He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.

Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.

“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.

You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.

“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.

You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.

I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.

You. Not us. You.

He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.

The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.

He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.

The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.

“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.

“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.

Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.

At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.

He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.

Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.

You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.

You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”

He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.

“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.

Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.

He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”

“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.

One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.

A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.

His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”

You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.

How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?

You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”

He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”

You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.

“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.

“Would you join me?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”

That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.

The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.

“You can touch me,” you say softly.

He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.

He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.

When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.

You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.

Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.

“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.

“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”

You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.

Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.

His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.

He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.

Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.

At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.

The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.

He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.

He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.

So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.

“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.

“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”

You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.

“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.

“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.

All you know is that the space beside you is cold.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

3 years later. Circa 2016.

“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”

You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.

You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.

She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.

Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don’t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.

Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.

“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”

Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.

It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.

“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”

“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”

There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.

“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.

“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.

“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”

Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.

Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”

You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”

“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”

You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.

It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”

You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.

You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.

He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.

You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.

You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —

Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.

“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”

“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”

“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”

“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”

You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.

“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.

“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”

Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.

The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.

The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.

You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.

“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”

“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”

“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”

You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.

James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.

Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.

There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

2 years later. May 2018.

You wish you could say that you kept your promise.

For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.

Then you saw him on the fucking news.

All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.

Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.

From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.

At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.

After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.

That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.

Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.

You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.

You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.

Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.

“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”

The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?

A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.

Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.

You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.

Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.

Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.

It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.

You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.

Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Post blip. Circa 2024.

Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.

The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.

If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.

If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.

And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.

You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.

Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.

No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.

You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.

And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.

Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.

You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.

So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.

By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.

It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.

“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”

You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.

If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.

When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.

“What brings you here, Yelena?”

She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.

She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.

“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”

“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”

She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”

You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”

The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”

You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”

Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”

You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”

“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”

Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.

“Why me?”

“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”

You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”

“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”

You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”

Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”

“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”

Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”

You raise a brow. “What’s true?”

She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”

Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.

“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”

Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.

“Good.”

You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.

You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.

“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”

Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.

The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Present Day.

Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.

You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.

Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.

New York. Valentina. Bob..?

“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”

You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.

“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.

“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.

“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”

She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.

Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.

“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.

As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.

“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.

Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.

“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”

“Yelena—”

“Please. Just hurry.”

The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.

But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.

The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.

No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.

Especially if he’s there.

The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.

Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.

You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.

It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.

You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.

When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.

“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”

Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.

You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.

You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.

Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.

Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.

But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.

You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?

The elevator ride feels eternal.

You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.

His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.

His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.

You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.

All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.

Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.

They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.

Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.

“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”

“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.

“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”

You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.

“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”

Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”

“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.

“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”

“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.

“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”

Rogue agents? Ruthless?

“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”

Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.

Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.

As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.

“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.

“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.

“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.

“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”

Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”

“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”

At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.

“Thunderbolts?” You echo.

The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.

The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.

Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.

Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.

You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.

Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.

The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.

From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.

“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.

A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.

Sentry closes in on the both of you.

He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.

“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.

But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.

“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.

Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.

Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.

Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.

“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”

The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.

Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”

There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.

There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.

“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”

Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”

You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.

The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.

You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.

Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…

Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.

You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.

You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.

Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”

“I know.”

He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.

Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.

“You never came back for me. Why?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”

You wait for him to continue.

“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.

“All I wanted for me was you.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.

“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”

He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.

The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.

“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”

You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”

He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.

“If you’ll still let me.”

Without thinking, you press your lips to his.

It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.

It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.

Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.

You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.

Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.

Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.

The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.

“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”

Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”

You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”

You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.

It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.

But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.

And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Three hours.

That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.

You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.

None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.

It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.

You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.

His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.

“That was quick,” you hum.

“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”

Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.

“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”

He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.

“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”

He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.

“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”

His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.

“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”

Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”

Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.

Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.

Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.

Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.

“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”

“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”

You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.

He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.

He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.

“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.

“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”

His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.

For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.

“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.

“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”

He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.

The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.

Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.

You’re both home.

Something felt off—not wrong, exactly, just unfamiliar in the way a battlefield went silent before the first shot. His chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, but his muscles stayed tight beneath the surface. Sleep clung to him like fog.

His left hand shifted against the blankets. Bare skin. Smooth. His brow furrowed.

There was nothing wrong with his arm.

That thought came quick and sharp, like it had been waiting for him. Nothing wrong with it. But… shouldn’t there be?

Bucky lifted his hand into the light, turning it slightly, watching how the sun caught the gold ring wrapped around his finger. A simple band. No inscription. Just warm metal, glinting against his skin.

His throat tightened without reason. He stared at the ring for a long moment, his chest going tight, lungs slow to expand.

He didn’t remember putting it on.

And yet… it didn’t feel unfamiliar. That was the worst part. It felt like it belonged there—like it had always been there. Like whoever had slid it onto his finger had done so gently, looking at him with something soft in their eyes.

Bucky blinked and pushed the thought away, rubbed at his face, and sat up. The sheets rustled as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet brushing against the cool floorboards.

Everything in the room looked like it had been plucked from a catalog—mid-century furniture, matching lamps, soft yellow wallpaper patterned with white roses. Neat. Peaceful.

Wrong, something in him whispered. But he ignored it.

The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. He glanced at it without really seeing the time, then stood and made his way toward the bathroom, sleep still tugging at his limbs.

The mirror greeted him with a face that felt too clean. Hair neatly trimmed, jaw freshly shaven. No bruises. No blood. No scars. His reflection stared back like it belonged in a postcard, not a war.

He peeled off the undershirt he’d slept in and stepped into the shower. Hot water ran down his back, steam curling around the tiles. He washed automatically, not thinking. Just moving. Like muscle memory. Like someone else’s routine.

And still, that ring stayed on his finger.

He dressed without thinking. Undershirt first, then the crisp button-down hanging neatly from the bedroom door. The fabric felt stiff and starched, the kind of thing he imagined he'd once complained about, but today he didn’t mind it.

His fingers fumbled slightly with the buttons, like he wasn’t quite used to the fine motor movements. The tie gave him more trouble—too loose at first, then too tight, the knot sitting slightly crooked at the collar. He stared at it for a second, debating whether to fix it, but decided against it. It didn’t seem to matter.

The house was quiet when he opened the bedroom door, the floor creaking softly beneath his feet as he moved down the hallway. He could hear a sound—faint at first, then clearer the closer he got.

Humming.

Light, tuneful. Unhurried. Like whoever it belonged to had been up for hours already, in no rush at all. It reached him just as the smell did—bacon, eggs, something warm and familiar. The scent hit him low in the chest, spreading like something he couldn’t name.

He didn’t think. He just followed it.

The closer he got to the kitchen, the heavier the feeling became—not dread, not exactly, but something like anticipation. Like he already knew what he was going to find but needed to see it anyway. The hallway opened into the kitchen slowly, and for a moment he stood just beyond the frame, quiet.

There you were.

Back turned to him, working at the stove in a soft house dress that caught the morning light like it had been made for it. Hair pinned loosely off your neck, one hand steadying a skillet, the other moving with ease.

There was a vase of fresh flowers, lilies maybe, on the table, petals too perfect to be real. A small green plant on the sill above the sink leaned slightly toward where you stood, as if reaching.

You turned at the sound of his step, a smile already in place—bright, familiar, like it belonged to someone he’d known forever.

“There you are,” you said softly, as if he was late for something, as if this was a morning like any other.

And Bucky, who still wasn’t sure where he was, or why the air tasted too sweet, or why everything felt a half-step off from real, could only manage one thing.

He smiled back.

You crossed the kitchen in soft steps, the hem of your dress swaying just above your knees, smile still warm as your hands found their place around his neck. Bucky didn't flinch, didn't question it. His arms slid around your waist like he'd done it a hundred times before.

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his in a slow, familiar kiss—the kind that didn’t need heat or urgency, just the comfort of knowing exactly where you belonged. He closed his eyes as your mouth lingered against his, letting the quiet press of it settle the last of his nerves.

“Morning,” you murmured against his lips, your voice still sleep-soft. “How’d you sleep?”

He took a breath before answering, your fingers gently combing through the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Good,” he said, the word catching slightly in his throat. “Just… woke up a little confused. You weren’t there.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, one brow lifting in something like amusement, but not mocking. “I’ve been up a while,” you said, brushing a piece of hair away from his forehead. “Didn’t want to wake you. You looked peaceful.”

“Right,” he said, forcing a small laugh that felt too hollow for how calm the morning was. “Guess I just forgot.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to. You kissed him again instead, slower this time, your lips moving with intention. And for a moment, Bucky let himself stop thinking. Let the warmth of your body, the smell of bacon and coffee, the hush of the house—all of it—pull him back into the dream.

You pulled back slowly, just far enough to look at him again, your hands still resting against the sides of his neck. One thumb brushed along his jaw, then higher—softly tracing the space between his brows where a faint furrow had settled.

“What’s that look for?” you asked, voice gentle. “You okay?”

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t really know how to answer that. The images from his dream—if that’s what it was—were already slipping through his fingers like water. Flashes of dust. The echo of metal hitting metal. Screams. Cold.

He cleared his throat, offered a small, awkward smile.

“I think I had a strange dream,” he said after a beat. “Something with aliens, I think.”

You tilted your head, amused, and gave him a light tap on the shoulder as you turned back to the stove.

“That’s what you get for watching those silly pictures with Sam and Steve,” you said, clicking your tongue. “I told you Invasion of the Body Snatchers would get into your head.”

Bucky smiled faintly, resting his hands on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

“Yeah, well… how could I say no? Sam insisted.”

“I bet he did,” you said, glancing at him over your shoulder. “And Steve probably nodded along like he knew what it was about.”

He smiled, softer now, his fingers absently toying with the edge of his sleeve.

“Guess I should’ve listened to you.”

“You should always listen to me.”

There was no bite to the words—just warmth, easy and familiar. And with that, the last edge of the dream slipped a little further away.

He was just starting to settle in his chair when something else caught his attention—a new scent in the air, tucked just behind the bacon and coffee.

Sweet. Tart.

His gaze shifted instinctively toward the counter, and there it was—perched on a cooling rack like it belonged in a magazine ad: a freshly baked cherry pie, crust golden and flaky, the filling just beginning to bubble at the edges. He could smell the cinnamon mixed in. His mouth actually watered.

He stood up slowly, eyes narrowing like he was trying to scope out the best approach.

“When’d you have time to bake a cherry pie?” he asked, already drifting toward it.

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders moved—subtle, like you’d been waiting for him to notice it. Just as his hand reached out toward the pie, you cut in without missing a beat.

“Ah-ah. Don't you dare.”

He froze, caught mid-reach like a kid sneaking a cookie.

“That’s not for you,” you said, finally glancing back at him with a pointed look. “It’s for the new neighbors.”

Bucky blinked, confused. “What new neighbors?”

You gave a little huff, returning to the stove.

“I told you about them. Wanda and Vision? They just moved in across the street.”

He tilted his head, expression twisting. “What kind of name is Vision?”

You turned, spatula still in hand, and swatted him lightly on the shoulder with the back of it.

“Be nice.”

“I am bein’ nice,” he muttered, rubbing his arm. “Just sounds like a stage name or somethin’.”

You ignored that, moving to plate up the eggs and bacon like nothing happened, but Bucky wasn’t finished giving the pie a longing look. He slouched back into his chair, one arm resting across the back of it, watching you with half a grin.

“Just sayin’… you make a pie like that and give it to someone else, I might start takin’ it personal.”

You slid a plate in front of him with practiced ease—eggs, bacon, toast, all still steaming. He muttered a “thanks, doll,” before reaching for the fork, but you cut in before he could take a bite.

“Nat and I were thinking of dropping by later,” you said casually. “Be neighborly. Bring over the pie, introduce ourselves to Wanda.”

Bucky paused mid-bite, chewing slowly as he side-eyed you over the rim of his coffee cup.

“You and Nat,” he repeated. “Gonna go be nice to someone.”

You arched a brow. “Yeah. That a problem?”

He set his cup down, leaning back in his chair. “I just think the words Nat and nice don’t really belong in the same sentence is all.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but it was half-hearted—more amused than annoyed.

“That’s my friend, James.”

He smirked. “Yeah, and unfortunately she’s married to my friend. So now I gotta deal with her twice as much.”

You gave a soft scoff, folding your arms loosely across your chest.

“She’s sweet when she wants to be.”

“She’s mean when she wants to be too,” Bucky shot back, grinning around another forkful of eggs.

You didn’t deny it, just shook your head and turned back toward the sink. Bucky watched you for a beat, the way your dress moved with each step, how the morning sun kept catching the little strands of hair that had slipped free from your pin.

Everything looked right. Felt right.

And yet, in the back of his mind, there was still that one nagging itch—like he’d forgotten something important, something big. But when you moved past him again and your hand brushed his shoulder, it faded.

He finished the last bite, leaned back in his chair with a sigh, and patted his stomach like a man who had no business going to work after a meal like that.

“Well,” he said, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape of wood against floorboards, “guess I oughta head to the office. Be back ‘round six.”

He stood, walking over to the door and reaching for his coat off the hook near the door, but before he could get too far, you stepped in front of him—hands already reaching for his collar. He stilled as you smoothed down the fabric, fingers adjusting his tie with practiced ease.

“Crooked again,” you murmured, brow furrowed in disapproval.

Bucky’s gaze didn’t move from your face. “You sure it ain’t just my neck’s crooked?”

You gave a soft laugh, brushing a bit of lint off his lapel. “No, handsome. I’d know.”

He watched you with quiet amusement, his voice dropping just a bit as he added, “You always fix me up before I leave?”

“Every morning,” you said, stepping back just slightly to admire your work. “And every morning, you leave it a mess by lunchtime.”

Bucky gave a lopsided grin. “What can I say? I fall apart without you.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“‘Course. You tie my tie, I eat real food, I remember where my damn shoes are. You’re basically holdin’ the whole operation together.”

You tilted your chin up, giving him a look that was half flirt, half challenge. “Well, it’s nice to know I’m appreciated.”

His grin widened.

“You’re more than appreciated, doll,” he said, leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

But then another followed. And another—slow, drawn-out, his hand resting lightly on your waist as if he might just forget about the whole "going to work" part of the morning.

You huffed softly against his mouth, mumbling, “Bucky, you’re gonna be late.”

“Worth it.”

You laughed again, nudging him gently toward the door.

“Go on, before I keep you here for lunch, too.”

He raised a brow, clearly not opposed to that option. “That a threat or a promise?”

You pushed his chest with both hands, laughing. “Go.”

He kissed your cheek one last time before finally backing toward the door, still smiling. As he opened it, a rush of sunlight spilled inside—and for just a second, something about it made him pause.

But he didn’t linger. He just gave you one last wink over his shoulder.

“Six o’clock, doll.”

And then he was gone.

The screen door creaked softly as Bucky stepped out onto the porch, the morning sun already casting a golden hue across the street.

The air smelled like freshly cut grass and laundry hanging out to dry. He paused on the top step and took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back as if he could stretch off whatever was still clinging to him from that weird dream.

Peaceful. Quiet. Too quiet, maybe.

He started down the walkway, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt as he glanced across the street. That’s when he saw her.

Mrs. Donnelly, the sweet old woman from two houses down—the one who always wore pearls and carried around those little hard candies that stuck together in her purse. She was in her front yard, as usual, tending to her rosebushes in a floral-print housecoat.

Only… she wasn’t moving.

Shears in hand, frozen mid-prune. One arm stretched toward a blossom, the other holding the stem in place. Her smile was wide, too wide, and didn’t flicker. Didn’t falter.

Bucky stopped at the edge of his walkway, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Morning, Mrs. Donnelly,” he called out.

Nothing.

His brows pinched. He cleared his throat, tried again, voice dipping with the smallest thread of hesitation. “Hey—Mrs. Donnelly, you all right over there?”

For a second, there was no response. No movement. No breeze. The street might as well have held its breath.

Then—she blinked. Shifted. Her shears snipped through the rose stem cleanly, and she turned with that same bright, polite smile she always had.

“Oh, good morning, dear!” she called, waving the clippers casually in her hand. “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Bucky stared a moment longer, jaw working slightly.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, it is.”

He kept walking, shoes crunching lightly on the gravel as he made his way toward the sidewalk, not looking back. He didn’t want to think too hard about it.

Probably just his imagination. Maybe the heat. Or leftover nerves from that dream.

He kept telling himself that all the way down the driveway.

The door had only just clicked shut behind Bucky when you glanced at the clock on the wall and pressed your lips into a small, satisfied line.

8:57 a.m. Right on schedule.

You smoothed your dress, checked the pie on the counter for any signs of imperfections (none, of course), and laid a folded dish towel neatly over the top.

Ten minutes later, the knock came.

You opened the front door with one hand on your hip and a sweet—if mildly exasperated—smile already on your face.

“You’re late.”

Natasha Rogers stood on the step looking completely unfazed in a smart mint green blouse and matching pencil skirt. Her red hair was perfectly curled, sunglasses perched low on her nose like she hadn’t a care in the world.

She quirked one brow. “You’re just early. As always.”

You stepped aside to let her in, tsking softly as she breezed past. “Being punctual is a virtue, you know.”

“So is not baking for people you haven’t met yet,” she replied, peering toward the kitchen. “Did you really make a pie?”

You lifted the towel to show her.

“Cherry. It’s cheerful.”

“Of course it is.”

Nat leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “I still don’t get why you insist on being the neighborhood welcome committee.”

You tilted your head, giving her a patient smile as you carefully arranged the pie on a dish.

“Well, someone’s got to make a good first impression. And you and I could do with some more pleasant company. She’s our age, Nat. Married. Quiet.”

Nat tapped her nails against the counter, unimpressed. “Married doesn’t mean normal. Could be hiding a cult in her basement.”

You gave her a look over your shoulder. “Nat.”

She shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

You set the pie down with a bit more determination than usual.

“We’re being polite,” you said simply. “And besides, it wouldn’t hurt you to smile once in a while.”

“I am smiling,” she muttered, deadpan. “On the inside.”

You laughed, nudging her arm as you headed for the door.

“You keep showing up at my house. Deep down, you like this.”

“Deep down, I might need a hobby,” she replied, opening the door for you. “Let’s go deliver your pie before I say something truly neighborly.”

You stepped outside into the golden morning, sunshine warming your skin as the pie cradled gently in your hands.

“Just be nice,” you said lightly.

“No promises.”

You and Nat stepped up onto the tidy porch, your heels clicking against the painted boards. Everything about the house looked just right—flower boxes bursting with color, a freshly swept welcome mat, wind chimes tinkling softly in the breeze.

You adjusted the pie in your hands and gave Nat a pointed look.

She adjusted her sunglasses. “Still time to run.”

You ignored her, and knocked gently on the door.

It opened almost instantly.

Wanda stood there in a neatly pressed house dress, soft curls pinned back just so, and a smile so practiced it looked like it had been rehearsed in front of a mirror. Her lipstick was a perfect shade of cherry red, her apron spotless, and her eyes warm—but not quite relaxed.

“Hi!” you said brightly. “I’m your neighbor—just across the street. I thought I’d come by and say welcome.”

You held out the pie carefully, and Wanda’s face lit up like you’d handed her a trophy.

“Oh, how thoughtful! Cherry pie! Isn’t that just the most darling thing?” she said, taking the dish like it weighed nothing at all. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” you said, brushing a hand over your skirt. “I figured it’s always nice to meet a friendly face. And this is my friend—”

“Natasha,” Nat said, stepping forward just enough, offering a short smile. “I live around the corner. Sort of.”

Wanda beamed. “It’s so nice to meet both of you! I’ve been meaning to get out and say hello, but with all the unpacking and Vision starting at the office, things have been just a touch hectic.”

Her laugh was soft and musical, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

You smiled anyway, trying to set the tone. “We won’t keep you long—just wanted to say welcome and offer a slice of something sweet in case you haven’t had time to settle in yet.”

“Oh, you are just the sweetest thing,” Wanda said, clasping the pie to her chest for a moment. “I swear, people around here are just so charming. Isn’t that right?”

She glanced briefly past you, as if expecting someone else to be standing behind you. But there was no one there.

Nat shifted slightly beside you. You could feel her eyes on the back of your head.

“Well,” you said, recovering smoothly, “we’re glad you’re here. If you ever need anything at all—flour, sugar, a woman to vent to—you know where to find us.”

Wanda’s smile softened just a little.

“I’ll be sure to take you up on that. But, please, come in,” Wanda said, stepping back from the doorway with the pie still cradled in her arms. “It’s just me this morning—Vision’s at work, of course.”

“Of course,” you echoed with a pleasant smile as you stepped inside, Nat trailing just behind.

The interior of the house looked like something out of a catalog. Everything matched—pastel walls, matching floral curtains, a perfect set of porcelain figurines arranged above the fireplace. Even the couch cushions were fluffed just so. Not a speck of dust in sight.

You blinked.

“Wow. You’ve settled in so quickly,” you said, stepping further into the living room. “You two must be very efficient.”

Wanda let out a practiced little laugh. “Well, those boxes don’t move themselves,” she said with a wink.

Nat raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Wanda gestured for you both to sit. “Can I offer you ladies anything? Coffee? Lemonade?”

“Oh no, we won’t stay long,” you said, sitting gracefully on the edge of the floral loveseat. “We just wanted to check in and make sure you were getting along all right.”

“So far, so good,” Wanda said, carefully setting the pie on a doily-covered sideboard. “It’s a lovely neighborhood. Very quiet. Peaceful.”

Nat dropped onto the armchair across from you, crossing one leg over the other. “Suspiciously peaceful, sometimes.”

You shot her a look.

Wanda just smiled, unbothered. “I do like the quiet. Vision and I came here for a fresh start.”

Nat glanced around the room. “Well, you definitely started fresh. This place looks like it’s been lived in for years.”

“Doesn’t it?” Wanda said, clasping her hands in front of her. “We wanted it to feel like home right away. I’ve always believed that if you want a perfect life, you have to make it for yourself.”

Something about the way she said it made your smile falter—just slightly.

Still, you nodded. “That’s a lovely way to put it.”

Wanda looked at you with something almost like recognition, her eyes narrowing just a little before smoothing back into a pleasant expression.

“And what about you two?” she asked. “Have you been in town long?”

Nat glanced at you, letting you take the lead.

“Oh, we've been here for what feels like forever,” you said. “Long enough to know everyone’s favorite pie flavor at least.”

Wanda laughed again. “Well, then I’d say I’m in excellent hands.”

“More or less,” Nat muttered.

You gave her a warning nudge with your elbow. Wanda just tilted her head and smiled wider.

“I’m so glad you stopped by,” she said. “It’s nice to feel… welcomed.”

You nodded. “It’s what neighbors do.”

And for a moment, everything was still—three women sitting in a perfect living room, the morning sun casting long golden lines across the rug. Too still.

Then Wanda clapped her hands gently.

“Well! I won’t keep you any longer. But next time, you’ll stay for coffee.”

You stood with a nod. “We’d like that.”

As you and Nat made your way toward the door, you turned back with an easy smile, pie dish now resting on Wanda’s immaculate sideboard.

“Oh, and by the way…”

Wanda tilted her head, still smiling—but her eyes sharpened just a little, as if bracing herself.

You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice just enough to sound like you were about to spill a real secret.

“We know your secret.”

Wanda’s face didn’t move—but the shift in her posture was immediate. Her fingers stiffened slightly where they rested against the doorknob. The smile stayed in place, but something behind her eyes flickered—tight and uncertain.

Then you laughed.

“Oh—no, don’t worry,” you said quickly, waving a hand. “We’re not exactly All-American girls either.”

Wanda blinked, that practiced smile slowly returning.

“Nat’s a Soviet,” you said, tilting your head toward Nat. “But don't tell anyone.”

“Mmhm,” Nat added flatly. “Straight from the Motherland.”

Wanda blinked again—twice—but you were still smiling.

“And me? Well… I doubt you’ve even heard of where I’m from.” You let out a light laugh, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Half the time I can’t even find it on a map myself.”

There was a moment’s pause, and then Wanda’s laugh chimed in—high and cheerful, if a little delayed.

“Oh, well—how exotic!” she said, clasping her hands together like that made it all just darling. “Isn’t that fun? All these little surprises in one neighborhood!”

You nodded cheerfully. “That’s what makes life interesting.”

“Sure does,” Nat muttered under her breath as she stepped outside.

Wanda followed you both to the door, waving pleasantly as you walked down the path.

“Do stop by again,” she called. “Next time, I’ll have something sweet ready for you!”

You waved back over your shoulder. “Looking forward to it!”

And that was that. Just a pleasant neighborly visit on a beautiful summer morning.

Nothing strange at all.

The office buzzed with a comfortable hum—typewriters clicking, phones ringing somewhere down the hall, a faint scent of aftershave and fresh coffee lingering in the air.

Bucky sat at his desk, trying to make sense of the day’s paperwork. It looked simple enough—just columns of numbers and a lot of unnecessary carbon copies—but his mind kept drifting. Something about the room felt too polished, too bright. Every man wore a tie just slightly too tight, every laugh too well-timed.

Still, it was a job. He had a desk, a nameplate, and apparently a nine-to-five.

Across the room, Vision stood near the break table, a mug of coffee in hand and a furrow between his brows. His pressed shirt and tie were immaculate, not a wrinkle in sight, and yet he looked completely out of place. Like a man who’d read about offices in a manual and was now trying to act the part.

He turned to the trio of men beside him—Herb, Norm, and Phil—all gathered like clockwork for their morning chat.

Vision nodded subtly in Bucky’s direction. “Forgive me, but… who are they?”

Phil followed Vision’s gaze across the office and let out a low whistle.

“No way, Jose,” he said, nudging Norm with his elbow. “He’s askin’ about them?”

Herb leaned in, whispering like he was telling Vision a classified secret. “That’s Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, and Sam Wilson.”

“Big dogs,” Norm added. “Upper-deck guys. Sit at the front of the cafeteria, never wait in line at the vending machine. You get the idea.”

Vision blinked. “They’re… what, the popular ones?”

“‘Popular’ is putting it mildly,” Norm said, adjusting his tie. “They’re the cool guys. You don’t sit with them unless you’re invited. And if they do talk to you? Congratulations—you’ve made it.”

Herb nodded sagely. “You ever seen Wilson walk across the floor? Straight spine, jacket slung over his shoulder, not a care in the world.”

“Meanwhile, we’re over here filing memos about memo formatting,” Phil muttered.

Vision looked genuinely perplexed. “But we all work the same job… don’t we?”

“Sure,” Norm said with a shrug. “But there’s the job, and then there’s the ecosystem. You’ll learn.”

Across the room, Bucky looked up from his desk, feeling eyes on him. Vision froze mid-sip. Bucky gave a polite nod, faint smile in place, before turning back to his paperwork.

Herb elbowed Vision again. “You see that? He nodded. That’s like a handshake from the president, pal.”

Vision blinked. “I… see.”

Vision turned back toward Bucky’s desk with a look of mild determination, brushing a non-existent wrinkle from his sleeve.

“Well,” he said brightly, “I suppose I’ll go introduce myself.”

Phil choked on his coffee. “Now hold on, let’s not be hasty.”

Herb threw up his hands. “Whoa, whoa—maybe give it a year, Vision.”

Norm leaned in with urgency. “You can’t just walk up to them. That’s like trying to sit with the quarterback on the first day of school!”

But Vision was already walking.

Phil muttered, “Godspeed, brother.”

The three watched as Vision crossed the office floor—shoulders squared, tie still perfect, footsteps a little too deliberate—like someone playing the part of a “confident coworker” from a training video.

He stopped beside the trio of desks where Steve, Sam, and Bucky were reviewing a few blueprints.

“Hello, gentlemen!” Vision said, too loudly. “I thought I’d take the opportunity to introduce myself.”

Three heads turned. Steve smiled politely. Sam blinked. Bucky just tilted his head slightly.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Vision continued, extending a very stiff hand. “Vision. I’m new here. My wife and I just moved here to Westview.”

Bucky’s brow lifted. “Vision?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the new neighbors, then,” Bucky said, shaking his hand with a light grip.

Vision’s posture lifted a bit. “That’s me. Just moved in across the street. My wife, Wanda, and I—lovely place, very… structured. Very normal.”

“My wife baked your wife a cherry pie this morning,” Bucky said, smile pulling slightly at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, that’s very kind of her!” Vision said with a bright smile.

“She’s always bakin’ something,” Sam added. “Pie, muffins… whatever that thing was with the—what’d she call it, Buck?”

“Peach crumble,” Bucky said. “She gets restless if the kitchen’s too clean.”

Vision chuckled. “Well, do let her know I love cherry pie. Though I've never actually eaten it before.”

There was a pause.

Then, almost too quickly, Vision added, “Medical thing. Digestion. Complicated.”

Sam squinted at him. “Wait… you love it, but you can’t eat it?”

“Yes,” Vision said, nodding far too fast. “It’s the idea of cherry pie that I find most… satisfying.”

Steve raised an eyebrow.

Vision cleared his throat—if only for effect. “So. I just wanted to say hello. Lovely to meet all of you. Very normal. Very human introduction.”

There was another pause.

Then Bucky, bless him, just offered a small nod. “Nice to meet you too.”

“Likewise,” Steve added smoothly, ever the diplomat.

Sam gave Vision a slow once-over, clearly amused. “You… you’re all right, man.”

Vision smiled too widely, gave a double thumbs-up, and backed away—literally walking backward toward the break room, trying not to trip over his own feet.

As he passed the break table, Herb whispered to Phil, “He didn’t make it.”

Phil sighed. “He crashed and burned.”

Norm shrugged. “Honestly? Could’ve gone worse.”

Bucky had just gone back to his desk, settling into the rhythm of the office again—pen in hand, reviewing another set of neatly typed memos—when the pen slipped from his fingers.

He reached down to grab it.

The moment his fingers brushed the floor—

Crack.

The overhead lights buzzed. No—not the office lights. Different. Sharper. Like a crackling voltage in his ears.

His vision blurred for half a second.

And then he was somewhere else.

Cold concrete. Harsh fluorescent light. Screams muffled behind thick glass. Metal pressed to his back, restraints tight around his wrists. Russian. He could hear it—“готов к миссии.” The sting of a needle in his neck. The echo of boots on steel.

Then—gone.

He blinked hard.

He was back at his desk. The floor was just… the floor. His pen rested beside his shoe. The office around him buzzed along like nothing had happened. Phones ringing. Someone laughing at the break table.

Bucky sat up slowly, heart pounding, his shirt clinging a little too close to his skin. He glanced around. No one had noticed.

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to breathe through his nose.

Just a weird moment. A lapse. Probably nothing. Maybe he’d skipped breakfast. Maybe it was the coffee.

Still…

As he adjusted his tie, his eyes drifted to the fluorescent lights above.

They buzzed softly. Steady. Innocent.

But for a split second, he could’ve sworn they sounded like electricity ripping through his skull.

The sun was setting by the time he walked up the steps of his front porch.

The street was quiet, porch lights flickering on one by one like stars—perfect, timed, like someone had painted them there. But the air still carried that weird static he couldn’t shake. A feeling behind his ribs. Not fear. Not quite. Just… off.

He loosened his tie with one hand as he stepped inside, trying to breathe it out.

Then he smelled dinner.

Savory, rich, something roasted—herbs and butter and garlic. The kind of smell that belonged to a place you called home.

He stepped into the kitchen and found you already plating the food, apron still tied at your waist, your hair pinned loosely, humming to yourself. The table was set—candles lit, soft music playing on the old radio tucked in the corner.

The moment you turned around and smiled at him, something in his chest gave way.

“Hey, sweetheart,” you said, your voice already warming the cold corners of his day. “Long day?”

He exhaled through a half-laugh. “You have no idea.”

You nodded toward the chair at the table. “Sit. Eat first, talk later.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

The food tasted as good as it smelled—roast chicken, buttery potatoes, green beans still crisp. The kind of dinner no one had made for him in years. Or maybe ever.

And the whole time, you just… existed beside him. Refilling his glass. Rubbing his shoulder for a second when you passed behind him. Asking about his day, but not pushing when he didn’t quite answer.

And it hit him all at once.

How much he wanted this. How much he needed it.

When the plates were cleared and you turned to rinse something at the sink, he didn’t even think. He stood and came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist as he pressed a kiss to the side of your neck.

You laughed softly. “Hey—dish duty is yours tomorrow.”

“Fine by me,” he murmured against your skin. “Long as this keeps happenin’.”

Another kiss. Then one just behind your ear. Then your jaw.

“Bucky—”

He turned you toward him, your hands still warm from the dishwater, and kissed you properly—slow, steady, like you were the only real thing he’d touched all day.

And maybe that was true.

He couldn’t remember half the details of work. Couldn’t explain the flicker of cold in the back of his mind or why the lights had made his head pound.

But this—your lips, your hands, your laugh against his mouth—this made sense.

This was the part he understood.

You were still smiling when you pulled back, cheeks flushed just a little, hands still resting lightly on his chest.

“Finish up the kitchen for me,” you said softly, your voice carrying that same gentle lilt it always did when you were up to something. “Then come to the bedroom in five minutes.”

Bucky raised a brow, hands sliding down your sides. “Oh yeah?”

You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

That got his full attention. His grip tightened ever so slightly, eyes flicking between yours.

“You can’t just say somethin’ like that and walk away, doll.”

You slipped out of his arms with a grin, already backing toward the hallway, your fingers undoing the apron at your waist as you went.

“Five minutes, Barnes,” you said over your shoulder. “And not a second sooner.”

He stood there a moment longer, hands on his hips, watching the way your silhouette disappeared into the bedroom.

“Clock’s already runnin’,” he muttered to himself, and turned toward the sink with a new sense of urgency.

And before he knew it, he was drying his hands on a dishtowel and checking the clock.

7:37 p.m.

He’d waited exactly five minutes.

He moved quietly up the stairs, loosening the top button of his shirt as he went, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The hallway was dim, but as he reached the bedroom door, he paused—brows pulling slightly at the sight of flickering light seeping beneath the frame.

He pushed the door open.

The room was bathed in candlelight. Dozens of tiny flames glowed from the dresser, the windowsill, the nightstand—casting golden light across the soft curve of your figure standing at the foot of the bed.

You turned toward him with a little smile and gave a gentle twirl, the hem of your new silk slip catching the air.

It was soft. Clinging. Just barely translucent in the low light, and absolutely not something meant to be worn for long.

“Do you like?” you asked, voice light, sweet, knowing exactly what you were doing.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

His eyes swept over you slowly, like he was trying to memorize the way the light touched your skin. Then he nodded—slowly, dumbly—as his fingers found the second button of his shirt and slipped it loose.

Then another.

And another.

As he stepped closer, the candlelight caught the edge of his jaw, his voice low and just a little hoarse.

“You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

“That’s the plan,” you murmured, voice low as your arms slid around his neck.

His shirt hung open now, barely clinging to his shoulders. Your body pressed flush to his chest, the silk of your slip catching against the heat of his skin. The thin fabric did little to separate you from him—your covered breasts rising against his sternum with every breath, soft and warm, sending a quiet jolt through him.

His hands found your waist, fingers splaying gently over your hips like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes dark, full of something tender and dangerous all at once. Then his forehead dropped to yours.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmured.

You smiled, brushing your nose against his.

“I know.”

His hands slid slowly over your hips, then beneath the edge of the silk slip—fingers brushing over bare skin, warm and steady. He exhaled through his nose, and you felt it, soft against your cheek, just before his lips dipped to your neck.

The first kiss landed just below your ear, slow and deliberate.

Then another, lower.

Then another—open-mouthed and warm, his tongue barely tasting your skin.

You hummed, head tipping to the side, one hand curling tighter at the back of his neck.

“Bucky…” you breathed, voice barely more than a whisper.

He didn’t answer—just continued his slow trail downward, mouth grazing along the curve of your throat. His hands shifted higher beneath your slip, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, thumbs stroking the soft flesh just beneath your ribs.

Bucky’s mouth found yours again—urgent this time, not rushed but certain, like he needed it. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you any longer.

He kissed you deeply, hungrily, swallowing every soft sound you made before it could leave your lips. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other still beneath your slip, fingers sliding lower, down the curve of your hips and over your thighs.

You barely registered the shift in his stance before he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing in his arms.

But he didn’t stop kissing you.

Not for a second.

His mouth stayed on yours even as he adjusted his grip, one hand cupping the back of your thigh, the other pressed firm against your spine, holding you to him like he didn’t want to give you the chance to slip away.

Your legs wrapped around his waist without needing to be told.

And still, he kissed you.

Slow and deep, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your breath, the way you trembled just slightly every time his tongue slid against yours.

Bucky's grip adjusted—secure, careful—his lips still moving against yours as he took a few slow steps toward the bed, each one deliberate, like he didn’t want to break the rhythm of the moment. His breath was warm and ragged against your mouth, and his hand splayed against your back, holding you close, like he couldn’t bear to have even an inch between you.

As his knees brushed the edge of the mattress, he slowed, finally breaking the kiss—but only just enough to breathe.

You were both breathing harshly in the hush of the candlelit room.

“Y’know…” he said, voice low and rough with that unmistakable Brooklyn drawl, “I ain’t ever seen somethin’ as unfair as you in this thing.”

His eyes dropped to the slip you wore—clinging now to your frame, a little wrinkled from his touch, slightly askew from the way you’d pressed together. His thumb brushed under the strap at your shoulder.

“You planned this whole night just to make me lose my mind, didn’t you?”

You smiled, still breathless. “And if I did?”

Bucky huffed out a soft laugh, resting his forehead against yours.

“Then it’s workin’, sweetheart.”

He kissed you again—slower this time. Deep, sure, with that quiet kind of desperation like he was trying to anchor himself. Like the day’s static still lingered behind his eyes and the only way to shut it out was you.

His hands slid beneath your thighs again, and he lowered you down gently, laying you back against the soft sheets like you were something fragile.

But he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he hovered above you—his mouth still close, his hand brushing your cheek, then drifting down your neck, his calloused fingertips dragging fire over your skin.

“Look at you,” he whispered, half to himself. “Dressed like a dream. Layin’ here like this… waitin’ for me.”

You reached up, curling your fingers into the open collar of his shirt.

“I’ll always be waiting for you,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard at that—jaw clenching slightly, like the words hit somewhere deep—and kissed you again, a low sound catching in his throat.

He then sat back on his heels for half a second, eyes raking over you like he’d just walked into the best damn surprise of his life.

Then he was stripping his shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere he clearly didn’t care about.

“Been thinkin’ about this since you told me to wait downstairs,” he muttered, already working his belt open, the metal buckle clinking as it came loose.

You grinned, sitting up just a little. “Five whole minutes of suffering?”

“Longest five minutes of my life, doll.”

His slacks hit the floor, and he was on the bed a heartbeat later, knees sinking into the mattress as he grabbed you by the hips. “C’mere.”

You let him pull you toward him, his hands already sliding up your thighs, fingers curling into the hem of your slip.

“Gonna unwrap you,” he said, voice low but not shy about the grin tugging at his mouth. “Like the best damn present I ever got.”

Before you could tease him back, he was bunching the silk higher, skimming it over your hips, up your sides, the fabric catching here and there on his calloused hands. You lifted your arms without thinking, and he yanked it over your head in one quick move, tossing it aside without looking.

“God, look at you,” he said, leaning in to kiss you hard, already pushing you back onto the bed.

Bucky’s mouth stayed on yours, a little rough now, all teeth and heat, his hands already everywhere. One slid up your side, cupping your breast through your bra, thumb brushing over the fabric just to hear the sound you made. The other gripped your thigh, pulling it higher around his hip like he couldn’t get you close enough.

“Missed you today,” he muttered against your mouth, his accent thicker now that he was half out of breath. “Whole damn time at work, thinkin’ about this… about you wearin’ somethin’ like that under my nose.”

You grinned into the kiss. “And what would you have done if I’d shown up at your office like this?”

He groaned low in his throat, squeezing your thigh. “Doll, I’d have cleared the desk and gotten fired in five minutes.”

You laughed, but it broke into a gasp when he pulled your bra strap down with his teeth, letting it snap lightly against your skin before sliding the strap off your shoulder with his fingers.

“Bucky—”

“Yeah?” His hand trailed down your stomach, warm and firm, stopping just at the edge of your panties. “Somethin’ you wanna tell me, baby?”

You arched under him, trying to push into his touch. “Stop teasing.”

That cocky smirk flashed across his face. “I don't think so.”

His fingers slid past the thin fabric of your panties, finding you warm and already wet for him. He let out a low, satisfied hum, leaning down so his mouth brushed your ear.

“Jesus, doll… you’ve been thinkin’ about this all day, huh?” His voice was gravel now, deep and smug. “Feelin’ all worked up while I was stuck at that boring-ass office?”

You let out a shaky laugh, breath catching when his fingers started to move—firm, slow strokes that made your hips twitch against his hand. “Maybe I was.”

“Maybe?” He chuckled darkly, nipping your earlobe. “Sweetheart, you’re drippin’. That ain’t maybe.”

You bit back a moan, your nails digging lightly into his bare shoulders. “Could just be I’m not that picky.”

His laugh was a hot breath against your cheek. “Yeah? Liar. You’d never let anyone else touch you like this.” His fingers pressed harder, faster now, each curl of them hitting exactly where you needed it.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Cocky much?”

“Damn right,” he said, kissing along your jaw while his hand worked between your thighs. “You tell me to stop and I will, but we both know you won’t.”

Your lips curved in a grin even as your breath stuttered. “Not a chance.”

“Atta girl.” His tone was pure praise, but his fingers stayed relentless, every slick slide making your legs tremble a little more around him. “Gonna make a mess for me, sweetheart?”

You arched into him, meeting his rhythm. “Only if you can keep up.”

“Oh, doll…” he murmured, curling his fingers just right, drawing a sharp moan from your throat. “That ain’t a problem.”

You felt it building — that sharp coil tightening low in your belly, every flick of his fingers pushing you closer. Your breath hitched, hips rocking into his touch, ready to tip over—

And then he pulled his hand away.

The loss made you whine, your hands grabbing at his shoulders. “James!”

He grinned, the kind of grin that made you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. “Stop bein’ a brat.”

“I’m not—”

“Yeah, you are,” he cut in, his voice laced with amusement as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties. “But don’t worry, doll. I’ll still take care of you.”

Before you could throw another complaint at him, he tugged the thin fabric down your legs and tossed it somewhere behind him without looking.

Then he shifted lower, settling between your thighs, his hands pushing them open wider until you felt the cool air brush over your heated skin. He looked up at you from under his lashes, that smug glint still in his eyes.

“You’re already shakin’,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost over you. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your pulse jumped, fingers curling in the sheets. “Then stop talking and—”

But your words broke off in a gasp as his mouth finally met you—hot, wet, and devastatingly slow at first, his tongue drawing long, deliberate strokes that made your toes curl.

Bucky groaned low against you, gripping your thighs to keep you spread for him. “God, you taste like you’ve been waitin’ for me all damn day.”

You laughed breathlessly, trying to bite it back. “Maybe I have.”

“Maybe,” he said against you, “isn’t good enough. I want you screamin’ my name before I’m done here.”

Bucky didn’t rush.

That was the worst part.

He licked you like he had all the time in the world, like he could spend the entire night between your legs and still not get bored. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, flattening against you before curling just right, catching that spot that made your back arch.

Your hand shot to his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as your other gripped the sheets. “Bucky—”

“Mhm?” he hummed against you, the vibration sending a shock straight through you. He didn’t lift his head. Just kept licking, steady and maddening, like he wanted to make you beg.

Your hips rolled against his mouth without thinking, chasing more friction, and his grip on your thighs tightened. “Easy, doll. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

“Then go faster,” you gasped.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth already shiny with you, lips curved in a smirk. “Pushy tonight, huh?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if you’d—oh, James—” Your words cut off when he sucked your clit between his lips, tongue flicking over it in quick, relentless motions that made your vision spark.

“That’s it,” he murmured when he let go, his voice low and filthy. “Let me hear you.”

Your breath came in short bursts, your thighs trembling against his palms. He alternated between long, slow licks and sharp, precise ones, never staying in one rhythm long enough for you to brace yourself. Every time you thought you’d figured out his pace, he’d change it—keeping you right on the edge, drawing you higher without letting you fall.

“Bucky—please—” you managed, your voice breaking around the word.

“Please what?” he asked, deliberately slow, before dipping his tongue inside you, fucking you with it, his nose bumping your clit with every movement. The combination made you gasp, your hips jerking.

“Please don’t stop,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his hair.

That made him groan, a deep, rough sound that vibrated through you. “That’s my girl,” he said against you, before sucking your clit again, harder this time. “Always so sweet for me.”

You felt it then—the coil tightening again, this time faster, sharper. You tried to warn him, but all that came out was a strangled moan.

“Yeah?” he asked, reading your body like a book. “You gonna come for me?”

You nodded frantically, words failing, your thighs closing around his head. He let them, one hand sliding up to press against your stomach while the other kept you open enough for his tongue to keep working you.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he murmured against you. “Mess up my face.”

The filthy encouragement shattered what little control you had left. Your back arched, your mouth falling open in a cry you couldn’t muffle, your entire body going tight before it shook apart.

Bucky didn’t stop—not right away. He kept licking you through it, softer now, drawing out every aftershock until you were twitching under him, breathless and spent.

Finally, he pulled back, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking up at you with that damn smirk. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “Yeah,” you said, your voice hoarse but teasing. “Guess you’re good for something after all.”

His grin widened, and he started crawling up your body. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, bracing himself over you, “I’m just gettin’ started.”

Bucky stayed between your thighs, his hands braced on either side of your hips, eyes dragging over you like he was trying to memorize every inch. The candlelight caught the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his smirk.

“Are you ready for me, baby?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I’m always ready for you.”

He grinned, one hand wrapping around himself, giving a slow stroke as he positioned between your legs. He brushed the tip along your slick folds, just enough pressure to make your hips twitch.

The contact pulled an involuntary sound from your throat, a small, aching note of impatience. “James,” you said, his name leaving your lips like a warning and a plea all in one.

That made him laugh under his breath, leaning down to steal a quick kiss. “Easy, doll. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Bucky guided himself to your entrance, the head of his cock pressing just enough to part you, and his gaze flicked up to meet yours.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

And when you did, when your eyes locked with his, he pushed forward — slow at first, deliberate, like he wanted to feel every inch you.

The first stretch of him inside you stole your breath. Even with all your memories of a hundred times before, your body reacted like it was new. Muscles tightening around him, heat pulling him deeper, making his jaw clench.

“Jesus, doll…” Bucky’s voice was low, strained, like he was trying not to lose it already. He pushed in until his hips met yours, holding there for a beat, his forehead nearly touching yours.

You weren’t sure why it felt different tonight. You’d thought you’d had him before — countless times, slow mornings, quick nights after dinner parties — but this… this was sharper. More consuming.

Then he started to move.

The first pull back was slow, deliberate, and then he thrust forward again, harder this time. Your back arched, a moan catching in your throat. His hands gripped your hips, anchoring you as he set a rhythm — not rushed, but deep and purposeful, every thrust hitting that perfect spot.

The room was thick with heat — the soft flicker of candlelight, the creak of the mattress, your mixed breaths and muffled curses. Every time his hips met yours, that strange undercurrent rippled through you, a sensation that felt both brand new and achingly familiar.

Bucky felt it too — though he couldn’t name it. Something about the way your body gripped him, the way your eyes locked on his, made it feel like he was crossing a line he hadn’t before.

“God, you feel… different tonight,” he breathed, almost to himself, his pace faltering for half a second before he drove back into you, harder. “Better. So much better.”

You clung to him, legs tightening around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Then don’t you dare stop.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he said, voice rough, hips pounding into you now with a messy urgency that made the bedframe knock against the wall. “Not ‘til I’ve wrung every sound outta you.”

Bucky’s thrusts turned heavier, more insistent, his pace pushing the air from your lungs in small, sharp bursts. The candlelight caught on the sheen of sweat at his temple, his hair starting to fall loose against his forehead, his mouth open as he breathed through the effort of keeping himself together.

But there was no keeping it together — not with the way your body clung to him, every squeeze pulling a ragged groan from his chest.

“God, doll… you’re perfect,” he ground out, his voice low and rough. “Takin’ me so well… fuck.”

You tilted your head back, the sound of his praise shooting straight through you. “Feels—so good, Bucky—”

His hand slid up your side, cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until you gasped. Then his mouth was there instead, teeth grazing before his tongue soothed the sting, all while his hips kept driving into you.

It was overwhelming — his weight above you, his hands everywhere, the way he filled you completely with every thrust. The scent of him, the heat, the faint rasp of his voice in your ear when he pulled back just enough to murmur, “You’re squeezin’ me so tight, baby… you gonna come for me?”

You let out something between a laugh and a moan. “If you keep talking like that—”

“Oh, I’m not stoppin’,” he cut in, grinning against your neck before biting lightly. “Not until you fall apart around me.”

He adjusted his angle, and suddenly every deep drive of his hips was hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. Your legs tightened around him, anchoring him to you, pulling him deeper. The bed creaked under the steady rhythm, the headboard tapping against the wall in time with your gasps.

Bucky’s breath grew harsher, more ragged. “You feel that? That’s me—every inch of me—right where you need it.”

“God—yes—” you panted, nails scraping down his back hard enough to make him hiss.

“Just like that,” he growled, his pace quickening, losing some of the measured control as his own need took over. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick skin against skin, his eyes locked on yours like he couldn’t look away.

That strange, unshakable intensity was back — the unspoken this is different humming beneath the heat, making every touch, every thrust feel sharper.

“Come with me,” he urged, voice almost breaking now. “C’mon, doll—let go. Wanna feel you—fuck—wanna feel you while I—”

The sound of him losing his words, the strain in his voice, pushed you over the edge. Your body went tight around him, the orgasm ripping through you so hard you cried out his name, clutching him like you might pull him under with you.

That was all it took.

Bucky groaned loud, hips slamming deep one final time as he spilled into you, his whole body shuddering with the release. He stayed there, buried in you, his face pressed into your neck, breath hot and uneven against your skin.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, just clinging, riding the aftershocks together.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, his lips curved into a slow, dazed smile. “Hell of a welcome home, sweetheart.”

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “You earned it.”

And though neither of you realized it, that night had changed something — because it wasn’t just another time. It was the first.

Bucky flopped onto his back beside you with a heavy exhale, one arm automatically draping over his eyes. “If I knew that’s what was waitin’ for me after work, doll, I’d start leavin’’ early.”

You rolled onto your side, propping your head on your hand to look at him. “You start leaving early, and who’s gonna bring home the bacon?”

He peeked out from under his arm, smirking. “Pretty sure you just fed me all the bacon in the county.”

“That was your dinner. This was…” Your lips curved into a sly smile. “…dessert.”

Bucky laughed, low and warm, and reached over to pull you against him, tucking you into his side. “Best damn dessert I ever had.”

You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. He absently brushed his fingers up and down your arm, the post-coital haze wrapping around you both like a blanket.

“You know,” you murmured, “if I’d known that slip was gonna get that reaction, I’d have bought three.”

“Sweetheart, if you buy three, I’m never leavin’ this bedroom.”

You swatted his chest lightly, but you were laughing, and he caught your hand before you could pull it back, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Don’t tempt me, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned. “Oh, I’m already tempted, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at you. The candlelight softened his features, made his smirk look more like a smile — genuine, open in a way that was rare for him.

“You know somethin’, doll?”

You tilted your head. “What’s that?”

He brushed a thumb over your cheek, his touch slow, tender. “I love you.”

Your smile bloomed instantly, the kind that crinkled at the corners of your eyes. “I love you too, James.”

He leaned in and kissed you once — slow and sure — before pulling you in so your head rested under his chin, his arm secure around you like he could keep the whole world out just by holding on.

The two of you lay there in the candlelit room, the sounds of the neighborhood fading into the background — a car passing on the street, the hum of the old ceiling fan. Everything felt easy. Right. Like the world outside could wait until morning.

And in this perfect little bubble, neither of you had any reason to think otherwise.

a/n — I don't think people in the 50s had sex like this, and it's a shame for them. and yes, this was the first time these two were actually having sex, if some of you didn't catch that hint. anyway let's pray and manifest consistency, because y'all know my mind and focus wanders

Don't Wake Me Taglist:

@chanxyeollie @niinesb @nikifiedd @winterdecember18 @its-in-the-woods @gilly903, @votresoleil02 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @jarnesbames108 @mochibunnyyyy @pipo246 @emma-frxst @spideysilver @belladonnadarksshade @opheliabbarnes , @rinniereads123 @buckyinmyuniverse @w33bgrrrrl @stanmarvelous @notsostrangerthing @barnesonly @vivireidsversion @onlyjunisworld @starspangledspanks @buckmybarnes @seamlessepiphany @xamapolax @empireendings @lilyyyy2005 @thearchressstuff @96o3n @ar1anne @intothesoul @mgparker @mayal0pez @shadowzena43 @iannepeyt @jannesyjane @nojamsonmytoasshadowzena43

"comms are live. hello, can you hear me?"

a pause.

there's a static crackling that rings through your headset before bucky's voice comes in, low and gruff, "yeah, unfortunately."

"good morning to you too, barnes." you smirk as you lean back in your chair, the screens in front of you flickering to life one-by-one. "it's nice to hear that your sunshine and optimism lived to see another day."

"play nice, you two." sam warns, "we haven't even gotten inside."

"i am playing nice." you retort, "that was me being sweet."

"define sweet..." bucky grumbles. you're not sure whether he's forgotten you can hear everything he's saying or if he's doing it just to spite you— but you let it slide.

you glance over to a screen where you can see joaquin's boots— and only his boots— thanks to his poorly angled body cam. it's shaking like he's struggling with something.

"joaquin, you there? i think your mic's off."

"yeah, he's here. he just can't figure out his ear piece." sam sighs. you watch him step into joaquin's screen and grab something from his hands, "you just have to click the button, man. it's not that hard—"

there's an awful screeching noise that pulses through your headset. it sounds like someone had just murdered a sentient robot and then fed its screams through a megaphone.

you pull it off in a hurry, waiting until it goes silent, and then place it back onto your headset with a huff. "everybody just... stop touching things."

another screen immediately catches your eye. blotches of red and orange pop out amongst a deep blue background— heat signatures patrolling the perimeter of the building that sam, bucky, and joaquin are in. you watch as a handful of them enter the warehouse.

"we've got movement." you still up in your chair, zooming in as the thermal overlay focuses, "there's about four patrolling the west perimeter. there's five— no— seven of them have just entered through the east side of the first floor."

sam peaks around the corner, but he can't see much unless he wants to compromise their position. he pulls back, "super soldiers?"

"i can't tell. they move like it, but nothing’s confirmed." you narrow your eyes. your eyes flicker to a smaller screen and a controller that sits beside it, "i'm sending scout. incoming!"

from somewhere in the sky, a grey blur cuts across the roof of the warehouse. bucky rolls his eyes as he watches it zoom past.

on your screen, scout's POV snaps into focus— clear, high-res, infrared, and absolutely glorious. it’s practically your child. you guide the bot with a simple flick of your wrist.

a small drone no bigger than a tennis ball and stamped with a white 'S' on its side zips through the air like a wasp on a mission. it's virtually silent, zipping low as it peaks around the corner of the east wall.

"okay, they aren't armed, but—" you pause as you rotate scout, "wait, there's a truck pulling up on the east loading dock."

sam furrows his brows. they didn't plan for anything other than a simple surveillance and a couple catch and arrests. "can you see what's inside?"

you turn to another screen— a thermal drone that's zoomed into the truck. "one driver and one passenger. there's a few crates in the back, but i can't see what's in them. they must have some sort of cooling system because they're freezing."

joaquin glances between sam and bucky, "that has to be the serum, right?"

"this must be one of the meeting points for their buyers." sam says, "they're gonna be here any second."

"don't worry. i've got eyes on them." you cut in, fingers flicking across your keyboard as another feed pops up, "i'm guessing it's the four black range rovers approaching from the south along franklin street."

there's a pause, then bucky asks, "what's our game plan?"

he's not looking at sam or joaquin. he hasn't moved a muscle. his voice is low and steady, his eyes fixed straight ahead— like he's waiting for your voice to tell him what to do next.

and you don't hesitate.

"we need to seperate them from the buyers. if this is an exchange, they're going to have bodyguards. we can't have thirty armed criminals in one warehouse. can you handle that, torres?"

joaquin nods, "loud and clear."

without another word, he takes a running step off of the warehouse's broken wall. his wings snap out from his jet pack with a hiss, catching the wind as he flies south along franklin street. you watch his tracker blip across another screen, already zeroing in on the buyers.

"and you two have to take these guys out." you continue, focus turned on sam and bucky, "there's five on the perimeter, all armed. there's two that have just wandered off towards you guys. pick them off."

sam's voice crackles in, "i'll take the guys with the guns."

there's a pause—

"we can take the guys with the guns." he corrects himself a moment later— probably after a look from bucky.

"they're unloading the crates now. the truck is electric, so i think can stall it long enough for you guys to get close— maybe cut off their exit entirely. we still don't know if they're enhanced, so be careful and don't be stupid."

you watch sam's body cam as bucky turns to him, his voice flat through the comms, "yeah, sam."

sam scoffs and waved him off as he readjusts his shield, "i think she means you, man."

"i was just throwing it out there." you roll your eyes, fingers flying across your keyboard as you send joaquin backup, "torres has already contained the buyers, so you're up— go."

bucky's already moving before you can even finish your sentence, heavy boots almost silent against the concrete floor. sam vaults the barrier to his left, moving fast and low.

sam closes in. a pacing guard turns just a moment too late— sam drives his fist into the side of his face. he drives into another guard, sending him tumbling into a wall with a dull thud. another one spins around with a gasp. he fumbles for his weapon—

crack.

a metal fist drops him before he can even point it. bucky steps over the guy, barely slowing his pace or breaking a sweat. but then another guard rounds the corner— one who doesn't fumble with his gun— and shoots.

you look over to another screen. the thermal camera shows more figures closing in on sam and bucky, clearly on high alert. the tension in their movements show that they're panicked. the four crates that had been unloaded were now being covered back up.

"you've got six of them heading your way, and fast." you scramble. the truck's screen is visible on your screen, but your software is still trying to figure out the password, "they're unarmed, but be careful."

sam's wing fans out in a practiced motion and shields them both from the bullets. the shots ping right off of the reinforced metal. his wing retreats, and the guard looks terrified. he tries to reload the gun, but he's struggling.

sam's voice comes through, dry but amused, "i guess we're past the stealth phase."

"i didnt like that phase anyways." bucky grunts as he shoves the guard against a wall. he makes a point by grabbing his gun and snapping it in half like a twig, tossing it out reach. he knocks the guy out with one swift punch to the jaw.

they're doing good— clearing the path with ease and making sure to be vigilant— but then they walk into the main area of the warehouse. it's wide open and humming with the sound of the truck and trailers shoving the crates back into the back, and there's at least a handful of masked figures standing there.

the six figures you had seen nearing sam and bucky are already stepping into the light of the warehouses main floor— calm, coordinated, and slightly intimidating.

each one is broad-shouldered and looks battle-worn. their body temperatures come up significantly warmer than both sam and bucky's, and you can tell something is wrong.

"you think they've taken the serum?" bucky shifts his stance, fists already clenched.

you watch as one of the men lurches forwards— blindingly fast— and throws sam across the room, far too fast for sam to catch himself. he hits a pillar, sliding down it with a groan.

"shit." you inhale.

"i think so!" sam yells, voice strained.

the rest of them charge. bucky's the first to meet them head-on. he lands a solid punch to one of their jaws— and it should've dropped him— but the guy just snarls, barely flinching, and drives his knee into bucky's stomach.

sam's back up, his shield snapping into place just quick enough to block a hit. he's fighting hard and moving fast, wings flicking around for balance and defence, but for every hit he dodges, there's another one right after.

you're watching the fight from a drone overhead like a game you can't control. youre working on trying to stall the truck, but it's difficult when youre also watching your friends get their asses beat.

sam takes out one guy with a swing of his wing and a nasty uppercut, but two more corner him. bucky slams a guy through a metal beam— literally through it— but it only buys him a second before another super soldier grabs him by his jacket and tosses him across the room, back slamming into a shelving unit.

then— like a miracle— a screen on your right starts beeping. a red dot farts across the radar, closing in on the warehouse. you spin in your chair to check the corresponding feed just as a figure cuts through the sky.

you grin, "torres incoming!"

not even a second later, joaquin bursts through one of the warehouse windows, wings flaring wide. his visor glints as he absolutely bodies two super soldiers like bowling pins just as one of them winds up to hit bucky again.

he lands with a thud, wings retracting quickly as he jogs up to sam. bucky is close behind, but he's still fighting off two super soldiers.

"about damn time." sam huffs.

bucky wipes the blood leaking from his nose, taking a moment to catch his breath, "what the hell took you so long?"

"traffic." he grins and holds his hand out for sam, who's literally holding on by a thread, trying to prop himself up with his shield, "was getting your asses kicked a part of the plan?"

sam groans as joaquin pulls him up, "don't push it, joaquin."

you're still watching the fight through various monitors. the comms are full of grunts and sharp breathes, but now that joaquin's there, they're struggling a little less.

and then there's a beep— a small, sad beep— and a window that says 'OVERRIDE FAILED' in big red letters. you freeze.

"they've locked me out of the truck's system. they're overriding my remote access." you scramble to restart the process, but it doesn't let you.

you glance at another screen. the camera feed confirms your worst fear— they're escaping. one of the super soldiers is climbing into the driver's seat, the rear doors slamming shut as the engine hums to life.

"they're taking off—" you panic as you watch the truck pull out of the warehouse driveway, "shit, someone stop that truck!"

before anyone can respond, bucky takes off in a full sprint— no hesitation, no plan, and clearly no intention of letting that truck get away or waiting for anyone. his boots pound against the asphalt as he trails it.

"barnes—" you call through the comms, stressed out of your mind.

you hadn't expected him to chase after it. he was the only one without wings or a jet pack, yet you watched him run after that truck like he was chasing all he's ever wanted. the panic in your voice doesn't help. if anything, it only pushes bucky harder.

he barrels out onto the street, only a few metres from the truck. you send a drone up ahead, the camera feed glitching as it races to keep up. you're trying to calculate every route the truck could take to evade capture— until your eyes land on a large clearing.

there's a river glittering under the sun, splitting the city in half. a large drawbridge stretches over it, connecting the two sides of land. just next to it, there's an enormous cargo ship waiting to cross— and your heart stops when you notice the bridge is already at a 70 degree angle.

"they're gonna jump the bridge, barnes." you quickly warn, "if they make it across before the split—"

"they're gone." he finishes, breathless but ready. you can hear his sharp breathes through your headset, "i'm not letting it get away. 'gonna jump it."

"fall back, barnes, you're not going to make it." you bark through the comms, trying to keep your voice steady. you watch as he speeds up, running faster than you've ever seen him run.

"you better listen to the lady, bucky." sam adds, wings slicing through the air as he tries to catch up.

you watch as the truck barrels forwards, climbing up the incline of the rising drawbridge like it's easy work. bucky's close— too close to stop. he digs his feet into the ground harder as he launches himself up the incline.

you can see it all through a drone— the truck about to leap, bucky on its tail, the bridge yawning wide open underneath them, and the water far below shining like teeth. the cargo ship blares its horn as it draws closer to the bridge, wary of what's happening.

it happens too fast—

the truck leaps across the gap. its front wheels leave the ground for just a split second before the back wheels follow, and then its airborne. behind it, bucky jumps too.

you're on your feet now, eyes locked onto the drone feed. your hands are braced on either side of the desk and your knuckles have gone bone-white. you're not breathing or thinking. you're not even sure if your heart is beating.

for a moment, he's airborne. then just as quickly, he's falling straight through the gap and into open air. the wind catches in his jacket, gravity yanking him down towards the water and the cargo ship below.

just before he hits the ship deck, a blur of red, white, and blue zips past— sam.

his wings flare as he dives, hooking one arm around bucky with precision, the two of them twisting mid-air as the momentum nearly sends them spiralling. they hover under the bridge for a moment before sam takes off towards solid ground.

you collapse in your chair and yank the joystick for scout, who zooms towards bucky and sam. its camera focuses, cutting through the haze of the sun to check on them.

"jesus christ, buck, are you okay?" you panic into your mic, already trying to see if he needs medical attention.

"i've caught the princess, he's safe." sam replies, smug as ever.

you lean in closer to the screen as scout zips around him, "are you injured? you might need to take your vest off so i can assess it and let medical know."

"take me to dinner first." he doesn't look thrilled about the rescue. he brushes off his jacket with a clenched jaw, then narrows in on scout, who's circling him. he flings his hand at it like a fly, "and get that stupid drone out of my face. it's ugly."

"rude." you frown, "he just risked his tiny propellor life to check up on you."

"yeah?" bucky asks flatly.

you narrow your eyes, "yeah."

bucky gives scout a fake smile and says an insincere 'thanks buddy'. then— without hesitation— bucky grabs scout mid-hover. you barely have time to shout at him before he launches scout straight up into the sky, spinning wildly and almost vanishing.

the feed spins out of control as the stabilisers struggle to compensate with the speed it'd been hurled at.

sam clicks his tongue and shakes his head, "ooooh, she's gonna kill you."

bucky shrugs, utterly unfazed, but there's a shadow of a smile sitting on his lips, "i didn't like the way it was looking at me."

"you better pray he still works when you get back or else i'll murder you in your sleep." there's a lowness in your voice that should be intimidating, but bucky doesn't falter.

"i'd like to see you try." he retorts, his tone bordering amused.

"you've never seen me." you reply matter-of-factly, "you wouldn't even see me coming.”

"oh, trust me, the moment i hear nasally breathing, i'd know exactly who was about about to beat my ass."

"that sounded like a compliment, barnes." you roll your eyes, ignoring the insult and simply smirk, putting on your best mock-sultry tone, "are you complimenting me?"

"don't flatter yourself. i've just taken too many hits to the head."

he hears you scoff, and it makes his grin widen. he can almost imagine you in your little computer room at the base, sitting in front of your set-up with an unimpressed look on your face, or even pacing back and forth muttering about how annoying he is.

it's weird how he knows so much about you, but still can't really picture what you look like. he's tried, but it's mostly just a blur— almost like a familiar face from a dream.

sam stops walking and turns to bucky with his hands on his hands, "are you guys done flirting or do you want me to circle back in a couple of hours?"

"you should've just let him fall into the river, sam." you grumble through the comms.

"hey guys?" joaquin's voice comes in clear and troubled.

sam pauses, his eyebrow furrowing, "what's up, torres?"

"you might wanna come and check this out."

it's later in the day. the team had gathered back at the base to debrief, worn out and trying to gather themselves after the failed mission.

sam is slouched on a chair, eyeing the information on the screen to figure out what went wrong, bucky's leaning against the wall with a towel around his neck and a band-aid above his brow, and joaquin's icing his shoulder and holding up his phone, where your voice comes through the speaker.

"so youre telling me that they just abandoned two entire crates full of super soldier serum and then just dipped?" you spoke— sharp and unmistakably done with everything.

"uhhhhhhhh... yeah." joaquin blinks, then tilts his head in confusion, "i thought you were already caught up with this?"

"do i sound caught up, joaquin?" you roll your eyes and take a deep breath, "it just doesn't make any sense. they went through all that effort to keep up busy, only to leave the serum behind like its nothing?"

"you think it was a decoy?" joaquin asks.

"i don't know." you half-shrug, "they've barely touched it, and i just got a message that they want me to check it out before they log it and send it into evidence."

sam straightens in his chair, "you want backup?"

"it's sitting in the middle of an air-force base, sam. if someone pops out, they've got bigger things to worry about than me— like the twenty armed guards surrounding it or the drone that's been circling it for the past hour."

"you're actually leaving your cave?" bucky jokes.

"yeah, barnes, i am." you deadpan, hand already on your 'caves' door handle, "since you threw scout into orbit, i'll have to use my eyes like a normal person. he's fine, by the way. just a bit of whiplash."

sam huffs out a laugh, but his shoulders are still visibly tense, "hey, just be careful, okay?"

"always. i'll call back in ten." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then hang up.

the room is silent for a few seconds. the low him from computer monitors fills the space, punctuated by the slow ticking of a clock nearby.

joaquin sighs, then mutters, "can't believe they left the crates behind." he shifts the ice pack on his shoulder, "feels... off."

sam leans back in his chair with a tired sigh, "if anyone's gonna spot something we missed, it's her."

then another moment of silence stretches through the team. outside the window, the airfield lights burn against the dusk. the base is usually quiet at this time of day.

bucky stares out of the window. then he asks, "is she always like that when she's out in the field?" he doesn't clarify what he means by that, but the others seem to understand what he means.

"what, annoyingly confident?" sam lets a small smile wander onto his face as he thinks about you, "she's about ten times worse when she's not behind those screens. but it's good. she doesn't miss much. and when she's got a gut feeling..."

sam doesn't finish his sentence. he doesn't need to.

"you should see her during intel briefings." joaquin adds with a goofy grin, "she'll shred a guy's whole thesis with like... three words. it's brutal."

"and that weird 'incoming' thing she does?" bucky frowns, like he's genuinely confused, "what is that?"

joaquin laughs under his breath, "she's been doing that since we were recruited. it's like... her thing."

bucky's quiet for a moment. his eyes glance at joaquin's phone where your voice had just crackled through not even a minute ago. it sat idly on the table. there's a weird feeling in his chest— almost embarrassment. he'd known you for two years and was only just now asking questions.

"is she tall?" bucky blurts out.

joaquin blinks, caught off guard, "what?"

there's another beat of silence. sam turns his head away slowly from the monitor, clearly unimpressed, and gestures vaguely to bucky. he deadpans, "he's never seen her."

"seriously?" joaquin raises his brows, "you've been working with her for two years, and you've never ever seen her face?"

bucky runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he wants to just get over the subject, but he's brought it onto himself. he shrugs like it's nothing as he pulls the towel from around his neck, but the pink tips of his ears say the opposite.

"she's always behind a screen or..." bucky runs his hand over his face, exhaling like he already regrets having this conversation, "or on encrypted phone calls, or in a control room in some random part of this place. she's not exactly the easiest person to bump into."

"you've never looked her up? never seen a photo?" joaquin still looks utterly amused, inching ever so slightly across the table, "you haven't even stalked her, just a little bit?"

bucky looks at him like he's spewed gibberish, "no."

"she was standing right next to you last week." joaquin exclaims incredulously, "at the debrief? she was standing next to you with her arms crossed? we could go check out to the crates right now. she'd be there."

bucky furrows his brows, completely silent.

sam leans back with a knowing smirk, "trust me, if he'd seen her, he'd remember her."

"what's that supposed to mean?" bucky frowns, unsure if he should be offended or if he actually has a point to make.

"it means she's memorable, man." sam says like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "voice like that? brain like that? you think the looks don't match? she’d have you thinking about her 24/7.”

joaquin raises his brows in agreement, "he's got a point."

bucky doesn't respond, and his silence says more than any smartass comeback ever could. he's just sitting there, absentmindedly playing with the towel in his hands and staring at nothing in particular, his gaze far off— maybe trying to picture you again. maybe trying to figure out if he should go out and see you— but it feels wrong.

sam watches him for barely a second and has already read him like a book. he rolls his eyes and leans forwards with intent, like he's seen this before. and he has. "don't go getting all obsessed, buck."

that snaps bucky out of his head. he scoffs, "i'm not—"

"she called you buck and you didn't say anything about it."

joaquin watches the exchange like its an intense tennis match.

"i've known you for, like... ten years. i called you buck last year and you didn't like it." sam points out, gesturing emphatically, "and you just asked if she was tall like you were filling out your dating profile preferences."

"it was a question." bucky defends.

"a weird question." sam retorts.

"oh, give me a break." bucky clenches his jaw, "you're telling me that if you there was a voice in your ear 24/7 for two years, you wouldn't be going insane?"

and he meant insane. you were everywhere. in his ear during missions, on his phone when you need to let him know important intel at ungodly hours, in briefing folders where half of the intel had come straight from you, and even in conversations he overhears whenever he walks through the base.

you— the genius air-force captain who works directly for the new captain america.

no one really knew how you ended up running tactical for sam, but no one had questioned it either. you were just good. scary good. the kind of smart that made people shut up and listen, and the kind of precise that made bucky trust your voice more than his own gut.

bucky had fought his entire life— in wars, for and against hydra, stared down gods and aliens and wizards— but somehow, it was you, the staticky voice in his ear, that kept him on edge.

how can someone be everywhere, but nowhere to be seen?

but then there's a loud bang— loud enough to jolt sam and joaquin out of their chairs. its sharp and feels wrong in their guts, the kind of sound that doesn't belong in a secure military base.

"what the hell was that?" sam shouts.

an alarm starts blaring in the main sector of the air base— where you are.

the three of them were already sprinting down the hallway before they had even registered that they'd moved. the smell of smoke hits their noses before they even make it out of the doors— acrid, bitter, and smelling off chemicals.

outside, the air is thick of it. it sticks low to the ground, a handful of military personnel already corralling debris and shouting orders at each other amongst the wreckage. something had definitely exploded.

"jesus—" sam mutters with his mouth shielding his face from the smoke, "isn't that where the crates were?"

bucky's jaw tightens. there's a crunch under his boot, and when he lifts it, a tiny vial with blue liquid stares back at him. his eyes sweep through the smoke, but he's not sure he could even recognise you. a figure in fatigues passes by and bucky's wastes no time in stomping towards them.

"hey—" he calls, voice rough with urgency. your name slips from his mouth, "was she here? was she hurt?"

the figure turns and points to the other side of the base, "they took her to medical." they quickly reply.

joaquin wastes no time and bolts in your direction, not bothering to ask any questions or where you are— he'd find you.

sam is already stepping over the debris to try to figure out what had happened. when they'd transported it back to the base, there had been no signs that anything was wrong. and now, after hours of silence, one had detonated after you had checked on it.

"she said she felt something was off." sam stiffens, "and she was right."

bucky rounds the edge of the blast zone, his eyes scanning the ground. bits of scorched wood and metal are strewn everywhere with dark smoke still curling upwards like it's taunting them. his boot kicks something small and metallic, half buried in the dust.

"sam." he calls, crouching down.

sam looks over. his eyes narrow as bucky reaches for a small warped disc. it's blackened, but not completely unrecognisable— a thin casing, circuit etching, and what looks like melted adhesive around the edges.

"they were never gonna come back for it." bucky turns over the deflated bomb, "wanted to cause serious damage to whoever took it."

"yeah, and it worked. they've put our man in the chair in hospital."

bucky rips off a flailing piece of plastic from the bomb. underneath, there's writing writing in minuscule block letters and unintelligible to him at first glance. its not english or in any language he recognises.

he squints, turning it slightly, "you seeing this?"

sam leans over and brushes soot off of the surface, "some kind of... manufacturing tag?"

"could be a location." bucky matters, pointing at a short line of text half-buried under the sticky residue, "this part here looks like latitude and longitude."

sam exchanges a stumped look with bucky, "so what, they booby-trap the crates, nearly kill our comms specialist, and then give us a return address?"

"looks like it."

they both fall silent. there's still a hum of chaos and confusion in the air with military personnel running back and forth to figure out what's happening, and joaquin's still in medical trying to find you. sam's jaw ticks.

"you thinking what i'm thinking?" he asks.

bucky nods once, "yeah. time to pay 'em a visit."

the moon hangs heavy over the towering complex. the building hangs on the edge of a tree line, swallowed by both nature and time. what used to be a lavish apartment complex in the 70s was now home to spiders, rats, and bird nests, the crumbling skeleton of concrete and steel forgotten, but not untouched.

joaquin frowns, craning his neck just to look up at the building, "you guys sure this is the place?"

before he can even finish his sentence, a slow gust of wind passes through. it whistles through the exposed windows and cracked walls, groaning like its alive. the metal structure groans under its own weight and it sways.

"that cannot be good." sam audibly winces.

they shake it off, moving without speaking. joaquin checks his wings and weapons, bucky is staring up at the windows like he's trying to see something through them, and sam is trying to get redwing to scout the area— a poor substitute for the tech they had gotten used to.

there's a silence surrounding them that crawls under their skin. no crackling in their ear pieces, no humming from drones zipping around in the air, and certainly no voice in their ears telling them what to do next. all that accompanies them is the sound of wind and the thud of concrete as chunks occasionally fall from the building.

then joaquin exhales through his nose and shifts uncomfortably like your lack of presence is physically effecting him, "yeah, this feels weird."

"right?" sam lets out a relieved laugh like he's been thinking the same exact thing, "it's almost too quiet. i dont know what to do with myself without someone yappin' in my ear."

he glances sideways at bucky, who looks like he's thinking the same, but is keeping his mouth shut about it. "you miss her too, don't you, buck?"

bucky pauses like he's about to say something witty that'll get sam off of his back, but he lets out a small breath in amusement and nods once instead, "yeah. i guess i got used to her bossing us around all day."

then, as if summoned by pure magic, there's a crackle that hits all three of their ear pieces.

"you guys can't get rid of me that easily." your voice slips in, smug and unhurried— like you'd been listening the whole time and were just waiting for the perfect moment to turn your mic on.

sam jumps so high that he nearly flies redwing straight into a power line, "jesus christ—"

bucky's head snaps straight up. his hand flies to his ear piece like he can't believe that your voice is actually there. "what the hell are you doing on comms?" he asks sharply, but he can't hide the hint of relief he feels.

"it's nice to hear you too, barnes." your roll your eyes, amused.

"they cleared her." joaquin laughs, answering the question before they could ask.

"yup." you nod and gesture to your face as if they can see you, "i'm a little burnt and they had to remove a piece of metal from my cheek, but other than that, i'm fit as a fiddle."

your monitor flickers to life. in one of them, you can see the tips of bucky's fingers pressing against the lens of the small camera he usually wears on missions.

"what are you doing, barnes?" you deadpan as you watch one of your screen flip back and forth.

"i'm trying to put—" bucky sighs as he tries to jam the camera into a small hole in his vest, but it twists and turns and wont stick. "this camera's broken."

"it isn't broken. you're just putting it in upside down."

"... didnt the nurse tell you to stop talking?" bucky grumbles as he messes with the small camera. he flips it around and scoffs when it sticks on with ease, "y'know, to preserve your vocal chords and prevent any more damage or whatever?"

"a bomb exploded in my face, barnes, not in my throat." you roll your eyes, "and look— it's in now. see what listening to me does?"

"i thought i was... zooming in."

joaquin snorts, "dude's out here trying to fight super soldiers with the tech literacy of a toaster."

"i've killed people with a toaster—"

"love the attitude today, guys. very inspiring." sam grumbles. redwing flies back into their radius and clicks back into sam's pack, "now that you're here, you mind checking out the perimeter?

"whatever. scout is in—"

"incoming." the three of them chime in unison, perfectly timed and perfectly familiar. there's a silence before you laugh.

"wow, you guys." you sigh with dramatic flair, a mix of both sarcasm and genuine amusement, "i've babied you guys for so long that you're finally taking after me. wanna call me mama next?"

you can hear joaquin snicker loud and clear through the mic, and you watch through sam's body cam as bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes like he's annoyed with your antics.

sam gives the camera a flat look, knowing that you were probably laughing at their faces, "this is what happens when they let her out of medical early."

scout zips into the scene, a quiet mechanical sound whirring past the team. it flies high up into the abandoned apartment complex, small enough to squeeze into the cracks of broken windows and rusted beams like a bird, scanning the surroundings and mapping them out on sam's tablet.

"scout's in." you announce, weaving scout through dusty cloth and abandoned furniture.

from outside, the guys glance up, watching as scout disappears for a moment before darting back inside.

"i'll never get used to how fast that thing moves." sam mutters as he watches scout zip through the top floor.

"he's faster than redwing." you simply reply, but sam doesn't miss the slight edge of challenge in your voice.

"excuse me?" he scoffs, glancing at bucky's body cam like it's you and you're actually there, "trust me— if your tiny little tennis ball goes down, you're gonna be begging to use redwing."

"i'm not touching your freaky little robot bird. i have standards."

"hey, i met your ex. don't you talk to me about standards—"

there's a sharp bark of laughter from joaquin, but bucky cuts in before you and sam's banter can escalate. "can we focus?"

you roll your eyes, but narrow in on scout's POV.

"something moved on the fifth floor. it could've been the wind and some tarps, but it could've also been— woah."

that gets their attention.

"what is it?" bucky asks, immediately alert.

you zoom in slowly. "there's... something big in here. looks like machinery— lots of it. the whole setup looks old, but it doesn't look abandoned."

"what kind of machinery?" sam asks.

"hang on." scout scoots a little closer, and your eyes widen. "it's a production lab— specialised injectors, gene sequencers, stabilisers— i think this is where they were were making the serum."

joaquin narrowed his eyes in confusion, "they used this place as a super soldier factory?"

you shook your head, "no, not anymore. looks like it's been stripped clean, but the setup's still here. they didn't even bother hiding what it was and just left it to... rot. scout's picking up residual heat signatures, so whoever was here cleared out recently— maybe a few hours ago, maybe less. it should be safe."

“should be." sam mutters under his breath, but he's already pulling his shield to his chest and heading towards the door, "never feels comforting when you say that."

the team fans out as they enter the apartment building— or what's left of it.

sam sticks to the lower floors, descending down stairs leading to a basement. the flashlight on his vest isn't bright enough to cut through the vastness of it.

bucky decides to check out the machinery to see if they left anything of importance behind. he mutters something about it smelling like a meth lab as he heads upstairs.

joaquin jets to the rooftop. he wants elevation, to see the layout of the place and the potential leads that could find the group behind this— but he also wants to avoid being on the ground floor if the building decides to give way.

"scout's overhead if you need backup. keep your comms clear and open. let me know if you find anything." you tell them before turning your microphone off.

"wouldn't dream of ignoring you." joaquin teases.

and then you're alone in the silence of your command room. you lean closer to your monitors, hands intertwined against your mouth as you watch your boys disappear one by one into the dingy bowels of the apartment complex.

it's dark, and even with scout's night vision, you can barely see ahead. the hallways look more like underground tunnels, and you can only imagine how cramped it must feel. the camera stutters with static as scout floats ahead, probably from the lack of service. you're almost afraid you might lose contact with them.

scout rounds a corner. you dont necessarily know where you've guided him— it's too dark to see— but you know you're somewhere down below. you're half-focused, watching bucky's body cam and keeping tabs on joaquin's feed— until something jolts scout off course.

the small drone clips the corner of a wall and bumps into sam's shoulder, startling him.

"what the hell?" he whips around, staring down at scout like he'd just punched sam in the face, "don't sneak up on me like that."

you click your mic on with an apologetic smile, "sorry. wasn't looking where i was going."

sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the basement. it's almost a labyrinth with how many empty boxes and crates are stuffed down there, and it smells of mold and rot. sam scans the room, and you do too. there's an old supply crate shoved into the corner of a hallway, covered by a measly and moth-eaten tarp.

"hang on..." sam mutters as he nears it.

"sam, wait, don't touch it—" you warn, but it's too late. sam nudges the tarp aside, and what's underneath sends your stomach plummeting.

"it's a bomb." you breathe, "get out, sam, now—"

"sh—"

the comms explode with static— not just sam's, but bucky's and joaquin's too. there's a high pitched ringing noise piercing through your headset and sam's screen goes white, then black.

your hands fly to your keyboard, pulling up scout's emergency override system. he's still functional— wobbly and a bit glitchy, but functional— and through his lens, you see smoke and chunks of plaster. there's a section of collapsed ceiling sitting beside scout's whirring body.

before the smoke even clears, another explosion rings out— louder and closer, and then there's another. for a split second, all you can see is light, your screens showering you in a horrible, horrible feeling of dread. for a second, you think you've lost all of them.

"sam!" you yell, "sam, can you hear me? sam?"

there's movement— and then there's a groan.

"still alive." he coughs through the dust, his voice strained, "think i caught the edge of it. damn shield saved me."

"okay. you're okay—" you let out a horribly shaky breath, "just... hold still. i still need to— joaquin? bucky? someone, come in."

there's nothing but static, and then one of your screens flashes back to life. it's joaquin's, who's outside and on flat ground.

"i'm fine— jesus, i barely made it out of there." joaquin pants, doubled-over with his hands on his knees, "the roof's collapsed. i managed to fly out just before it gave out."

you close your eyes for a split second, relief washing over you— but then it's gone just as fast as it came. you whip your head towards the last monitor, the screen still static and your heart clawing in your throat.

"what the hell happened?" sam grunts as he pushes a chunk of concrete off of his chest.

"i don't know, man." joaquin replies, still catching his breath, "i was heading down and there was a POP, and then the whole building blew up like a chain reaction."

"it was a chain reaction. they must've known we were coming." your voice is low, urgent, "one in the basement near sam, one on the roof, and—" you pause as you glance at bucky's feed, "one near the lab."

sam presses his hand to his ear, trying to filter out the crumbling concrete from the static in this ear piece, "bucky, do you copy?"

"barnes?" you call again, leaning over your console like it'll bring you any closer to him, "barnes, can you hear me?"

"come on, buck, say something." sam mutters, pacing through the wreckage, "try bouncing the signal again."

"i am." you snap, more out of fear than anger, "i've already rerouted twice. there's just— there's nothing." then, more quietly you add, "he was right by the lab. that blast radius—" you swallow hard.

"i'm going after him." sam says immediately, already pushing his way out of his entrapment.

"no— no, wait, sam. the buildings not stable. i have to run a structural integrity scan before you can move." you pause, frantically typing, "follow scout— he'll find a way out. i'll find barnes."

sam clenches his jaw, but he listens.

"i'm going to try switching stations. maybe in the explosion he accidentally hit a button. maybe he just lost signal— a tech issue, maybe. either way, i can fix it."

you try reasoning out loud— trying to stay calm— but you're not convincing anyone, least of all yourself.

from the middle floor, bucky lets out a wrangled sound— half-cough, half-groan.

he doesnt know where he is. everything's dark and dusty, choking him every time he takes a breath. his ears are ringing, and the ground is cold and damp beneath him, and it even takes him a moment to register that he’s on the ground.

and there's a throbbing pain in his leg— dull at first, but then sharp, like someone lit a fire in the muscle just below his knee. he tries to shift it, but the pressure doesn't give.

"shit.."

its hard to focus. he can't remember where he was or how he had gotten there. he blinks, once, then twice. it's silent, and he's alone. he can tell before the thought even forms, and a deep unsettling feeling forms in his stomach.

there's no chatter or humming of a drone. there's no voice telling him where to go or what to do— there's no you.

bucky clenches his jaw as he pulls himself up on one elbow. he grits his teeth as he shifts, enough to look down. there's a large metal beam pinning him down just across his shin. he exhales, trying not to move too much— trying not to panic.

he reaches up to his ear, pressing against it just to see if there was anything at all. his fingers press the buttons, trying to switch the dials— anything to get a hold of someone— but there's static.

"sam?” he rasps, "sam, come in.”

a shifting groan in the walls answers him.

"torres?" his voice cracks, "joaq— joaquin, come on. hey—"

the metal beam pinning him down just creaks under pressure.

panic starts to creep into his minds, replacing all logic. the pressure on his leg is sharp now, his side aches, and the silence is starting to weigh on him.

and then— barely a whisper— your name slips from his mouth. once, twice, and then once more, calling for you like you'd appear and rip the rubble from off of his body yourself.

"c'mon, talk to me." he pants, "tell me that i'm holding the camera upside down, or... or that scout's incoming. anything— just— say something."

he waits, and waits, and waits, but only static answers.

bucky doesn't know what to do. if he moves, he's afraid the rubble around him will crush him. if he doesn't, he'll never get out.

he squeezes his eyes shut, his forehead pressing against the dusty concrete as his breath stutters. his heart is pounding in his chest and he can hear it in his ears, unsure if it's from fear or the lack of oxygen.

he doesnt want to die. at least not like this. not alone.

a sharp, dry laugh escapes him— bitter and breathless.

"shouldve told you i missed your voice before i got crushed by a goddamn support beam." he mutters to no one, "that would've been smart."

his hand slips from his ear and falls to the floor. he's tired.

then—

"barnes? barnes?"

his earpiece glitches as he turns his head, looking around like the voice might be there. there's a sputter, and another glitch— but the voice in his ear is unmistakably you.

"bucky, can you hear me?"

your voice cuts through the static like a blade of light in the dark. youre clearer now, sharper— desperate.

and bucky laughs. its all he can do. a soft, disbelieving laugh into the stagnant air, his chest stuttering with pure, aching relief. its the sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

"you—" he coughs, dragging a shaky breath into his lungs, "you dont know how happy i am to hear your voice. where's sam and joaquin?"

he can hear a loud breathy laugh and then a thud, almost like you just collapsed at your desk from sheer joy, "they're fine. they're out. you just... you scared the hell out of me, barnes—"

"call me bucky’."

there's a silence on your end— like you're letting his words find their way into your brain. like maybe you needed to hear that.

then softer, you smile. "okay. bucky."

he closes his eyes again. he lets the sound of his name in your voice carry him through the weight pressing down on your leg.

"can you move? are you bleeding? are you—"

"i'm trapped." he cuts you off. he knows you're stressing yourself out far too much, "there's a support beam pinning my leg down, but otherwise, i think i'm fine. i can't get a hold of sam or joaquin, so... you're all i've got now."

"good. i've got you all to myself now." you try to joke— trying to keep bucky from panicking— but he can hear the quiver in your voice and the way your words wobble just enough to betray you.

"hey." he softens, "you don't need to worry. i'm okay. i'm alive."

"right. sorry, i'm just—" you swallow, eyes boring holes into bucky's monitor, "i was scared."

there's a silence, and for a moment, you're afraid bucky's been knocked out— but then he laughs. with his usual calm certainty you're so used to now—

"takes a little more than bombing a building to get rid of me."

you smile— watery and breathless— even if he can't see it. but he can hear you, and that helps with his pain. bucky huffs out a soft laugh, but it catches in his throat when the rubble around him shifts against his chest.

you catch the sound immediately. "what was that?"

"i'm under five hundred pounds of concrete and steel." bucky grunts under his breath, "i don't think it likes me moving."

"okay, okay. hold on. i'm pulling up scout's last scan of your level." you're already typing, eyes darting between monitors. "there's a structural weakness about two feet to your left. if you can push against it, i think i can guide you out."

"you think?" he mutters.

"barnes—"

"bucky."

you sigh, "i'm going to get you out, bucky. just.. trust me."

"i do." he says without hesitation.

you breathe in. "alright— now lean over and try to pull out your leg out from under that beam. it's cracked and scout thinks you can snap it. from there, you should be able to push some of the concrete away on your left and climb out."

"i'll try."

there's a deep rumbling sound coming from bucky's mic, and it was now more than ever that you wished his body cam had worked. there's a sharp grunt from bucky, and then—

there's a metallic groan, and then a cracking noise.

"bucky?"

"i'm out."

"jesus christ, bucky, don't ever do that again. i thought you broke your leg or something."

"you just told me to do it."

"that's not the point. i just—" you stop yourself and place a restless hand against your forehead like you can scrub the panic away, "i'm re-routing scout to find you. sam and joaquin are moving to help you from the outside.

there's a pause— just the low hum of your tech and the faint hiss of static in bucky's ear.

"you're doing great." bucky says gently as he pulls away a handful of debris, "seriously. you've got me halfway out already."

"halfway doesn't count." you mutter. youre focused on scout's monitor as it zooms up multiple levels towards bucky. you're barely blinking, and you're thumbnail is torn up from where you've been nervously chewing on it.

he smiles faintly— dusty, tired, but honest. "it counts to me."

scout clears the floors— each level scanned and discarded— and then, like a light in the dark, you can spot the unmistakable glimmer of bucky's vibranium arm under the rubble.

you switch back to sam and joaquin's channel, your voice breaking through the comms, "bucky's on the sixth level's east corridor. he's trapped, but he's okay."

"copy that!" joaquin responds instantly.

before long, bucky can hear two pairs of boots thudding against the ground. he blinks slowly as a flashlight burns into his face. he turns his head just enough to see them through the haze— sam on the left and joaquin on the right.

"took you long enough." bucky jokes as he shoves another piece of debris out of the way.

"oh, he's alive." joaquin exhales as he grabs at chunks of metals, "i thought we were gonna be digging out a corpse."

bucky rolls his eyes, holding out an arm, "love the optimism."

sam practically leaps forwards, crouching beside him, "you're a damn cockroach, you know that? an explosion, six floors of concrete, and you're still alive." he says, grabbing bucky's arm and slinging it over his shoulder, "can you walk?"

"i'll manage." bucky leans on sam and joaquin more than he wants, but at least he's upright.

as they make it out, scout trails behind them like a loyal shadow.  your voice crackles through, but not in their ear pieces— through scout. "you've got a clear past east. the stairwell's stable, but don't waste time."

bucky glances up, and although he can't see you, there's a softness in his expression as he limps down the hallway, "still with me?"

you smile, "still with you."

joaquin glances awkwardly at sam, then rolls his eyes, "alright, you can flirt later. let's just get out of here."

the hangar is dim, lit only by overhead lights that flicker slightly and the occasional sensors that turn on when a janitor walks by. sam, bucky, and joaquin stand in a semi-circle staring down at atleast ten full crates of super soldier serum, the lids pried open and the vials staring— almost mockingly— back at them.

no one speaks for a while.

"so you're telling me..." sam pauses as he holds his hand to his mouth, trying to make sense of the unbelievable situation in front of him, "we almost died... and the serum was in john walker's hands?"

joaquin tilts his head, "hell of a sentence."

bucky leans over and plucks a vial from it's foam confine. it's heavier than he expected. he tilts the vial, watching the blue liquid slink to its side, an inkling of suspicion growing in his chest.

"who's to say this isn't a trap?" he places it back into the crate and crosses his arms against his chest, "walker drops off ten crates of serum and walks off, no questions asked? i mean... how'd he even manage to take these guys down? he doesn't have the shield or the government's support."

sam turns around and shakes his head, too stressed out of his mind to even think about it anymore, "i don't even wanna know, man."

behind them, a door opens with the familiar hiss of hydraulics. and then there's footsteps— soft, but certain.

"what are you guys looking at?"

bucky freezes.

it hits him like a punch in the chest— he knows that voice. he hears it in his sleep. in the quiet between missions. in the static of a dead ear piece. and now it’s just here— fast approaching.

it’s you. he knows it’s you.

he doesnt want to turn around— not yet— because turning around would make it real, and if it’s not— if its just his mind trying to comfort him with something familiar in a world that keeps pulling itself from under his feet— then he’s not sure he can handle it.

but then—

“why do you all look like someone died?”

and something breaks lose in him. bucky turns— he can’t stop himself— and there you are. you’re walking towards them, headset around your neck and your sleeves rolled up, clearly just finished with reports, debriefing and damage control. you look tired, but so alive that it almost knocks the air out of his lungs.

he doesnt know what he expected, but you look better than anything he could have possibly conjured up in his mind.

it’s instant, like something short circuits in him. you’re safe. you’re here. there’s no more static through a headset, no dust, and no explosions. you’re real and you’re standing ten feet away, completely unaware of the fact that he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since you said his name over comms.

you walk closer, hands on your hips as you peer into one of the crates. you speak, but bucky barely hears you over the roaring in his ears.

she’s fine. she’s fine. she’s fine.

he swallows hard. his metal hand twitches. you feel his stare before you see it. you glance over.

there's dust still smudged along the side of his jaw, and a faint scrape just above his eyebrow. but he's standing there and breathing, watching you like he can't believe you're real.

“hi, bucky.” the corner of your mouth twists up into a warm smile as you give him a proper once-over, “you look good.”

you say it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

as you walk up to them, your shoulder brushes his for a fraction of a second. you just stand beside him like it's nothing— like this isn't some world-shattering event for bucky and that you weren’t a disembodied voice talking in his ear less than an hour ago.

even sam and joaquin are surprised, side-eyeing each other over the crates with identical expressions of is this really happening right now? and why is he just staring?

he's trying to play it cool, but he can't— he just can't keep his eyes off of you.

"holy shit, is that—" your jaw almost goes slack as you peer into the crates, eyes glazing over the glass vials in their foam casings, "where the hell did these come from?"

joaquin lets out an exasperated laugh, "you'll never guess."

you blink, "john walker?”

sam snorts, “okay, maybe you’ll guess.”

"i heard you say his name before i came in, i just didn’t think he was the one who dropped these off." you exclaim. you’re sort of impressed, "are you kidding me? how'd he even manage to get in here?”

your voice pitches with incredulity, the question half-rhetorical, half pure disbelief. you’re already running through possibilities in your head, and none of them are good.

you’re still peering into the crates, but bucky’s barely processed a single word since you walked in. his brain short circuits a little, and he speaks before he can stop himself.

“you’ve got… pen on your cheek.”

you blink, caught off guard, “what?”

bucky gestures vaguely to his own face, like his hand can explain for him, “right there. blue. it’s… smudged under your eye. must’ve been from the, uh… debrief reports or something.”

there’s a pause.

"seriously?” sam turns to face bucky’s, his brows raised so high that they’re practically part of his hairline, “you see the lady's face for the first time and that's what you say?

joaquin chokes on a laugh. you stare at bucky with an amused grin. he looks absolutely mortified.

“wh— it was distracting.” bucky waves sam off, trying to get him off of his back.

but you only laugh as you watch bucky scoff, "two years and you still don't know how to greet me. you could at least tell me i look good.”

he furrows his brows, caught somewhere between embarrassed and flustered “that’s a bit egotistical, don’t you think?”

you shrug, “oh, my bad. i forgot that you were the only one who’s allowed to be a little full of yourself around here.”

joaquin sucks in a breath through his teeth, “she’s got you there, man.”

bucky rolls his eyes and sighs. he opens his mouth, then closes it, and then he just shrugs, “you look good. really good.”

its awkward and a little stiff, but something about the way he says it makes it feel real— a little vulnerable— like he means it more than he knows how to physically express it.

you soften, just a little, “thanks, bucky.”

a short silence passes again, more comfortable now.

“okay, but seriously, what the hell are we gonna do with these?” you nod towards the crates, nudging one with the toe of your shoe.

sam blows out a breath, “i don’t know, but i do know one thing.”

you, bucky, and joaquin all look at him as he claps his hands together like he’s had a brilliant idea.

“i think we deserve a drink— y’know, to celebrate not dying.”

joaquin raises his hand, “i second that.”

“best idea you’ve had all day, sammy.” you grin, “i’ll go grab the good stuff.”

bucky watches as you turn and leave, something unreadable in his eyes. he stays frozen as he watches you disappear behind a door.

once you’re out of earshot, sam turns to bucky and pats him firmly on the shoulder—

“don’t worry.” he says with a knowing grin, “i’ll make sure you get another chance to say something better.”

you’re cramming for your chemistry midterm. you're hunched over your desk with your pink highlighter in hand, rereading words that are now dancing around and just won't seem to stick into your brain when when your dorm door slams open.

and there he is—james buchanan barnes with his stupid broad shoulders and stupid messy bed hair, looking like he just rolled out of some frat party with his varsity jacket and fuckboy smile that he wears like an armour. except he didn’t.

because bucky barnes is a fucking nerd.

“i need you to take my virginity,” he blurts, like he’s asking you to borrow a pencil.

you blink, genuinely surprised. “what.” your highlighter screeches against the page, nearly drawing random lines on the page as you turn to look at him, dumbfounded.

he flops onto your bed, and fuck, he smells good, like expensive cologne and the stupid locker room body wash that the school provides.

“i’m serious,” he says, propping his chin on his hand while he lays on his stomach, betraying the casual act. “i don’t wanna date anyone, but i also don’t wanna be bad at sex when it does happen. and you’re my best friend. so.”

you stare, the disbelief leaking out. “you’re a virgin?”

he scoffs, but his ears go pink as he toys with your pillow underneath him. “don’t sound so surprised.”

“bucky, you literally have fuckboy energy. no, i’m just...” you wave your hands, trying to process, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "you’re my bestfriend and i absolutely love you but you're also james barnes. you’ve had, like, half the campus throwing themselves at you since freshman year."

he rolls his eyes when you tease him, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck. he licks his lips, nearly hesitating but he says, "yeah, well. none of them were you."

the words hang in the air for a moment before you open your mouth, and fuck does your pulse kick upp. "that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said."

“well. you know, sometimes energy is simply nothing but energy, and besides,” he shrugs like it's nothing yet you can tell he's nervous asking you this. “i’ve been busy. decathlon nationals. moot court prep. debate regionals. football. standards.”

you snort, going back to your school work. you think it's a joke because it's hard to take it seriously james buchanan barnes wants to just.. lose his virginity to you. “so you want me to… what? teach you?”

“yes!” his grin is mischievious, the familiar mask slipping back into its place, but his fingers tap nervously against your comforter. he moves closer towards you, poking your thigh with his finger, “c’mon, please, please, please. it’s me. you know i’ll be good at it.” eventually, he sits up on the edge of your bed.

“oh my god, bucky—” you furrow your eyebrows at him playfully, but he catches your wrist. and suddenly his voice drops to a more serious tone. “what, scared you’ll like it too much?”

your face burns, and you warn, “barnes.”

bucky leans in, close enough that you can count the faint lashes on his eyes, close enough that you can see the flecks of blue in his stupidly pretty fucking eyes. he's serious. he's actually fucking serious. the kind of seriousness that comes from rehearsing this moment in his head a hundred times and still feeling like he’s fucking it up. his confidence is so fake, but the way his pupils dilate when he's looking at you? real. definitely real.

you swallow. “you’re such an idiot, james.”

“yeah, well...” his smirk falters for half a second, but enough time to show you the slight of uncertainty under the bravado he's put on for you. he's ran out of words. that's a first. and he just sits there, waiting and exposed. “...so? what d’you say?”

you exhale sharply, leaning your elbow against the desk like you need the support. your hand drags down your face, fingertips pressing into your temples like you can physically push the absurdity of this situation out of your skull. “you’re really asking me this.”

“i really am.”

“and if i say no?”

he shrugs, but his jaw tightens out of embarrassment. “then i’ll go back to my room. shut the door. pretend this never happened. no weirdness. i promise.”

you study him—the way his fingers flex like he’s stopping himself from fidgeting, the way his throat bobs when you don’t answer right away. his fingers flex restlessly on his thigh, bouncing, like he's stopping himself from fidgeting further. and running.

“...you’re nervous,” you realize, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

“no,” he lies, too fast.

you raise an eyebrow at him.

he groans, caving as he flops back onto your pillows with enough force to send a few stray strands of hair fluttering across his forehead. “fine. yeah. a little. it’s weird, okay? i've never done this before. i've never, you know, walked into your room and just,” he looks up at you with those stupid puppy dog eyes, “asked you to take my virginity.”

“you’re bucky barnes, the golden boy.” you giggle, teasing more than anything. “captain of everything, future senator, literal embodiment of the american dream pamphlet. you’re not supposed to get nervous. you’re supposed to just… know things.”

“oh, hush it,” he grumbles, throwing an arm over his face. “just—laugh it off or whatever. i'm going. my dignity's in the negatives.” he starts to sit up, but you catch his sleeve. “i didn’t say no.”

his eyes snap to yours, wide and hopeful. “...so that’s a yes?”

“it’s a ‘you’re ridiculous and i can’t believe i’m even considering this insane, potentially friendship-ruining idea, but you’re my best friend and i love you.’”

his grin returns. that stupid, stupid, stupid smile. “so yes.”

“maybe.” in reality, you're really just trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

"maybe is good." he smiles, nodding—except you can see the way his fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you already. "i can work with maybe."

your stomach flips, warmth pooling low at the way he says it. "you’re crazy, you know that?" you huff.

"yet you’re still here," he points out, teasing.

"because i tolerate you," you mutter, rolling your eyes for effect, but the second the words leave your mouth, his hands are on you.

he moves fast. you barely have time to gasp before his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you forward.

until suddenly you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips. your hands are on his shoulders for balance. your heart slamming against your ribs as his grip tightens, holding you right where he wants you.

bucky laughs, like he can’t believe you either—and then he’s leaning in, so close his breath fans hot over your lips. "...so?" his voice drops, sending a shiver down your spine. "how’s this gonna work?"

"god, you’re such an—"

he doesn’t let you finish. his mouth crashes into yours, swallowing the rest of your protest in a kiss that’s anything but patient. his lips are warm, and holy shit—he kisses like he’s been waiting forever, like he’s memorized exactly how to make you melt. one hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tilting your head just so.

you whimper, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and he hums against your mouth.

yeah. he’s definitely gonna be good at this.

you’re perched on the edge of your bed in that stupid lingerie set he definitely didn’t buy for you, scrolling through your phone like this is just another study session. except your heart is pounding, and the lace is itchy, and then bathroom door creaks open.

bucky steps out, and—oh. oh no.

he’s prepared. like, extensively prepared. you can tell by the way his stubble is gone, his hair meticulously styled with enough gel to survive a hurricane, he shaved properly and well, his cologne is obviously freshly sprayed. he probably scrubbed behind his ears, flossed twice, hell, cleaned his belly button because—“what the fuck,” you say, staring at the notebook in his hands.

he flips a page, all serious, like he’s about to present his thesis with a slideshow, cue cards and everything. “okay, so i did some extensive research—”

“research.”

“—and i have a comprehensive game plan." he clears his throat, finger tracing a line on the notebook. "step one: dedicated foreplay, which i guess is what we're about to do right now but then the kissing, touching and all that stuff. minimum twenty minutes, focusing on—”

you snatch the notebook. his handwriting is neat, bullet-pointed, with little diagrams in the margins. “bucky. did you— did you cite sources?” you point to the bottom of the page. ‘kerner, j. (2018). the neuroscience of intimacy. new york: oxford press.’

his cheeks go pink. “i.... wanted to be thorough.” he mumbles, shifting his weight. "evidence-based practice, you know?"

you burst out laughing, clutching the notebook to your chest as you fall back onto the bed.

“hey!” he pouts with wounded pride, but his eyes keep darting to the way the lace cuts into your thighs. “i’m trying to be professional about this!”

“professional,” you deadpan, flipping through the pages. oh my god. is this— is this a timeline? with… color-coded phases?” you hold up a page showing a literal bar graph labelled ‘anticipated arousal progression’.

“it’s a structured approach!” he insists, reaching for the notebook. “it maximizes efficiency and mutual satisfaction!”

you hold it out of his reach, grinning. “structured. right. so what’s this note in the corner? ‘remember to breathe. don’t lock knees. check in verbally @ T-minus 5 mins’?”

his ears go red, and he's embarrassed, huffing and puffing as you laugh at him. you sit up, still laughing, and he huffs, tossing the notebook aside before suddenly crowding you back onto the mattress. his hands are warm, a little shaky, as they bracket your hips.

“you’re mean,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling. he dips his head, lips brushing a light kiss against the curve of your shoulder, right where the strap of the lingerie bites. the touch sends a jolt straight through you.

“you’re adorable,” you shoot back, your fingers find their way into his stupidly perfect, gel-stiffened, hair, ruffling it slightly.

“adorable?” he pulls back, mock-offended. “i was going for devastatingly seductive.”

“mhm. sure. mission accomplished, soldier.” you tug him closer. “how about you show me step one of that game plan instead of just reading it to me?”

his breath hitches when you arch under him, the heat of his body pressing you deeper into the mattress, the springs groaning softly. the air between you is thick, filled with the anticipation and bucky's nervousness with this whole thing.

"fine. forget the plan," he murmurs, his voice is low and almost a whisper, like he’s barely holding onto control. his hands hover over your hips, fingers twitching like he’s fighting the urge to grab. "just— tell me what you like."

you let out a nervous laugh, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of your body—the delicate lace of your bra, the fabric of your panties clinging to you. his eyes flickers down to your chest. he’s trying (and failing) to be subtle.

"i don’t—i don’t even know where to start," you admit, voice smaller than you meant it to be. the tables have turned completely. now you’re the one drowning in nerves.

bucky’s smirk slides back into place, and he leans down until his lips nearly brushing your forehead, kissing it. your sweet, sweet bestfriend, bucky.

"lucky for you," he says, "i’m patient and great at improvising." his fingers trail up your side, testing, teasing, mapping every curve like he’s memorizing you. you shiver slightly, biting your lip. his touch feather-light, hesitant, unsure. like he’s memorizing sacred territory.

"you’re shaking, love," he says, with no teasing in it—just something warm, almost surprised, like he can’t believe he’s the one making you fall apart. love? the word hangs in the air, momentarily forgotten in the intensity.

"bucky.." you say under breath. his thumb swipes over the edge of your bra, soft skin dragging against the delicate lace.

"you’re cute when you’re flustered, you know that?" he grins, but his own nerves bleeding through the act. his eyes drop again, lingering on the swell of your tits, on the peaks of your nipples poking through the lace, the way your chest rises and falls with each unsteady breath as his fingers drag through your body. he looks back up to you, like he’s forcing himself to focus, with his fingers tight on your waist. "tell me if i do something wrong.. or if it feels good. anything. yeah?"

"you literally cited academic sources about neuroscience," you say breathily, a weak, pathetic attempt at levity, but then his mouth finds your neck, and—oh. fuck.

bucky's lips are hesitant at first, then another, tasting your skin, but he eases into it slowly, like he’s taking his sweet time tasting you, learning the landscape.

when you gasp, he groans in response, like he’s just discovered something that changed the course of his life. "fuck," he breathes against your skin, pulling you closer. "you— you sound so good like that. do it again."

you can feel him hard and heavy against your thigh, the heat of him searing even through the thin fabric of his boxers and your panties. the sheer size of him, the insistent pressure, is dizzying.

but bucky is in no rush, taking his time, mapping every reaction like it’s his new favourite subject. the fuckboy act is crumbling, replaced by something painfully earnest.

his mouth is hot as it trails lower, pressing open-mouth and wet kisses along the slope of your breast. then his tongue drags a teasing stripe between your tits, and you whimper, fingers twisting onto his hair. he chuckles against your skin—before his lips close over your nipple through the lace, sucking gently.

"so fuckin’ pretty," he pulls back slightly, murmuring, like he can’t help but tell you how pretty you are. "love how you taste even through this.. like fucking sugar."

the fabric is still a barrier between his mouth and your nipple. sucking with just enough to make you whine, but not enough to fully satisfy either of you. it’s exquisite torture.

all the while, his eyes stay glued on your face, watching every wave of pleasure that hits you, every micro-expression, like he can't believe he's the one making you feel this way.

"you like that, sweetheart?" he hums with his lips still pressed again you. his other hand finds your neglected breast, rolling it between his index and middle finger.

you squirm, hips lifting uselessly, but he doesn’t rush and he definitely doesn’t give you what you want. "you like that, sweetheart?" the question vibrating against the wet lace still covering you. "like me suckin’ on you? like me touchin’ you?" his thumb rubs firm circles over the hardened peak trapped beneath the fabric.

"bucky—please—" you whine again, and he groans in response,like the sound alone is enough to undo him.

"i got you, baby. just wanna take my time. wanna learn you." his eyes hold yours, almost pleading for understanding. "wanna make it good."

then, finally, his fingers hook under the edge of your bra, tugging it down with a painful slowness.

he freezes for a heartbeat. "fuck," he breathes, his eyes raking over your bare chest, drinking in the sight. his gaze is traces the curve of your breast. "so perfect. jesus christ..." he licks his lips, his own arousal a palpable force in the room. "even prettier without it." he doesn’t move for a long moment, just stares, committing the sight to memory.

then his mouth is on you. bucky's mouth sucks hard, and your back immediately arches off his bed. his free hand finds your other breast, kneading and massaging it softly. the sensation is overwhelming, and you squirm beneath him, torn between pressing into his touch and twisting away from the intensity.

"bucky—fuck—" you manage to choke out, and he hums against your skin. the vibration sends another jolt of pleasure straight to your core, you clamp your thighs together instinctively.

"that’s it," he pulls back just enough to speak. "i wanna hear you, sweetheart. i wanna know how good i’m making you feel." he doesn’t slow down, laving the tender spot he’d just sucked, like he’s determined to wring every possible sigh, every moan, every whimper from you before he even thinks about moving lower.

and god, you’re already so close to the edge, just from this—just from his mouth, his hands, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in this room, you’re something sacred he’s finally allowed to worship.

bucky can see it. he sees exactly how close you are and stops abruptly, lifting his head. you gasp, a shocked sound because he's deeply offended you for denying you, but he ignores it, his movements surprisingly swift as he tugs the discarded bra back up.

but then his hand slides down your stomach, over the trembling plane of your abdomen, he finally—finally—slides it between your legs. his curious eyes lock onto yours, because he can’t believe he gets to touch you like this.

"this okay?" bucky asks hesitantly. his eyes are watching you as fingers tracing slow circles over the wet lace of your panties. "am i doing it right?"

you nod, biting your lip to stifle the needy whimper building in your chest, but he catches it. he sees the way you're holding back.

"good," he says, the word exhaled like relief. he leans in so close his nose brushes yours, you could feel his breath hitting your face. "'cause i really wanna hear you. need to. after all, this is my first time. gotta make it count."

his fingers press just a little harder, enough to make your back arch under his touch. "fuck," he says, seeing the way your body responds to him. he’s mesmerized. "you’re so— god, you’re so fucking pretty like this." his thumb drags along the edge of your panties, suddenly going all rough yet shy. "is this okay?"

you nod again, but he doesn’t let you off that easy. "say it," he murmurs against your lips, barely a kiss, just a touch of contact. "need to hear it, sweetheart."

"yes," you gasp, the word breaking, "yes, it’s—fuck, bucky—it’s perfect—"

he groans, low and sweet, his forehead dropping to yours. "you like that? d'you the way i touch you?" his fingers slightly press harder, still careful but enough to make you whine. "tell me, sweetheart."

"i— i like it," you whine as your body chases his touch, your hips moving in circles against his fingers. "so much, bucky."

his lips curl into this stupid, smug, utterly boyish smile, but his cheeks are still pink, his breathing still uneven and shallow as he studies your face. "good," he whispers, nuzzling against your jaw, leaving kisses all over your jaw. you tilt your head back, giving him more access to your neck, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his waist.

"i love how you look in this." his free hand skims up your stomach, tracing the lace of the bra. "knew it’d be perfect on you. pictured it in my head, you know."

"so you've said." you chuckled, hands gripping his waist as he touches you. the way he looks at you,like you’re something precious, something his.. it makes your chest tighten, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.

"just sayin'," he replies, that hint of playful dorkiness surfacing. his fingers move again, sliding lower, beneath the lace barrier this time. he moves slowly, exploring your folds with a focused curiosity, drawing out every tiny gasp, every shudder, like he’s determined to map every sensitive spot, to memorize the exact way you fall apart for him.

you huff a laugh—weak, unsteady, and definitely trying not to show him his effect on you. but his touch does that to you, leaves you unraveled before he’s even really begun. “you’re such a dork, james,” you say under your breath, but he hears it anyway. because of course he does.

his lips brush the corner of your mouth, featherlight, and the most hesitant he's ever been. just the barest graze, because he’s nervous, and you can tell.

it’s stupid, really—he’s kissed you before, countless times, but this feels different. a lot heavier. filled with the weight of what's about to happen. his fingers slip further beneath the lace, still hesitant, and his voice is shaky when he speaks. “this okay?”

“yes—” you gasp, arching into his touch before you can stop yourself. "god, yes."

“this?” his fingers move, just so,  a gentle pressure against a spot that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

“bucky—” his name spills from your lips.

he laughs, breathless, almost giddy, and then his mouth crashes into yours, swallowing every broken sound you make. his kiss is hungry, desperate, but his touch stays careful, achingly tender, like he’s afraid you’ll break.

“jus' wanna make sure,” he murmurs between kisses, each word pressed into your lips like a secret. his fingers move with ease, coaxing you closer, until you’re trembling for an entirely different reason. “wanna do it right. for you.” his forehead rests against yours again, breathing you in. “always for you.”

and god, you hate how much it makes your chest ache—the way he touches you like you’re something precious, something to be cherished, not just taken. he’s memorizing every breath, every moan. like this moment is everything. this is your bestfriend. your bucky. for god's sake, pull it together.

then suddenly your hands press against his chest, flipping you both over and pushing him back gently. for a second, bucky looks up at you, "wha- did i do something wrong?" like he thinks you’re about to leave. his fingers twitch at his sides, curling like he wants to reach for you, to pull you back, but he stops himself, swallowing hard. the way his throat bobs is almost painful, like he’s holding back.

you don’t leave.

instead, you step back just far enough to flick off the light, plunging the room into soft moonlight that spills across the sheets, across his skin. "'s better this way, james. i promise."

his eyes follow you, wide and a little dazed, pupils blown so dark you can barely see the blue. his lips are parted, his chest rising and falling too fast, like he’s already struggling to keep it together.

“lay down,” you murmur, pushing his chest down even further. the command is soft and sweet. your palm presses him down gently but firmly against the solid plane of his chest, urging him deeper into the mattress.

he obeys without hesitation, like a soldier conditioned to follow orders scooting back until his legs dangle off the edge, his fingers digging into the bed like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. like he’s terrified the intensity of the feeling might lift him right off the bed and into the void.

you sink down to your knees. your hands slide up the outside of his thighs,  before gently urging them apart, opening him further—a little inhale that makes your stomach flip.  the evidence of his arousal is impossible to miss now. you can already see him, how hard he is, how his cock strains against his boxers. he sits up on his elbows, watching you.

“you okay?” you ask. your hands rest warm and heavy on the tops of his thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles into the sensitive skin just above his knees.

he nods, but his voice comes out strangled and reveals more nervousness than he wanted to show. “yeah. just. uh.” he drags his flesh hand over his face, a gesture of flustered embarrassment, muffling his next words slightly. “never done this before.”

you pause. “...never?”

“never.” his cheeks are burning now, even in the dim light. he looks away for a second, focusing on the ceiling. “told you. virgin.”

a soft huff of air escapes you, more affectionate understanding. you bite back a smile, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. “well,” you say as you tug the fabric down just enough, revealing the flushed head of his cock. “guess i’ll have to teach you that, too.”

his hips jerk when your fingers brush against him, already hard and leaking, the tip slick with precum. “fuck,” he chokes out, his hands fist in the sheets again, twisting the fabric into knots. “you— you don’t have to—” his words are weak and automatic, born of ingrained politeness or fear of expectation.

“i know,” you say, and then you lean in, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh. his whole body shudders, a full-body tremble that rolls through him like a wave. "i want to."

“oh my god,” he whimpers, head thuds back against the mattress.

you grin against his skin. nuzzling into the tender spot just above his knee. then, deliberately slowly, you drag your lips higher, tracing a path up the inner seam of his thigh, “you’re loud, james,"

when you finally wrap your fingers around him, he whispers incoherent words. his cock twitches violently in your hand, and you can’t resist spitting into your palm, watching the way his stomach tenses when you slick him up properly. your thumb swipes over the tip, smearing the pre-cum there, and he makes a noise—a very desperate moan.

“fuck,” bucky gasps, hips jerking up uncontrollably into the tight circle of your fist. “fuck, please—”

you hum, leaning in to press a kiss just below his navel, your fingers still working him with slow, lazy strokes, twisting slightly on the upstroke. “please what?” you ask, tilting your head up to watch his face.

he groans, his fingers twisting in the sheets. “don’t— don’t tease—” bucky begs, his voice breaking in desperation. the blue of his eyes is almost swallowed completely by black now, fixed on you.

“but you’re so fun to tease,” you whisper, and without warning, you lean down and lick a slow, deliberate stripe from the base of his cock all the way up to the flared head, the flat of your tongue dragging firmly against the straining vein underneath.

his hips jerk up his thighs tensing with pleasure under your hands. “oh my god,” he whines, his voice wrecked.

you grin, swirling your tongue lazily around the sensitive crown, tasting the salt and musk. then you suck lightly with just enough pressure to hollow your cheeks slightly, drawing a choked gasp and another desperate thrust of his hips. “you're so sensitive,” you say against him, your fingers kneading his balls, rolling them gently, and he lets out a strangled moan.

“gonna— fuck—” his voice cracks,  his hands flying from the sheets to tangle frantically in your hair, fingers clenching and unclenching in the strands. tangling in the strands like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. “gonna come if you keep— oh fuck—”

you pull off just enough to laugh, your lips still brushing against the tip. “that's what i'm trying to do.”

“shut up, shut up, shut up, oh my god,” he gasps, the words trembling out of him like they’ve been punched from his chest, but it dissolves into a ragged moan the second your tongue drags over him again. his hips twitch instinctively, chasing his pleasure.

“oh— oh fuck—if you keep doing that—” his voice cracks, fingers scrambling and eventually landing on your hair. “jesus, that’s—i can’t—”

you take him deeper, swallowing him down until the head bumps the back of your throat, and he chokes, his back arching off the bed. “please.”

it’s the first time you’ve ever heard him beg.

and god, you really like it.

you don’t give him a second to recover, surging back down, taking him deep again, your nose brushing the base. you can see the way his entire body shudders. his fingers twist in your hair, tugging helplessly, straining with the effort not to jerk his hips up and lose himself completely in the sensation. your nails dig into his thighs, holding him down as you work him over, his choked-out moans filling the quiet of the room. he's holding himself back from jerking up and fucking your face.

“you can move,” you say, pulling off just enough to speak. a string of saliva connecting you to his cock for a second before it breaks.

his breath hitches, his grip tightening in your hair. “i don’t— i don’t wanna choke you,” he gasps, like the mere thought is too much. he's filled with concern even amidst the overwhelming pleasure, like the idea horrifies him.

“you won’t.” you laugh, before sinking back down, taking him deeper this time, until his thighs shake under your hands,

his fingers tighten in your hair, hesitant for a fraction of a second. but when you hum deep in your throat, the vibration traveling straight through his cock, he breaks—his hips thrust forward with a broken cry, shallow, uncertain thrusts that quickly lose their rhythm.

you can tell he’s close, because his thrusts are getting weaker, he's louder. “i’m— fuck—i’m gonna—” he tries to warn you, but you don’t pull away. he warns you again but you keep working him until eventually, he cums with a loud moan, hot and thick down your throat. the taste is musky, salty, intense. you swallow it all, your fingers tightening on his thighs to keep him still as he convulses.

you don’t let up, not even then. you keep a gentle suction, your tongue lapping softly at his flesh, working him through the waves of his orgasm until he’s trembling, whimpering, his hands pushing weakly and uselessly at your shoulders.

“too much,” he whimpers,  tears glistening at the corners of his tightly closed eyes, but his hips still twitch forward, chasing the feeling even as he tries to escape it.

you finally pull back, pressing a kiss to the inside of his thigh as he collapses, looking up at the ceiling. his fingers trail weakly through your hair, like he’s still not quite sure this is real, convinced this was a dream.

“you’re mean,” he mumbles, pouting— but it's pure awe at the sensations you've dragged from him.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. the taste of him lingers in your mouth and throat. “so. still think you need a game plan?”

he groans, dragging an arm over his flushed face. suddenly he's everywhere, flipping you over. his solid weight pins you to the mattress, as his hands slide into your hair again, cradling your head. moonlight spills over his face, catching the flutter of his lashes as he hesitates, just for a second.

“can i kiss you?” he whispers.

you nod, and his mouth meets yours—slow, so slow. it’s nothing like you expected, nothing like the rushed, sloppy kisses you’ve had before.  it’s a revelation. nothing like the clumsy urgency you’ve known. this is deep water, pulling you under. reverent. his lips move with a sweetness

his tongue traces the seam of your lips, teasing, asking, and when you open for him, he groans deep in his chest. his fingers tighten in your hair, and the sound you make gets swallowed by his mouth.

he pulls back just enough to say, “you’re so fucking pretty,” against your lips before kissing you again, his hips rolling against yours. you can feel him, hard again already, and the realization makes you whimper.

his teeth graze your bottom lip, tugging gently, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to trail kisses down your jaw, your neck. “bucky,” you breathe, fingers scrambling at his shoulders.

“yeah, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing the lace of your bra.

“please.”

bucky chuckles, as he nips at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “tell me what you want.”

you whine, hips lifting, but he stops you, his hand firm on your hip, and says. “use your words.”

“i want—” you could feel your cheeks turning red as you spoke. “i want you to touch me.” you swallow, forcing the words past the sudden shyness.

his eyes lock onto yours, as his fingers slip beneath the lace, skimming the swell of your breast. “like this?”

your answer is a moan, and he whispers, “good,” reverence lacing the word. “just like that. arch for me a bit more.” his praise is a physical touch, warming you from the inside.

his fingers tremble slightly as they unhook the straps of your bra, his eyes flicking up to yours, searching. "can i—?" he doesn't even finish the question before you're nodding, biting your lip as he peels the lace away, taking in a deep breath when your tits finally spill free.

"fuck," he says, staring like he's been handed something sacred. his thumbs brush over your nipples, then firmer when you arch into his touch. "can i—" he swallows hard, "—suck them again? please?"

you nod again, and he doesn't waste time, bending down to take one into his mouth with a groan. but he's too gentle, just soft lips and hesitant flicks of his tongue, like he's afraid of hurting you.

"harder," you gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair. "use your teeth a little—yes, like that."

he moans against you. he's unsure what to do so you take his free one, guiding it firmly to your other breast. he's squeezing your other breast as he obeys, sucking harder, swirling his tongue in the rhythm you showed him earlier, learning fast.

every few seconds, he pulls back to ask, "this okay?" or "you good?" tight with a fear of overstepping, of hurting you. he’s terrified of messing up.

"you're doing so good," you murmur, and the way his hips jerk against yours at the praise is to die for, almost violent in its need. his mouth moves to your other nipple, lapping at it eagerly, his fingers pinching and rolling the wet one he just left behind.

“tell me what else,” he rasps between desperate, open-mouthed kisses scattered across your chest. his eagerness is overwhelming, touching. he's so eager to learn you and what you like. “tell me what you like.”

your hand slides down his arm, guiding his hand lower, past the waistband of your panties. his eyes are on yours, wide and hesitant until his fingers brush the slick heat between your thighs. "fuck, fuck," he chokes out, his fingers are moving clumsily but with somuch enthusiasm. "like this? am i—am i doing it right?" he sounds so innocent, so unsure.

"little higher, buck." you instruct and he obliges. your hand goes to his wrist, helping him find the clit. his desperate, beautiful blue eyes remain locked on yours, watching your face intently, cataloging every flutter of your lashes, every catch in your breath as he begins to circle it.

"yes, oh—that's it—right there," you gasp, your hand still wrapped around his wrist. "just—faster—"

he watches your expression like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, fingers are working you . "you're so fucking perfect," he whispers, like he can't help himself. "gonna make you feel so good, i swear—i'm gonna give you all i have."

his fingers move between your legs, touch growing more confident with every little gasp you let slip. his eyes are trained on your face like you’re sacred to him—his tongue, meanwhile, circles your other nipple lazily, possessively, as if he can’t bear to stop tasting you, claiming you.

“you’re so fucking pretty, sweetheart, so fucking pretty,” he murmurs. his thumb presses firm against your clit, just the way you showed him, and you whine, your hips lifting off the bed. “like this?” he asks, his other hand kneading your breast.

you nod, tugging his hair gently, and his mouth seals over your nipple again. his fingers slide lower, dipping into your heat, and his breath hitches. “fuck,” he whispers against your skin, “you’re so—god, you’re so wet.” the discovery seems to both thrill and overwhelm him.

he’s clumsy, but eager, his fingers curling inside you experimentally, his eyes locked on your face like he’s trying to commit every twitch of your brows, every bitten-off moan to memory. he needs the guidance, craves it. “tell me,” he rasps, “tell me what you want.” he needs the guidance, craves it.

you guide his wrist, showing him the rhythm, and he follows instantly, his forehead dropping to your collarbone as he fucks you with his fingers. “like that?” he asks, lips brushing your skin. "'s that okay?" the constant seeking of reassurance is endearing, grounding.

“yes,” you gasp, and he shudders, pressing closer, his breath hot against your throat, his movements gaining confidence, driven by your response.

“gonna make you come,” he promises, utterly wrecked. “wanna feel it—wanna hear you. please.” the plea is raw, vulnerable.

his fingers become relentless, finding a rhythm that hits that perfect spot inside you. his mouth trails wet and open-mouthed kisses up the column of your neck as he murmurs a stream of broken praise against your skin—so good for me, so perfect, fuck, you feel amazing.

when you finally tip over the edge, his eyes are still fixed on you, filled with open wonder and curiosity. his fingers slow but don’t stop, drawing out every pulsing wave, milking every last tremor from your body as you cry out his name, the sound echoing in the moonlit room.

“holy shit,” he breathes, his own hips rutting helplessly against the mattress. “that was—fuck.”

he collapses beside you, his chest heaving, his fingers still glistening with you. he stares at them for a second, before bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean with a groan.

you blink, momentarily stunned by the raw intimacy of the act. “bucky.”

he flushes, but his grin is shameless. “what? didn’t wanna waste it.” his gaze holds yours. the nervous virgin replaced, for this moment, by a man utterly captivated, utterly claimed. his hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, squeezing gently.

you laugh, pulling him in for a kiss, and he melts into it, his hands roaming your body like he still can’t believe he’s allowed to touch. “so,” he murmurs against your lips, “what’s next?”

you roll him onto his back, straddling his hips, and his breath catches, his hands flying to your waist.  pupils blown so wide the blue is just a thin ring. you could feel bucky groan against your lips when you seat your pussy against his cock, fingers curl into his chest.

he can feel the heat of your cunt dragging over his cock, and bucky makes a broken, punched-out sound that makes your stomach flip. his hands clamp down on your hips like he’s trying to hold himself together, but his body betrays him, hips stuttering up in desperate thrusts.

“f-fuck,” he gasps, head falling back against the pillows, “fuck, you—you feel—”

you grind down harder, watching his face unravel—his lips parted, brows knitted, like he’s in pain. his cock twitches beneath you, already leaking, and you can’t help but tease.

“you’re loud,” you murmur, dragging your nails down the line his abs.

“oh god,” he groans, but it’s ruined by the way his hips thrust up when you lift up slightly, just enough to rub the head of his cock against your cunt. “oh my god—please—”

his hands dig into your thighs, forcing you back down. “please,” he chokes out, hips jerking up uselessly as you hover just out of reach. “c’mon, please—fuck, just—just ride me, i can’t—"

you chuckle, grinding down again, the friction making you both gasp. “can’t what, buck?” you tease, leaning closer, your hair falling like a curtain around his face.

he whines, fighting the urge to just flip you over and take what he wants. “you know,” he grits out, eyes wild, “fuckin’—teasing me when i’m—god, i’m dying here—”  he arches beneath you, seeking more contact, his cock straining against you.

you lean down, lips brushing his ear. “beg for it.”

he shudders deeply and whimpers, but it’s weak, his hips stuttering up again. “please,” he gasps. “please, i need—need you to fuck me, please—” his voice breaks completely on the last word, raw and utterly exposed.

you sink down on him in one smooth motion, taking him deep, stretching to accommodate him, and the noise he makes is filthy, his back arching off the bed as his cock finally fills you. “fuck,” he sobs, fingers scrambling at your waist, “oh fuck, oh my god—”

you roll your hips slowly. his lips are parted in a silent scream. “that what you wanted?” you murmur, watching his face.

like, full-on, yelps, back arching off the bed as his hands fly to your waist, gripping tightly. “holy shit,” he gasps, eyes wild, “holy shit, you—you’re inside me—” his voice is thick with disbelief.

you freeze, your own breath catching. “...what?” confusion flickers through the haze of pleasure.

he blinks up at you, sweat beading on his forehead. “i mean—i’m inside you. obviously. fuck. words are hard.” a shaky, embarrassed laugh escapes him, colour deepening on his cheeks. “can’t… brain’s not… working…”

you burst out laughing, but it turns into a moan when he rolls his hips experimentally, his cock dragging against your walls, sparking pleasure deep inside. “oh—fuck—” the sensation steals your breath.

bucky just nods frantically, his eyes squeezed shut while he bites his lip, his cock throbbing inside you. “more,” he begs, voice breaking. “please, please—”

you sink down onto him, slow, very slowly, and his mouth falls open, and his eyes close, taking in the pleasure from feeling your cunt wrap around his cock. “oh my god,” he whimpers, his hips bucking up. “oh my fucking god—”

his hands tighten on your hips, pulling you down harder as he thrusts up, a clumsy, desperate rhythm beginning. “please… don’t stop… feels… feels too good… gonna…” his words dissolve into incoherent gasps and moans, his forehead pressing against yours.

his entire world has narrowed to the place where you are joined, to the heat and pressure, to the sound of your shared breathing, to the desperate, driving need for more.

then suddenly, his eyes are wide with panic and his hands fly to your waist, stopping you. “wait—fuck, wait,” he pants. “condom. we need—fuck, we need a condom.”

“shit,” you curse, scrambling off him so fast he hisses, a sharp intake of breath at the sudden loss of contact. you lunge for your bedside drawer, yanking it open with a clatter, fingers frantic, fishing past loose change and old receipts until you snag a familiar foil packet.

bucky’s eyebrows shoot up, lips parted. “you just… keep those around?” he watches your hands, the crinkle of the foil impossibly loud in the heavy air.

“they’re free at the clinic,” you say, ripping it open with your teeth.  you fumble slightly, adrenaline making your fingers clumsy.“grabbed a handful. just in case.”

you roll it onto him. as you roll it onto him. he’s up on his elbows now, muscles in his arms taut, watching intently as your fingers brush his cock, smoothing the latex down his length, and he lets out a laugh. “just in case?” he echoes, a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes – wonder, maybe, that you’d thought of this, thought of him in this way.

you raise an eyebrow like you're questioning his words but don't say anything. back to straddling his hips, you sink back down onto him with a slow roll of your hips. “seems like i was right, huh?”

he bites his bottom lip, whimpering, hands gripping your waist like he’s holding on for dear life. “shush, missy,” he breathes, “and move it, come on.”

you pause, letting him adjust, but he’s already shuddering, his cock twitching inside you. “you okay?” you ask, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

bucky nods frantically, his eyes squeezed shut for a second before flying open, dark and drowning. “so good,” he answers, nodding frantically again like he can’t stop. his hands slide up to cup your breasts, his thumbs finding your nipples and rubbing over them in clumsy circles. “you’re so—fuck, you’re so tight.”

his hips thrust up from beneath you, out of pure desperation, losing the rhythm already, just seeking more, deeper. his cock twitches deep inside as your fingers work frantic circles over your clit. "fuck—fuck—" bucky's voice is low and almost intelligible, but his eyes are locked on where your body takes him, where you’re joined. the sight seems to undo him further..

the condom stretches tight between you, a thin, hated barrier despite him already being buried deep, but the way his tip nudges your sweet spot with the roll of your hips has you gasping, arching, like you can't bear him ever leaving, barrier or not. the stretch, the friction, the sheer him of it is almost too much.

"wait," he blurts suddenly, his body tenses, his abs flexing beneath your palms. "wait, i—i'm not gonna last, i—"

his protest dies in a whine, his teeth sinking into his swollen bottom lip as his orgasm rips through him. you feel it—the way his cock jerks, the way his hips snap up one last time to bury himself to the hilt as he spills into the condom with a choked-off sob. his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to bruise, his thighs trembling beneath you, but you don't stop. you keep riding him, milking every last shudder, every helpless twitch from him as he whimpers your name like a prayer. his head thrashes side to side on the pillow, utterly lost.

"oh my god," he slurs, dazed, his head falling back against the pillows as his chest heaves. his skin glows with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he looks ruined—just the way you like him. "that was—fuck, i—"

you lean down to kiss him, swallowing his incoherent babbling, and he melts into it instantly, his hands sliding up your back to pull you closer. his lips are soft, pliant against yours, his breath still coming in shaky bursts. "so," you murmur against his mouth, grinning as you grind down just to hear him whine, "still think you needed a game plan?"

he groans, his fingers tightening in your hair as he flips you onto your back with surprising strength for someone who just came his brains out. "shut up," he grumbles, nipping at your jaw before his mouth finds your breast again, his tongue swirling around your nipple in a way that makes you arch off the bed. "i'm not done yet."

you laugh, but it quickly dissolves into a moan as his fingers slide between your legs, his touch already knowing exactly where to press. "bucky—"

"i told you," he murmurs against your skin, his voice dark with promise as his thumb circles your clit, his other hand guiding his cock back to your entrance. the condom's still on, still a nuisance, but the way he looks at you—like he wants to devour you whole—has you dripping all over again. "i'm a fast learner."

and when he pushes back inside, filling you inch by agonizing inch, his eyes never leaving yours, you realize—

He sat behind his too-polished desk in his too-expensive office, staring blankly at an inbox full of emails with subject lines that made his eyes twitch. Urgent: Appropriations Strategy. Reminder: Agriculture Committee Briefing. Lunch with Donor—Move to Friday?

Lunch with a donor. Christ.

He rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to lay his forehead flat on the desk. This wasn't him. He was a soldier, not a politician. He gave speeches like he gave orders—short, dry, and with zero charisma.

Every time he opened his mouth in public, he could see reporters wince. His team had tried coaching him. “Smile more.” “Loosen up.” “Try not to look like you're about to gut someone with a bayonet.”

So far, the best he'd managed was a half-smirk that came off more like a nervous tick.

Bucky sighed. Deep, soul-weary sigh. He looked at the framed picture on the wall—him shaking hands with someone he was pretty sure hated him. That was politics, apparently. Pretending to enjoy small talk with people who could and would stab you in the back with a regulation-sized American flag pin.

His phone buzzed again.

Another email.

Subject: Staff Assistant Interviews – You Still Haven’t Picked Anyone

Bucky groaned. That damn assistant position. He’d pushed the interviews for three weeks now, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything worse than sitting through a dozen conversations with people who’d use phrases like “synergize the legislative workflow” without flinching.

He didn’t want someone who talked like a press release. He just wanted someone who would show up, get shit done, and not ask too many questions when he had to disappear for an afternoon to punch a wall in private.

But apparently, you couldn’t say that in a job posting.

He glanced at the stack of printed resumes on his desk. He’d skimmed a few. Too polished. Too eager. Too… not him. None of them had that quality he couldn’t quite define—something real. Something normal. Someone who wouldn’t blink if he came into the office looking like he’d fought a raccoon on the metro.

The door creaked open slightly. It was Sam. Again.

“Still haven’t picked anyone?” Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

Bucky didn’t look up. “They all talk like LinkedIn threw up on a resume template.”

Sam chuckled. “Want me to just find you someone?”

“God, yes.”

And just like that, he handed off the decision. Delegated. Efficient. Which, ironically, made him feel even more like he didn’t belong here.

Bucky leaned back in his chair, exhaling like a man twice his age. He looked at the ceiling. It stared back.

Congress. Jesus.

────────────────────────

Some Days Later

Bucky didn’t look up when the door opened.

He figured it was Brenda. Maybe Sam again. Hopefully not another reporter asking for a quote he’d regret later. He was mid-email—something about committee assignments and a lunch reschedule—when he heard it.

“Hi! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m a tiny bit early—traffic was a dream, can you believe that?”

Not Brenda.

The voice was too bright, too chipper, and far too comfortable for someone stepping into a federal office for the first time.

Bucky looked up slowly, pen still in his hand, and there you were—framed in his doorway like a damn Hallmark commercial. Floral dress under a structured blazer, hair bouncing, smile like you’d just walked into brunch, not a congressional office. You carried a leather bag and a clipboard and somehow radiated the scent of confidence and cinnamon.

He blinked.

You didn’t flinch. Just walked right in like you’d been doing it your whole life.

“Congressman Barnes, right?” You extended your hand, polished nails and all. “I’m the assistant Sam recommended. So nice to meet you.”

He didn’t take your hand right away. He was still trying to process the human sunbeam in front of him. You looked like someone who hosted charity galas and had a Pinterest board for every holiday.

Eventually, he stood. Shook your hand. Warm grip. Firm. No hesitation.

“Right,” he said, voice low and flat. “Sam said you’d be coming by.”

You smiled even wider. “I brought a printed copy of my resume, just in case. I know Sam already sent it over, but you never know. Oh! And I made you a little overview—color-coded—of what your schedule might look like if we streamline some of the overlapping committee times. Brenda said Wednesdays are chaos.”

You placed the papers on his desk like you’d done this a hundred times.

Bucky glanced at the overview. It was in soft pastel shades, each block of time cleanly labeled, with footnotes. Actual footnotes.

He looked back up at you. Still smiling. Still sparkling, somehow.

“You always this organized?” he muttered.

Your laugh was soft but definite. “Only when I’m awake.”

Christ.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t really do… interviews.”

“Good,” you said, cheerful as hell. “I don’t really do bad interviews.”

He had no idea what to do with that.

“I work hard,” you went on, tone bright but grounded now. “I don’t miss deadlines. I know how to read people. I’ve handled CEOs, campaign donors, and one very angry florist. And I’m from New York, so I’m nice—but only as long as you need me to be.”

That part made him pause.

Your smile stayed sweet, but your eyes—sharp. That flicker of edge.

He exhaled. “You’re hired.”

────────────────────────

A Few Weeks Later

The thing was—Sam hadn’t exaggerated.

You were, somehow, even better than advertised.

You had shown up the next morning with a personalized planner, a labeled filing system, and two different cold brews—one for him, one “just in case he preferred oat milk.” Within three days, his inbox was tamed, his schedule was tight, and his meetings started and ended on time.

You smiled your way through logistical nightmares. You turned budget briefings into organized, annotated packets. You once managed to reschedule an entire committee meeting without pissing anyone off. That alone should’ve won you a medal.

And the worst part?

Everyone adored you.

Brenda now referred to you as her “angel girl.” The intern, Emily, had started mimicking your outfit choices. Even grumpy old Greg from Finance smiled when you passed him in the hall, and Bucky hadn’t seen Greg smile since the start of his term as Congressman.

Meanwhile, Bucky… didn’t know how to talk to you.

You were polite, always. Sweet. Occasionally too sweet—offering him snacks mid-meeting, asking if he needed a moment to breathe after intense calls. Once, you said “You’re doing amazing, by the way,” after a disastrous media interview.

He’d stared at you like you’d spoken another language.

He didn’t know what to do with that kind of warmth. He knew how to handle tension, confrontation, icy professionalism. He could navigate sharp words and sharp eyes. But compliments? Softness? Your sunny little “good morning!” every day before you sat down to absolutely decimate his workload?

It threw him off.

And you never tried to throw him off. That was what made it worse. You weren’t fake. You didn’t flirt or suck up. You were just… like this. Bouncy and competent. Bubblegum and brute force. Warmth wrapped in weaponized organization.

He wasn’t sure if it made him uncomfortable or impressed. Maybe both.

He heard you laugh in the hallway one afternoon. Loud. Joyful. Brenda was giggling too. Probably over that dumb plant someone brought in. You’d named it. Called it Marvin. Marvin the Money Tree. Bucky didn’t understand why that made everyone so happy.

He sipped his coffee. It was oat milk. He hadn’t asked for that.

You’d just noticed.

One month in, Bucky realized you might actually be magic.

You handled press requests like a PR veteran, fielded donors with the grace of a diplomat, and had somehow convinced the coffee cart guy downstairs to give the staff a “Capitol Crew” discount.

Bucky didn’t know how you did it—maybe you smiled at the guy too nicely, or maybe you just offered to reorganize his inventory out of the goodness of your glittery heart.

You never stopped smiling.

Even when the job sucked. Even when schedules collapsed, or the media spun things sideways, or the office printer jammed for the fourth time in a single day—you smiled. Not in a fake, corporate way. In a real way. Like the chaos never got to you.

It made him suspicious.

He watched you from behind his desk more often than he meant to. You always moved like you were dancing to some rhythm he couldn’t hear. Laughing with interns, giving Brenda a shoulder squeeze on a bad day, complimenting someone’s shoes before dropping a twenty-slide briefing deck into their inbox.

And every time you turned that blinding kindness on him, Bucky froze like you’d aimed a spotlight at a feral cat.

He didn’t know how to respond when you handed him color-coded notes for a hearing and said, “I highlighted your speaking points—if you want to wing it, I backed up the quotes with data so you sound casual but still super smart.”

Or when you brought him soup from that one hole-in-the-wall deli because he coughed once and you “just had a feeling.”

He grunted. He nodded. He said “Thanks,” but it always came out dry, stiff, like someone had to wring it out of him.

You didn’t seem to mind.

You never flinched. Never made it awkward. Just smiled and moved on to the next task like your kindness didn’t require a thank you. And that bugged him more than anything.

He was used to people playing politics—smiling with their teeth, angling for favor. But you? You brought him homemade banana bread on a Monday because “Mondays are brutal and I didn’t want you to suffer more than necessary.”

Who does that?

He watched you now, through the glass wall of his office. You were standing in the hallway, coaching the new comms kid on how to navigate a donor event, switching between “babe” and “sweetheart” like it was a dialect, your hands moving as fast as your mouth. You were wearing some lavender thing today. Smelled like citrus and resolve.

Bucky looked back at his laptop. He hadn’t typed in ten minutes.

He hated this.

Not you. Just this feeling.

────────────────────────

Three Months In

It started with a meeting.

A routine one—just a few junior reps and a legislative strategist who looked like he’d swallowed a thesaurus. You had prepped Bucky flawlessly. Briefing notes, talking points, key players—all in a soft yellow folder with a post-it that said, “You’ve got this :)”

He didn’t got this.

The strategist spent the whole meeting throwing jargon like darts. Bucky kept pace, mostly. You even leaned in halfway through to quietly remind him which bill number they were referencing. Still, when the room cleared, Bucky felt like he’d just walked out of a storm.

You stayed behind, re-organizing his desk without being asked. “You did really well,” you said softly. “I know this guy was wordy but you held your ground.”

Bucky nodded.

But something in his chest pulled tight.

You were too kind. Too gentle about it. It made him feel like a child being praised for tying his shoes.

He didn’t say anything then.

But it stuck.

You were good at your job—he knew that. But politics wasn’t just about competence. It was brutal. Ugly. People chewed you up and spat you out for smiling too much, for being too friendly, too soft. And you… you glowed like you didn’t know the world could be mean.

He couldn’t shake the worry. That someday soon, someone was going to say the wrong thing to you in the wrong room, and you’d come undone. Or worse—you wouldn’t. You’d just… leave. Quietly.

So a few days later, when Sam called, Bucky didn’t think twice before stepping into his office, closing the door, and letting the words out.

“She’s not cut out for this,” he said.

Right outside the door, you were balancing two coffees—his preferred dark roast and your own sugar-heavy concoction—and a muffin from the café down the street. You’d been about to knock.

You didn’t.

“She’s good at the job,” Bucky went on, his voice low but firm, “but I don’t know if this is the right setting for her. Politics isn’t about being nice, Sam. She’s too… bright. Too open. That’s not sustainable here.”

Your stomach dropped.

It was the way he said it. Like being who you were wasn’t just a mismatch—it was a liability.

Too bright. Too open. Too much.

You’d heard that before. Too sweet, too emotional, too loud, too bubbly, too soft. Always a smile, always a “thank you,” always a goddamn post-it note. And it was never enough. It never counted. People liked it until they didn’t.

You blinked hard, eyes burning suddenly. You hated how fast the tears welled—hated that he’d never even raised his voice, never said it cruelly. That somehow made it worse. He hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d just meant it.

You stayed frozen, heart thudding.

Then Sam, through the phone, “You sure this is about her not fitting in… or you not knowing what to do with someone like her?”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You set the coffee and muffin on the side table near his door, the yellow post-it stuck neatly to the lid. It said “You looked tired today. Hope this helps.”

But you didn’t knock.

And for the first time since you’d started, you walked away without smiling.

────────────────────────

It started subtly.

You didn’t stop smiling—but it didn’t reach your eyes anymore.

Bucky told himself he was imagining it at first. That maybe you were just tired, or busy, or maybe it was allergy season. But the longer he watched you—really watched you—the more certain he became that something had shifted.

You still did your job. That was never in question.

Emails answered. Calls returned. Schedules maintained like clockwork. You still handed him briefing packets with neat highlights, still walked him through the day’s chaos each morning.

But the post-its stopped.

No more “You’ve got this!” or “Don’t forget to drink water :)”

Your voice, once full of light and little jokes and endearing asides, had gone quieter. Measured. Professional. Nothing personal. You didn’t ask how his weekend was. Didn’t tease him for frowning at your color coding. You didn’t call him “bossman” anymore.

You just called him Congressman.

That one hit the hardest.

The rest of the office noticed too. Jimmy asked where your “sparkle” went. Brenda had quietly asked Bucky if you were okay. He’d just shrugged, said you were probably busy. But deep down, something pulled at him.

You hadn’t brought him coffee in nearly two weeks.

He hadn’t realized how much he noticed it until it was gone.

You still smiled at other people—still lit up when interns needed help, still made time to compliment someone’s new haircut. But with him, there was a wall now. Polite. Distant. Not cold, exactly. Just… not warm.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t laugh with him anymore. You didn’t look at him like you had before—like he was something worth rooting for.

And the worst part?

He didn’t know why.

He couldn’t remember doing anything—saying anything—that would’ve caused it. But then again, he hadn’t been paying enough attention, had he? You’d been right there, every damn day, and he’d barely looked up. Barely said more than necessary.

He didn’t realize he missed you until the version of you he knew was gone.

And now, sitting at his desk, watching you work across the office with that tight-lipped expression and that perfectly put-together posture, he felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He missed the sunshine.

And somehow, he was sure it was his fault.

────────────────────────

He should’ve canceled everything.

But he didn’t.

Bucky woke up feeling like he’d been run over by a truck, the kind that reversed and hit him twice. Fever high, head pounding, body aching like his joints had finally decided to unionize and strike.

But he had a subcommittee meeting at 10 a.m., and three calls with constituents scheduled after that, and some damn transportation proposal that needed his signature.

He could barely see straight.

He tried emailing Brenda, but it took him ten minutes to type two lines. Gave up. Called you instead.

You picked up on the second ring. “Good morning, Congressman—”

“Hey,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “I, uh… I need you to bring some files from the office. And… maybe a laptop. There’s stuff I gotta do.”

You paused. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer fast enough.

“Mr. Barnes?” This time your voice had real concern in it—soft but sharper, like it used to sound before he ruined everything.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a cold. I just… I need the budget report and that meeting brief for the committee.”

There was a pause. Then, “Text me your address. I’m coming over.”

Before he could object, you hung up.

You showed up 40 minutes later.

He didn’t expect you to let yourself in, but you did, like you belonged there—like someone had to keep things running. You had the laptop, the folders, your phone already out and your expression focused.

You were still in your usual outfit—put-together and professional—but there was something else in your eyes when you saw him slumped on the couch, pale, sweaty, and looking every bit like a man who shouldn’t be left alone with political responsibility.

“Jesus, Mr. Barnes,” you said, setting everything down. “You look like death.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You’re not fine,” you snapped, and for the first time in months, your voice had bite. “You’re burning up. Go. Bed. Now.”

He blinked. “You’re not my—”

“I said bed, Barnes. Don’t make me speak again.”

That shut him up.

You guided him to the bedroom with surprising gentleness, adjusted the blankets, took his temperature without flinching.

Muttered something about idiots and stubborn men as you set a glass of water on the nightstand. Then you left the door half open and walked straight into his living room like it was your war zone.

And then?

You took over.

Bucky stirred to the sound of your voice. It was steady. Calm. Businesslike. Something about the infrastructure bill and a scheduling conflict.

He blinked at the ceiling, groggy but conscious enough to realize the headache had dulled. The water glass on his nightstand was full again. The thermometer was gone. So were most of the folders.

But your voice remained.

“…no, we’re not pushing it another week. The Congressman already reviewed the amended language,” you said, sharp but not yet rude.

Bucky turned toward the open bedroom door. He could just barely see the edge of you standing in the living room, phone to your ear, one hand on your hip.

A pause.

And then—

“Okay, you know what? You don’t gotta raise your voice at me, sweetheart. That ain’t how this works.”

His eyebrows rose. That tone? That wasn’t the voice he’d grown used to over the last month.

Your next sentence came faster. Smoother. The vowels shortened. The sugar gone.

“You show up late, you miss deadlines, and now you got the audacity to talk down to me? Mm-mm. Uh-uh. Try again.”

The silence on the other end must’ve been long, because your voice dropped lower, firmer.

“You’re an extremely odd individual, and I do not wanna speak to you anymore. So here’s what you’re gonna do: fix your mistake, resubmit the form correctly, and stop wastin’ my damn time.”

There was a beat. Then you scoffed, low and dry. “Don’t get slick with me. I’m bein’ very polite right now.”

Another pause.

Then a final, clipped, “Goodbye.”

Click.

You exhaled hard. There was a rustle of papers. A muttered “weirdo” under your breath. And then the soft tap, tap, tap of you moving to the laptop again, your tone immediately shifting back into something more composed as you started your next call.

Bucky lay there, fully awake now, eyebrows furrowed.

That… wasn’t the version of you he knew.

And yet, it wasn’t jarring. It was seamless. Natural. Like your sweetness wasn’t a mask, but a choice—one you could take off the second someone disrespected you.

And he’d never heard anything so impressive in his life.

You’d gone from high-level strategy to full-on verbal takedown in under five seconds and didn’t even flinch. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften it.

Bucky stared at the ceiling, half in awe, half in… something else he couldn’t quite name.

Maybe fever wasn’t the only reason his chest felt tight.

────────────────────────

By the time the sun had dipped low and the apartment took on that soft, golden hue, the chaos of the day had fully subsided.

You were back to yourself—at least, the version Bucky knew. Sweet. Bubbly. Moving around his apartment like it wasn’t the least bit strange that you’d just taken over a congressman’s workload in a knit cardigan and a cloud-patterned scrunchie.

He stood in the doorway now, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a reluctant ghost, watching you tidy up the living room while humming under your breath.

You turned before he could say anything, your face lighting up like it always did when you saw him—even now, even after the day you’d had.

“Hey, sunshine,” you said softly, like he was the one who needed reassuring. “You should be in bed.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, throat still raw.

You gave him a look that was very not convinced but didn’t press it. Instead, you stepped forward with a little tablet and a closed folder in hand.

“I wrapped everything up,” you said, tone gentle, like you didn’t want to overwhelm him. “Sorted the subcommittee notes, handled the calls, pushed your morning meetings. Everything’s in here, just in case.”

You held it out to him with both hands, like it was fragile.

“It should all run smooth when you’re back in the office,” you added. “No big hassle, I promise.”

He took it slowly, fingers brushing yours.

Then your eyes flicked toward the kitchen. “Oh! And I made soup.”

Bucky blinked. “Soup?”

You nodded, looking proud. “Chicken. With orzo. Little bit of lemon. It’s an old recipe from my ma. Helps with stomach stuff, and it’s good for fevers.”

You paused, like maybe you were worried you’d overstepped. Your hands twitched slightly in front of you.

“I mean—you don’t have to eat it now,” you said quickly, “but I left it in the fridge. Labeled it with a little sticky so you know which one it is. Not that there’s a lot of stuff in your fridge, I just… y’know. Thought it might help.”

Your voice trailed off, but your smile stayed.

Soft. Open. So completely you.

And all Bucky could do was stand there, wrapped in his stupid blanket, and wonder how the hell you’d spent the whole day being terrifyingly competent, and still ended it with soup and a nervous little glance like you weren’t sure if he’d like it.

You hesitated at the edge of the living room, hands fidgeting with something behind your back.

Bucky noticed the shift immediately.

The glow you’d carried all day—while juggling Congress from his couch and checking his temperature without breaking stride—had dimmed. Not gone. Just… pulled inward, like you were trying to protect something small and fragile inside yourself.

You stepped forward, arms unfolding to reveal a neatly sealed envelope.

Your smile this time was softer. Smaller. Like a flickering candle. “Before I forget,” you said lightly, “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

You held it out.

He didn’t take it at first. Just stared. “What is it?”

Your lashes fluttered. You tilted your head slightly, voice still calm—almost apologetic. “It’s just my formal letter of resignation. Two weeks’ notice.”

The room went still.

Like even the hum of his ancient fridge paused to register the words.

Bucky took the envelope slowly, like it might explode in his hands. His stomach dropped, even lower than it had that morning when he first woke up sweating through his sheets.

“You’re leaving,” he said, flatly, like maybe saying it again would change the shape of it in the air. “Why?”

You hesitated, and for a second, he thought you weren’t going to say anything at all.

But then your gaze lifted—slow, reluctant—and something behind your eyes dimmed. Not anger. Not even disappointment. Just a sadness so quiet it made his chest ache.

“I heard you,” you said, voice small but even. “That day on the phone. When you were talking to Sam.”

The words sank into him with slow, merciless weight.

Shit.

He opened his mouth, panic rising. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know,” you cut in gently, holding up a hand. “It’s alright.”

That made it worse.

You smiled, the kind of smile that tried so hard to be kind it hurt to look at. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “I get that a lot, honestly. People sayin' I’m too soft. Too nice. Too… whatever.”

He shook his head. “That’s not—”

“I know you didn’t mean it to be cruel.” Your voice was airy, almost thoughtful. “It didn’t even sound mean. You were just being honest. And you’re right, in a way. I am sweet. I care a lot. I get excited over little things. I bring baked goods to meetings and I probably hug too much and I call people sweetheart even when they’re mean to me.”

Bucky’s throat was dry. “I didn’t—”

“But I’m not naïve,” you said, and this time there was steel under the softness. Not sharp—but unbending. “I’m not stupid. I know how this world works. I just… don’t want to become like it.”

Your eyes met his fully then, warm and steady. “I like who I am. I don’t want to lose that just to survive a place that tells me kindness is a weakness.”

He opened his mouth again—anything, something—but you beat him to it, words tumbling now with gentle finality.

“I’m a big-hearted person, Mr. Barnes. I love hard. I care hard. I will go to war for the people I believe in, and I’ll still make them soup afterward. That’s who I am.”

You gave a small shrug, and your smile this time was a little sad, a little tired. “But I know not everyone wants that. Not everyone likes their coffee sweet.”

He looked at you, mouth parted, heart twisting tighter with every breath.

You tilted your head, a soft laugh escaping. “And that’s okay. Really. I don’t need everyone to like me. I just want to work somewhere I don’t feel like I have to apologize for existing.”

Bucky tried—he really tried—to find the words to take it back. To undo it. But they stuck in his throat like gravel.

All he managed was a strangled, “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

You nodded gently, like you already knew that.

But the hurt was still there, just under the surface, quietly humming like a bruise.

────────────────────────

It’d been three days since you handed him that letter.

Three days since you smiled with that soft resignation and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind bowl of soup and a hollow ache in his chest.

And now you were in the office—laughing.

Bucky watched you through the slats of his office shutters like a goddamn surveillance drone. Brenda was telling some story that clearly wasn’t funny, but you were laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week. Head tilted back, hand on her shoulder, the kind of laugh that made the people around you lean in like flowers toward sunlight.

He hated how familiar that laugh felt now.

And how far away it sounded.

You’d gone back to being sweet, professional, helpful. You hadn’t missed a single beat in your work. But with him, you were still distant. Polite. You hadn’t brought him coffee. Hadn’t cracked a joke. Hadn’t touched his arm in passing the way you used to.

He was losing you.

And the worst part? It wasn’t dramatic. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry.

You were just… quietly leaving.

So now he sat at his desk, glaring at his screen, not reading a damn word. His mind was a storm of useless questions and even more useless ideas.

Could he offer a raise? A promotion? Make the job more creative? Incentivize something?

He rubbed his hand down his face. No, that sounded like bribery.

Maybe he could ask her to stay just until the end of the quarter. Emphasize her value. Play the logistics angle. Remind her how much smoother things have been with her here.

He leaned back in his chair. That sounded desperate.

What if—

‘Jesus,’ he thought. ‘This isn’t about keeping her.’

A beat.

Then he corrected himself instantly. ‘Keeping her as an assistant. I mean. Not— Not like—’

He groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he could rub the feelings away.

She was just efficient. That’s all. Stable. Predictable in a way he relied on. She was good at her job and the office ran smoother with her in it and that’s why this mattered.

Not because she smelled like lemons and comfort. Not because she looked at everyone like they were worth loving. Not because he’d started measuring his mornings by whether she smiled at him.

No. No, no, no. Just work.

Strictly professional.

He glanced back out through the blinds.

You were organizing a folder stack with the intern, gently fixing the label tabs, still smiling.

Still leaving.

And Bucky felt like the office was already colder without you—even though you hadn’t gone yet.

────────────────────────

Bucky liked to think he was a decent boss.

Not fun, sure. Not particularly approachable. Maybe a little gruff. And socially awkward, definitely. But fair. Honest. He let people take their lunch breaks. He remembered birthdays when he could. He even once approved an impromptu office donut day.

So it surprised him—no, perturbed him—when he found out about your going away party… from Brenda.

Brenda, who was sixty-eight and had once said she considered EDM “an acronym for something immoral.” Brenda, who referred to clubbing as “light alcoholism with extra steps.” Brenda, who had received an invitation.

He had not.

He found out over coffee. His coffee. The one he’d fetched himself because you no longer brought it to him.

Brenda had mentioned it casually, in that unassuming way older women do when they know they’re about to light a match and walk away from a very dry haystack.

“They’re doing a little sendoff for her Friday night. At that club downtown—the neon one with the ridiculous name. Something with vowels missing.”

He’d blinked. “What sendoff?”

“The one for your assistant, dear.” Sip. “The one who’s leaving.”

The words sank in slowly. Your assistant. Leaving. Right. That was happening. Somehow he kept forgetting it was real. Or maybe refusing to process it.

Then came the kicker: “Jimmy’s organizing the whole thing. Should be fun.”

Bucky had stared. “Jimmy?”

Brenda nodded, as if it were perfectly normal that the chillest, most easygoing staffer in his entire office had turned into a party planner on your behalf. “He booked a VIP booth. Very thoughtful.”

VIP booth? Bucky didn’t even know Jimmy knew how to book things. The guy wore mismatched socks and said “vibe check” unironically.

“So… they didn’t think to tell me?”

Brenda hesitated, just for a second, which was all the answer Bucky needed.

Later, he cornered Jimmy in the hallway, trying to sound casual and not like a man deeply offended by club logistics.

Jimmy had shrugged, wide-eyed and harmless. “We just figured it wasn’t really your scene, you know?”

Bucky blinked. “It’s not Brenda’s scene either.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, Brenda knows the DJ.”

Of course she did.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. Just walked back to his office, each step echoing a little louder in his chest than it should have.

They didn’t think he’d want to come. Or maybe they didn’t think he deserved to.

And maybe they were right. Maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy you threw parties for. Maybe people just did their jobs around him and left. No post-its. No coffee. No soup.

But still… the fact that you were going to be out on a dance floor, surrounded by people who adored you, celebrating your last day—without him—hit harder than it should’ve.

Because he’d hurt you. He knew that now. And they all knew it too.

And no one invited him to say goodbye.

────────────────────────

He wasn’t even supposed to be there.

He told himself that, at least, on the way over. This wasn’t some grand gesture. He wasn’t planning a speech, wasn’t going to make a scene. He’d accepted it—you were leaving. And maybe he didn’t deserve a chance to change that.

So he’d come to do the one thing he could do.

Say goodbye.

He clutched the small, carefully wrapped box in his jacket pocket, fingers curling around the corners. It wasn’t much. But it was personal. Thoughtful. Something that reminded him of you—sweet, strange, specific.

But he remembered.

The music hit him first. The bass vibrating through the walls as soon as he stepped into the club. It was too loud, too crowded, too young. Neon lights pulsed off the walls, everything warm and blurred. He stood near the entrance, eyes scanning—feeling wildly out of place in his plain clothes and clenched jaw—until he saw you.

And then his lungs just… stopped working.

There you were.

It took one second. One.

You were standing near the booth, laughing—God, always laughing—wearing a pale blue outfit that looked like moonlight wrapped in fabric. Halter top hugging your curves, skirt tied at your hip, legs long and bare under the shifting lights. Gold hoops in your ears, bangles on your wrist, that familiar dreamy look in your eyes as you leaned into Jimmy mid-laugh.

Bucky’s feet stopped moving.

You were stunning. Effortlessly so. But it wasn’t just that. It was the freedom—the way you stood like nothing in the world could touch you here. Like you weren’t his assistant or part of a machine or tethered to other people’s expectations. You were you—unfiltered, unbothered, alive.

And he’d never seen you like this before.

Not in your pastels and blazers. Not behind your desk with your clipboard and schedule.

This version of you—this—was what he was losing.

He swallowed hard.

She’s just your assistant, he told himself. Or had been. That’s all this was. You were good at your job. That’s all.

But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

You were mid-sip of your drink when you caught sight of him, standing near the edge of the club like he was trying to melt into the wall.

Your breath caught.

And then your whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside you.

“Oh my gosh, you came!”

You pushed past two people without thinking, grinning, already reaching for his arm like you couldn’t help yourself. Your bangles clinked as you tugged him gently into the glow of the booth’s lights.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” you laughed, almost breathless. “You hate places like this.”

Bucky looked at you—really looked at you—and it took him a second too long to answer.

Your eyes were sparkling, cheeks flushed, hair tousled and falling perfectly over one shoulder. You looked like the kind of girl who had the whole room on a string and didn’t even realize she was holding it.

He murmured under his breath, just low enough that it got swallowed by the music, “Maybe ‘cause I wasn’t invited.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, shaking it off with a stiff half-shrug. “Just thought I’d… say goodbye.”

Your expression softened. Just a bit.

“Oh,” you said, the word light and airy, but touched with something else. “That’s sweet.”

Bucky nodded once. Awkward. Hands shoved in his jacket pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

He should’ve left it at that.

But instead, he held out the little box he’d been carrying all night—plain black wrapping, a thin ribbon tied unevenly, like he’d done it with too much concentration and not enough skill.

You blinked, surprised. “What’s this?”

“Just a gift,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

You took it carefully, reverently, like it might break in your hands. “Oh, you shouldn't have…”

“It’s not a bribe,” he added quickly, before you could say anything more. “I know you’re leaving. I just… thought you should have something.”

You didn’t wait.

Right there in the middle of the club, music thumping, lights flashing, you carefully tugged the ribbon free and opened the box with that bright, childlike excitement you always had when someone gave you something—even if it was small. Even if it wasn’t wrapped perfectly.

And when you saw what was inside, your breath hitched.

A delicate gold necklace. Thin, simple chain. At the center, your birthstone—tiny, gleaming, perfectly cut. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just right.

You stared down at it, brows pulling together, mouth parting slightly.

And then, to Bucky’s horror, your eyes started to well.

“Wait… this is my—this is my birthstone,” you said softly, voice already wobbling. “How did you even know?”

You looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, and Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“I—I never told you my birthday.”

He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I remembered. You mentioned it once. In passing.”

That did it.

You blinked quickly, but the tears came anyway, slipping free with no real warning. “Oh God,” you whispered, pressing your fingers to your mouth, eyes going glassy. “That’s actually… really sweet. Why would you…?”

Your voice cracked. Right in the middle of a sentence. Just folded in on itself.

And Bucky panicked.

“Hey—” he murmured, stepping closer, voice low and careful, like you were a fragile object he might accidentally break with the wrong tone. “Hey, don’t cry. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You let out a small, broken laugh, brushing at your cheeks. “Sorry, I just—this is so thoughtful. And you remembered. And now I’m crying in a club like a weirdo—”

“You’re not a weirdo,” he said quickly, awkwardly, like he was saying it on instinct and didn’t even believe he was qualified to offer emotional reassurance.

Still, he reached out—tentatively—and touched your elbow. Just barely. Like he was scared of overstepping.

You were sniffling now, trying to dab at your eyes with the corner of a cocktail napkin that immediately disintegrated. “I’m just—God, I’m such a mess—”

“You’re not,” he muttered, more firmly this time. “It’s just… a lot. I get it.”

You nodded, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand in a way that made his heart twist in his chest.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he added, a little helplessly. “I was just… trying to say goodbye.”

That last word came out rougher than he meant it to.

Bucky didn’t know what to do with the way your face crumpled again.

The tears came back—hot and fast—and though you were trying to smile through it, you clearly weren’t managing. You swiped at your cheeks with both hands now, uselessly, still holding the jewelry box in one.

He hesitated. Then stepped in a little closer, hand hovering awkwardly near your back.

“Hey,” he said gently, “come on. Let’s get some air.”

You nodded, a hiccuped little sound catching in your throat, and let him guide you with a light touch on your back. You were too busy trying not to sniff too loudly, muttering something about God, I probably look insane right now, as he led you carefully past the crowd and toward the door.

The outside air hit cool and sharp. The street was quiet in comparison—just the low hum of traffic and the faint pulse of music through the walls behind you.

You sniffled again, eyes still glassy as you blinked up at him, half apologetic. “Ugh, my makeup is definitely ruined,” you mumbled. “I knew I shouldn’t have worn this mascara. But it was waterproof! It was supposed to be—why do they even say that if it’s a lie?”

Bucky gave a short breath—almost a laugh, almost not. He looked at you, really looked.

Your cheeks were a little streaked, sure. Lip gloss a bit smudged. But your eyes were shining. And that necklace—the one he’d spent way too long choosing—sat against your skin like it had always belonged there.

“You look fine,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “You look like… you.”

You smiled weakly. “That bad, huh?”

He shook his head, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “No. That good.”

You looked down at your heels, a soft little laugh escaping from behind your hand.

Then, a little quieter: “You really didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I wanted to.”

You sniffled once more and tilted your head back, resting it gently against the brick wall behind you. The chill of it made your skin rise in little goosebumps, but you didn’t mind. It helped ground you.

Bucky stood a step in front of you, hands in his pockets, close but not quite touching. He looked like he was trying to memorize the shape of you in this light—the heated cheeks, the still-damp lashes, the faint shimmer of highlighter on your collarbone.

You smiled at him, a little shy now, still damp-eyed but back to your usual, airy self. The kind of smile that could make someone forget everything they were angry about.

“You’re gonna miss me, huh?”

You meant it like a joke. Playful. Light.

But he didn’t laugh.

He looked at you like the weight of that sentence had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I am.”

That stopped you. Just for a second. Like you hadn’t expected honesty from him—not that much, not here.

The smile on your lips faltered.

He stepped a little closer. Just a half-step. Just enough to feel his presence around you. He wasn’t touching you, but he didn’t need to. You could feel it anyway. Could feel him—his stillness, his warmth, his quiet restraint.

And then he said it.

“Are you sure,” he asked, voice barely audible, “there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The question hung in the air between you. Not loud. Not desperate. Just there.

You looked up at him, blinking too fast again. “Bucky…”

But you didn’t finish the sentence.

Because it was already happening again—your eyes glassing over, that familiar sting building behind your nose.

You sucked in a shaky breath, the cool air burning your lungs. You looked away from him, blinking rapidly, willing the tears not to spill—but it was already too late. Again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “God, I’m sorry, I don't wanna cry again—this is so embarrassing.”

Bucky said nothing.

Just stood there in front of you, still as stone. But his eyes… they were softer than you’d ever seen them. And it hurt.

“I would stay,” you choked, voice trembling with the weight of the truth you’d kept tucked away for weeks. “I want to stay. Of course I want to stay.”

You were crying now, tears falling hot down your cheeks as your chest tightened. “But it wouldn’t work. It can’t. It’s unethical now. It’s inappropriate. Because I—”

Your throat clenched, but you pushed through.

“—because I have this stupid crush on you, okay?”

You didn’t dare look at him.

“I have this dumb, awful, unprofessional, completely humiliating crush on my boss. I think about you way too much, and it makes it hard to do my job. I bring you coffee I know you like and highlight your notes so you won’t panic during speeches and I try to make you smile because when you do it’s like—it’s like the world gets quiet for a second.”

Your hands fluttered uselessly as you spoke, as if your body could catch your words and stuff them back in your mouth.

“And I know it’s one-sided, okay? I’m not stupid. I know you don’t feel that way, but I—”

He kissed you.

Just like that. No warning.

A sudden, quiet press of lips that silenced your breath, your words, your panic.

His hands didn’t even touch you. Not yet. He just leaned in and kissed you—firm, sure, warm—like it was the only way he knew to make it all stop.

You froze, heart crashing into your ribs, eyes wide for just a moment.

And then you melted.

Mouth softening into his, breath catching in your throat. Tears still clinging to your lashes, your hand clutching the front of his jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

He pulled back slowly—barely an inch—his forehead resting lightly against yours.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, voice rough. “It’s not one-sided.”

Your lips parted to speak—to say something, anything, maybe to ask if this was real—but you didn’t get the chance.

Bucky kissed you again.

This time deeper, firmer, more certain. His hand found the side of your jaw, fingers brushing just behind your ear, grounding you in the moment like he couldn’t stand to be any farther away. Your back pressed gently against the wall behind you, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

It wasn’t careful now.

It was warm and urgent and real, and it made your head spin, your knees wobble. You let out a tiny noise against his mouth, your fingers curling into the front of his jacket again, clinging like you couldn’t bear to stop.

When he pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—his breath mingled with yours, foreheads still close.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

Your heart stuttered. Your brain, still floating somewhere behind your eyes, couldn’t string thoughts together fast enough.

You blinked up at him, eyes hazy, lips still parted. Then, barely above a whisper, you murmured against his mouth,

“I think it’s ‘cause of my strawberry daiquiri.”

That made him smile.

Small, crooked, and stupidly tender.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks, you smiled too—real and a little dazed, like you couldn’t believe this was happening.

Bucky looked like he was about to say something else.

His mouth opened, barely.

And you didn’t let him.

You moved fast—tipping forward and throwing your arms around his neck before he could even breathe, your body colliding into his with enough force to make him stumble half a step back. His hands shot out instinctively, catching you by the waist, holding you steady.

Then you kissed him again.

Harder this time. Messier. Mouth opening against his, tongue slipping past his lips like it had been building in you for months.

He grunted softly into the kiss, grip tightening at your sides like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening—but wasn’t about to let go, either.

You pressed into him, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him closer like it wasn’t close enough. His hand slid up your spine, the other anchoring at your hip, both of you half-pinned against the brick wall and completely lost in the feel of each other.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was heat and tension and all the things you’d both been swallowing back for too long.

Your mouth moved against his like you’d been waiting for this exact angle, this exact pressure. He kissed you back with equal weight, tongue meeting yours, breath shallow, one of his hands fisting lightly in the fabric at your lower back like he needed something to hold onto.

You pulled back for half a second—just enough to breathe—then dragged him right back in, catching his lower lip between yours before deepening it again, another sweep of your tongue making him tighten his hold on you.

When you finally pulled back, just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads were still touching, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck. His hands were warm against your waist, thumbs absently brushing your sides like he didn’t want to stop touching you.

Your lips hovered against his—still wet, swollen, parted.

“My heart is going tachycardic right now,” you mumbled, voice breathy and half-delirious.

Bucky blinked, a slow exhale brushing over your cheek as he gave a short, low laugh. It was half a huff, half a genuine what are you even saying, but there was nothing mocking in it.

He had no idea what that meant. Not really.

But still, without missing a beat, he murmured against your lips, “Yeah. Me too.”

Then he kissed you again.

Soft this time. Lingering. Then again, just below your mouth. And again, near the corner. Like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to taste more.

Your breath hitched, arms tightening briefly around his neck as his mouth found yours again—more lazy now, indulgent, like you had all the time in the world to learn each other one kiss at a time.

You smiled into it. Couldn’t help it.

And he didn’t stop kissing you.

Didn’t want to.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Bucky still couldn’t figure out how he ended up here.

The Watchtower.

New York.

Leader—unofficially—of the most emotionally unstable group of enhanced individuals the government could dig up. He didn’t want the job. Didn’t ask for it. But somehow, it was always his name they called when something needed handling.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, eyes heavy from a sleepless night. Not that anyone here noticed. Ava phased through walls at 3 a.m., Walker trained like rage was cardio, and Yelena had made it her personal mission to ignore authority unless she gave it to herself.

He sighed, long and low, ready to go back to pretending he didn’t exist.

Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He pulled it out instinctively, screen lighting up.

Finally—cleared my schedule. I’m coming to New York this weekend. Hope you’re ready for excessive cuddling and making out and me refusing to let go of you for like 48 hours. ❤️

Bucky’s lips pulled into the faintest smile as he read your text, thumb tapping the screen just once in response.

Can’t wait.

And of course, that’s when Yelena walked in.

She stopped mid-stride, immediately squinting at him like she’d spotted a security breach.

“What the hell is that?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “What?”

“That thing on your face.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “Are you… smiling?”

He pocketed the phone quickly. “It’s nothing.”

“No, no, no.” She was already circling him like a predator. “You look—God, what’s the word—pleasant. That’s not your baseline.”

He sighed, already regretting not hiding in the gym.

“Who texted you?”

“None of your business,” he muttered.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to buy it. She crossed her arms, watching him like he was a broken vending machine she intended to fix with violence.

“You smiled. I’ve never seen you smile. Not like that. It was very suspicious.”

Bucky took a slow sip of coffee. “Wasn’t smiling.”

“Your face moved, Bucky,” she said flatly. “It was unsettling.”

He turned away, walked over to the fridge like it held answers.

Yelena followed.

“Was it a dog video?” she asked. “No. You’re not soft enough for dogs. A meme? A mission update with someone dying? No—wait. It was a person. You smiled like someone flirted with you.”

He didn’t answer.

“Is it serious? Is it secret? Is it dangerous?“ Yelena asked, suddenly in front of him, leaning slightly into his space, “I will find out. I am very good at finding things. And people.”

Bucky just sighed, long and tired, and walked out of the kitchen without a word.

Yelena stared after him for half a beat before turning sharply and locking eyes on the next available target.

Walker.

He’d just wandered in, hoodie half-zipped, chewing on a protein bar like he hadn’t had a thought in days.

“You,” Yelena said, pointing at him. “You’ve known him longest. Does Bucky have a girlfriend?”

Walker blinked. “What?”

“A girlfriend,” she repeated, slower. “A woman. He dates her. Romantic?”

He squinted slightly. “Bucky? Uh… I mean… I dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugged, genuinely baffled. “I mean, maybe? He’s quiet. One time he left early and said he had ‘plans.’ That could mean anything though. Like… groceries. Or laundry.”

Yelena stared at him, unblinking. “You are completely useless.”

Walker nodded, still chewing. “That’s fair.”

────────────────────────

Bucky had just settled onto the couch, bowl of something vaguely edible in hand, eyes on the muted television where an old war documentary flickered across the screen. It wasn’t exactly entertainment—it was just quiet.

He barely got through three bites before he felt it.

The shift in the air.

Then the voices.

Yelena entered first, of course—arms crossed, wearing the face of someone who’d appointed herself lead investigator in a murder case that didn’t exist.

She was followed by Bob, Alexei, Ava, and Walker, who trailed in like a herd of very uncoordinated cats.

Bucky didn’t even look at them. “No.”

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Bob offered, smiling too nicely.

“Still no.”

Yelena dropped onto the armrest beside him, eyes sharp. “We’ve been talking.”

Bucky stared straight ahead. “Tragic.”

“And we’ve decided,” she continued, ignoring him completely, “that we don’t know anything about your personal life.”

“That’s because it’s personal,” he said dryly.

Alexei huffed, already pacing. “This is concerning. You are team leader. We need to know if you are emotionally stable.”

“I’m not. None of us are.”

Walker plopped into a chair. “He did smile the other day. That was weird.”

“That’s what started all this,” Yelena snapped. “He smiled. At a text. And now he won’t tell us who sent it.”

Bucky turned up the volume on the TV. Barely.

Ava appeared on the other side of the couch, silent as usual, but she arched a brow that said she was equally invested.

Bob, cheerful as ever, leaned forward with a grin. “We’re just saying… if there’s a special someone, you can tell us. We’re fun. We’re emotionally safe.”

“You’re emotionally nosy,” Bucky muttered.

“We are team,” Alexei boomed. “And you—our glorious yet emotionally constipated leader—should share with group!”

Yelena leaned in closer, narrowing her eyes. “Is it serious? Like, does she know you have zero social skills? Does she like that? Is she in therapy?”

Walker nodded. “Is she hot?”

Everyone looked at him.

“What?” he said. “It’s a valid question.”

Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket.

He didn’t check it right away—not with five pairs of eyes watching him like he was the last episode of a series they weren’t supposed to binge but did anyway.

But then he did glance. Just one look at the screen.

And something shifted in his posture. Barely.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile, not quite—but something loosened in his shoulders. He stood up, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said simply.

“Go where?” Yelena asked instantly, sliding off the couch and following with military-grade suspicion. “Where is Winter Soldier going all dressed up in… black?”

“I’m always dressed in black.“

But it didn’t matter.

They were already following him.

Bob was at his side with his usual skip in his step, Walker tagging along behind like a golden retriever who wasn’t sure what game they were playing. Alexei caught up quickly, talking to himself about trust and emotional openness. Ava materialized near the elevator, silent but present. And Yelena, of course, was right on Bucky’s heels.

“You’re deflecting,” she said as the elevator doors closed around them. “I can smell secrets. And this smells like a woman.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Not a word.

Just faced the elevator door, arms folded, jaw tight, clearly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Where exactly are you going?” she pressed, arms crossed. “Is she here? Is she real?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky said flatly, not bothering to face them.

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and they all spilled into the main lobby of the Watchtower, a wide, sleek expanse of glass and metal and polished silence.

Then a sound cut through the air like a missile.

A high, joyful squeal.

“Bucky baby!”

Everything stopped.

The team froze.

Yelena’s face scrunched in real time. “Bucky baby?”

Before anyone could process that phrase, there was movement.

A blur of color streaked across the marble lobby. Heels clicking, earrings swinging, hair bouncing—you, in full tilt.

And without hesitation, you launched yourself straight at him.

Bucky barely had time to catch you, but he did—one arm wrapping around your waist, the other under your thighs as you jumped up and clung to him like gravity didn’t apply.

And then, right there in front of everyone, your lips were on his.

Not shy. Not sweet.

Mouth open, tongue in, both hands in his hair as you kissed him like you’d been holding your breath for hours and he was the only oxygen you wanted. You tilted his head, deepened it, bit his bottom lip and everything. It was messy and loud and had absolutely zero awareness of space or audience.

Bucky just held you there—like he’d been waiting for this all day. One hand squeezing your hip, the other steady under your thigh, mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough.

Silence behind you.

Long.

Awkward.

Unblinking.

Walker looked physically stunned, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t figure out what dimension he’d fallen into.

Bob had both hands over his eyes. “I feel like I’m watching something x-rated.”

Alexei, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear. “Ah, love! Powerful! Raw! Very virile. I respect it.“

Ava stood slightly to the side, arms crossed, expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Yelena just raised one eyebrow. “What the fuck?”

The kiss finally slowed—just a little. You pulled back to catch your breath, your forehead pressing against Bucky’s as you grinned, lips swollen, eyes dancing.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He huffed out a breath, still catching up. “Hi.”

Then, finally, he turned—still holding you, still slightly dazed—and glanced over at the very silent, very stunned lineup of teammates.

No one said anything.

You blinked, just now noticing the five-person audience.

“Oh,” you said cheerfully, breath still short. “Hi.”

Silence.

The kind that settles like static. Thick, charged, slightly horrified.

The team’s eyes slowly, almost comically, shifted from you to Bucky.

All at once.

Yelena stepped forward half a pace, pointing without subtlety. “This is your girlfriend?”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You were still curled in his arms like you lived there, bright smile lighting up your entire face, makeup slightly smudged from the kissing, lipstick faded along Bucky’s mouth.

You held up your left hand like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Diamond. Simple, perfect, unmistakable.

“Fiancée, actually.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@xamapolax @shereadzzz @princeescalus @onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @ozwriterchick @espressopatronum454 @slutforsr @c-grace56 @Tafuller @mencantaleer @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @snake-in-a-flower-crown @honeyhera29 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover @ogoc-19 @person-005 @beemovie123

You stop mid-step. Your brain short-circuits just long enough for the lid of your coffee cup to betray you—a small dribble of liquid lava hits the edge of your hand.

“Shit,” you hiss, wiping it on your lab coat. Not the best look, but frankly, it’s not like he can judge. You have your flaws. He has a kill count.

Captain America’s ex-best friend. The Winter Soldier turned Avenger. The human embodiment of a sealed file. Exactly what your overclocked nervous system needs at seven in the damn morning.

You don’t hate him. That would require too much emotional investment. What you feel is more like… persistent irritation mixed with a healthy dose of distrust. He’s everything you resent about agents: cocky, haunted, prone to unpredictable violence, and somehow still glorified in every agency briefing and classified report.

But more than that—it’s the Budapest symposium.

Two months ago, you were presenting a closed-door session on the ethical implications of biometric surveillance overlays in the field. You’d made a case for data-limited neural interface protocols—no deep emotion-mapping without consent, no unconscious tracking. You had charts. Citations. A damn good argument.

And Bucky Barnes? He was in the back row, arms folded, face unreadable. Before the time even came for questions, he stood up and asked—in front of a dozen international regulators—