Hello Mr weird

A Pershing cap, a sign of authority. It was one of the best ways to determine who was in the army, determine who were the men I shouldn't be attached to.

When Bucky and I first met, I didn't know he was in the military.

He was bright smiles and respectful when he came in the diner. Working at the diner has given me enough experience with military men to know I never wanted to be involved with them. But Bucky was different, he brought a scrawny blonde boy-Steve, with him who had a huge cut on his lip and probably an impending black eye forming, and ordered milkshakes while holding a first aid kit. He was gentle and lightly scolding the scrawny boy for getting into another fight as they settled on a booth by the back. If the diner wasn't so busy, I know the other girls would be fighting to serve his table but life has a funny way of working because it was me who ended up serving his table.

And he kept coming back. Sometimes he was alone but often times with Steve who as I learned had a heart of gold. Steve often got into fights despite his size because he stood his ground to help anyone. As the two kept coming back to the diner, I found myself forming a frienship with the two which was how I found myself here.

It was Bucky's military officer training graduation. Despite our friendship only forming for less than a year, Bucky made sure to invite me to watch him receive his honor with his mother, sisters, and Steve.

As the ceremony finished, Bucky approached us with a smile. Hugging his mother first, his sisters, Steve, and finally me.

"Glad you could make it doll" he murmurs to my head as his sisters talked to Steve

I give him a small smile, feeling uncomfortable at the big crowd, "Wouldn't miss it for the world"

He smiles and places the cap he has been wearing that matched his uniform on my head.

"Barnes" an older man calls out and puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder as Bucky greeted him

"General" Bucky says with a smile, fixing his hair-a nervous tick of his.

I stepped to the side to give the two men a privacy as the General congratulated him saying how he knows Bucky would bring great honor to his country. I frown a bit at his remark, the thought of Bucky being shipped out still a heavy thought that reigned not on my head but also on Steve's. Steve stood to my side, the shorter man told Bucky's mom and sisters to go ahead to the diner and was waiting for me and Bucky.

"What's got you frowning?" Steve inquired looking at the two talking

"Nothing" I say a little too quick

Steve laughed before looking at me "You know it's easy to tell when you're lying", he crossed his arms over his chest with a smile "Bucky told me some of your tells"

I grumble in response, adjusting the cap Bucky put on me lower as if to hide me from the blonde man making Steve laugh.

Bucky seeing me get embarrassed makes him put his arm over my shoulder "Hey Stevie" he says with a laugh "stop embarassing my girl".

I roll my eyes, feeling the butterflies in my stomach at he called me his girl.

The general laughs joining in on the conversation as Bucky pulled me closer to him. "You know Barnes, it's military tradition that a kaydet wearing your dress cap should give you a kiss. Something about a good way to keep you safe when you're out on the field" he smiled as I feel the heat creep up to my face. "Looking forward to seeing you on the field" the general says giving a salute that Bucky returned before leaving me, Steve and Bucky alone.

"I'll go ahead" Steve smiles before walking away "We'll wait for you two at the diner."

I exhale shakily as Bucky pulls his arm from my shoulder, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"We don't have to," he says his voice calm but warm. I tilt my head in confusion urging him to go on "I didn't even know about the tradition if you were wondering."

Heat flares across my cheeks as the general's words earlier echoed in my head. "It's okay" I say a little too quick which makes Bucky tilt his head as I come closer. My hand makes it's way to the back of his head as I pull him close to my face and kiss his lips, catching him in surprise.

It took a bit but Bucky's hand makes it's way to my hips as he pulls me closer, opening his mouth to kiss me back feverishly with a smile.

We pull back a bit and keep our foreheads close as we catch our breath. I keep my eyes closed as the embarassment of my action gets to me. When I open my eyes, I find the blue eyes that has been the closest I've had to a home staring back at me with a smile as his hand touches my face gently.

"I like you" Bucky breathes out "been planning to ask you out properly, take you to dinner and ask you to be my girl since I met you" he smiles as his hand traced invisible lines on my cheek, looking at me with love "sorry I kept chickening out"

(context for the screenshots: 1) the creator of the groupchat sending me comfort for the hate i had received only hours before creating the hate groupchat. 2) a portion of me confronting them about the groupchat. 3) them admiting to the existence of that groupchat. there are many more messages to this conversation, these are only brief sections.)

(context for the screenshot: an exchange between me and the member of the hate groupchat who leaked and screenshared the groupchat to someone else in bwa)

so no, bwa did not create a groupchat to send hate to anyone, someone created a groupchat to send hate to us. and no, bwa did not send death threats to other writers, death threats were sent to us. we have shared countless screenshots in the past depicting the disgusting things that were being sent to our inboxes, and were then mocked by people for “playing the victim”. it is downright evil that the things people have done to us has somehow been spun into this lie where we are now the perpetrators.

i understand that to most of you this doesn't matter, that this is not important. and i agree, i really do. but this whole ordeal has reached a point well beyond us being slandered by people who simply don't like us. since november, i have watched my friends be put through incredibly distressing situations. death threats, rape threats, homophobia and racism are just a few of the things that have been sent into our inboxes and/or directed towards us through anonymous blogs. some people have deactivated, some people have received hate for simply daring to interact with us, some people have abandoned tumblr as a whole, and now we have been made aware that lies are being spread... and all of this is happening over fanfiction.

i'm aware that, in posting this, it's not going to change much. those who believe the vile, baseless, receiptless claims that have been made against myself and others will continue to do so. if anything, they will feel an even stronger sense of hatred. i don't expect people to care about this matter, because it's ultimately a lot more fun to be outraged at a group of strangers than it is to feel an ounce of sympathy for them.

i am not posting this for drama. if i wanted drama, i would have posted about this and tagged those involved the moment this all began back in november. i am posting this because 5 months of constant harassment is now bordering on stalker behaviour and, quite frankly, i no longer feel it's my job to "keep the peace" for the sake of not upsetting anyone.

being quiet has done nothing: we have continued to receive hate, and other writers are comfortably twisting the truth and accusing us of doing the vile things they did to us. this situation has extended beyond just "bwa", the entire community is now riddled with other tumblr users being spoken about horrifically.

everyone needs to lock in and remember that we are all here for the same reason: fanfiction. fanfiction is not a competition, it's not a race we all need to win. it's literally just a hobby. why are we treating it like it is a matter of life and death?

i don’t really know how to end this post. i have so much more to say and share, yet i do not want to bring more harm to people, even if they themselves have carelessly hurt so many others. so, i’ll end it by saying this: names have been kept hidden in the screenshots out of the scarcely remaining respect i have for the people who made that groupchat and out of hope everyone can just move on, once and for all.

tw!! death/suicide threats. if you've read this and are unaware of the extent of the hate myself and others have received (and are now wrongfully being accused of doing), this is a post i made addressing it back in november. this is nothing new.

You steadied your breathing if only to control your heart. A case so big you knew it would attract something. Or someone. Or even a group of someones. The big guys. Earth’s mightiest heroes. Even the thought of them made you want to retreat. It was not them, per se, but a certain individual in that group. Someone you knew so well. Someone you loathed. Someone you wished you would never have to meet again.

But fate always had a wicked sense of humor.

You stopped before a door. On your toes, you swayed a little and looked back at the hallway that seemed to narrow itself. Almost inviting. Luring you to step on your heels and go back the way you came and fake an illness. Diarrhea always worked best.

Your thoughts were cut short as the door swung open from the inside. You were face-to-face with your director. His brows were drawn tight as he cleared his throat. You offered him a smile that looked more like a grimace. With your head held high, he slipped past him and walked inside the room.

Natasha was the first one you saw. Your former confidante. She gave you a small wave and a cat-like blink. You saw Clint, her forever friend, who nodded your way. The last you wanted your eyes to land on was Samuel. You refused to smile at him. He cocked his brow at you instead. You kept your eyes on the whiteboard while you remained standing. You felt the cold creep into your feet and fingers as a gaze pierced through you. From the man across the room. The man you once shared a bed with. The very same man who vowed to cherish you forever yet ultimately broke that promise.

James Barnes. Or Bucky. Or whatever his friends called him now. 

“I suppose since we’re complete, we can stop with the staring contest.” Edmund, the Director of Operations—your supervisor—coughed and moved to the whiteboard with a pen in hand, “Let’s discuss more pressing matters at hand. Your research, please.”

You looked at the folder in your grasp. You handed it over to Edmund and apologized. You pretended to be busy with your blazer after and fished your phone out of your pocket. It was a lot easier to keep your mind off of his staring. You knew he was what Edmund meant.

Your director discussed what you already knew. The purpose of the brief was for the new team the UN brought to help resolve the case you had been working on. The meeting adjourned after half an hour and you approached Edmund to discuss the next steps. You were ready to fly to Syria the following week. You had all the intel you needed. Their local law enforcement was more than ready to assist you based on your latest correspondence.

“Sir,” you said as soon as Edmund gathered all the papers back. Some remained inside the room, while others were out the door, “I’ll be filing my paperwork for field clearance today. I’ve talked to some guys down in Syria and I was greenlit.”

“I know,” Edmund took the folders up his arm and sighed, “I was informed by a liaison. But there’s a change of plans. You see these guys over here, right? They’ll be with you on the ground. Don’t worry about the other guys. I’ll handle it.”

You paused. The sudden news had you off-kilter. Since when were things arranged before your notice? You leaned your hand on a chair. A chuckle went past your lips. “How… when… when did this happen?” You drew closer to him and lowered your voice, “I thought they had other assignments?”

“Well, most of them have. Only one of them will guide you.” Edmund shrugged. “And… it’s all in the past, isn’t it? We’re all professionals here. Surely you can work with your ex-husband.”

The world could swallow you whole. The last sentence from his mouth knocked the breath out of your lungs. You blinked. Your lips parted and your eyes finally shifted to the man unmoved from his post for almost an hour. There was a smirk on his face. You bit back your snarl and turned to Edmund. “Oh, hell no, Ed.”

Edmund showed his palms and snorted. “He’s got a metal arm. What more do you want?”

You were left aghast as he walked past you. The slamming of the door closed you in on the realization. You calmed your measured breaths and looked at him again. Your hands found your hips and you scoffed. Your nightmares were coming true.

“Two years, huh?” His voice filled the empty space. You heard him move. “UN Investigator. The title sounds good.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and huffed. “You know we don’t have to talk, right? We don’t have to pretend. We could just close our mouths and be… civil.”

“Oh, but I wanna talk,” his response had you staring at him. He had a tight smile on his face that emphasized his crow’s feet, “It’s really important to build rapport with your partner. Something I’m not really surprised you still lack.”

He made you scoff again. The gall of this man. “Me? Lack… in rapport? Are you sure about that? The last time I remember, you lacked rapport. You lacked communication skills. You never wanted to talk. Hell, I’m really surprised you could open your mouth now. Two years did a number on you, James.” You shook your head, “Good for you, man.”

Your eyes tracked him as he moved nearer. He tilted his head as he stood in front of you. His smirk was gone. There was a glint in his eyes you could not explain. You had not seen him in two years. You made sure of that. But he was right there, in the flesh, still the same and yet entirely different from the man you once knew.

Bucky sighed as his eyes bore into yours. There was a beat before he spoke again. “I missed you.”

Your face scrunched. A maniacal laugh went past your lips. You stopped when you saw him unfazed. You snapped, “Shut up. How dare you say that.”

You stared him down before you turned on your heel and left him standing alone. I missed you? What stupidity was that? How could he be okay with the arrangement? Two years of no contact, and he blurted out he missed you as though it was the most normal thing to say. You stomped through the hallway and into your office. You locked your door and sat on your rolling chair. You caught your breath as anger warmed your chest. 

The hallways were crowded, and students rushed to their next classes. You were lost in your thoughts as you rounded a corner, and before you knew it, your path collided with something large, and solid– Bucky Barnes. 

     Your shoulder barely grazed his large forearm, but the impact felt like you walked into a wall. The wolf never glanced down, no acknowledgment of the collision at all. Bucky kept walking, long strides carried him through the crowd. It was as if he was a boulder in a river, the sea of students parted without a second thought. 

     Involuntarily, your wings fluttered, and heat rose to your cheeks. You stood frozen for a second– had he not noticed you? Before you could process the small event, two familiar voices broke through the rush of the hallways. 

     “Hey, you okay?” Your best friend's voice, Wanda, was warm yet a little breathless as she skidded to a stop beside you. 

     A formidable witch, Wanda’s long, brunette hair was threaded with strands of shimmering red chaos magic. Fluttering around her ankles, her cloak's soft, deep red fabric was imbued with protective runes that had a slight glow with every move. There was always a sense of subtle humming of power around her. Her emerald-green eyes scanned your face with concern, they were sharp with a sight only a witch could possess. 

     “Y-yeah, I’m fine. It was just–” Even though your heart pounded, a little too fast, you waved off their concern. Sneaking another glance over your shoulder, you noticed Bucky had now disappeared from the crowd. “It’s nothing.”

     Frowning slightly, Wanda’s gaze followed yours, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. “Nothing, huh?” she said, her tone soft but probing as if she could sense the shift in the air. “You don’t look like it was nothing.” 

     Another voice joined the conversation before you could respond.

     “Pfft, werewolves,” Steve’s voice, lilting with the cadence of the ocean, waved from your right. He weaved through the crowd, his blonde hair, and crystal blue eyes shimmering as he sidled up next to you and Wanda. “They’re all like that– zero spatial awareness. Just barrel through life without a care in the world.” 

     A faint sheen of water still carried against his skin, and you could smell the salt on him. Iridescent scales clung to his skin, sparkling under the hallway lights, peeking from under his enchanted tailored jacket. His fisk-like tail had already shifted into his legs.

     With a quick glance between you and Wanda, Steve’s smirk widened as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You practically bounced off Barnes.”

     Huffing, you felt a bit embarrassed that your friends had witnessed the whole thing. “I barely grazed him,” you muttered, though the heat rushing to your cheeks betrayed the casual tone you tried to maintain.

     “It’s typical, really,” Wanda said, shaking her head. “Werewolves tend to have the sensitivity of a brick wall.” 

     “Yeah,” Steve added with a scoff, “and Barnes is the biggest brick wall of them all.” 

     While Wanda and Steve went back and forth, your mind wandered back to the subtle touch. Had he not felt anything at all? Yeah, you might be small compared to him, but surely he felt some sort of impact– or was he simply choosing to ignore it?

     Students began to rush with even more urgency around you as the bell rang– signaling the end of the passing period and the start of the next class. The three of you exchange a knowing look before hurrying along to your separate destinations. 

     Later that day, you entered your last class– History of Velmythria Creatures. There was a low hum, buzzing with voices, and other languages. Glancing toward the back of the classroom, you noticed Bucky sitting as massive and unbothered as ever, scrubbing something on a sheet of parchment. You slipped into your usual seat, heart still racing, unsettled from your earlier encounter with the wolf. He was completely absorbed in whatever he was writing, seemingly not noticing your small form once again.

     The professor stood at the front of the room, and she wasted no time. Her voice was rich, commanding, and effortlessly cutting through the murmur of conversations– A dark gleam of wisdom within her eyes. 

     “All right, settle down. The discussion today is regarding your upcoming assignment, and trust me, this is not your typical assignment. For this project, you will be paired with a student of a different species from your own.” 

     The room fell eerily quiet, curious glances darting around the room. 

     “The purpose,” the professor continued, “is to gain a deeper understanding of the cultures, traditions, and perspectives of the other species here at the Academy. You and your partner will be required to fully immerse into the other’s world– learning about their customs, history, strengths, and weaknesses. Then, you will be expected to present your findings to the class by the end of the term.” 

     The words hung in the air heavily, and you could sense the tension rippling through the room as the other students exchanged uncertain glances. Diving into another species’ world wasn’t a custom of the realm, many families were shocked to find out that they still allowed multi-species education. The Storm family, mostly your blood-faerie father– Lloyd, also had these beliefs. 

     With a flick of her wrist, there was a summon of a large, enchanted chalk hoovering to the front of the room. It glowed with a faint ancient magic. Moving with purpose, the chalk began scratching across the surface of a board with an almost musical sound. 

     “Shortly, all the pairings will be revealed,” the professor announced, a grin subtly playing on her lips. “The chalk will list your names and species. Pay attention.” 

     The chalk wrote the names of the students in a neat, flowing script, each pair listing alongside their species. There was a collective breath held as name after name appeared on the board. 

     As the chalk continued, your heart rate quickened. It felt like an eternity waiting, but then, you saw it. 

     James Barnes - Werewolf

     Your stomach dropped, and you blinked while staring at the board. There it was– clear as day. Your name, along with your ‘faerie’ title, beside his. A storm brewed within you, yet the room didn’t notice. Surely, you thought, this was just a bad joke. You were barely over five feet, how were you supposed to “immerse yourself” in his world? His kind? He was a towering wall of pure muscle and raw power, just the thought of having the smallest interaction with him again was overwhelming.

     “Each pair will spend time together outside of class,” the professor continued in her instructions, “observe each other’s behaviors, ask questions, and learn. Delve into things that make your partner’s species unique. Look past the facts and figures, truly understand the why behind the actions, the beliefs, and their place in the realm.” 

     Her words barely registered as you stole a glance toward Bucky. His body language was as relaxed as ever, blissfully unaware of the anxiety building in your chest. 

     “By the end of the term,” the professor proceeded, “ you will present a joint presentation, with a full report. Complete it with your findings and experiences. Also, this will be a significant portion of your end-of-year grade. I suggest you take it seriously.” 

     With a clap of hands together, the professor stopped the enchanted chalk moving. “That’s all for today. You may begin your research with your partner immediately. Good luck… you’ll need it.” 

     The sound of conversation and shuffling paper erupted throughout the classroom, yet you stayed frozen in your seat, staring at the board. You willed the names to disappear. Your trance only broke upon hearing the scrape of Bucky’s chair against the floor. 

     Swallowing hard, you felt the weight crashing down on you. Werewolves–especially alpha wolves–weren’t exactly known for warmth or willingness to engage. How were you going to approach this project?

     Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Bucky stood and in a brief moment, his gaze met yours. There was no expression on his face as his eyes flickered between you and the board where your names pair together. No surprise, no frustration. He was calm, with that same collected demeanor. 

     Before turning to leave the classroom, he gave you a slight nod, nothing more. His footsteps were heavy and unhurried as he walked out. It was as if a hex had been broken around you, and the rest of the students returned to life around you, your breath finally returning. 

     “Well,” Steve said as he suddenly appeared at your side, the blue in his eyes gleaming, “looks like you’re in for an interesting time.” 

     Smirking, Wanda joined him. “Yeah, this is going to be… fascinating.” 

     Still staring at the door, you kept your gaze on where Bucky had disappeared, a tight knot forming in your chest. You exhaled, almost silently, feeling the weight of what was ahead of you. This was going to be more difficult than you ever could have anticipated, by far.

---

It was only when the letter arrived, written hastily in your eldest brother’s hand, that you knew the full significance of that loss. Your twin, your other half—though you had not seen him in ten years—was gone. Slain not in battle, not with sword in hand or shield at his breast, but in his sleep. Murdered in his own hall beside the woman he had wed, a wife you had never met, in a village you had never set foot in. His people butchered, his home burned, his bones scattered to the crows. The armies of Saint Edran had seen to it that no glory would find him. No chance to fight, no chance for the Valkyries to come. Valhalla’s doors remained shut, and his spirit was left to wander, bound for the frozen halls of Hel. 

There would be no burial mound to raise, no stone cairn to mark his rest. His body, like those of his folk, was lost behind enemy lines, deep in occupied land. Your brother, who once shared your cradle, your games, your secrets. Your brother, who had lived as a jarl in his own right, ruling his village, raising a family you never knew. A wife, children—all gone, as if they had never drawn a breath. 

Your eldest brother’s instructions were clear. No matter what news arrived, you were forbidden to leave Ambarhof, to remain under the protection and guidance of the Shield-sisters of Freyja. The Saint’s armies were combing the countryside, killing any followers of the gods they stumbled upon. And yet blood called to blood, grief’s voice louder than any vow sworn.

So you would go, as duty called, to your father’s hall of Hrafnvik. To a home that was no longer your own. 

—

Many had called your father mad, as they had his father before him. Madness, they said, ran in your blood—a curse whispered down the generations. Men who read prophecy in storms, who heard the gods in the cry of unseen ravens, who ruled by dreams instead of reason. A family touched by madness. A family that truly believed the Allfather himself had chosen them to rule. 

But what was a ruler, if not a little mad? You had always been of the belief that any ruler needed a thread of madness in the tapestry of their life, the spirit of risk woven through every choice. A city wasn’t kept by sense alone. What was rule, if not a gamble? What was power, if not the courage to wager everything for a prize no man could see? The line of Hrafnvik, chosen by the Allfather, or maybe damned by him.

Hrafnvik was just as you’d left it, and nothing like it at all. As your horse carried you along the frozen road, the city materialised before you from the mists at the fjord’s edge. It crouched like some ancient beast at the mouth of the sea—the dark timber walls its teeth, the smoke and sting of the salt wind its breath, the glow of fires beyond its eyes.

As a child, you had believed Hrafnvik’s walls would always keep you safe, that your father’s ravens watched over every roof and every ship in the harbour. But now the city seemed smaller. The stake wall leaned with age, the docks, once so grand in your memory, were choked with too many ships. The city boiled with life, jarls and their men, horses stamping the muddy streets, banners whipping in the sea wind. Torches flared against the dark. Music clashed with argument. The stench of fish, roasting meats, wet fur and the sour tang of spilt ale thickened the night air. Smoke from a hundred fires hung low, as if the city itself struggled to breathe.

The gates stood open. That, more than anything, told you how dire things had become. Once, no man entered after nightfall without a challenge. Now the doors gaped wide, as if inviting the enemy directly into the belly of the beast. It was the type of confidence, the type of madness, only your father would have. 

And then you saw it.

Banners lined the streets as thick as a forest, the raven of your father and brothers, Leif, Sven and Torvald. The bear of the west, the axe of the north. But they weren’t what drew your eye. The chill of the night seemed sharper. The snow fell heavier, clinging to your furs, to your hair, cloaking you in a creeping dread. 

A swirl of pale cloth among the dark and bright banners. A wolf’s head, black and coiled, jaws gaping, teeth bared.

Vargheim.

The White Wolf’s banner flew within your father’s walls. The men of Vargheim, the enemies your blood had fought for generations, stood now as guests in Hrafnvik’s streets. The old feud meant nothing now. War had driven your father to open the gates to those he once vowed to see burned to ash. 

You tried to see it as you had as a girl, the walls that once seemed unbreachable, the longhouse that once felt like the heart of the world, the docks where you’d watched your brothers sail with promises of plunder and glory. Instead, you were left with a sickening feeling in your gut.

A hundred jarls. A hundred banners. The White Wolf himself among your kin, at your hearth. For the first time, you wondered if the world itself was breaking apart. If peace were being forged here tonight, it would not come cheap. And whatever price was asked—you knew, deep in your bones—you would be a part of it. 

You threaded your horse through Hrafnvik’s streets, the mud beneath half-frozen, slick with ice and filth. Around you, the city seethed like a storm hardly held back by the walls. A woman’s laughter, high and breathless, filled the night as she fled down the lane, skirts bunched in her fists. A drunken lover stumbled after her, boots slipping in the muck. The crowd roared with approval, like wolves howling at a kill. 

Men leaned from doorways, watching you pass. Broad-shouldered, hard-eyed strangers with unfamiliar banners. Jomsvikings. Vikingr sworn to rival jarls. The occasional farmer or tradesman caught up in the storm. Even those whom you suspected to be hired hands lingered, wanderers and berserkers lured in by the promise of blood and silver. War attracted the worst of men, you had long known that. Their eyes followed you, heavy with hunger, with caution, as if unsure whether you were prize or threat.

And there, at the city’s heart, the longhouse loomed. 

As tall as a ship’s mast—no, taller. It rose into the snow-hazed sky, a dark mass against the gloom like a ship run aground. The turf roof sagged under snow’s weight, icicles thick as a man’s wrist bristling from the eaves. Icewater dripped steadily, hissing as it struck the torches below. The great pine doors stood shut, barring out the night, like the longhouse itself mourned. No firelight leaked from within. No voices reached the street. The carved pillars at the threshold, once proud with painted ravens, were crusted with frost, their colours dulled beneath grime. Inside, you knew your father hid in the shadows, either consumed by grief or communing with the gods to conjure a plan of attack. 

He had left the disorder to spill into the streets like guts from a split boar.

Everywhere, men drank as if they might not see the next dawn. Brawls poured from doorways, a bard shouting half a song before his breath was stolen with a punch, a young boy chased after a drove of loose pigs with a stick and a man folded over, vomiting up the contents of his stomach while a group nearby snickered and jeered. It was closer to a battlefield than a city, one of bruised pride and broken teeth. It seemed in your father’s absence, the people governed themselves with drink and fists. 

It was chaos. Absolute, unbridled chaos. 

It wasn’t hard to find your brothers. The tavern bled firelight and noise into the street, hunched low across from the longhouse. Its roof had been patched with hides, drooping under the packed snow, darkened by the belching smoke. Inside, men crowded so tightly that tables and chairs had been dragged out into the streets, dice clattering on tabletops as the drunken crowds shouted, sang and wept all at once. There they were, tucked away at one of the quieter tables on the street, hunched over greasy platters and spilt drink. 

They looked smaller than you remembered, shoulders slumped under their furs. Worn by grief, or drink, or both. Older too, though of course they were older, you reminded yourself—you hadn’t seen them since you were a girl. They were sulking and grumbling between themselves in the low light. You searched yourself but couldn’t find a lick of sympathy. Pity, maybe. But never sympathy. 

You swung down from your horse, boots splashing in the half-frozen muck, and crossed the street with the letter clutched tight in your hand. The tavern fell into a hush, even the drunkards holding their breath.

The parchment hit the table with a crack.

Sven and Torvald started like struck dogs, ale sloshing from their horns. Only Leif remained still, as if he had sensed your presence long before you entered the light. He refused to meet your eye. 

“Well,” you hissed, your voice cutting the hush. “This is a pitiful sight, isn’t it?” 

Sven squinted up at you, swaying in his seat with a crooked and loose grin on his face. His beard was a scruffy mess, clinging to his jaw and glistening with ale. He had filled out since boyhood—broader through the shoulders, the softness of youth long gone. He was only two years older than you, having barely passed into manhood the last time you saw him, but the glint of mischief in his eye was unchanged. “Either I’m very drunk,” he slurred, blinking as if to clear his vision, “or there is a ghost standing before us—”

He swayed, his elbow slipping in a puddle of ale, and for a moment, you thought he’d topple clean from the bench. Laughter bubbled in his throat, but it died as quickly as it came as Torvald shot him a look.

“That is our sister, you fool—” Torvald muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. His eyes raked over you, as if he too was debating if you were made of flesh or spirit. He was nearly identical to how you remembered him, though he sported a new scar through his brow. The sides of his head had been shaved down to reveal the ink across his scalp and neck, the little hair he had left tightly braided into a coil that reached his back. His fingers drummed the table, restless, as if searching for words. 

And then Leif, as stern and abrupt as he had been in his letter. 

He looked up at last, and for a beat, the breath froze in your throat. The firelight carved his features into shadow and flame, and in that moment, you saw your father’s face staring back at you. The set of the jaw, the weight in the eyes. He was the most well-groomed of the three, his wife was obviously ensuring he maintained appearances in line with his status as heir to Hrafnvik. His hair, darker than you remembered, was bound back with a leather cord, the knot tight, the strands clean and orderly. His beard was full, neatly kept, with no patch of stubble out of place. Even his posture, shoulders square, arms folded across his chest, made your gut twist. He had grown into the man your father had raised him to be. And for the first time, you wondered if you were a stranger at this table.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, and it scraped like a whetstone on steel. It held no warmth, no welcome, only the heavy weariness of a man who had run out of patience for surprises. 

Sven gave a soft, hiccuping laugh that soured into a groan, rubbing his face with one calloused hand. “Gods, Leif, let her sit. She looks half-frozen. Or are we to stand on ceremony while the world burns?”

Torvald grunted, sliding a bench out with his boot.

You didn’t sit. 

“My brother is dead,” you began, voice taut, “and you thought it best to inform me by note?”

You leaned in, knuckles whitening where they pressed against the table. Sven shifted with a loud gulp, edging away until his shoulder knocked into Torvald, who sat still but tense, his eyes flicking between you and Leif like a man awaiting the clash of swords. Leif, meanwhile, didn’t so much as blink. He stared at you, unmoved, as if trying to measure how much of the girl he once knew remained in the woman standing before him. 

“You couldn’t have come yourself?” you demanded. “Or sent someone with enough spine to speak the words aloud?”

Leif’s jaw clenched, the muscle jumping along his cheek. His voice came quiet and composed, controlled, but only just. “I went against our father’s wishes by sending you that letter. I did you a favour, you should be grateful. I had hoped you were old and wise enough to understand that by now—”

“My brother,” you cut over him, louder now. “My twin brother is dead, and I’m to be grateful for a scrap of parchment?”

You saw the exact moment his composure shattered. The flare of disbelief quickly made way for anger. Leif surged to his feet, his palms slamming flat against the table with a dull thud that rattled the empty plates.

“Father didn’t want me to tell you at all!” Leif snapped, voice like thunder. “He feared you’d do exactly this, return home and cause a scene—”

“I’m not causing a scene—”

“You are causing a scene!” Leif roared, and you recoiled like you had been struck. 

The tavern had gone deathly still. Tankards hung mid-air. Dice lay abandoned. Men turned in their seats, quiet now, their eyes gleaming from shadowed corners. The only sound was the low whistle of wind slipping through a crack in the eaves. 

You straightened slowly, drawing your shoulders back, but the tremor lingered in your spine. Not far behind Leif sat a table of strangers, all crowded at the darkened edge of the alley. One of them, broad and silent in the half-light, watched you for a flicker of a moment. Then, just as quickly, he looked away.

You had a sudden creeping feeling that, despite you not knowing a single face in this tavern besides your brothers, all the men certainly now knew who you were. 

It was Leif who caved first, voice softening, as if suddenly aware of the weight of unseen stares. “It is not safe for you to be here. You were safe back at Ambarhof with the Shield-sisters—”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed. “Don’t tell me Father’s filled your ears with curses and tales of seiðr. Spare me.”

“I’m not speaking of witchcraft,” Leif ground out. “I’m speaking of the war.”

“The war?” you repeated, incredulous, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. You glanced at Sven and Torvald, hoping for a glimmer of sanity, but both looked away, suddenly very interested in their drinks, in the cracks on the table, in anything but the argument at hand.

You turned back to Leif. “Do you hear yourself? The war is everywhere. I watched the Saint’s armies march over the Skjoldholt Hills not two days past—”

“And you thought it wise to come here?” Leif asked, brows rising. 

“The temple is no safer than the farmsteads. Or the forests. Or here.”

“She has a point, you know,” Sven muttered, slumping forward, but let out a small yelp as Torvald elbowed him hard in the ribs. 

“You shouldn’t have come,” Leif exhaled through his nose and rubbed his brow. “But what is done is done.”

Leif said nothing more, but the lines of his face softened—not with warmth, but with fatigue. You could see the fight bleeding out of him. You stood there a moment longer, fists unclenching at your sides. For a brief heartbeat, you considered sitting, sinking down at the table with your brothers, just as you had when you were children crowded around the hearth.

Then Sven blinked at you, bleary-eyed through the haze of drink, and tilted his head. “Gods,” he muttered, a slow, stupid smile curling at his lips. “You do look exactly like mother—”

The table stilled, and within the blink of an eye, it was like Sven was suddenly sober enough to understand what he’d said, the horror blooming too late on his face. 

Torvald muttered a curse under his breath before he hissed through his teeth. “Sven, enough—”

Leif didn’t speak. His eyes simply shut, slow and deliberate, as though the sight of you wounded him. His jaw tightened with a click.

You stood there, suddenly exposed, like you’d been flayed alive. Shame prickled across your cheeks. If it had been intended as a compliment, it had struck like an accusation. 

Did you truly look like her?

It had been so long. And you had been so small… your memories of her were smoky, burnt at the edges. You remembered her scent like crushed herbs, the gentle weight of her hands threading through your hair, the low hum of lullabies sung in the old tongue.

But, there was a sharpness to those memories, it slipped beneath your ribs like a knife between bone. For every pleasant and sweet memory, there was a sourness. A knowing of what happened, of what she did. 

Madness, they whispered. Madness of the Hrafnvik line. 

It was one of the reasons your father sent you away, among others. Madness that he was so terrified you would inherit. Curses that he was so terrified would pull you into its grip if you remained in these lands. How hypocritical, you thought bitterly, that the only truly mad person in Hrafnvik was your father himself. 

And yet you were the one to carry the guilt, and a part of you hated her for it. You hated how her choices clung to your name like rot, how, despite it all, you still loved her, even if she left you here, forever in her shadow.

None of your brothers dared look at you.

The moment was lost.

You cleared your throat. “Why are the White Wolf’s banners flying within our walls?”

The spell of silence was broken, and Torvald groaned low in his throat, dragging a hand down his face. Sven muttered something that might’ve been a drunken prayer to Odin, slumping forward until his forehead kissed the rim of his horn. 

“Spare us,” he whispered, “just this one night…”

Leif had gone still in that unsettling way of his, like a hound scenting danger. His jaw was tight, and his eyes had narrowed to flint-edged slits. “I am not doing this here—”

You didn’t let him finish, nor did you cower. “And how many of our men, our kin, have they slain?”

A flicker of irritation passed through his eyes, and his nostrils flared. He answered like a man reciting a fact he’d had to say too many times. “We are all aware, trust me. But they have lost good men to the Christian armies, just like us. They wish to unite and destroy our common enemy.”

“And you chose to believe that?” You scoffed in disbelief. “You saw the wolves at our door, and just let them in?”

“Yes.”

Your breath caught at the simplicity of it. “And Father agreed to this?”

Leif gave a slow, bitter nod. “It was Father who had to persuade me.”

That knocked the breath from your lungs.

You stared at him and saw the strain in the corners of his mouth, the tightness in his knuckles where they gripped the table.

You stepped back like you’d been pushed, lips parting.

“Unbelievable,” you breathed. “Last I heard, he’d have rather cut off his own arm than side with the White Wolf—”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable flickering firelight. “Much had changed since you were last here, Sister.”

You stared at him, trying to see it, the shape of the years between you, the weight of battles he never wrote about. You swept your gaze over the table, unable to hold his stare any longer. Torvald still wouldn’t meet your gaze, and Sven was too busy drowning in his cup.

“And where is Father?”

Torvald snorted, leaning back in his seat with a grunt that was half irritation, half weariness.

“Communing with the gods,” he muttered. “Wished to be left in solitude.”

You let the words settle a beat too long, then gave a humourless smile.

“Well. The gods will have to wait, won’t they?”

---

The iron gate is warm under his touch, the rising sun low enough in the sky that the iron railing has now begun to cool. He watches his dark-haired boy run around the ‘arena’; lasso gripped tightly in his small hands as he gives the calf chase.  

Bucky chuckles smile pulling at his lips as he calls out to his son, “champ you got to get that rope off the ground if you want to catch ‘im”. The boy all but stops in his track, feet throwin up dirt chocolate eyes locking on his, “the ropes to long daddy, I’m trying!” he pouts.  

Clambering off the rails his feet hit the dirt as he makes his way into the gated ‘arena’ closing the distance between him and his son. He gets down to eye level, pout still adorning his boy’s lips, “you, Uncle Steve, and Sam make this look so easy, I don’t get what I’m doing wrong, I'm doing exactly how I see you do it.” 

“Not doing anything wrong champ, c’mere,” he says pulling his son close. “Put your hand here, and wrap this,” he says adjusting his sons' hands, “right here, make sure it’s tight now, don’t want to lose your grip on it and risk that calf getting away from you now.”  

Grant follows his father’s directions, “alright, now that we got the rope secured let's get it above our heads.” He helps his son get the rope going, “see, you’re getting it, now, I want you to throw it right at that spot over there imagine the calf's just sitting, focus now,” He advises finger pointed to a spot just feet ahead. Bucky watches his son, tongue peeked out of his lips as he concentrates, rope still swinging. It falls quiet for a moment, then the soft thud of rope hitting dirt meets their ears. Grants grin is wide as he snaps his head back to look at his dad, “I did it daddy! I did it!” He mirrors his son’s smile pulling him in for a bone-crushing hug, lips finding the side of his chocolate locks, “knew you could bud, knew you could.” 

“I can’t wait to tell Aunt Tasha about it!” the boy’s excitement grows, “well how about we get a few more rounds of practice in, we still got some time before she gets here.” 

They’re outside in the arena practicing till the sun begins to dip into the west horizon making way for the moon and stars that have begun to decorate the still early night sky. Bucky leads him and his son from the arena, leaving the calf with his mom in the barn before they make their way to the house. Steve’s truck is parked out front, him and Natasha sitting on the porch waiting. 

Grant spots his aunt and uncle first, excitement hardly contained as he drops his dad’s hand bolting to the front porch, his aunt’s name on his lips. Bucky stops by the front of Steve’s truck watching his son, he’s in Natasha’s arms, raving about his day to them, Steve and Natasha hearing him with wonder in their eyes. 

“You’re going to be running circles around the arena in no time bud, put all of us to shame, especially your dad” Steve teases meeting his eyes. 

Bucky laughs, “The day he puts me to shame in the arena will be the greatest day of my life, means I taught him well.’ 

“While we can’t wait for the day he puts ALL OF YOU to shame, I’d like to enjoy my little man while I can, right champ?” Natasha grins hoisting the boy higher on her hip. Grant is taken with his aunt hands curling around her neck as he squeezes her there cheeks mushing together. 

There’s an ache in Bucky’s chest as he watches the scene before him, like the many restless nights he has he can’t help but to think in this moment what he could have done differently, what he could have said to make her stay. He’s her carbon copy, he hates it. She doesn’t deserve to have any piece of him, not after she just up and left without so much as a word. Bucky still recalls the urgent call from the daycare asking if anyone would be coming for Grant. He hadn’t been able to get ahold of her since that day, not that he’s tried much since Grant’s 3rd birthday. 

“Buck - hey pal everything good, you sure you still wanna meet Sam at thirsty barrel?” 

The brunette is pulled from his reverie, eyes falling on his best friend who has since approached him, he shakes his head, “yeah - yeah pal sorry just thinking.” He looks over Steve’s shoulder, Natasha and Grant waving at him, he waves back, “have fun you guys, me and little man are gonna have some fun of our own, isn’t that right!” 

“Make sure he’s in bed by 9, 10 the latest.” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever dad, get out of here!” Natasha replies waving them off. 

Steve and Bucky chuckle making sure Natasha and Grant get inside the house before they clamber into Steve’s truck. 

“You sure you feeling up for tonight?” Steve questions him as he turns the key in the ignition. Bucky watches the house, getting a glimpse of Grant through the window, “I’m sure, my thoughts just got the best of me but I'll be fine.” Steve puts the truck into drive, “she’s not worth it Buck, the day she decided to leave, cut all contact with you, with grant that’s the day she stopped being of any importance.” 

“Yeah,” he murmurs eyes drifting out the window as Steve backs out of the ranch, “it’s just I wonder if I had done things differently if she would still be here.” 

“You gave her your all Buck; I don’t think there’s anything more you could have given her to make her stay.” 

And though Bucky knows Steve is right, his words don’t sting any less. 

The thirsty barrel was in full swing, the bar packed to the brim. Bucky, Steve and Sam had managed to snag the last remaining booth, drinks being run to their table as they talked business. 

“So you find anyone to watch little man when we hit the road at the end of the month?” Sam questioned over his drink. 

Bucky sighed, he had forgotten, he had been so busy with Grant, with the ranch that he had forgot to look into a caretaker for his son. Another thing he would have to add to his to do list for tomorrow. He shakes his head taking a sip of his beer, “not yet, been looking around but I haven't settled on anyone yet.” 

Sam tsks, “We have two weeks before we’re needing to head out on the road Buck, and little man can’t come with us because of school.” Bucky places his drink down running a hand over his bearded scruff, “you don’t think I know that Sam, I'm trying, just haven’t had luck, can’t just trust anyone with him either, I need to know he’s going to be safe, cared for.” 

“I can ask Natasha to skip this trip Buck, I’m sure it won’t be a problem, she loves spending time with grant.”  

Bucky shakes his head at Steve, “absolutely not pal, I know how much Natasha is looking forward to seeing you ride, I can’t ask that of you or her – I'll find someone – I will.” 

A damper has been placed on Bucky’s mood despite the change in subject, and he’s quiet for most of the night tuning in here and there when Steve or Sam directs something at him. He’s there, but not really, his mind drifting to the thought of his son. If Sam or Steve notice his absence, they don’t mention it, nor do they push him to converse, they know how hard it's been for him since she left, and they try to do all they can to help him. 

They’re not at the bar long, Sam being the first one to throw in the towel, Steve seconding the notion, Bucky doesn’t argue as they pay the tab, each leaving a tip for their waitress. The trio say their goodbyes outside of the bar, Sam promising to stop by the ranch tomorrow to see grant, get some riding time in with the boy, Steve jumps in to join as well. “Can use all the practice, only got two weeks left,” he chuckles. 

Bucky and Steve see Sam off before they get inside the truck, it's quiet most of the ride home, Bucky appreciates Steve for giving him this. It’s only until they’re pulling into the ranch 30 minutes later that he does decide to speak up. 

“I’ll help you find someone for Grant,” he says putting the truck in park, eyes meeting his friends, “make sure that it’s someone we can trust, the closest to family that we can get.” 

Bucky nods, the fear of that not being possible choking him, Steve reaches a hand out laying it on his shoulder, squeezing, “I promise pal, we’ll find you someone, we’ve got two weeks.” 

Two weeks. 

Two weeks. 

Bucky’s nodding again, “I appreciate you pal, listen I'll go get Natasha for you, know you two have quite the drive, don’t want it getting late for you.” 

Steve gives him his thanks watching him get off the truck, make his way up the steps and to the front door. Bucky disappears inside, returning a few minutes later with Natasha. Steve watches the two exchange a few words before she’s pulling Bucky into a tight embrace more words shared. The two pull away and Bucky watches her as she gets into the truck safely.  

They all wave one final time at each other before Bucky heads back inside, the lights of his home flickering off one at a time. Steve waits till the last light has been turned off before he’s putting the truck back in drive, making his way out of the ranch. 

“How was he?” Natasha questions finding Steve’s hand. 

“He’s not doing good,” Steve answers, “he’s worried about leaving Grant at the end of the month.” 

“I can stay, you know I don’t mind, I can watch you ride anytime.” 

Steve looks over to her, “he already said no, you know he isn't going to go back on his word,” his eyes flick back to the road, “we just need to find someone he can trust; we need family.” 

It goes quiet in the cab of the truck for a moment, Natasha speaks up a few minutes later, “I might have someone, she’s a family friend, I could have her come meet us at the ranch tomorrow.” Steve gives her a questioning look, the redhead rolls her eyes, “Bucky doesn’t keep anything from me where Grant is involved, it’ll be perfect everyone can meet her, see how she fits in.” 

“What the fuck?!” Becca exclaimed. “Since when?”

“It’d better be this morning, Y/N,” Sarah said and you shrugged your shoulders.

“Technically around 48 hours ago.”

Becca gawked at you. “Y/N, I’m going to kill you.”

“Listen, I didn’t—” you waved your hands in the air. “I figured you’d want to hear it in person! It’s kind of a big deal, you know?”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Wait, start from the beginning,” Sarah said. “How did that happen?”

“I had a talk with my dad,” you said, biting inside your cheek. “He’s going to choose Ian.”

Sarah frowned while Becca pulled back slightly.

“He made up his mind?”

“Mm hm.”

“You’re sure you can’t convince him?”

You shook your head.

“No,” you said, your stomach doing a tense flip. “I thought I could but…he was very clear. He will not name me his heir, it’s going to be Ian.”

“That will mess everything up,” Becca said. “Including the truce, because—”

“Bucky won’t do business with him, neither will Sam or Steve,” you finished her sentence for her. “I told my father that but it didn’t even make him think twice.”

“Great,” Sarah muttered, and you shook your head.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” you said. “I’m done waiting around for him to give me a chance. If he doesn’t want to give me power, I’ll take it for myself.”

“And that’s where Bucky enters the picture?”

“Exactly,” you said. “He will give me a way in, and once everything is in place I’ll take over.”

“Before Ian can?”

You nodded your head. “I’ll force my dad’s hand if I have to.”

“He’s not going to like it,” Becca sang in a teasing manner and you scoffed.

“It’s either that or we risk another war between the families,” you said. “To be honest with you, I don’t really care whether he likes it or not anymore. I’m the firstborn and it’s my right, he promised it to me all those years ago.”

“What happens when you take over though?” Sarah asked. “You and Bucky…?”

“We’ll get a divorce.”

Becca arched a brow and suppressed a smile. “Just like that?”

“Yeah, why not?” you said. “He doesn’t want to stay married to me a minute longer than it’s necessary, and I share the sentiment.”

Becca exchanged a knowing glance with Sarah, her smile widening before she turned to you.

“If you say so,” she muttered, taking a sip of her coffee and as if on cue, your phone started vibrating on the table. You checked the name on the screen, then answered it.

“Yeah?”

“Hi there, fiancée.”

You could already tell he was smiling from the tone of his voice and you rolled your eyes, then motioned at Becca and Sarah to give you a moment before getting up from your seat to walk out of the restaurant.

“What do you want?” you asked and he tsk tsked.

“Babe…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“My beautiful wife?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Mrs. Barnes?”

“There’s going to be another last name there as well, don’t forget about that one,” you said. “It’s hyphenated.”

“Yeah, for some reason…” he grumbled and you heaved a sigh.

“Is there a point to this conversation? Because if there isn’t, I’m going to hang up now.”

“Yeah,” he said. “There is actually. Before tonight’s dinner, I just figured you’d want to know that your father knows.”

Your eyes widened. “You told him about the engagement?”

“What? No!” he said quickly. “But he knows we’re together.”

“Except we’re not.”

“Well fine, he knows we’ve been spending time in the honeymoon suit.”

You leaned back to the wall and pinched the bridge of your nose before clearing your throat.

“He called you?”

“Not yet but my parents did.”

“That sounds like a fun conversation,” you said, smiling slightly. “What did they say?”

Bucky chuckled.

“My mom just asked how you were,” he said. “That’s her being subtle. And my dad told me to not fuck it up so, went as expected. Arthur didn’t call you?”

“He did, I just didn’t answer,” you said, pursing your lips together. “I don’t want to talk to him yet, so…”

“But are you going to be okay tonight?” he asked and you pulled your brows together.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Can I not ask about your wellbeing?”

“No,” your reply came way too fast. “That’s not on the prenup.”

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered and you checked your watch, then pushed yourself off the wall.

“So you’re going to the restaurant before me then?”

“Yeah, I think it’d be better if I got on your father’s good side before that conversation,” he said. “Considering I didn’t even give him a heads up—unless you want to go together?”

You scrunched up your nose. “Absolutely not,” you said. “Playing the dumbass in love will be even more difficult if I spend more than an hour with you.”

“I think you like spending time with me,” he said with a teasing tone and you scoffed.

“I’m hanging up now,” you said. “Don’t be late tonight.”

“Of course, wife.”

“Stop calling me that!” you snapped and hung up, then let out a breath.

“I can’t believe I’m marrying this asshole…” you murmured to yourself, then made your way back into the restaurant.

                                                 *

Tonight’s dinner was not going to be very easy to handle, you could already tell. Becca had always been too good at reading your mood, so as soon as you two stepped out of the car, she reached out to hold your hand, making you turn your head.

“It’ll be fine,” she said before you could even say anything and you licked your lips.

“It makes it official,” you muttered. “All of it.”

Becca paused for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.

“What does it matter?” she asked. “If you’re going to get a divorce eventually…”

“Of course we will,” you said. “But it’s not just that, you know? Starting tonight, I’m going against everything my dad wants.”

Becca nodded her head.

“You are,” she said airily. “But if he didn’t want you to take over eventually, he shouldn’t have raised you as his heir to begin with. That shit is not a game, he can’t just change his mind.”

You pursed your lips together, keeping your eyes on the restaurant.

“People won’t be happy about it,” you muttered. “Me being an actual rival, or taking over.”

 “You’re the firstborn,” she reminded you. “It’s your right. And that’s what you want, so fuck what everyone else will think. You’re going to do amazing.”

You stole a look at him, fear churning your insides.

“You think so?” you rasped out, desperate to hear it out loud and Becca nodded fervently.

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you couldn’t pull it off,” she said. “You’re going to be much better than your father. Trust me.”

You squeezed her hand. “Thanks Becca.”

“Keep in mind how helpful I am when you’re picking your bridesmaid gown colors,” she said, making you let out a laugh. “Friendly reminder, I don’t like lilac.”

“I know, I know…” you told her, throwing an arm over her shoulder to press a kiss on her cheek, then you both walked into the restaurant.

As usual, either your father or Bucky’s father had it closed down for the night so that you all could enjoy your dinner without any strangers around. The hostess greeted you and led you to your usual table which was already occupied by Bucky’s family and yours. Your father stood up as soon as he saw you and made his way to you.

“Good luck,” Becca muttered and smiled at him. “Hi Arthur!”

“Becca my dear, welcome!” your father said as she kissed his cheek.

“I’m starving already,” she said and went to sit down while your father turned to you.

“So?” he said. “You cannot pick up the phone, Y/N?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I was busy.”

“Really?” he asked. “Too busy to send a text?”

You shrugged your shoulders again, pursing your lips together and he heaved a sigh.

“Sweetheart…” he said. “I don’t like this, you know that. I understand that we can have our disagreements but moving out of the house?”

“I didn’t move out of the house,” you said. “My stuff is still there.”

“But you’re not staying there?”

“I felt like a change of scenery.”

“Is that all?” he asked and you cleared your throat.

“Sort of.”

“Because what I’ve been hearing…” he said. “Not to mention, both you and Bucky planning this dinner?”

“I think we should wait for him to have this conversation—where is he anyway?” you asked, looking around the restaurant and your father frowned slightly.

“We thought you two were coming together.”

“He’s late?” you asked, nervousness shooting through you and your father waved a hand in the air.

“There’s a reason for that I’m sure,” he said. “Come on, sit down. We started already.”

“Great,” you muttered to yourself and followed him to the table and waved at Bucky’s parents Winnifred and George.

“Y/N, hello!” Winnifred stood up to hug you and you hugged her back before pulling back to wave at George.

“We were going to wait for you but you know how your father is,” Winnifred said and your father chuckled, gesturing surrender.

“I don’t mind,” you said, sitting down next to Becca as you nodded in Ian’s direction. “Ian.”

“Y/N.”

“So, what is this dinner about?” George asked and Winnifred shot him a look.

“George.”

“What? I’m curious. You would think this is a life-and-death situation the way Bucky talked about it.”

“I think we should uh…we should wait for him for that one,” you said and turned to the waiter who filled your glass.

“The chef is preparing your usual, ma'am."

“Thank you,” you said and sat up straighter while George smiled at Becca.

“Do you know what this is about?”

“Of course,” Becca said with a smile. “But I’m special.”

“Will this dinner take long?” Ian asked you, checking his phone. “I have plans for 10.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” you told him but before he could retort, Becca waved at someone by the entrance and you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky walk into the restaurant. You cleared your throat, then pushed your seat back.

“Excuse me for a moment,” you said and made your way to him.

“Charm, hey—”

“With me,” you said without even stopping and he turned around to follow you out of the restaurant, and you whirled around on your heels the moment you stepped outside, raising your brows at him.

“Are you serious right now?” you asked. “You were supposed to be here before me, that was the plan!”

“Okay, I know I’m late but in my defense—”

“No no, you said—”

“Job got in the way, I didn’t even get the chance to change,” he cut you off and raised his wrist so that you could see the sleeve of his white shirt. “I still have blood on my sleeve, look!”

“Do I look like your drycleaner from where you’re standing?” you snapped back in a whisper. “You said you’d come before me, and considering your relationships I’d say you’re used to that!”

He rolled his eyes. “To repeat, job got in the way.”

“You’re late to dinner because you were too busy punching someone and that’s a good excuse?”

“It was necessary!”

“It was necessary for it to be you punching that person, is that right?”

“Excuse me, lovebirds,” Becca’s voice reached you and you both turned to look at her as she leaned sideways to the entrance. “Have your fight later on, they’re getting restless.”

You ran a hand over your face.

“Alright,” you said. “So okay, when are we telling them?”

“My plate is already there and I’d rather if you did it right away,” Becca said, pointing back with her thumb. “They don’t look like they’ll stop asking what this dinner is about anytime soon.”

“You just don’t want mom to ask you about Leila,” Bucky told her and Becca shrugged her shoulders.

“I mean would it kill you to do something nice for me?” she asked, making him shake his head slightly. You bit back a smile and threw your shoulders back, trying to get rid of the tension in your body.

“Let’s get this over with,” you muttered more to yourself and made your way back to the table with Becca and Bucky following you.

“Good evening,” Bucky greeted everyone at the table with a smile. “Sorry I was late, it’s just…work.”

Becca went to sit down on her seat as you eyed your food, but stood beside Bucky, clenching and unclenching your fist just so that you could focus on something else other than the nervousness pulsing in your veins.

“Is everything alright?” Winnifred asked Bucky and he nodded his head.

“Oh yeah, two meetings clashed,” he lied, subtly rolling the sleeve of his shirt up. “There was a moment of chaos but it’s fixed.”

“So can we learn what this whole secrecy and emergency dinner is about now?” George said with a knowing smile and you stole a look at your father who looked almost impatient. Knowing them, every single person at the table except Becca thought Bucky and you were about to tell them you were dating, so you were sure that the news was going to be completely unexpected for all of them.

“Yeah,” you said, reminding yourself to smile as you leaned sideways to Bucky’s arm. “You can. Sorry about the secrecy, we just wanted it to be a surprise.”

Ian scoffed a small laugh.

“You staying in a hotel in his territory might have ruined that surprise,” he said and Bucky’s eyes narrowed but you elbowed him while your father gave Ian a warning glare, making him sit up straighter.

“So uh, it happened very recently,” you said, ignoring Ian. “And normally you would have heard beforehand.”

“For which I take full responsibility,” Bucky added with a smirk. “That’s on me.”

“I mean you know we’ve had this…strange dynamic for a while.”

“Ten years,” Becca muttered into her wine glass. “Not that anyone is counting.”

“But once we actually talked to each other, something happened,” you lied through your teeth, Bucky’s arm snaking around your waist as he nuzzled to the top of your head, making your heart skip a beat but you forced yourself to remember that it was all an act. Winnifred pressed a hand on her chest as if she was lost in her emotions while your father and George exchanged glances, both smiling slightly.

“And I hope that you’ll be happy for us,” you said and waited for a second, then cleared your throat. “Because we’re getting married.”

The impact of your words was immediate and very visible. Ian’s head shot up as Winnifred gasped in shock and your father’s eyes widened while George’s jaw dropped. Becca stifled a laugh, taking another sip of her wine as she leaned back in her seat.

“Married?!” Winnifred exclaimed as she jumped on her feet. “Oh thank God, this is the best news I could ever hope for!”

“Trust me mom, I was as surprised as you are,” Bucky said with a chuckle while Winnifred pulled you into a tight hug and your father tried to pull himself together.

“Married?” he repeated and you nodded when Winnifred pulled back to hug Bucky.

“Yeah.”

“That’s…uh—” your father stammered. “That’s wonderful news honey but you two have been dating for what? Two days?”

“Three days,” you said helpfully and Bucky hissed in a breath.

“I was going to get your permission, Arthur.”

“Why didn’t you?” your father asked him, looking him in the eye but Bucky didn’t look intimidated in the slightest.

“Oh come on Arthur, don’t be so traditional!” George said with a laugh. “They’re in love, and it’s not like they met three days ago. They’ve known each other their whole lives, I for one have been hoping for this to happen for almost ten years!”

“And we already know we want to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“Speaking of, where’s the ring?” Winnifred asked, making you and Bucky exchange glances before you turned to her.

Shit.

Of course he was supposed to have proposed with a ring.

“The ring!” you said. “Right, uh…Bucky?”

Bucky swallowed thickly and waved a hand in the air.

“The ring, that’s—that’s a funny story actually,” he said. “You see, we um—”

“My overly confident brother didn’t bother asking the best friend,” Becca cut him off airily, pointing at herself. “Surprise surprise; it was the wrong size. We went to the jewelers today to get it fixed, they said it’ll be ready within the week.”

Dear God, you loved Becca.

You subtly mouthed ‘thank you’ to her while George stood up to come closer to you.

“Congratulations son,” he said as he pulled him into a hug to slap him on the back. “You sure took your time. And Y/N, welcome to the family sweetheart.”

“Congratulations,” Ian said from where he was sitting and your father sighed, then stood up to hug you.

“We still need to talk about this,” he said. “But I’m very happy for you two.”

“Thanks dad,” you muttered as the waiters brought your food and you all sat down. You took your fork into your hand and George raised his glass.

“To happy couple!”

You and Bucky raised your glasses as well and your father took a sip of his drink, then leaned back in his seat.

“See, Y/N,” he said. “I know you’re still a bit angry at me but I told you. This right here will make you much happier than what we talked about earlier. That’s what matters.”

You arched a brow as Bucky turned to look at you better with a smirk and you stole a glance at him, a sly smile curling your lips as well.

Oh.

Of course your father naively believed that something as trivial as marriage could keep you from what you wanted. It was almost condescending at this point but you managed to hold back the retort, then clicked your tongue.

“Oh yeah,” you said, making Bucky chuckle. “I have a very clear idea of what’s actually important now, and I’ll make sure everyone else sees that as well.”

                                        *

When it was time to leave the restaurant, everyone was in a wonderful mood. Winnifred had so many ideas about the wedding, and as far as you could tell, your father had gotten over the annoyance of Bucky not having asked for his permission.

“So, are you coming home?” he asked you as George and Winnifred’s car drove off and you looked at Bucky who was talking to Becca by her car.

“Maybe later,” you said with a shake of your head. “Me and Bucky have things to talk about, so…”

Your father hummed.

“Alright,” he said. “What do you say we grab lunch tomorrow then?”

You thought for a moment, then shifted your weight.

“Sure, why not?”

“Good,” he said and hugged you. “You know I don’t like it when we fight.”

You pursed your lips together. “I know, I know...”

“I’ll see you tomorrow honey, please be careful,” he said and got in the car while Ian seemed to be in a deep discussion with Ryan. Ryan’s gaze found you over Ian’s shoulder and you offered him a small smile, then turned your head when you heard Becca say your name.

“Y/N are we meeting tomorrow?”

“Yeah after lunch,” you answered. “I’ve just promised my dad I’d have lunch with him, so…”

She nodded. “Okay, I’ll text you then?”

“Sounds great!” you said as she got into her car and the driver closed her door before getting into the driver’s seat. You looked into your purse, then let out a groan when you couldn’t find your phone.

“Great,” you muttered and made your way into the restaurant, the waiter stopping in his tracks the moment he saw you.

“Ma’am?”

“Hi again, I left my phone at the table,” you told him with a small laugh and he nodded.

“I’ll get it for you right away,” he said and went inside, then in a minute he was back with your phone. “Here.”

“Thank you so much,” you said. “Have a nice night!”

“You too ma’am,” he said and you left the restaurant again, then frowned as soon as you saw Ian talking to Bucky by his car while Ryan waited with Ian’s other bodyguards close by. You took a step towards them but neither of them seemed to notice you, and judging by the stern look in Bucky’s eyes, it wasn’t because they were having a fun conversation.

“…And that’s what she wants in case she didn’t tell you,” Ian said and Bucky narrowed his eyes at him.

“I know that.”

Ian shook his head slightly. “Don’t get me wrong, but—”

“Let me stop you right there Ian,” Bucky said, glaring daggers at him. “You’re not going to say anything that I might get wrong about the woman I love.”

Your stomach did a happy flip but you quickly frowned at yourself. It was just Bucky selling this whole idea that you were in love; it wasn’t as if you and he could ever fall in love or anything.

Even the thought of it was absolutely absurd.

You cleared your throat to announce you were there and they both turned to look at you.

“Hey babe,” Bucky said. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” you said without even sparing a glance at Ian as the driver opened the car door for you and you got in with Bucky following you suit. You massaged your temples, then leaned your head back when the driver started the car.

“You okay?” Bucky asked and you gritted your teeth, crossing your arms over your chest.

“The way my dad talks to me…” you muttered and Bucky scoffed a dry laugh.

“I know,” he said. “Trust me, I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” you rasped out. “George never underestimated you or replaced you with another heir.”

That made him pause for a moment, a dark shadow crossing his eyes before he took a deep breath.

“No worries Charm,” he said. “He won’t get to underestimate you again once you get that crown.”

You felt a small smile curl your lips as you turned your gaze to the city lights outside, then heaved a sigh.

FICS:

corrupting an angel

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