As the lights dim, and the screen begins to flash with the names and film clips of the incredible nominees for the category, names of directors that you’re beyond honored to be listed amongst. 

No matter the outcome, you’ll always be honored to have been given the chance to be here tonight, to finally be living your dream and making films for the world to see. 

“And the Oscar goes to…”

You already have a name picked out in mind for who you think it’s going to be, the name of an individual far more deserving, a film so beautiful– 

The name that’s read out isn’t the name you had selected in your head, no.

It’s yours. 

The cheering and applause throughout the venue rings in your ears as you stand shakily to your feet, glancing around the thousands of actors, producers, directors, thousands of celebrities clapping for you. 

Your lips turn up in the brightest of smiles you think yourself capable of, all while tears begin pooling in the corners of your eyes, falling down the planes of your cheeks as you softly laugh to yourself. 

You won. You. 

Your boyfriend, Steve, stands up next to you as you continue to take in the moment, the world feeling as though it’s slowed nearly to a stop. You meet his eyeline, laughing softly in your shock as the smile on his face mirrors yours. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in for a tight hug as he whispers in your ear, “Congratulations, baby. I knew you could do it.” 

Your tears only threaten to worsen upon hearing his words of praise. Pulling back, his gaze finds yours again as he nods towards the stage. “Go get your award. You earned it.”

The applause doesn’t stop as you make your way down the aisle towards the short staircase leading to the stage, doesn’t stop even as your fingers wrap around the cold golden award as it’s handed to you. You find yourself hugging the presenter, as well, before the clapping finally ceases and you’re left standing in front of the mic. 

Thousands of people sit in the auditorium in front of you, millions more watching you from the comfort of their homes on the other side of the cameras. 

The whole world is watching. 

“Wow, I hardly even know where to start,” you begin with a soft laugh, looking at the Oscar statuette you now hold, the one you earned with years of hard work and dedication. You bring one free hand to quickly wipe the tears from your face before looking back up at the audience and continuing. “It’s an honor to be standing up here. Even to have been nominated for this award is a dream come true. As you all know, this is my first nomination, and to have won tonight is almost inconceivable. 

“I have so many people to thank: the wonderful cast and crew of Rendezvous, the hundreds of people that made this film possible; my dear friends and family, who have supported me every step of the way, ever since I was young and started telling people that this was my life’s dream. Thank you for giving me the courage to work towards my goals, even when the rest of the world told me I couldn’t.”

As you speak, your voice begins to shake, tears welling up in your eyes once more as you look out at the amazing crowd in front of you. 

“Thank you for helping me get to this point. And most of all, I’d like to thank my incredible boyfriend, Steve, for being there after all the long days of filming, all the good and bad moments when I didn’t know how well the film was going to fare, when I didn’t know if we’d even have the green light to go to theaters. Thank you for everything, Steve. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

It's at that moment when the play-off music begins to ring in your ears, and you’re reminded that you don’t have all night to keep rambling. 

“I guess that’s my cue,” you joke, “But truly, thank you all. Thank you to the Academy, and thank you for giving me the best night of my life. Thank you.” 

As you smile out at the crowd and begin to step back from the microphone, the applause begins again as you make your way back to your seat, now holding the most important achievement of your life in your hands in the form of this gold Oscar award. 

And yet, you tell yourself, this is just the beginning of a long line of wins. This may be the height of your career thus far, but you’re just getting started. You have so many more stories to share with the world. 

Everything is finally falling into place for you. 

~~~

One year later, and the novelty of it all still hasn’t worn off. One year of being proclaimed one of the best new directors in the industry, one year of interviews and applause and praise for your breakthrough film that finally put you in the spotlight.

Of course, the fame comes with its criticisms, too. Critics picking apart your work, claiming your film has no true value, claiming you copied someone else. People all over the world post hate comments from behind a screen, making false claims about everything you’ve done wrong and why you were the worst pick for the Oscar win the year prior.

None of it matters to you, though. None of it can even touch you now that you’ve signed a contract to create your next film with one of the largest, most well-known motion picture studios in the world, Piston Pictures. 

For as long as you can remember, Piston Pictures has been at the forefront of the film realm. With a wide range of films from family-friendly to horror, the reach of their studio is worldwide. Working with Piston is a film director’s dream come true. 

It’s most definitely your dream come true, you think, as you take in the vibrancy of the movie set as everyone buzzes around. Across the room, the camera crew puts together their set up, tripods and fancy cameras and microphones being put into place. The set designers run around asking the construction crew for the million different changes you’ve requested, and your agent, Sam, stands somewhere near the exit talking to the stage manager. 

After the immense success of Rendezvous, you’re nervous about this film. You’ve finally begun to make a name for yourself, finally positioned yourself just right in the industry in order to get to where you are now. You couldn’t be more excited. 

That doesn’t mean you don’t have crazy impostor syndrome, though. 

Your teenage years were characterized by your obsession with making short films, casting your friends and family in each one, repeatedly. The infatuation never did pass; you knew exactly what you wanted to do when you were asked to declare a major on your college applications: Film. 

It took years of making indie films before one of your films finally got recognized in Hollywood’s spotlight, with the immense success of Rendezvous. 

Now, you’re here, in a real studio with film cameras larger than you’ve ever seen before and a budget so huge that it should be illegal. It’s a strange feeling to be so excited and so out of place at the same time. 

“There she is,” you hear from behind you. “LA’s best director.” 

You turn to look at Bucky as he approaches, his voice completely unmistakable from any other. 

“There he is, my star actor,” you reply. “What are you doing here? You know filming doesn’t start for another two weeks.”

“Had to come see how it was looking before we got started,” he responds, placing his hands gingerly on his hips and glancing around at the same scene you’ve been watching for the past few minutes. 

“My team spent a lot of time working around your busy schedule to make this movie happen, and now you’re telling me you got free time?” you quip back with a laugh. “You just trying to give me a run for my money?”

“Maybe,” he smiles back, flashing his teeth and bright eyes as he softly bumps your elbow with his own. “Don’t tell me you’re not happy to see me, huh?”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, all the while laughing at his audacity. In the past few weeks working with him during script reading sessions, you’ve gotten to know him pretty well. Particularly, you’ve learned that he’s a charmer to his core. 

He’s been the life of the party the whole time, lighting up the room with each and every smile that crosses his face. His energy is electric, and his talent is unlike any you’ve seen in a long time. 

“Makes me wonder if we could have begun filming earlier,” is all you say, continuing to assess the state of affairs within the building, looking for any flaws that don’t align with your requests. 

That’s another problem with suddenly being on a set like this: before, you would have forgiven any minor imperfections. You would work with them, deal with issues as they came up and find a new vision as the situation called for it.

But now, you’re on another level. You have no choice but for everything to be perfect now; there can’t be a single flaw, not a single design choice that you wouldn’t defend or have an explanation tied into the plot. The world is watching. Criticizing.

Nothing can go wrong. 

Bucky notices the narrowing of your eyes, the way your voice trails off at the end of your last sentence as he loses your attention to the chaos happening in front of you.

“Are you excited? To start filming, I mean?” he asks, holding his gaze to your side profile where you continue to stare at a painter a few meters away. 

“Of course,” you mutter, biting your knuckle, still ultra-focused on whatever the painter is doing that you don’t look over at him. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I have to–”

With that, you run across the room and away from him to speak with the painter. 

He swallows and resigns himself to leave. 

He’ll try again in a few days. 

~~~

“What the hell are you doing?” you boom as you enter one of the newer sets, the last one to be completed before filming starts in a week. “Get down from there!”

Bucky turns to look at you as you storm towards him, where he stands on a ladder, holding a hammer in one hand and a nail in the other. “What? I’m just helping the crew, thought I would contribute–”

“If you fall and injure yourself, I don’t have a lead anymore!” you emphasize, waving around the clipboard in your hand as your arms flail about in front of you in your frustration. “Or worse, if you injure your face. Then I really don’t have a lead anymore, and you don’t have a career anymore!” 

He scoffs at that, setting the hammer down on the top of the ladder and beginning to step down. “Are you saying that I owe my entire career to my looks?”

You give him a knowing look, and externally, he chuckles. 

Internally, he’s elated to discover that you find him attractive.

“You know it’s because you’re attractive, so don’t give me that bullshit. Now, please, you may escort yourself out,” you urge him, waving your hands in the direction of the exit. “I’ll see you Monday morning!”

“What, you don’t want me here? Is it because I’ll distract you too much with my good looks?” he teases.

“No, it’s because I don’t want you trying anything funny that might compromise your ability to show up and do your actual job on Monday morning! Now, shoo! Goodbye!”

He’s never been so pleased and simultaneously displeased to be kicked off of a set.

“What if I promise to stay off of any ladders in the vicinity?” he retorts, a good compromise in his opinion. 

You get to protect your star, and he gets to stay here and keep talking to you for as long as you’ll entertain him. 

“You stay off any ladder and you don’t touch anything without my explicit consent, deal?” you suggest. 

A smile passes his face.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Surprisingly, Bucky seems to listen to you. He manages to stay out of trouble, for the most part, despite the fact that he continues to pester you every five minutes. 

“I have a joke for you.” 

“What if, for this scene–”

“You picked the right actor for your film. You’re gonna be a box office hit because of your incredible choice, picking me. The fans are going to eat it up.” 

He’s a typical twenty-something year old man, if not a little overzealous. The overconfidence and charm fits, you think, as you continue to laugh through your frustration with his desperate need for your attention. 

What Bucky fails to realize is that you’re busy, that you’re trying to make sure everything is perfect. Sure, he’s young and new to the field. His credentials speak for themselves; his performance in the recent Netflix hit show No Questions Asked was a stunning mix of raw talent and devoted dedication to his craft. When the show came out shortly after your Oscar win and the promise of your next movie under the Piston name, you knew you had to have Bucky Barnes in your film. 

With acting skills as beautiful as his, a little cockiness is worth putting up with. 

But not when you’re actively trying to ignore him and finish a million different tasks before Monday morning. 

When you try to tell him as such, specifically that he needs to find a corner and sit in it, the only response you get is the one you should have expected. 

“That wasn’t in the deal I agreed to.” 

You simply roll your eyes and continue running around like a chicken with your head cut off, Bucky hot on your tail everywhere you go. He proves useful whenever you tell him to fetch you water or a meal. If he wasn’t such a great actor, he would make an excellent personal assistant. 

The hours bore on without your conscious knowledge of it, the time flying by as you finish ensuring each potted plant is in its place and any and every stage light works properly. Bucky’s standing behind you, joking about how much of a control freak you are, and how he knows everything is going to be fine because he’s here. Yet as you begin to retort back in equal sarcastic fervor, your phone begins to vibrate in your back pocket. You’re shocked at how late it’s gotten as the time stares back at you from the screen. 

“Hi, Steve, baby. What’s up?” you ask, slipping your phone between your head and your shoulder while adjusting a framed piece of art on the wall. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be home in… I’m not sure. Probably a few more hours.” 

The conversation ends shortly thereafter, and upon slipping the phone back into your pocket, you begin to address Bucky again. “Alright, enough calling me a control freak, just go stand a few feet away and tell me if this picture is straight on the wall.”

For the first time in hours, there’s no response when you speak into the void. No snarky comment, no attempt to charm you. Nothing. 

When you turn around, he’s gone. 

“Sam, where the hell did he go?” you call out across the room, putting your hands up in front of you in confusion. Sam simply returns your inquiry with a shrug of his shoulders and an unsure look on his face before turning back to his own tasks. 

It’s weird, you think. Maybe something came up. 

At least you can trust he’ll show up bright and early on Monday morning. 

~~~

When you arrive Monday morning, you’re the only one who doesn’t manage to show up on time. 

Your stars, Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanoff, have found their chairs and are chatting away. Your supporting actors, Sharon Carter, Peter Parker, and Wanda Maximoff, are wandering around one of the main sets and practicing their lines for one of the scenes you intend on shooting today. 

Sam gives you a look, confused and mildly agitated at your lateness, and you begin apologizing to everyone in earshot. It’s entirely unlike you, you tell everyone. You planned on arriving hours earlier, ordering donuts for the cast and crew–

Your words are ignored when Natasha stands from her chair to approach and interrupts you.

“What’s that on your finger?” she asks with intrigued excitement in her tone. 

You look down at your left hand and can’t help but smile wide. You begin to look back up at her and open your mouth to speak, but before you say anything, Sam asks you, “Steve proposed?” 

And if all eyes weren’t on you before, they sure are now. 

“Yeah, it was so sudden,” you explain as your cast and main crew members begin crowding around you, looking at the rock on your finger. “It happened last night. That’s why I’m late, I’m so sorry–”

“Don’t be sorry!” Nat assures you. “Congratulations!” 

“Thank you, thank you,” you begin to repeat over and over and the congratulations continue coming in from each and everyone. 

Well, at least nobody is angry at you for your lack of punctuality this morning. 

“Alright, alright. Let’s see, what’s all this, then,” Bucky jokes, taking your hand in his and bringing the ring closer to his face to look at it. The rest of the crowd begins to disperse as Bucky hems and haws as he inspects the ring, a look on his face that you can’t quite place. “It’s pretty,” he finally settles on. “Congrats.” 

“Thank you,” you tell him, suddenly feeling awkward as he avoids meeting your eyeline. 

“Alright, everyone,” you say loudly, clearing your throat and ridding of the remaining awkwardness within your voice. “Let’s get started.” 

As everyone begins to get into places, you find your very own director’s chair right next to the cameraman. 

You’ve done this before. It’s not like this is your first film; you’ve already won an Oscar, for Chrissakes. 

It feels different this time. You’ve been working towards this for your whole life, working for a chance to be in a studio as massive as this one. Working to be recognized as a real director in the industry. 

You’ve finally been given your chance at Piston. You cannot screw it up now. 

Taking your seat, you reach into your purse for your annotated script, and you flip to the page of the scene you’re filming first. “As we all know, we’re starting with scene number four. Natasha, Sharon, you’re going to enter from stage left… Can we get the extras in here? They’re already briefed, right, Sam?” 

“Yes,” he assures you. “I’m not your assistant director, you know. This isn’t my job.” 

“You could be. All you have to do is ask,” you tell him with a smile. 

Another eyeroll. 

“Alright, Bucky. When you enter, remember you’re supposed to be nearly erratic. Just like that one scene in No Questions Asked,” you tease. It’s supposed to be a joke, but for some reason, he doesn’t laugh. 

“You got it, boss,” he says, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the crew place the extras in the scene, not looking in your direction.

No worries. Maybe he’s channeling his energy for the scene. You brush it off and move on, making a few more requests and reminding Natasha of specific tips for the scene before remembering what Bucky said to you on Friday. Control freak.

Maybe you should loosen up. You have plenty of time to get this right. 

“Alright, are we ready?” you ask, and you get a collective of head nods from around the set as everyone quiets down. “Blank Boxes, day one. Here we go.” 

Sam, the self-proclaimed not assistant director, begins to call out the typical prerecording cues. 

You take a deep breath once it’s your turn.

“Action!”

~~~

The first month on set goes incredibly well, and you couldn’t be more grateful. 

Clearly, you’ve chosen the best possible cast and crew for this project. Everyone’s support and dedication to the craft have made it a wonderful atmosphere to be in, and while you still have another month to go, you’re already dreading the day that filming ends. You’re beyond excited to oversee the editing of the film, to watch the marketing promotionals go out, and to actually release the film for the world to watch. There’s so much to look forward to. 

You don’t know what you’ll do without the community you’ve built here, or without Bucky’s antics keeping morale up. 

“I’m here with the one and only director of Rendezvous on the set of our new movie, Blank Boxes,” Bucky nearly yells, holding his phone up above his head as you stand behind him, both of you staring into the camera as he goes live for his five million Instagram followers. “Filming is going incredibly well, and we’re all so excited for this movie to come out. Don’t know when we’ll be hitting theaters, so don’t get your hopes up, but… madam director, do you have anything to say to the viewers?” 

“Thanks everyone for tuning in! Someone tell Bucky here that we’re supposed to be working right now instead of taking extra long lunches!” you say with a perfectly innocent smile on your face, and Bucky laughs.

“Alright, guys, you heard her. That’s my cue to get back to work!” 

Once Bucky successfully ends the Instagram live, hundreds of viewers flooding his comments with instructions to do as the boss says, he can’t help himself. 

“What, you don’t like the viewers?” he laughs. “They’re just excited for our film.” 

“Knowing you, you’ll accidentally leak some important spoiler,” you joke. “Thank you for getting the hint, though.” 

It’s not the middle of the filming day, and Bucky isn’t taking a long lunch. You’ve just wrapped up for today and Bucky is about to walk with you to your car.  

“Yeah, ‘course. I like to think I know you well enough by now,” he claims.

“Oh, really? You think?” you tease back. “What’s my favorite color?” 

“Red. Easy.” 

“Not even close,” you laugh as you finish packing up your purse for the day, hitching it over your shoulder. You finally look directly at him as you comment, “I bet you know Sharon’s favorite color, though.” 

His face immediately morphs into one of confusion and disgust. “Sharon? What are you talking about?”

“Well, I’ve seen you two laughing and flirting. Are you telling me I’m just seeing things?” you ask as you begin to walk towards the exit. 

“Yeah, you’re crazy. I’m not… I’m not into her like that, or anything. Seriously,” he tells you with the most sincere tone you think you’ve ever heard from him. “Wait. Does this mean that she thinks I’m interested in her?” 

Instead of responding, you simply flash him a pitiful smile, and he immediately groans. 

“Fuck. I’ll fix it, I swear,” he laughs. 

“Good,” you tell him as you approach your car. “Alright, Barnes. Go home. Enjoy your evening. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

“Goodnight, director. Get home safe.” 

Shortly thereafter, you begin to drive off, rolling down your window and waving to him as you do so.

“There’s no one like you!” he yells out as you drive out of the studio parking lot. He winces to himself as he considers his choice to yell after you, immediately regretting it. 

He stands there for a few minutes, unmoving. What is he doing? You’re engaged. He would be better off entertaining Sharon’s flirting than trying to charm you to no end. 

But Sharon isn’t you. She doesn’t have the same careless aura you do, doesn’t have the same put-togetherness that you do. 

Nobody does. 

~~~

That Saturday evening, you and Sam find yourselves walking around the selection of food trucks near the pier. The scent of salty ocean air fills your nose as you each place an order of nachos with a crisp beer to go with it, telling yourself that it’s okay that you’re eating so unhealthy, that you’ll go on a diet once filming has finished. 

“I’m just saying, that Peter Parker kid has got some untapped talent. I mean, seriously, who even is he? Where did you find him?” Sam asks you as you find a bench to sit at, food in hand. 

“I have my devious ways. Ways that I would be more than happy to teach you, if you agreed to become my assistant director for real,” you press, and he just shakes his head in exasperation. 

“I’m serious, Sam! I know you’re my agent, but honestly, you have the eye for directing. I know you do, you proved as much on the set of Rendezvous.” 

“I can’t, and you know it,” he asserts. “I have one job, and that is to help manage you, not your projects.” 

“And yet, clearly, managing me means managing my projects as well! You know my vision, and you’ve already been my assistant director on Rendezvous, and basically on this one, too.” 

Sam sighs and stares down at the table for a minute before looking back up at you. 

“Would I love to be a director? Yes. Would I love to have my name under yours as the assistant director on the project? Yes. But I’ve invested everything I have in your success, not my own.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. 

“I care about your success, Sam,” you assure him. “So, there’s no pressure, but please consider it. Please.” 

Another pause. 

“It’s already too late to make any official changes on Blank Boxes. That’s something that I, your agent, already know. But we’ll see what happens in the future and we can revisit this conversation later.” 

A small smile passes your face. You’ve gotten through to him, even if only a little bit, it’s a start. 

“Now, tell me. When’s the wedding?” he asks, digging into his food once and for all. 

“I don’t know. I’ve been too busy with filming to even have a serious talk with Steve about it, but… I’ve thought about it. I don’t know when we would even have the time to start planning,” you admit. “We’re both too busy.” 

“That sounds like an excuse to me,” Sam retorts. “If you want to seal the deal, you find a way one way or another.” 

“Says you. When’s the last time you actually committed to one of the many men that grace your presence in the middle of the night?” 

He grumbles under his breath, to which you laugh. 

“Exactly. It will happen when we’re ready for it to,” you laugh. 

The both of you sit in silence for a few minutes as you work on your food and take in your surroundings. There’s so many people walking about, none of them who even recognize you, to your blessing. You can’t imagine being an actor and never being able to show your face in public without being ambushed.

You look around you to take in the sights: the beautiful moon shining above you, the water beneath you appearing black under the dark night sky. The fluorescents of the food trucks that line the pier light up the area enough to light the way for the numerous people that make their way up and down the path. Off in a secluded corner, you see a woman who looks like a younger version of yourself sharing a bowl of the same nachos you’re eating with a man who looks like her father. 

Normalcy.

It’s nice, you think, to be able to work in the industry and do what you love without being noticed everywhere you go. The benefits of being known for your name and your works, the things most important to you. 

Your name and your films are the most important things you have in this industry, and you owe them all your gratitude for the opportunity to be able to direct your movie under Piston. 

You have to remember to thank yourself for working so hard and giving yourself those opportunities. 

“We have a great crew. This movie is going to be incredible,” you say softly as you stare into the distance. 

“It already is incredible. There’s no one like you, don’t forget that.” 

Those words bring you back into the moment. 

“Have you been hanging out with Bucky, or something?” you tease, to Sam’s confusion. “It’s just, that’s something he said to me the other day. About… me.”

“And what about him? Would you say that about him?” Sam asks, and you don’t catch the intonation or genuine curiosity in his tone when he asks it. 

“Of course I would. His acting is out of this world, as we’ve already seen. He delivers lines like no one else, shows emotion–” you speak, but you’re soon interrupted.

“No, no. I mean him. Not his acting. Him.” 

You blink once. Twice. 

“What are you implying?” you question, your eyes narrowing as your head tilts ever so slightly. 

He shrugs as he sips his beer across from you. “Nothing. You just seem close, is all.” 

“He’s a friend. He’s my star,” you remind him. “Him and Natasha both. They’re the ones bringing the movie to life. And for that, I’m so grateful.” 

“And me, of course,” Sam teases, and you laugh. 

“And you, of course. What would I do without you?” you agree. 

“You’d be in a lot of trouble without me, is what would happen. Hey, by the way, Piston wants to know who you have in mind for the soundtrack.”

“Oh! Yes! I’m glad you asked. I know a guy who, funny enough, has the same name as our star. He’s a producer, he’s going to ask some of his top clients and see who might be interested.”

“Barnes Records? How did you score that?” he questions, a shocked look on his face.

“It’s really easy to make friends once you're an Oscar winner, Sam,” you joke, and he shakes his head as he laughs. 

“Touché.”

~~~

Watching a film come to life in front of your eyes might be one of the most beautiful experiences you’ll ever get to have in this life. Watching your characters act out the scene right in front of you is surreal, the portrayal of a vision in your mind being pieced together in real life. The cameras and the lighting and all of it simply fades out of view as the actors become the character they’re embodying, and the story is real, even if only for a few minutes during a scene. 

It’s as though it’s just you and your story, secluded in the deepest, most imaginative parts of your mind that no one else can find. You watch plotlines unfold as though it’s happening in real time as you come up with it. 

That is, until Bucky yells, “Line!” and the illusion is broken.

“The line is one word, Bucky. Just one,” you groan, bowing your head and rubbing your temples in frustration as you’re brought back into the real world. “How can you forget it?”

“Well, I just–”

“Forget it. Let’s break for lunch,” you announce to the room as you stand from your chair and toss your script onto the seat as you walk away from it. 

You sigh in frustration as you push the doors to the set open, letting in the natural light. A groan passes your lips as you shield your eyes from the sunshine that threatens your ability to see. You begin to make your way towards the catering trailer in search of much-needed food and coffee. 

“Hey!” Bucky calls out, “Wait up!”

Reluctantly, you pause where you’re at and wait for him to catch up to you. He hurriedly jogs towards you, and there’s a look of concern on his face when he approaches. “What’s wrong?” he probes.

“I just didn’t sleep last night, Bucky,” you tell him as you try to look up to meet his eyeline without letting the sun blind you in the process. “I’m tired. That’s all. Not all of us are as young as you are.” 

He laughs at that. “What are you talking about? You don’t look a day over 21.” 

You roll your eyes and begin walking again, Bucky in tow, as always. 

“Haven’t been 21 in a long time, Bucky. Now, what do you need?” you inquire, hoping to convey your disinterest in continuing a conversation right now. Your head is pounding, and you’re most certainly dehydrated. 

“I just wanted to make sure that you’re alright,” he says gently before opening the door to the trailer for you. It makes you feel even shittier for your attitude towards him. 

“Yeah, Bucky, I’m alright. Promise,” you return with a soft smile. “Let’s grab lunch.”

You manage to pull yourself together as you and Bucky eat your meals on a shady bench nearby. His jokes, as always, manage to uplift your mood despite how terrible they may be. 

“You know, I’m surprised you’re single, Bucky. Or, let me guess, you’d rather keep your options open,” you tease of him, and he laughs softly, his head dropping to look down at his lap.

“Yeah. Something like that,” he mumbles. “How are things with… Steve, right?”

“Oh, yeah, they’re great,” you say with a smile on your face. “I’ve been too busy with the movie and he’s been too busy with his company recently for us to be able to work on wedding planning, but it will happen eventually. We have all the time in the world.”

“Right, right,” he returns. “Is he… funny?”

If you were any wiser to the situation, you’d see what Bucky was doing. But you’re not, so you don’t.

“Not really. He’s very soft-spoken, I would say. Not the joking type.” 

“Do you like the joking type?” he questions. 

“I like Steve,” you assert. 

He hums in response, and the conversation falls flat. 

“Well, what about Sharon?” you inquire, and he looks confused.

“What about Sharon?”

“Are you sure you’re not interested in her? She seems like she would be a good pick for you,” you remind him, to his dismay.

“I told you, I’m not–” he begins, but right at that moment, she approaches where you’re seated.

“Hey, guys,” Sharon says. “What’s up?”

“Hey! We were just talking about you!” you say with a devious smirk on your face before looking over at Bucky. “We were just saying how–”

“–how incredible your monologue was earlier. It was great, really,” Bucky interrupts you, looking over at you in shock before diverting his gaze to where Sharon stands in front of you. 

Sharon harshly glares you down for a second or two before turning back to Bucky, her face softening. “Why, thank you! Bucky, do you have a minute?” she asks. 

“Sure,” he says reluctantly, standing to go with her. He turns back, telling you he’ll see you when lunch break is over, and you see the reluctant look in his eyes. You can’t help but laugh to yourself as he walks away with her, thoroughly enthused by how uninterested he appears to be by her avid interest in him.

As your amusement dies down, however, you can’t help but wonder what the hell that look was that she gave you. 

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. It’s clear she likes him; she probably hates how much attention he’s giving to you. 

She’ll get over it. 

~~~

You should have expected that with a crew as incredible as the one you were blessed with, you would finish filming ahead of schedule. You would have anticipated finishing a few days early, at most. 

Not two whole weeks early. 

Despite the fact that it proves the talent and dedication of your team to be able to perform well above the expected standards, it’s a difficult pill to swallow that it’s going to end sooner than planned. 

That you’re going to have to say goodbye to everyone sooner than you thought. 

You watch with tears in your eyes as Bucky and Natasha act out their final scene, one of the first takes of the scene, and you already know it’s perfect. You wonder if they’re feeling exactly what you’re feeling, knowing that the experience is coming to an end, and they’re putting all of their own bittersweet emotions into the final fight between their characters. 

The lines are spoken just as you pictured them in your head. Their blocking on set is just as instructed, and the tension between them is palpable. 

It’s utter perfection. 

Which means this part of the journey is about to conclude. 

Natasha speaks the last few words, the very end of the film, and… 

You have to compose yourself for a few moments after the last syllable is spoken before you can finally yell, “Cut!” 

You do your best to refrain from crying as you begin to speak again. 

“And that’s a wrap on Blank Boxes!”

Applause from all around you begins to fill your ears, an ode to the incredible acting of not only the scene that’s just concluded, but to the entire film. Your own hands begin clapping before you can tell them to, and you look over to Sam, who is already looking at you with a proud smile on his face. He reaches out and you lean in, letting him hug you as your tears begin to stain his shirt.

“Incredible. Absolutely incredible,” he whispers in your ear before letting you go, and you can’t help but smile back at him and bring both hands to your face before you look around the set. Everyone is clapping, still, but this time they’re looking at you. 

“To our incredible director!” Bucky yells out of nowhere, and your face flushes as the whole room begins to hoot and holler in honor of you. You. 

You wipe your nose before returning the sentiment, urging the congratulations elsewhere. “To our incredible cast and crew!” you yell, and the whole room erupts in cheer. 

It’s beautiful.

As you meet Bucky’s eyeline a few moments later, you see tears in his eyes, too. 

You knew he was a sentimental sap underneath all that sarcastic, boyish charm.

Standing from your chair, you begin to make your rounds, giving everyone hugs and saying your thank-yous for such an incredible production. You ensure everyone that you’re working on planning a gathering in the coming weeks to celebrate the wrap of filming and the movie’s transition into the editing period. And, of course, you’ll see everyone for a viewing once the film has been completed before it hits theaters. 

“Thank you for everything, Nat. I hope you know how amazing you are,” you say as you find your star actress and lean in for a hug. “The whole project would be nothing without you, you know.” 

“Don’t give me too much credit, now. We couldn’t have done it without a director as incredible as yourself,” she assures you, and the flattery makes you smile.

“You know, while I have you, I hear your sister works with the music producer that we’ve signed for the film! That guy with the same name as your co-star!” you comment gleefully, but her smile falls slightly as you speak. You begin to wonder if you’ve made a mistake as she doesn’t react as positively as you had hoped. 

“Yeah, he’s a great producer. My sister and I have been really estranged for a while now, though,” she admits to you. “Ever since she started working for… him. Well, they’re just busy, I assume. But if you want a high quality soundtrack, you’ve definitely gone to the right place,” she finishes with a soft smile. 

“Good, well, I hope so. Be prepared if we end up meeting with their team, though, yeah?” 

She nods gently. 

“Of course.” 

As you step away, you thank her once again for all of her hard work and dedication over the last few weeks, for being the only one who has never once forgotten her lines. 

You find the rest of the cast members, continuing your rounds and trying your best to thank everyone individually as the crowd eventually dies down. 

“Hey, you,” Bucky says as he finds you later on. “You finally have time to talk to me?” 

“Ha-ha, very funny. Of course I have time to talk to you,” you say with a soft smile, extending your arms out and bringing him in for a hug.

Bucky’s hug feels so welcoming and yet so bittersweet. You’ve developed a closer relationship with him than anyone else on set, and letting go of that is going to be difficult.

You know you’ve done it before. With Rendezvous, saying goodbye was even harder than it is now, solely for the fact that it was your first real film. At least this time, you’ve done it before, and you knew to prepare for the psychological torture that is letting go. 

Bucky Barnes has proved to be one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met despite his constant attempts to come off as anything but. 

“I’m gonna miss your horrible jokes, Bucky, you know that?” you admit as you pull away from the hug. “Shockingly enough.” 

“Well, I’m going to miss tormenting you constantly,” he replies. His voice is clearly straining as he tries to shove his emotions down and not let them show in his tone, but the attempt proves fruitless as a sad smile passes his face. 

“Don’t worry. I’m sure the next film set you work on will have a director willing to subject themselves to your sarcasm,” you laugh. 

For you, saying goodbye to Bucky is painful. He’s become a good friend, someone you’ve passed free time with and gotten to know quite well, divulging personal information and being met with nothing but understanding. 

For Bucky, saying goodbye to you is absolute torture. 

He knew from day one in the script reading room that he didn’t have a chance with you, that you were already taken in a happy and loving relationship. He knew that befriending you would only end in his own terrible heartbreak because you’re a good person. You would never even think of cheating on your partner, and he would never in a million years ask you to do so. He would never think of you so lowly. 

Yet for some reason, he couldn’t stop himself from being around you constantly. He couldn’t keep the distance he knew he needed to if he didn’t want to get too attached, if he didn’t want this to end in emotional turmoil. He just couldn’t stay away from you. 

And as was the result of his constant presence around you, he was always taunted with what he wanted but couldn’t have. That ring on your finger tortured him, putting up a barrier he knew he could never cross no matter how he desired to.  

You weren’t his. You belonged to someone else, and you always would. 

This was no one’s fault but his own. 

“Yeah, totally,” he replies, staring at your beautiful face, lips he wants to kiss but can’t, your hair he wants to run his fingers through but knows he’ll never be able to. 

You’re wrong, he thinks, but doesn’t say. There will never be another director, or anyone else for that matter, like you. 

You continue on in earnest, your sentimental side on full display as you tell him, “Bucky, I want you to know that I’ll always be here for you, okay? Day or night, no matter what you need, you can call me. Always. I mean that.” 

Those words not only cause his heart to shatter into a million pieces, but they run around in his head on repeat. Here for you. Day or night. 

Always. 

He wishes that was true. 

“Of course,” he forces out, clearing his throat as he does. “The same goes for you, seriously. I would drop everything for you if you asked.” 

You stand there, looking at each other for a few moments, each with the same thoughts in your head. 

I’m going to miss him. 

I’m going to miss her. 

But with entirely different reasons. 

“I think a few of us are going out tonight, if you want to join us,” he offers, one last ditch effort. “Could be fun to let loose.” 

You click your tongue and frown, to his displeasure. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m up for it tonight. But I’ll see you again soon at the cast party, yeah?” 

He shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up, he tells himself, as you give him one last hug and bid him adieu. 

“Go party until you pass out, Bucky. We’ll talk soon.” 

And with that, you let him go once and for all, walking away for the last time. 

He really should have known better. 

You should have, too.

~~~

Waking up the next morning is rough. It’s the first day in weeks that you’ve allowed yourself to oversleep, the sunlight passing through the cracks in the blinds as you continue to doze the morning away. 

Upon rising hours later than your usual, a low groan escapes from your throat as your slumber lets go of its hold of you. Your breathing grows heavier as your body adjusts to being awake and your hands come to your eyes to rub the sleep away. 

As you reach for the other side of the bed, you aren’t surprised that Steve is missing, given the fact that you allowed yourself to sleep in. You do, however, find yourself grumbling at his absence while you force yourself to sit up and accept that for the first time in forever, you have nowhere to be today. 

You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. 

Eventually, your feet do find the hardwood flooring below and you stand from bed with the goal of making coffee floating around in your head. The light pours in through the windows and your eyes struggle to adjust to the change. 

“Steve, are you home?” you call out as you press the start button on the coffee machine. When you receive no response, it doesn’t faze you. He’s equally as busy as you are; he likely went into the office today to take care of whatever fires need put out today. 

Once your coffee is finally ready, you take a sip, and life is suddenly good again. 

Coffee in hand, you make your way to the bathroom with the intention of showering. You don’t even get to set your mug down before your eyes catch on a bright yellow sticky note, reading the thick black Sharpie lettering that completely shocks you. 

We’re done, you cheating bitch 

You blink once, twice before the sentiment of his words truly hits you like a slap across the face. Cheating? Bitch? How dare he accuse you of something as horrible as adultery, with a sticky note no less, not even a conversation–

It’s pure luck that the mug you were sipping from doesn’t break when you slam it down on the bathroom counter, immediately stomping towards your bedroom to find your cell phone to call Steve. You have no idea what you’re even going to say to him as you’re filled with blinding rage at his audacity to do something like this. Even if it’s a prank, you don’t care. You are done with him, even if that’s the case, because how dare the man you’re supposed to marry do such a thing even in a joking manner? 

Despite that fact, you still pray that it is a prank, because how could he actually think you’d do anything of the sort?

You inadvertently rip the charging cord out of your phone as you pick it up from its seat on your bedside table. As the screen lights up, your lips part in mild shock, and your heart drops into your stomach. 

Hundreds of notifications flood the screen. Five missed calls from Bucky. Seven missed calls from Sam. A dozen DMs from various other friends and acquaintances on Instagram and Twitter, text messages that continue flooding in as you try to take it all in. 

Not a single one from Steve, you find, as you scroll through the last few hours of messages. It only makes you that much angrier as you find he hasn’t even the gall to text you, or call you, or even wake you up this morning. Just writing a note and leaving without a word? Who does that? 

Instead of dialing Steve, you open your text exchange with Sam. You don’t look at any of his messages, immediately calling him instead of bothering with reading what he’s texted you. 

The line connects within seconds. “What the fuck is going on, Sam?” you hiss, “Why did I wake up to a note from Steve saying we’re done and why the hell is my phone blowing up?” 

“I’m still trying to figure out the details, okay?” he replies. He’s clearly stressed and beyond frustrated, but managing to stay calm for your sake. “For some reason, there’s a rumor going around that you cheated on Steve. I am more than certain that you didn’t, but for formality’s sake, I have to ask–” 

You don’t even let him finish before you yell into the phone, “No! Obviously I didn’t cheat on Steve, Sam! Why the fuck would you even think that?” 

“Look, no judgement, okay? I just had to know–”

“No! I didn’t fucking cheat on fucking Steve, okay? Why the hell would anyone think that I did?” you scream in frustration. “Where did this come from? Who started it?” 

“Like I said, I’m still trying to iron out the details and pinpoint where this all came from. All I know is that the headlines are saying that you cheated on Steve with Bucky–”

“–Bucky?–”

“–and that Piston is really fucking pissed off that you’re suddenly taking so much heat.” 

You’re going to be sick, you think, as your stomach broils over with nausea.

“So, what? Are they–” you begin, having to clear your throat as it gets more difficult to speak as you suddenly feel the urge to cry, “Are they going to—what? What are they going to do? They’re not dropping me, are they? Because, Sam, seriously. I didn’t cheat on Steve, I would never, and if Piston drops me because they think I did…”

You trail off as the weight of the accusations truly hit you. 

The whole world thinks you’re a cheater, an adulterer. You’ve barely even gotten anywhere in the world; your career is just starting. You have so many more stories to tell, and now? 

“I’m getting cancelled, Sam,” you say lowly. “I’m being cancelled, and… It’s over. My life is over.” 

“Okay, alright. That’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think? Your life is not over,” he tries to reassure you, but it doesn’t do much to help ease the invisible noose around your neck. 

“But my career might be,” you say, your voice trembling as your tears begin to fall from your eyes. “My career might be over, Sam.”

He doesn’t say anything in response. The silence is the only answer you need. 

“Oh, god, I gotta go,” you say, hurriedly pulling the phone away from your ear and ending the call before you begin sobbing, ugly crying and wailing to absolutely nobody but yourself. 

How could this happen? Why would this happen? 

What are you supposed to do, knowing that this is all a lie? 

You bury your face in your pillow, curling yourself into a ball, and you let yourself cry and cry until you can’t cry anymore. You’re exhausted, emotionally drained, and you’ve barely been awake for an hour. 

But once you’ve let it all out, you have calls to make, shit to take care of. 

First on the list: Steve. 

The lack of any other type of communication from him boils your blood. How can he disrespect you like this, after spending so many years together? Have the years you spent together seriously meant so little, given you no ground to stand on? 

Clearly, your relationship must not have been as steady as you thought it was if something like a silly rumor mill ended it without a conversation. You hate thinking that it’s over, that it’s ended. You haven’t even properly broken up. 

But after about nine phone calls you make to Steve immediately being sent to voicemail, you realize that you’re not going to be given the chance to explain. You’re not going to be able to tell him you aren’t a cheater, and you certainly aren’t going to be able to properly break up with him. 

How dare he?

You finally give up after making one last phone call to his cell phone. There’s no point in continuing to waste your time when you’ve made more than enough effort. 

Besides, you likely have a whole shitshow going on right now on every social media platform known to man. 

The notifications continue flying in, news articles being posted by the top gossip blogs and tagging you in them all while your socials continue to blow up. Among them, one new incoming message stands out from the rest:

I’m so sorry, I seriously don’t know how to make this up to you, please tell me we can fix this

It’s from Bucky. As you absorb the contents of his message, you simultaneously begin remembering what Sam told you previously. It’s not just that your fiancé and the rest of the world think you’re a cheater; they think you cheated with Bucky Barnes. 

They probably think that you and Bucky had an affair while filming, and now that you’re wrapped, the secret has gotten out. 

All you ever did was befriend him, how could this rumor possibly have even started? 

You realize then that Bucky’s message doesn’t reflect that he’s equally as confused, or equally as upset, or trying to get to the bottom of this. He’s sorry. 

Which means he did something to lead the world to believe you’re a cheater. 

Without hesitating for another second, you open your messages with Bucky, and see that he’s texted you at least 10 times over the last few hours. Variations of, I’m sorry, call me, and please don’t hate me. You do as he’s requested and press the button to call him, which he answers immediately. 

“Bucky, what the fuck is going on?” you hiss into the phone, suddenly overtaken with rage amidst your confusion. “What the hell happened?” 

“I am so, so sorry. I swear on my life, I never knew something like this could happen, I didn’t even realize–” 

You don’t allow him to continue rambling on before interjecting. 

“I asked you what happened. Tell me what happened, now,” you order him. 

“Okay, alright. Okay. So, basically, last night, I went out to one of those bars in downtown Hollywood with the rest of the cast. Everyone was there, and we were talking about how fun the last few weeks have been, how much we’re going to miss being around this group of people. That kind of thing, you know how it is. Like I said, we were at the bar, so I was drinking. A lot more than I probably should have.” 

He takes a brief pause, and it takes all your efforts to withhold yourself from yelling at him to get to the damn point already. 

“So I was drunk, and I was feeling really… sentimental, I guess you could say. And I really have no excuse for this, and I don’t know why, but basically–”

“Come on, Bucky.”

“–I kind of mentioned what you had said to me. About calling. Any time of the day… or night.”

Your jaw ticks as your eyes fall shut in exasperation. A deep breath in, and out. 

“So you deliberately told everyone that we work with, that I told you that you could call me at nighttime. Is that what you said? Why did you even mention it, Bucky? I told you that as a friend, because I trusted you, and I care about you! Not as a fucking invitation for sex!” 

“I know, I swear. I knew exactly what you meant when you said it. I promise you. I just…”

“You just what, Bucky? Why the fuck did you say it at all?’

“Because!” he yells back at you through the phone, his resolve breaking. “Because I was drunk, and I was upset that I wasn’t going to have the chance anymore to see you every day! And, yes. I insinuated that I liked you, okay? I’ll admit it. But I knew it was stupid, because you’re engaged, and I never meant any harm by it. I swear to you.” 

After a few seconds, you drop your phone on the sheets next to you and bury your face in your hands. What are you supposed to do with this? What are you supposed to do with the fact that Bucky might have ruined your entire career with one drunken mistake, and that this was entirely avoidable? 

What are you supposed to do with the guilt eating you alive inside for never recognizing his stupid little crush on you, for continuing to be friendly with him and for being the reason that he’s hurting? 

You pick up the phone once more and begin speaking again.

“Bucky, I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I ever… led you to believe–” you try, but he chuckles in embarrassment and speaks before you manage to continue. 

“Just forget about that part, okay? It’s fine. Let’s just worry about making sure this all blows over and that we can handle this sooner than later.” 

You nod yes despite knowing he can’t see you. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, umm… Well. First of all, we need to worry about Piston. We need them to know that it’s just a rumor, and make sure they know we have a plan to fix this.”

“Do you have a plan to fix this?” he asks. 

“No. I don’t even know where to start. But I suppose we need to start with finding out who overheard you in this bar and decided to take your words out of context and start this false rumor.” 

After a moment, you hear him groaning, “Ahh, fuck.” 

“What?” you question. You’re almost scared to hear the answer. 

“Sharon. Sharon was there last night, listening to all this.”

You blink a few times as the words settle in. 

“You said this in front of Sharon, knowing that she was interested in you?” you reply as your voice grows louder once more. “You said some shit like this knowing that she wouldn’t be happy? Don’t you remember–”

“–I know, I’m sorry–” 

“–how she looked at me whenever we would eat alone together, or anything of the sort?”

“I’m sorry. Listen, I’ll call her–”

“Don’t,” you yell harshly into the phone, “Do not call her. Do not speak to her. Don’t speak to anyone until I tell you to. I will take care of this, understood?” 

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. 

“I’m really sorry,” he whispers. “I never meant for any of this to happen.” 

Your heart nearly melts. He sounds so sad, so upset. You know that this is all an accident, that it’s really not his fault if he’s not the one that started the rumor. You know with almost complete certainty who did start the rumor, and you know Bucky well enough to trust that he’s telling the truth.

But you can’t trust that he won’t fuck this up any more than he already has if he goes and speaks to Sharon, or anyone for that matter. 

“I know, Bucky. I know. Just don’t do anything until I text you,” you say, exasperation clear in your tone, before then hanging up the phone. 

A rough exhale falls from your lips. 

You’re fucked.

~~~

You’d always thought that being a director meant you could somewhat avoid the negative parts of being famous while continuing to reap the majority of the benefits. You would be known for your work. Not this. 

You were brutally wrong. 

You can’t stop scrolling. Your name is being dragged through the mud left and right, being called all sorts of names on the internet that make you sick to your stomach. 

She should be ashamed 

Cocksucking dickriding bitch

So obvious, why do they even bother covering it up

And despite knowing how bad of an idea it is to give into the people speaking so poorly about you, you can’t help it. It’s every headline on every platform you open. Director and Oscar winner caught in affair with well-loved actor. 

None of the articles shy away from blasting your name, criticizing every move you’ve ever made, making tons of claims that can’t be backed up with real evidence. They speak about how much of a saint Steve is, how you’re the evil entity that cheated on him with a man five years your junior. Attached to almost every article are pictures of the two of you on set from angles that make you look as though you are doing something wrong. 

It’s everywhere. 

Despite how awful you feel and how terrible the press is making you look right now, you can’t help but feel bad for Bucky. At the end of the day, this really isn’t his fault. 

It’s Sharon Carter’s fault. Or, so you think. 

It doesn’t make any sense. By dragging your name through the mud, it’s inherently going to hurt her, as well. She was a lead support in your film; does she not realize that the fallout of this is going to impact her, too? 

For now, Sam says he’s running damage control. For today, at least, there’s nothing you can do. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling restless and desperate to try and jump into action. With each passing moment, your feet move without your conscious permission to do so, pacing around your apartment kitchen as you run through a million thoughts in your head. Hypotheticals swirl like tornadoes through your mind as you contemplate what you could have done to prevent this, what you can do now to fix this. 

It takes all your energy not to call Sharon herself and cuss her out, berate her for stirring this all up. 

Instead, you call Natasha. 

“Hey,” she says when she picks up, and you can tell by the tone of her voice that she’s been waiting. “I didn’t know when I’d be hearing from you.” 

“Yeah, it’s… definitely a shitstorm right now,” you admit. 

“That’s one way to put it,” she replies. “I wanted to reach out this morning but I figured you had a lot on your plate right now.” 

“There’s definitely a lot to deal with, but for now, I’m just trying to come to terms with all this. But, Nat, I want to assure you that this is all just a rumor, that I never cheated on Steve, I promise you.” 

You hold your breath as you await her reply, unsure if she’s going to believe you or not. You’d consider yourself to be relatively close with Nat at this point, but you know she’s inherently suspicious of everything, remaining cautious and prepared for the worst. You won’t blame her if she believes the rumors are true, especially after having a front-row seat to your and Bucky’s friendship.  

“I believe you,” she says, and the tension in your shoulders drops as you can breathe calmly again. “I do. I’m sorry you’re going through all this. But I’m going to need to know your plan for handling this and whatever is going to happen with the film.”

Fuck. You know Sam mentioned earlier that Piston isn’t happy, but is this really so serious that everyone thinks the movie is going to be scrapped? Wouldn’t it be a major loss to everyone to kill the project at this point? 

It’s more than probable that it’s just wishful thinking that your career might not be entirely over now. 

“Yes, of course. I understand,” you agree, forcing yourself to speak despite the knot growing in your throat. “For right now, we’re trying to get all the information and hope that in the next day or two, tensions will settle, and it will blow over. Either way, I will be making a statement in the next few days, and Bucky likely will, too. I’ll let you know once we’ve spoken with Piston about where their heads are at, and whatever is going to happen. I assure you I’m going to do everything I can to make sure this movie goes on.” 

She doesn’t respond immediately after you finish speaking. Her lack of a response once again concerns you, wondering what’s going on in her head. 

“If you don’t already know this, we all went out last night after filming. Bucky got really drunk and said some pretty incriminating shit,” Nat comments. You take a shaky deep breath. 

“I had told him that he could call me if he needed anything, as a friend. That’s all,” you try to reiterate. 

“I know. I’m sure that’s what happened. I know you have every reason to be beyond pissed off at him, but really, I think Sharon is the one you need to worry about. She was not happy last night because he kept droning on and on about you, and she spent a lot of time typing away on her phone after his blathering. She left early after that, too.” 

Despite how angry it makes you to hear from someone else that it likely was Sharon stirring up all this drama, there’s a tiny part of you that’s relieved. If anything, at least you have a little more ground to stand on in believing that it all comes back to her. 

“Thank you, Nat. Seriously. I appreciate the information,” you say in earnest. “Give me some time to deal with all this, and I’ll get back to you.” 

“Of course,” she says, “But, seriously. Cut Barnes some slack. He’s desperately in love with you, this can’t be easy for him to stomach, either.” 

You’re taken aback for a moment, jaw stuttering as you try to come up with a response, anything. 

“Right. Thanks,” you tell her, unsure, and end the call. 

He’s desperately in love with you.

Fuck. Maybe this entire situation is your fault, at the end of the day. If you hadn’t been so friendly, then maybe he wouldn’t have misinterpreted your signals and wouldn’t have read so closely into your choice of verbiage. 

Had you been leading him on this whole time? Of course, he always followed you around like a lost puppy, but you never shied away from talking about Steve, never pretended like you and Bucky were anything more than friends. The pictures circulating online certainly don’t look like you’re just friends, but it’s a matter of angle, perspective. 

Sharon must have been collecting these the entire time you were filming, waiting, plotting this. And now, she’d been given the catalyst, the perfect time for her to enact her evil scheme of ruining you. 

The disdain she has for you clearly outweighs how much she likes Bucky if she’s dragging him right along with you. 

You make another phone call shortly after ending your conversation with Nat. The phone rings and rings, until you’re soon sent to voicemail. 

“Sam, it was her. It was Carter. I have another eyewitness, Nat told me—she told me what she saw, and I swear we were right. It’s her. Call me back,” you utter into the phone, your anger and frustration growing and shining clearly through your words and increasing volume. 

You feel so helpless, pent up in your apartment, unable to do anything other than make phone calls and sit around just waiting. 

Everything hangs in the balance because of her, because of Sharon Carter, because of some mean girl who can’t possibly handle that Bucky simply isn’t interested in her. 

As you stare out your window, looking at the city around you, you pray that not everyone has turned against you. That somehow, you’ll be able to come back from this. 

And if not? 

You won’t have a clue what to do otherwise.

~~~

The guilt is nearly eating Bucky alive. 

He never meant for any of this to happen, truly. He long knew that it was his fault for liking you, a taken woman, engaged to be married. He always knew that he would never have a chance with you. 

And yet, even now that your relationship is likely over, he feels as though he has less of a chance than he did before. 

He might not have been the one to start the rumor, but he certainly catalyzed it. Which is why he needs to fix it. 

Can we talk? In person? he texts to Sharon before thinking through what he’s doing. Before remembering that you’d asked him to hold off, to stay put until you knew your next steps. 

But how can he just sit here and do absolutely nothing now that he’s probably ruined everything for you? 

Lucky for him, it’s not long before he gets a text back. 

When and where? 

That’s how he ends up in a small coffee shop half an hour later, running through the speech he has prepared in his head about what he’s going to say when she arrives. 

Sharon, I want to start out by apologizing if I ever led you to think that I was interested in being anything more than friends. I know how it feels to be absolutely in love with someone, and to not be able to have them–

No. That sounds like something the mistress in an affair would say. 

Sharon, I want to start out by apologizing if I ever led you to think that I was interested in being anything more than friends. I never meant to upset you, really, and I want to talk this through so we can find a way forward–

No. That’s just stupid. 

He rubs his temples as he looks around the small cafe. Luckily, it is nearly empty for the sake of anonymity. He diverts his gaze back down to the small wooden table that sits in front of him and his thoughts run around in circles in his head as he tries to decide on the best way to bring up the topic with someone so volatile and untrustworthy. 

His attempts at continuing to prepare a speech are thwarted when she shows up soon after. 

“So, what do you want to talk about?” she questions, her tone angry right off the bat as she plops herself in the chair across from him. She’s facing outwards with her gaze towards him, as though prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, dropping her purse harshly on the table between them. She’s not even going to pretend she’s innocent in all of this, he realizes. 

When he meets her eyeline, his jaw stutters as he tries to come up with something to say. Anything.

“Why?” is all he manages at first, shaking his head in utter confusion. “Just… why?”

“Because,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders, “You’re both clearly cheaters from what I’ve seen and heard. All I did was make the truth known.”

“You know that’s not the truth, come on. We were friends, that’s all,” he tries, but she doesn’t care. 

“Friends who clearly ostracized themselves from the rest of the group in order to be together. Who ran off together to eat meals and flirt shamelessly. If friends is the word you want to use for secretly screwing each other behind closed doors, then sure, let’s call it that.” 

He winces at her words, growing more and more upset with himself. 

“Yes, okay. I flirted with her, and maybe I did want to spend some time alone with her. And, yes. I did it because… you already know why. But that doesn’t mean that anything ever actually happened between us, okay? It’s a lie that you’ve fed to the press to ruin our careers. Hers, in particular.” 

“Nothing ever happened between you? Really? She’s choosing to spend time with a man that’s clearly in love with her, letting him get close, and you expect me to believe that? You both–”

“Sharon, seriously, stop talking about her like that–” 

“–you knew what you were doing, and–”

“–enough!” he yells, voice loud enough for the rest of the cafe to go quiet. He lowers his head and waves off a few patrons looking over at him, praying to not be recognized. 

“Sharon,” he begins again, his tone more confident yet quieter this time, “I am sorry that it didn’t work out between you and I. I’m sorry that I didn’t return the feelings that you seem to have had for me. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to spread lies about me or her all over the internet, okay? How do you think I’ve felt after spending months around her, knowing I would never get to be with her?”

For the first time since Bucky’s met her, she actually stays quiet.

“You know the right thing to do here, Sharon. Even if you don’t care about her, or me, in the slightest, just remember that your career is at stake too. If Blank Boxes gets cut, you’re in trouble, too.”

With that, Bucky stands from his chair, and walks out the door with a confidence he didn’t know he could possibly summon. He knows how to pretend to be so self-assured and self-confident, but deep down?

He’s really just a good actor. 

~~~

An entire week passes, and almost nothing changes. 

You had truly hoped that in a week’s time, you would have had a much better handle on the situation and a far better idea of what to do going forward. Instead, you still feel just as hopeless as you did when the news first dropped. 

The articles drop off, but the hate continues pouring in your social media accounts from far and wide. The novelty of your cancellation wears off, but the pain and hurt from the potential of losing this film remains. 

You finally hear from Steve, nothing more than one text in response to your hundreds of phone calls and messages you’ve sent to him. 

Yes, you can keep the ring. And yes, you can keep the apartment. I’ll have someone come by to collect my things soon. 

What a motherfucker. 

Good riddance, you think. How could you have married a man like him that would have left at the first sign of something going wrong? What would you have done if you’d had a legal obligation to him, if you’d given him the chance to sue you for your money, or worse, the rights to your films? 

At least that’s one bullet dodged, you try to tell yourself with each tear you cry over him. 

But what’s worse than losing who was supposed to be the love of your life is losing one of the only true friendships you had. Sure, Sam is one of your best friends, but he works for you. Steve was your best friend, and had been for years. 

Bucky had become your best friend. 

Except now, you’re both public enemy number one, and you can’t possibly be seen with him. 

What hurts the most is looking back and realizing how painful it probably was for him to be your friend. You’ve been in that position, who hasn’t been? Unrequited love is soul-crushing. 

While you miss that friendship dearly, you know the humane thing to do is to leave him be and let him work through this on his own. 

On the seventh-day mark after the beginning of this rumor spreading around the world, you and Sam meet in person for the first time over brunch. 

“So, here are the bases we’ve covered,” he tells you as he cuts through the massive stack of pancakes sitting between the two of you. “We’ve handled the public statement that’s gone up on your social media accounts. For now, just stay offline until we have a clearer picture of what comes next. We’re working closely with Bucky’s team to handle this in tandem. We have a meeting on Monday morning with our contacts at Piston. You and Bucky are expected to be there.” 

Great. 

“Okay. Alright,” you say, picking at your food but hesitant to take a bite. You’re too sick to your stomach to eat anything. 

“I’ll get you briefed this weekend on what you and him are to say in the meeting, not a word more. We’ll handle this,” Sam assures you. “They would be stupid not to continue with the film given how many resources have already gone into it. We’re going to be just fine.”

As Sam speaks, you come to a realization, a sign of good faith to try and push this whole situation into the right direction.

“Sam, I have an idea. Trust me on this one.” 

~~~

“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me,” you say in earnest as you sit across from the man who sits on the other side of the desk. “I know things are tense right now, and your receptionist… Well, she didn’t seem very pleased when I called requesting this meeting.” 

“Please, it’s no problem,” the man says. “I’m more than happy to meet with you.”

At the edge of the desk, sitting right in front of you is a nameplate: Bucky Barnes. 

Not your Bucky. This is the Bucky Barnes of the infamous Barnes Records, the Piston Pictures of the music world. Having a connection with a man as prominent as him is immeasurably beneficial for anyone in the industry; you take his agreement to meet with you on such short notice as a good sign. 

You pray this meeting goes as planned. 

“I want to assure you that everything that’s been spoken about in the news is nothing but a rumor. Any claim that I was… unfaithful in my relationship is purely gossip, and nothing more than that,” you assert. 

He smiles back at you, his gaze turned down to the pen he fiddles in his hand. “Tomatoes, tomatoes, huh?” he says with a chuckle, and you laugh along, although hesitantly. Perhaps that is just his sense of humor that you don’t recall; it has been ages since you’ve spoken in person. 

“Right,” you reply with a feigned smile plastered across your lips. “So, that aside, I’ll get right to the point. I think you can already gather why I’m here, and I wanted to ensure–”

“I’ll stop you right there,” he says, dropping the pen and leaning forward to press his weight into his elbows atop the desk between you. “I have no intention of backing out of our contract. I told you that you would have a soundtrack, you will have a soundtrack.” 

“Incredible,” you say with pure glee. Your smile turns into a more genuine one as you continue, “Thank you, Bucky. Truly. I know that this couldn’t have been an easy decision for you–”

“It was. No need to worry. You already know my top client, I don’t think I even need to remind you of who she is; she’s already agreed to produce the single for Blank Boxes, no worries. I have no doubt that she’ll be more than amenable to writing the rest of the soundtrack, as well.” 

“Oh my, that’s incredible! Thank you so much, truly,” you laugh. He waves you off and leans back in his chair once more, crossing his arms over his chest and twisting around in his chair once. 

“It’s not a problem. I’m sure the controversy in the news will blow over, and we can continue to have a working relationship in all your further endeavors, hmm?”

You force a smile. “Of course, Bucky. Thank you,” you say, although reluctant. This is good news, you know it is. The energy in the room just feels… off. “I do need to make it known, though, that the future of the film is still in the hands of Piston, however.”

“No worries. We can always work something else out,” he says with a smirk, and you nod in agreement. 

“Alright, well, thank you for your time. I’ll let you get back to it,” you tell him with an awkward laugh as you begin to stand from your chair and make your way towards the door. “I will keep you updated as soon as I know anything.” 

“You got it,” he says. “You know, kinda funny that that other Bucky fella has my name and my face. You sure you didn’t fuck him?”

You force yourself to maintain your composure as your hand tightly grips the door handle. Don’t show any outward reaction, don’t show your shock at the comment or the question. “No, sir. I’m engaged to be married, and I would never do anything to compromise that.”

With a quick goodbye, you hurry out the door, shutting it quickly behind you. 

While that whole situation was mildly uncomfortable, to say the least, at least you have a leg to stand on now when you approach Piston on Monday. If Barnes Records is still in, then maybe you aren’t entirely screwed. 

~~~

For some reason, when you arrive at your meeting with Piston early Monday morning, you had conveniently forgotten that Bucky would also be there. You were far too concerned with what the outcome of the meeting might be, and how helpful it will be in salvaging your project that such a major music production company is still supporting you. 

Which means you had no time to mentally prepare yourself for the fact that you were going to see Bucky for the first time after both being cancelled. 

When you and Sam walk into the lobby, Bucky and his agent are already standing there. Bucky’s slumped over as though he’s unhappy and uncomfortable, not looking forward to this meeting with Piston. 

The second he sees you, however, he stands up straighter and clears his throat before greeting you. 

“Hi,” he says a little too loud and a little too quickly.

“Hi,” you repeat back to him with an awkward smile painted on your face. 

“Okay, stop that, you two,” Sam says harshly. “We are a united front when we walk into that room, okay? You both need to act normal, not like whatever that was, or they’re going to believe that we’re lying about what’s actually going on here. Just be normal and let us do the talking.”

You each nod in agreement and shake off the tension as best you can. That doesn’t change how awkward you feel, knowing how Bucky feels about you, while this whole time you’ve just seen him as a friend. You can’t fathom what’s going through his head. 

He appears to have presented himself well for this meeting. His hair is slicked back and he’s put on a nice suit and tie to maintain professionalism. 

It’s almost shocking to see him all dressed up. 

“It’s going to be fine,” he whispers to you as your agents converse. “The movie is going to go on. There’s no way they can kill it now.”

You nod your head yes, too afraid to speak in fear of your voice cracking. 

“I’m so sorry, baby, seriously–” he continues quietly, and you cinch your eyes tightly shut at the pet name. 

The second he says it, he realizes his mistake, how inappropriate that was for him to say to you. Especially now. 

He’s never slipped up like that before.

“Fuck, sorry,” he backtracks. “I didn’t mean…” 

“Don’t worry about it, Bucky,” you interrupt, shoving it to the back of your mind. “We have a movie to save.” 

You’re called into the studio executive’s office immediately after, and you take a deep breath and pray.

This isn’t the end, you say to yourself on loop in your head, it isn’t over yet. 

~~~

To your luck, it works. 

It fucking works. 

The air in the room had been thick when you’d entered. The tension could be cut with a butter knife as you sat in those uncomfortable chairs that made you itch all over. Their displeasure in hearing of the accusations against the two of you was obvious from the second you sat down. 

You were almost sure, despite all your hopes, that it was over. 

But apparently, building connections in the industry is more important than a little bad press.

“If Barnes Records is still in, then we are too. No point in burning that bridge now,” you’d been told, and that was it. 

You’d thanked them profusely as you walked out, even as you knew that they weren’t doing this because of their trust in you. But holding onto this movie was a good start to repairing your tarnished reputation. 

As you walk out of the room, you can’t stop yourself from smiling and expressing how excited you are. “We fucking did it, Sam,” you cry, wrapping your arms tightly around him and spinning him around before letting go. “We did it!” 

When you meet Bucky’s eyeline, you don’t hesitate before jumping into his arms, too. You’re beyond elated, and you both deserve to share in this joy together. 

“We did it,” you whisper into his ear, and he nearly shudders upon hearing your soft voice, feeling your warm breath against his skin. He keeps you close, burying his face in your hair and enjoying the few short seconds he has to hold you until he’s never given the chance to ever again. He’s never felt more at home than he is right now. 

It feels like the world is ending when you eventually pull away from him.

He returns the bright smile you’re giving him, the glee apparent on your face after scoring such a huge win. He tries to hide the pain in his eyes, tries to shove down the aching in his chest as you step away from him. He’s about to lose you all over again, right here, right now, when you walk out those doors. 

“We should celebrate,” he says, a last-ditch effort to keep you in his life. All the shit he’s stirred, all the drama he’s caused, and yet he’s still selfish. He would do anything to be near you, haters be damned. 

“Ugh, yes!” you agree eagerly. 

By this point, both your agents have made their way to the other side of the lobby, talking about logistics. Too distracted to hear the both of you talking. 

This might be the boldest thing he’s ever done, but he has to do it. He has to know if any chance he may possibly have with you is dashed.  

“Wanna do drinks at my place?” 

His breath comes shallowly and shakily after he asks, awaiting whatever your answer will be. 

“The whole world is watching us, Bucky. That can’t possibly be a good idea,” you say with a solemn laugh. 

Everything inside you says that you shouldn’t agree to this. Being caught in each other’s presence right now will only make the rest of the world believe the rumors are true. 

“But, fuck it. Let’s celebrate,” you agree. “What time?” 

The smile that passes his face then is one of the most beautiful and brightest you’ve ever seen.

~~~

You take an Uber to Bucky’s place that evening. Fake name on the account, your face covered with a mask and sunglasses to hide your identity as best you can. 

This really isn’t a good idea, especially being under so much scrutiny and being looked at so closely right now. If anyone sees you together, you will lose all credibility whatsoever in arguing that nothing ever happened between you two. 

But right now, you’re on cloud nine after your win today. 

The bellhop opens the door for you, allowing you into the high-rise building, Bucky having informed them that he would be having a guest this evening. Once in the elevator, you peel your mask and glasses off your face, shoving them into your purse before opening the camera on your phone to touch up your lipstick. 

You’re just friends, but you’re still here to celebrate. Why not dress up a little? 

The elevator doors open to Bucky’s floor, and you begin to walk down the hall, following the room numbers on the plaques next to the frame of each door. The carpeting below your feet is beautiful with intricate patterns weaved into the design. Warm yellow lighting fills the room and illuminates the white walls lined with beautiful cubist paintings. 

It doesn’t take long to find his door on the sparsely filled floor. You fix your hair and adjust your dress before knocking sharply. 

A few moments later, the door opens in front of you, and Bucky appears behind it. 

“Wow,” he says, “you look incredible.” 

“Why, thank you,” you reply. He takes a few steps back and opens the door wide enough for you to enter. 

Bucky’s condo is decorated quite differently from the hallway: instead of carpeting, you’re met with sleek hardwood flooring. It’s an open floor plan, and the kitchen and living space are both visible from your spot in the doorway. The walls are a shade of light grey and there’s only a few pieces of art every here and there. 

“Nice place,” you comment as you walk in and look around. “Very modern. I like it.” 

“Thanks,” he says while shutting the door, then following you in. “It's nice, right? I moved in here after No Questions Asked got popular. I hardly even know what to do with all this space. Or all the press.” 

“We’re both pretty new to this famous thing, aren’t we?” you say with a laugh. You set your purse down on a barstool and begin moving about the space, taking it all in. 

Perhaps the best feature of the entire place is the beautiful view of the city. In place of a wall is floor to ceiling windows, all of LA bustling down below. You’re so high up that the cars on the road are almost impossible to differentiate from the rest of their surroundings.

“If I had a view like this, I would never want to look away,” you comment in awe. 

He hums in agreement from behind you, yet the beauty of the city doesn’t have anything on you. 

“What’s your drink of choice?” he questions, stepping into the kitchen, still looking at you as he does. 

“What do you have?” you question in response, whipping around and looking at him sharply. 

God, he’s fucked. 

The black dress you’re wearing should be illegal, what with how perfect it looks on you. 

He forces his gaze elsewhere and tries to remember what you asked. 

“Well, what’s a celebration without shots?” he jokes, pulling out two shot glasses from a cabinet and flashing you a smirk. 

You make your way away from the windows and towards him in the kitchen. “I’m a little too old to be doing shots, Bucky,” you laugh, yet not hesitating to take one of the glasses from his hand. 

“That’s not possible,” he argues back. “Vodka or tequila?”

“Tequila, obviously. We’re in LA, Bucky,” you tease. 

“Right. Obviously,” he returns, pulling out a brand new bottle of Don Julio. 

“Wow, you’ve got a lot of bottles in there,” you tease, looking over his shoulder into his alcohol cabinet. 

“Didn’t know what you liked,” he says softly. You both go silent after he says that, the implication not lost on you, and you watch his face closely as you put the shotglass down to allow him to pour each of you a shot. 

“Cheers,” he says, handing you the small glass. 

“Wait, I’ve got one that’s pretty apt for our situation,” you say, holding your glass up in front of you. “Here’s to those that wish us well, and those who don’t can go to hell!” 

He laughs as you clink your glasses together before each taking the shot. 

“Seinfeld, right?” he asks after the burn of the liquor wears off. 

“Wow, were you even alive for that?” you joke. “I’m shocked.”

“Yeah, yeah. Very funny,” he jokes. “I’m not that young.” 

“Yeah, you are,” you say with a smile. “And you know it.”

“Another?”

~~~

“What’s your…” you trail off, giggling to yourself, “what’s your darkest secret?” 

“Nope. Not happening,” he refutes. 

You’ve done more shots than you can count at this point. With all the drama that’s happened recently, you really shouldn’t be surprised that the both of you chose to get so drunk so fast.

Now, you’re laying on your back on his massive couch as he sits next to your head, leaning onto the armrest like it’s a lifesaver. Your shoes are gone, having taken them off a few drinks ago, and you have no clue where they are. They’re the last thing on your mind. 

“Come on,” you whine, grabbing at his hand above your face where it sits on the edge of the couch. “Just… one secret. A little one.” 

He laughs stupidly once more, hiccuping as he begins to speak, “No, no more drunk secret sharing. I learned that lesson.” 

“But it’s me,” you whisper, inspecting his hand above your face, poking and prodding at his skin. “I would never tell anyone your secrets, Bucky.” 

“I don’t have any,” he claims, and you let out a laugh of disbelief.

“Bullshit. Everyone has secrets, Barnes,” you tell him, letting go of his hand and letting your arms fall to rest above your head, over his lap. 

He freezes instantly. Whatever you say next, he doesn’t hear it over the blood rushing through his ears. Your hands, the proximity to–

“Another shot,” he says suddenly. “Up! To the kitchen!” 

A groan passes your lips as you realize you have to stand from your comfortable position on his couch, a move that will more likely than not cause your dizziness and nausea to return. You feel him stand up from the couch, and he soon appears next to you, reaching both hands out towards you to help you up.

“Come on. Can’t drink more alcohol unless you stand,” he says. 

Goddamnit, he’s right. 

You take his hands as he hauls you up from the couch, your feet hitting the cold floor beneath you. You follow him into the kitchen where your glasses sit next to the bottle which is easily half gone by now. As he pours, spilling liquid all over the counter, a thought comes to your mind.

“Have you ever heard of, um… What's it called? Bund– Brund– There’s a style of drinking, it’s German. It symbolizes, like, friendship or something. Bundershot? Bründershaft! That’s it.” 

He looks at you in confusion.

“Okay, I promise, it’s real. It’s where we, like, interlock our arms and then take the shot. And then they kiss each other on the cheek, or something,” you explain, and he still doesn’t appear to believe you.

“I’m gonna have to look this up tomorrow to see if you’re bullshitting. But, okay. Sure,” he agrees. He proceeds to hand you your glass, and in your drunken state, you both struggle to link your arms together. After spilling nearly half of the liquid in each of your glasses and laughing so hard your stomachs hurt, you finally manage to interlock your arms. 

“Okay, three, two…” you count off, then take the shot. No matter how much you drink, it doesn’t fail to burn on the way down, and your face cringes as a result. 

After the burn wears off, you lean in to finish the ritual and plant a soft peck on his cheek. Except at the same time that you go in for the kiss, he does too. 

You’re both so drunk at this point that you don’t realize what’s happening until it’s already happened. 

His lips meet yours, and yet neither of you pull away once you’ve realized the mistake. As though on instinct, you immediately untangle your arms and wrap them around his shoulders, pulling him in to kiss him deeper. His hands find your waist and he holds you tightly against him, pressing you up against the counter behind you.

It feels fucking incredible. 

It doesn’t take long before he gets bolder, his lips parting and his tongue darting out to press against yours. With the sudden action, you move to tangle your fingers in his hair. 

A loud crash suddenly startles both of you back into reality, pulling away from each other and recognizing what you’ve just done. You blink a few times as his jaw stutters, unsure of what to say. 

As you look around for the source of the noise, you realize that the shot glass you’d been holding had fallen from your grip and shattered upon hitting the ground. Bucky sees the reaction on your face, then follows your gaze to the sight of the broken glass on the ground behind him.

“Shit,” he says, wiping his mouth, then turning back to you. “Don’t– don’t move, you’re not wearing shoes. Don’t want you to…”

His voice trails off, and he wraps his arms around your waist, picking you up from the floor and carrying you out of the kitchen so that you don’t accidentally step on any glass shards. 

“Bucky,” you whisper hesitantly, and he already knows. 

He sits you down on the couch, ignoring whatever you’re about to say. 

“Just let me clean up the mess, and then we’ll talk about it.”

“Bucky–”

“Please?” he whispers, avoiding meeting your eyeline. 

You stay quiet, instead nodding this time. You remain seated on his couch, your head hanging as you stare down at your hands in your lap. Your thumbs fiddle as you hear the sound of the glass sliding across the floor as Bucky brooms the mess. 

It was an accident. You know it was an accident, and you shouldn’t have kissed him. It was an automatic reaction, instinctual—

But, was it?

Yes, Bucky is a great friend. Yes, he’s attractive. No, you have never thought of doing anything of the sort with him before. 

This isn’t fair to him in the slightest. 

While Bucky is still distracted, before you have the chance to talk about what just happened, you urgently stand from the couch, grabbing your phone and putting on your shoes. You run out the door before he can notice you’re gone and hurriedly order an Uber home. 

It’s not fair to leave him like this, no. 

But you’re conflicted, and you’re drunk, and you need to sober up and think this through before you can have a conversation about it.

It’s the right thing to do.

~~~

When you wake up the next morning, everything hurts. 

There’s a reason you haven’t drank like that in a long time, and this is why. 

Your head is pounding as you race to the bathroom, trying to pull your hair away from your face as you fall to your knees in front of the toilet, the contents of your stomach making their way back out of your system as you vomit it all up. 

It’s disgusting. 

When you sit back after flushing the toilet, you lean your head against the wall and will your head to quit throbbing like it is. You realize that you never managed to take off your dress from the night prior, and your makeup still sits in your pores as a result of falling asleep the second you returned home. 

You take a few moments to sit there and let your stomach slowly settle. When you finally feel well enough to stand, you reluctantly take a look at yourself in the mirror. To no one’s surprise, you’re an utter mess. 

When you see the ruined lipstick on your face, you’re suddenly reminded of the events that transpired while the both of you were drunk.

You kissed Bucky.

Fuck, how could you? You’re already in such a terrible situation, and now? 

Bucky is probably going to be waking up soon, if he hasn’t already. He probably still has your lipstick smeared over his own lips from the kiss. 

Your eyes fall shut and you bury your head in your hands. What have you done?

It’s one thing to have gone over to Bucky’s place when the entire world already thinks you’re cheating on your fiancé with him. Now, of course, your relationship is over and you have every right to kiss whoever you want. 

But it’s entirely unfair to Bucky for you to have done that, fully aware of what it is that he feels towards you. Your years-long relationship only just ended, and to become involved with anyone so short after would be considered a rebound, nothing more. 

It’s not that you don’t think Bucky is cute, or charming. It’s not that you could never see yourself with him, because in another world, you could. 

You don’t live in another world. You live in this one, where the world and your ex think you’re a traitor, and the man they think you cheated with is, actually, in love with you. 

Your head only throbs harder the more you stand here thinking about it. 

You force yourself into the shower, washing away your old makeup and the stale scent of alcohol that clings to your skin. You try to wash away your guilt, how terrible you feel after making such a grave mistake, but it’s of no use. 

What’s done is done. All you can do now is try to move forward. 

Once you’ve emerged from the shower and managed to get some coffee in your system, you finally pick up your phone for the first time this morning. You’ve muted all social media notifications at this point, knowing that whatever is said about you online is only going to upset you and that continuing to feed into it is pointless. 

There’s a couple of texts from Bucky waiting for you, the newest one only having come in a few minutes ago: 

Hey, I’m sorry about last night, it was all my fault

Can we please talk today?

You left your purse here last night, maybe I can bring it over and we can talk 

I know I fucked up. I’m so so sorry

Your stomach churns once again as you read his messages. You can’t fathom how upset he is, how he probably feels as a result of your actions. You take a few moments before typing out a text in response. The least you owe him is an explanation, the chance to talk it through.

The phone rings in your hand just as you’re about to begin typing. 

It’s Sharon Carter. 

You had forgotten that you had her number saved in your phone as all the drama unfolded this past week, and you haven’t dared speak to her since this all went down. The best course of action was to not give her the time of day. 

You contemplate what to do now. Should you talk to her? Or should you send her to voicemail, let her know that you don’t give a fuck about whatever bullshit she might spew?

Your curiosity gets the better of you and you accept the call before it’s too late.

“Sharon?” you ask as you put the phone to your ear.

“Hi,” she replies as though she’s surprised you even answered. 

“What do you want?” you ask as softly as you can. Don’t get mad, don’t lose your temper. That will only make things worse.

“Look, I, uh…” she tries, “I’m sure you talked to Bucky, and you know what happened. How this all started.” 

“I do,” you say forcefully. 

“And I’m sure you know that he and I talked after it all went down.”

Your jaw drops to the floor and you go quiet. He talked to her, after you specifically told him not to?

Keep it together, keep it together, you remind yourself. 

“I was not aware of that, no,” you respond with as much composure as you can manage. “Why are you calling me, Sharon?”

You hear her take a breath.

“I just want you to know that I’m going to announce that it wasn’t true. That it was just a rumor. I know it won’t fix anything, and I know that the damage has already been done, but–”

“You’re right. It won’t fix anything, the world already hates me,” you hiss back. 

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” she says.

“But,” you force out, “thank you. For doing that. I just don’t quite understand why now.” 

When she doesn’t respond immediately, you realize the truth, why it is she won’t answer you. She’s decided to cover her ass at the last minute, realizing that by making you look bad, she looks bad, too. That if the movie gets cut, she doesn’t get paid. 

It takes everything in you not to blow up on her immediately, to not go off on her for continuing to be selfish, for continuing to care more about herself than caring to take accountability for her actions. 

“You know what, it doesn't matter why. Thank you, Sharon. I appreciate it,” you say, trying to be as polite as possible, then hanging up the phone before you can say something you’ll regret.

How is any of this even real? 

Despite how angry you are that Bucky deliberately went against your wishes and spoke to her behind your back, clearly, it did something to cause her to change her mind. You know at this point, any attempts to take it all back will be near pointless. The world already thinks so little of you; trying to build your reputation back up to what it was before will be difficult. 

Perhaps, at the least, any future film studios will acknowledge that there was no affair and never was. That it was all a lie started by some mean girl who was just jealous of you. 

Your phone buzzes in your hand, dragging you out of your thoughts and into the present moment. Bucky texted you again. 

Are you okay? Please text me back 

You scoff at yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re okay, really. It doesn’t matter how you feel, or whatever lies have been told about you to the world, because you feel awful. You feel awful for inadvertently spending weeks hurting Bucky, getting so close to him without knowing what it was he felt for you. You feel awful for drunkenly kissing him and likely making the situation ten times worse. 

You feel awful for wanting to do it again in the light of day with a sober mind, because how on earth could that possibly be fair to him if all he thinks is that he’s a rebound? 

Come over whenever you like and we can talk, you respond. The little bubbles on your screen populate immediately, indicating to you that he’s already typing. 

I’m on my way, he informs you. 

You don’t even know what you’re supposed to say to him. Hopefully it’ll come to you by time he arrives.

~~~

The knock on your door comes sooner than you anticipated. You’ve tried to clean yourself up as best you can, made yourself look as presentable as possible even as your internal turmoil and the massive hangover you have both continue to torment you. 

When you open the door to let him in, you try to part your lips to greet him, but nothing comes out when you meet his eyeline. 

He looks so fucking sad. 

And it’s all your fault.

You hate it. You absolutely despise seeing him look so upset, for a man with so much joy and exuberance in his soul. He’s always the one smiling and uplifting your mood whenever you’re in need.

It breaks your fucking heart to see him like this, you just want to kiss him all better. 

“I’m so sorry,” he starts to say, but you cut him off.

“No, please. It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Bucky, I never should have… I really screwed up. I’m sorry for—you know—and for running out like that. It wasn’t fair to you,” you ramble on. More slowly and quieter, you tell him, “And, you can come in. If you want.” 

He nods and takes a few steps inside your apartment. You shut the door behind him and the sound of the lock clicking echoes in both of your ears. 

“I brought you your purse,” he utters meekly as he turns to face you. He holds it out in front of him, avoiding your gaze as you reach to take it from his grasp. 

“Thanks,” you whisper. You gulp before speaking again. “Sharon called me this morning, by the way.”

His eyes finally dart up to meet yours as the shock overtakes him. “What? Did she say something to you? I’ll fucking–”

“No, no. It was nothing bad. She said she’s going to take it back, tell everyone it was a lie. Just a rumor,” you clarify.

He scoffs and shakes his head as he steps further inside. “Yeah, like that’s gonna do a lot of good now.”

“She seems to know that,” you say. “It was more than obvious all she cares about is that Blank Boxes is still on and that she gets paid, but… whatever. I tried to be polite.”  

“She doesn’t deserve your politeness,” he says as he turns to face you once more. “And neither do I.”

“Bucky, seriously, would you stop beating yourself up over this?” you try, but he shakes his head. 

“No. I'm the one who brought this on, I’m the one who broke up you and Steve, and–”

“Well, clearly Steve and I weren’t meant to be,” you scoff back. 

He looks back and forth between your eyes, trying to read between the lines. Trying to gauge what you mean by that.

“If Steve really loved me, he never would have left the second something like this came up.” 

“I wouldn’t.” Bucky suddenly urges. “I would never do that to you.”

You let out a sigh of sadness. “Bucky–” 

“Please, just let me say this. For me. Please,” he begs of you, and you go quiet, nodding your head and allowing him the space to continue.  

He takes a deep breath before speaking once more.

“From the day we met, I’ve been in love with you. You’re beautiful, you’re talented, you’re… you’re perfect. But I also knew that you were taken, and because of that, I resigned myself to just being your friend. That was enough for me: friends. And I’m so glad, because you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had. 

“But that doesn’t mean I could just stop myself from being in love with you. I couldn’t stop myself from being selfish, couldn’t stop myself from trying to spend more and more time with you. Clearly my attempts at doing that only ended up hurting you in the long run, because now, the whole world thinks you’re something that you’re not. That’s no fault of your own, it’s entirely mine. But I promise you, baby, I never once wanted to hurt you or break up your relationship. Everything that has happened was an accident, a mistake, just because of my own faults. And I know that our kiss last night was a mistake, too. I know that you didn’t mean anything by it, and I’ll deal with that. I’ll figure my shit out on my own, because I just want things to go back to the way it was before, you know? When we were just… friends.” 

As he finishes speaking, you see the way he stands tall in front of you, having summoned all his courage to make that declaration. His eyes are pained, yet hopeful, as he awaits whatever answer it is that you’re about to give him. 

He holds his breath in anticipation of your response. 

“I don’t know if that’s what I want, Bucky,” you whisper back, and you watch his heart shatter in front of you. You try to backtrack upon hearing how the words sound coming out of your mouth. “Wait, wait. I don’t mean it like that. What I mean is that, yes, I enjoyed our friendship, too. I want to be friends again. But I don’t know that it’s fair to you for me to continue being your friend, when there’s a part of me that wants to have more. But I’m still moving on from Steve leaving me, and the fallout of everything that’s happened. I feel something for you, Bucky, but I’m not there yet. And I can’t… I can’t force you to stick around and wait for me to be ready. If I’ll ever be ready.” 

The light suddenly returns to his eyes. 

“I’d wait a lifetime for you,” he replies without hesitation. 

“Bucky, I cannot ask you to do that for me–”

“No, you're not asking me. I’m telling you: I would wait. I will wait. Because to me, you’re worth waiting for. If I have any chance with you whatsoever… I’ll wait.” 

You take a pause and fight back the tears that threaten to fall.

“Even though we could never be together in the public eye, even after everything that’s happened?” you inquire, your voice cracking and your attempts at holding back your tears failing. 

“Especially then.” 

~~~

Producing a major motion picture with such a massive film studio takes a relatively longer period of time from start to finish than it does to produce a smaller film like Rendezvous. With that production, you were done in less than a year, and your Oscar win came the year after release. 

Blank Boxes takes significantly longer than that, that’s for sure.

Now, you sit in LA’s Dolby Theatre four years after your first time and three years after the internet’s attempt at cancelling you. Intense anxiety and anticipation builds in your chest as your name is called, once again, as one of the nominees for this year’s Best Director award. 

It feels like a lifetime ago since the rumor of your supposed affair circulated all of Hollywood and all over the internet. At the time, it felt like your life was over, like your career was going to be cut short before it could even start. 

That’s the thing about rumors: they spread quickly, but just as quickly, they blow over as the new big thing in gossip news takes over and the world’s attention shifts away from you.

Sure, you still get the occasional hate comment or DM. Sure, the world will never quite forget the rumor that predicated your break-up with CEO Steve Rogers. 

Except now, you’re not in the spotlight as a result of those lies, no. You’re in the spotlight because Blank Boxes outperformed every other movie in theaters last summer, the top-grossing film of the year.

That’s a win that no one can take away from you. 

The lights in the theatre dim, and the clips from the other incredible films that came out last year alongside yours begin to play on the screen at the front of the auditorium. No matter the outcome, you’re going to be proud of yourself either way; proud of yourself for directing such an incredible film, and proud of yourself for surviving what you thought would be the end of your career. 

“And the Oscar goes to…” 

You shouldn’t be as surprised as you are, shouldn’t be so shocked when your name is the one called. Yours.

You can’t help it, though. There’s always going to be that part of you that doesn’t believe you belong here, that falls subject to your impostor syndrome and believes that your successes can’t possibly compare to those of the rest of the incredible individuals seated in the theatre with you now. 

As you stand, the waterworks begin, and Natasha and Sam are the ones standing up to hug you this time. They whisper their congratulations as they each pull you in tightly, forced to let you go too soon as you make your way to the stage to accept your award.

The applause doesn’t stop as you walk up the few steps to where the announcer stands, and it doesn’t stop when you’re handed the Oscar statuette. As you approach the microphone and face the crowd, the entire theatre stares back at you, standing to their feet and continuing to clap as you begin to thank them. 

“This is incredible, oh my gosh,” you speak into the mic, looking around. “Thank you all so much. This is, just… wow.”

You have to take a moment to wipe the tears from your face and take in the reality that once again, you’ve won.

The applause soon dies down, and you begin again.

“Thank you all, truly. It’s been a few years since I’ve been on this stage, and it’s even more surreal than I remember it. I’m so, so grateful to stand here before you all, to accept this award tonight. Blank Boxes was such an incredible film to direct, from start to finish. The community of people I met during this project was so supportive, and I would never have been able to do it without them.

“As we all know, there was some… drama, I should say, that happened during production. As much as I hate to bring up such a negative topic at such a joyful moment, it’s important that I do talk about it tonight. Being in the public eye, we’re all subject to criticisms from everyone, all over the world. But what’s important is not letting that stop you. We can’t let a few little rumors stop us from doing what we love, and that’s why I stand here today: because Blank Boxes meant more to me than letting the hate comments get to me. That’s the message I want to leave you all with tonight, is to keep doing what’s important to you, despite the hardships we all face in doing so.” 

The play-off music begins to ring in your ears, and you know it’s time to be done.

“Alright, I’ll wrap it up now, but again: thank you all. Thank you for being the reason I’m still standing here today, and thank you to the amazing cast and crew of Blank Boxes. I love you all, mwah.” 

You descend the stairs back to the seating area and find your way back to your table where Sam and Nat sit waiting for you. They whisper a few final congratulations, and Nat reaches for the Oscar statuette to inspect it.

“Hey, you got your own over there, miss best actress!” you whisper-yell, pointing at her very own award sitting on the table in front of her, and she smirks back at you.

“Two is better than one!” she replies, to which you laugh in response before both turning your attention back to the front. 

There’s only one more award to be given out tonight: Best Picture. 

Blank Boxes has already won the last three awards for Best Actor, Best Actress, and Best Director. There’s no way you win this one too, that would be nearly impossible–

“And the Oscar goes to… Blank Boxes!” 

Your jaw drops nearly to the floor. 

The entirety of the cast, spread across various tables throughout the theatre, stands and makes their way to the front. You nearly squeal in glee as you meet Nat’s gaze, standing once more and walking to the front. 

Sam, the sneaky little shit, didn’t find his name credited on the film as co-director, no.

He snagged the role of producer. 

The energy is palpable as you stand on stage with the rest of the cast, Sam accepting the award for the group and making his very own speech. You find yourself standing next to Bucky, and you give him a little nudge. 

“Congratulations,” you whisper to him with a smile.

“Congrats, yourself,” he whispers back. 

~~~

An hour later, in the back of your limousine, you find yourself inspecting your award closely. 

After everything, you still managed to win. You survived all the roadblocks you encountered and still came out alive on the other side. 

Your phone buzzes in your lap, and you pick it up to see who has messaged you.

“Can we make a quick stop at the next light?” you ask your driver. “There’s someone I want to pick up.” 

A few moments later, you feel the car come to a stop, and the door opens shortly after. 

“Hey, best actor,” you tease. 

“Hey, best director,” Bucky teases back, shutting the car door as he sits down next to you. He leans in and places a quick kiss on your lips, then grabbing your free hand and taking it in his. 

“We’re all set,” he tells the driver, then looking back at you. 

“Congratulations,” he whispers again, touching his forehead against yours. “I knew you could do it.” 

“Not without you,” you whisper back. You lean in and press your lips to his once again, letting go of the statuette and wrapping both your hands around the back of his neck. 

“Look so pretty tonight,” he mumbles between kisses, “love that dress on you. Can’t wait to see it on your bedroom floor.” 

“Me neither,” you say, breathless. “Now stop talking and kiss me.” 

“But talking is what I do best!” 

You smack his chest and pull him in again without another word. 

✩ masterlist ✩

if you haven't already, go read @barnesonly's back 2 back, which features Barnes Records' very own music producer!Bucky Barnes and singer!reader. love you sophie, so glad we finally collabed together and created our very own little interconnected universe<3

thank you to sophie for creating this incredible poster for me ehehehehehehehhe

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@starfly-nicole @avgdestitute @living-d3ad-gir13 @barnesonly @buckysslut @wint3rbarnes @blaineandergel @starstruck-cowgirl @multiversefanfics @annabethboleyn @calzone-d @earthsmightiestbenders @buckybarnesboyfriend @flow33didontsmoke @its-in-the-woods @lokisgirlie @overwintering-soldier @avengemepercy @lil-riddle-kiddle @gottareadthosefics2 @lovinqbella @ro6u3 @s-sh-ne @zombiedixon89 @collateralcoyotl @sassandscribbles @iiamlynn @yaboyguzma69 @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @mrsnikstan @thewiselionessss @thegirlfatherr @stilleobjection @mathcat345 @billieatusn-blog @fleabxgx @yourmomoclockit @quinnofdrama @wintrsoldrluvr @marvelsbipolarnerd

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