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Every time you roll over and smack the pillow in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, your mind replays memories of the night like images flashing across the silver screen. The crooked, excited smile on his face. His hand tugging yours to the dance floor. The gentle way he held you when the music slowed, his arm wrapping more securely around you. The look in his eyes when he pecked your cheek, like he wanted more but wasn't going to take it.

Your heart stutters.

Bucky wanted more.

The man who is—was?—like a brother to you, who listened to you complain about the way men treat you like you're something to claim, who never actually gave the advice you asked for and offered reassurance instead. He wanted more. But he didn't take it. He didn't even ask for it.

Because despite all the stories people have told about him since his freshman year of high school, despite all the women who have chased him, James Buchanan Barnes is, first and foremost, a gentleman.

Your gaze flicks to the vase your mother set near your windowsill. The flowers he brought specifically for you stand proudly under the soft glow of the streetlights outside, each petal a delicate display of something dangerously close to affection. Knowing he somehow knew exactly what flowers you prefer has something warm settling in your chest.

Years of being around the Barnes siblings, of being Rebecca's best friend. Years of looking at him like he's just Bucky. Now? The world has shifted, tilted on its axis before you could even think to brace yourself for the flood of realizations and subsequent emotions that can only mean one thing: you have feelings for him.

The thought makes your heart race and cheeks burn like a nervous schoolgirl.

Flipping your pillow over for the cool side, you shove your face into it hoping if it doesn't help you fall asleep, maybe it'll smother the thoughts running rampant in your brain.

Because Bucky Barnes is suddenly no longer just anyone.

And Rebecca is going to kill you.

The sun is just beginning to light the sky when sleep finally claims you, only waking at the incessant ring of the telephone down the hall. You're already pulling yourself out of bed and rubbing sleep from your eyes when the warm sound of your mother's voice answers the call. She smiles when you poke your head out the door.

"Phone's for you, dear." She holds out the receiver.

Mind still foggy with sleep and remnants of a dream you can barely recall, you head to the phone.

"Hello—"

"Come over, we're going to Rockaway," Becca's voice comes over the receiver, quick and impatient.

"No greeting?" you tease, leaning against the wall and fighting back a yawn. The house smells of lemon and sugar, making your stomach growl.

She sighs and you swear you hear her eyes rolling. "Hi, hope you're well. Bucky and Steve both have the afternoon off and if we leave soon we might still see daylight. Get over here."

— — —

The door to the Barnes residence swings open almost as soon as your knuckles touch it. A wild-eyed Becca beams the second her eyes land on you, the scent of Winnifred's fresh baked bread wafting out into the street.

"It's about time! That train is going to take us forever," Becca turns, calling to who you can only assume is Steve and Bucky in the living room. "She's here! Let's go!"

Steve's the first to come around the corner, a couple strands of his blond hair falling to the middle of his forehead. He offers a polite smile and a nod in greeting before Bucky rounds the corner, tossing an arm around his best friend's shoulders and meeting your gaze.

He looks unfairly handsome today; dark hair perfectly mussed, a grease smudge lingering near his temple from working at the garage this morning. The easy smile forming on his lips makes your stomach flip.

"Nice of you to finally show up," he says coolly. His gaze trails over your face, like he's searching for something. Or maybe he sees right through you.

Before you can even think to stop yourself, your mouth opens. "Miss me that bad?"

Bucky's eyebrows lift almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing with something too quick to interpret.

"Maybe I did."

Becca, who is pretending not to watch the interaction and failing miserably, smirks and clears her throat. "Hey, Romeo, can we go now?"

Your eyes widen. Steve bites back a laugh while silently mouthing "Romeo?" and Bucky chuckles, already stepping forward and dragging Steve along with him out the door. Becca grins, clearly proud of herself, the loose curls of her hair bouncing as she falls into step beside you.

The day is bright and warm, bordering on uncomfortably hot as the mid-afternoon sun beats down on the sidewalks of Brooklyn. By the time you step off the train in Rockaway, mild relief comes in the form of a salty ocean breeze as the group walks down the boardwalk.

People sprawl out in all directions along the beach and across the street to Rockaways' Playland, earning a displeased grumble from Becca before leading the way through the crowd. She slips through easily, Steve following quickly behind her. Bucky falls in step behind you. Despite all the people, you can't help but be aware of exactly where he is, the sound of his shoes on the pavement, the low "excuse me" as he brushes past someone to keep up with you.

The crowd inside the park is only slightly less crowded as the beach itself. A line for the park's specialty wooden coaster snakes around in a neat line before ending near the carousel. The scent of fried funnel cakes and popcorn mixes with the salty air. It brings back memories of all the times this same group went to Coney Island growing up, when everything felt effortless for four kids in Brooklyn.

Your gaze lands on Bucky. He's laughing with Steve as they approach the line for the ticket booth ahead, carefree and happy as the afternoon sun highlights his sharp features.

Becca catches you looking and hooks her arm in yours. She leans over and whispers conspiritorially, "How was the date last night?"

Your eyes snap to hers, heart racing. Bucky glances over across the midway.

"Date?" you ask a little too quickly. As if Rebecca Barnes hasn't been able to read you like a book for most of your lives. You hadn't told her yet. You hadn't mentioned any Friday night plans to her, let alone that said plans had involved her older brother.

She gives you a look, all but rolling her eyes as the corners of her lips pull into a knowing smile.

"With my idiot brother, obviously."

Years of friendship, of shared laughter, tears, secrets and jokes have made you as close as any two people can possibly be. Things have changed overnight. You know it. She knows it. Yet she doesn't seem angry. If anything, she sounds relieved, like she's been waiting for the day Bucky finally stepped up.

"You're not mad?"

"Of course not," she scoffs before pressing further, giving you a little shake. "Details, girl, come on."

You swallow and huff a nervous laugh, suddenly finding a nearby pigeon incredibly interesting. "It was fine." Understatement of the century.

"Just fine?" she asks, leaning closer, voice raising in utter disbelief. "He came home practically floating on cloud nine last night. I've seen him go on a lot of dates over the last ten years, but there's only one person I've seen make him smile like—"

"Atom Smasher, ladies, let's go!" Bucky calls, his voice booming louder than necessary and pointing to the coaster rumbling by. People nearby glance at him sideways. Someone spills popcorn. He's staring at Becca with the look of an older brother knowing exactly what's about to be said and silently begging her not to continue.

She looks at you but doesn't finish her statement, turning on her heel and leaving you standing near a hot dog cart processing her words. You follow slowly, stomach flipping from more than just the thought of the roller coaster.

The afternoon moves in a blur of laughter, adrenaline, and too much sunlight for anyone's own good. Bucky attempts to play ring toss, insisting his aim is perfect, before wildly missing two of the three shots.

"What was that?" Becca snorts, doubling over in laughter and wiping non-existent tears from her eyes.

"Distracted, Buck?" Steve asks. His lips twitch with a knowing smile.

"What? No," he says quickly. The tips of his ears turn pink. "My arm's tired from the shop, shut up."

You bite back a smile from the sudden realization that James Barnes isn't always as suave as he appears and is, in fact, human—nerves and all.

He catches your eye before he rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "Anyone up for the shooting gallery? A quarter says I can hit the bullseye on the first try."

Steve and Becca glance at each other sideways.

The gallery sits toward the middle of the park, tucked between concessions and skill games against the roller coaster, with scooter cars across the midway. Lights flicker on, the sun beginning to set and casting an orange glow across the various structures. Bucky doesn't hesitate the moment the gallery comes into view. He rushes over and hands a dime to the attendant, wearing a grin that is far more confident than it probably should be.

The moment the gun touches his hand, his demeanor changes. He lifts it with all the seriousness in the world—intense focus and smooth movements that speak of a man who's done this more times than he can count. He pulls back the forend and fires a shot before you even blink. A bulb flashes immediately.

"Bullseye!" The attendant calls, grabbing the photo that just printed and setting it on the counter next to Bucky.

"Lucky shot," Steve scoffs.

"Jealous, Rogers?" he asks, lowering the gun.

"How—" you start.

Bucky glances over at you, his grin back. He grabs the picture and shoves it in his pocket unceremoniously. He shrugs, but the look on his face betrays just how confident he is. "Easier than it looks."

"Liar," Steve and Becca mumble simultaneously.

Bucky ignores them, his focus solely on you. "I'll prove it. Give it a try." He gestures with his head for you to come closer, the gun securely in his hands.

As you step towards him, interest piqued yet moving slower than strictly necessary, you barely register Steve clear his throat. "We're gonna go find something to drink," he announces before dragging Rebecca off somewhere.

"I'm going to embarrass myself," you mutter when you finally reach him.

Bucky's lips curl into a smirk that would be almost infuriating if it didn't make your pulse spike. "Not a chance, I'll help you. Do you trust me?"

"After ring toss? No."

He blinks, looking offended for a moment before a smile spreads across his face. "Oh come on, did I not just prove myself right here?" he laughs. "I'm better with a gun, I promise."

"Fine." With a resigned sigh and a roll of your eyes, you take the gun from him and step up to the counter. It's heavier than expected, the metal cool against the summer air, the wood polished just enough to be smooth in your palms.

Bucky waits for you to nod before he steps behind you. His hands are warm and careful as they guide your form; firm grip on the forend, butt plate braced against your shoulder, elbow just so.

His hands move to your shoulders, fingers squeezing gently. "Relax. Too stiff in the shoulders and you'll definitely feel it tomorrow."

"Easier said than done," you mutter, all too aware of how close he's standing and how heat is radiating from him.

He doesn't respond right away. Instead, he just watches, waiting. Your eyes are locked on the center of the target, finger on the trigger guard, breath coming out a little too quick.

You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, making your heart beat quicken. Then he leans down slightly.

"Do you have any idea how fun it is to watch you try to keep your composure?" His breath is hot against your ear. You shiver. You don't even have to look at him to know his lips are curved into that familiar Barnes grin that means trouble.

"Shut up," you huff, the gun still aimed at the target. Heat warms your cheeks, and the way your heart beats against your chest makes it hard to focus on the target in front of you.

He chuckles and takes a half step back, giving you space to focus.

"Rest your cheek against the wood. Line up both sights and take a breath. You can do it."

You take a deep breath, grateful for the space. The coaster roars by, rattling the ground beneath your feet. Then, with relaxed shoulders and a slow release of breath, you pump the forend and squeeze the trigger.

A bulb flashes.

"Bullseye!"

You stare at the target in disbelief. A beat passes. Two. A low whistle sounds from behind you.

"Would you look at that," Bucky murmurs, tone full of pride. "Careful. With a shot like that, they might send you to Camp McCoy."

A laugh slips from your lips and you shake your head, lowering the gun and handing it back to the attendant who hands you the souvenir photo.

You glance at the picture in your hands and everything stops.

Centered in the image is you, hair slightly ruffled from the afternoon's activities, face focused. Behind you is Bucky. Standing just beneath the Shoot-A-Photo sign, he stands tall. Proud. His eyes aren't on the target; they're on you, with a look on his face you've never noticed before—a soft smile, softer eyes. It makes your breath catch.

Bucky peeks over your shoulder at the picture, your silence making him curious. His gaze lingers on the photo for a moment before flicking up to your face, watching your expression.

"You're overthinking again," Bucky teases softly, pulling you from your thoughts. He nudges you with his elbow for good measure, chuckling when you attempt to swat him away.

"I'm not."

"Your eyebrows say otherwise."

You huff and turn to look at him. He grins before you speak again. "I'm just…trying to make sense of some things."

"Yeah," he sighs, his expression softening with an understanding nod. "I know the feeling."

His gaze drifts down the midway, finding Steve and Becca near the carousel. Steve suddenly finds something interesting in the sky, but Becca doesn't back down from watching the scene unfold.

"Walk with me?" Bucky asks, his eyes finding yours again.

You hesitate for a moment before nodding, the grip on the photo in your hands tightening slightly.

As the two of you walk through the park, each step slow, Bucky lets the silence stretch, allowing the amusement park's general chaos and tinny music fill the space instead. It's comfortable in a way you hadn't expected. Years of friendship now teetering on the edge between possibilities that could make or break everything you've ever known.

Bucky breaks the silence first, his hands shoved in his pockets. His shoulders are tense. "Remember how we used to spend essentially entire summers at Coney Island?"

The reminder makes you smile. "We spent far too much time there. Too much sun."

Bucky laughs. "And too much cotton candy. Becca used to badger me to not eat so much sugar."

"You never did listen. Those poor employees."

"Hey,"—he throws his hands up in surrender—"it's not my fault they offer pure sugar for so cheap and then have the best coaster in Brooklyn directly opposite the stand. It's like they encouraged it."

You both laugh, the nostalgia a welcome distraction for a moment before your thoughts comes crawling back. Bucky gives you a moment before speaking again, his voice low.

"Anything I can help you make sense of?"

You shake your head, unsure where to even begin or how honest to be. Your mind replays the past twenty-four hours and Rebecca's words. The photograph in your hand is physical proof that you aren't crazy.

"I don't even know how to explain it."

"Try."

"I'll sound ridiculous."

"Impossible."

You sigh, shoulders raising with a deep breath to brace yourself. "I thought you asked me out because you pitied me."

He stops in his tracks. His brows pinch in confusion as he looks at you.

"Pity?" The word leaves him like he's not sure he heard right. He says your name with a short huff of disbelief. "Why on earth would you think that?"

You shrug, not quite meeting his gaze. "Because my love life is hopeless. Because you're Rebecca's brother. Because I've watched women throw themselves at you for years. Take your pick."

His mouth opens and closes a couple times, processing your words. When he doesn't answer right away, you finally look at him, and for a moment, he looks torn between being honest or making a joke to ease the tension thickening the air. He picks the former.

"Last night was the furthest thing from pity. That was me finally doing something I should've done several years ago."

That admission hits hard, making your heart skip. "What?"

Bucky hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. He takes a deep breath, voice low and steady.

"Every smile aimed in my direction makes me feel like I can take on the world. Every time you laugh at one of my stupid jokes…" he chuckles and shakes his head, his gaze falling to the concrete where the toe of his shoe scuffs the concrete. "Then you came over after another bad date asking me for advice with men that don't deserve you, and I had no idea what to say. Because to me, those men are just too blind to see how incredible you are."

The silence stretches between you, your mind and heart racing. His eyes lift to find yours again.

"Every time I look at you, I have to fight not to reach for you, to hold you. I took you out last night because I wanted you to know how I'd treat you if you gave me the chance."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you whisper, voice barely audible among the noise.

He sighs. "I was scared—I still am. The last thing I want is to ruin what we have. You mean a lot to me."

The air stills.

"You really mean that?" Your feet move a half step closer.

Bucky looks at you, hoping flickering in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders ease.

"Every word," he murmurs. His hand lifts, his fingers brushing against your cheek. The touch is soft, barely there and different than last night—tentative and full of silent questions.

You find yourself leaning into his touch, warm and familiar in the best way. His eyes glance at your lips before searching your face for any signs of hesitation. His thumb brushes your cheekbone.

Then, slowly, he leans in.

The kiss is short but sweet. A simple press of lips, uncertain, yet enough to forget the noise and people around you as his hand moves to fully cup your cheek.

It ends too soon.

Bucky pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on yours. Opening your eyes, you find his still closed, lips parted with breaths that fan across your face in light puffs, brows drawn together just enough to cause a crease between them. He slowly pulls back again. A muscle in his jaw twitches when he finally opens his eyes, immediately flicking to your lips like he's committing how they feel to memory.

You smile before you can stop yourself, feeling lighter than you have in a long time. He licks his lip and grins back, a soft laugh escaping him.

"That was…" he starts.

"Terrible?" you offer. Bucky laughs again, his free hand lightly touching your waist like he wants to pull you closer.

"Better than I'd hoped, actually."

The admission is soft and makes your heart flutter.

"So…what happens after this?" you ask.

He nods thoughtfully, taking a half step back like he just remembered you're in public, Rockaways' Playland hardly being a place for privacy. His touch lingers for a moment before dropping back to his side.

"I'd like to give us a real chance. If you're open to it."

You don't let him finish before your answer comes tumbling out. "I'd like that, too."

Bucky's blue eyes sparkle under the midway lights. He doesn't say a word as he reaches for the hand not holding the photograph, fingers intertwining with yours like it's second nature.

"Perfect," he says softly. "Come on, I think fireworks are starting soon."

The walk back down the midway feels shorter than it did before. Maybe it's the weight of everything now lifted off your shoulders, or maybe it's the feeling of his hand in yours. Maybe it's the lingering memory of his kiss—an answer to the million questions you asked yourself over the last day. Whatever it is, the crowds heading towards the beach barely register.

Steve spots you first, smiling to himself at the sight of your joined hands before gently nudging Becca's side. Her eyes go wide. Her grin goes wider. No one says a word as the four of you follow the crowd to the beach across the street.

The sand is still warm from the day when you sit down, placing the picture on your lap. Bucky doesn't let go of your hand, his shoulder brushing yours as he joins you, his long legs stretching in front of him.

It's a short wait before the first firework bursts, red lighting the sky and reflecting across the water. Golds and blues join quickly and fill the air with a dazzling display.

You glance at Bucky. He's not looking at the fireworks. He's watching you, lips curving into a soft smile when your eyes meet.

His fingers tighten around yours, and you scoot a little closer, resting your head on his shoulder. He lets out a quiet sigh and gently leans his cheek against your head before finally looking at the fireworks overhead.

A/N: If you’ve made it this far, I just want to extend a massive thank you for reading and supporting this story. It’s been almost a year in the making, which blows my mind when it wasn’t meant to go this far. You’ve also seen me grow significantly as a writer and it genuinely makes me emotional. Anywho…as of now, I’m tentatively calling this the end—but you never know what inspiration might hit me and maybe there will be a sequel someday. Lots of love 💜

⤷ Everything S. Stan: @steelandvibranium @/phoenix-in-writing @syd-vixious @sebastians-love @overwintering-soldier @wintersgirllost @wint3rbarnes @miraclediviner @barnes-babydoll @buckytakethewheel @bucksbby @sheriff-bodecker @wherewinterblooms @dei-dreamz @ladymiseryy @ornateglass @galactict3a @take-u-2-an0ther-w0r1d @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog @blue-eyes-in-august @/juniebjonesin @erina00

⤷ Bucky Barnes only: @phantom-wolf-girl @bartonsparrow25 @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @highhopes1008 @hagridshaircare @jamesbbcrnes

⤷ Everything Taglist: @sunday-bug @tw1sters @/castielscaplan

⤷ Barnes Knows Best Taglist: @lost-girly-014 @dreamiierose

Night after night, there were thousands of them. He could count, the way you count candles on a cake. By their hearts.

That's the part he didn't tell people. He heard the beat. Every one of them, a melody under the drums. Sam kept the beat the crowd could hear; he kept the beat underneath it, the wet red metronome of a full house.

The constant throng would drive a younger man insane. It didn't drive him anywhere. Not normally. He wanted that on record. He had stood in rooms louder, more crowded and walked out clean. Every time. Ten thousand times. He'd never once given in to temptation.

Instead he learned to listen… like reading the weather. It happened after rebirth. The first steps, if you will. There was a trick, if you wanted to master it.

It wasn't about the pulse. Not the throat. Not even the specific animal instinct of the girl in row five whose heart was going like she'd run here.

Pressure changes.

The warm front.

You had to let it become the room instead of the meal… and then you could stand in it forever. He taught himself that over centuries, one show at a time, and he was— and he would promise you that— very calm about it.

The song ended. Natasha took the next. He only had about four bars, letting him just be a man with a guitar. And that was the moment he made his biggest mistake. It didn't feel like one. But then, it never does.

He looked down. Simple as that.

She was there. Front row. Same six feet of railing she'd owned since they'd left Cleveland, like she signed a lease on it. Sunshine— printed across her tiny tank top.

The pressure needle skipped a beat.

Because here was the thing about the rest of them— the whole seething pit— they knew. Not with their heads or heart. Something deeper. They came to be near the danger. To press up against it. To feel their own hearts beat faster. That speed was instinct, a body doing what a body should do in a room with something like him. He loved them for it. It was the only honest thing about them.

Hers didn't do that.

She stood in the wall of noise with her face tipped up and all he felt was delight. Nothing more. There was no animal in her leaning back from the edge. Because to her, he was the whole entire show. The best night of her week. She got to see a man she thought was beautiful. Her heart was fast, sure. But it was fast the way a kid's was on a carousel. It was fast because she was happy. She was enthralled.

He wanted you to understand what that did to him. The fear he could drink around; the fear was the weather. But she wasn't afraid. He couldn't read that from her. And it drew him in. She had no idea. She trusted him. She decided, with that whole empty radiant head of hers, that he was safe.

And trust— he could tell you now, so no one could ever say he hid it— trust was the one thing he had never understood.

He was fine. He wanted to be so clear about that. He looked back up, hit his mark, sang the next line right on the beat. Not a single soul of that ten thousand knew. That was control.

$6,423.

The figure printed on the paper slip that had slid out of the ATM when you put in your bank card. You knew it before you'd even put it in. It was what you'd earned that summer, working three separate jobs to pay tuition for college.

You were going to be a nurse. It was a good profession, respectable.

Here's the thing about $6,423: it wasn't exactly a lot of money for a college program. It was, however, a staggering amount for a girl with a banged-up old Corolla and the desire for a taste of forbidden fruit.

That's what they were to you. The Sergeant and the Sires. The Sergeant specifically. You were under his thrall.

You'd done the math. More than once. Then once more with an actual calculator, in case your brain was trying to deceive you.

22 shows. Not all of them— you weren't totally insane. 22 of 41 the band had scheduled. One show per state. You had always wanted to see the country, it would be a great way to explore before the crushing weight of a career became obligatory.

The tickets were the easy part: $58 - $95. General admission for the floor was your best bet and buying at the box office, which you'd already done. The woman at the desk had given you a judgemental look, but you didn't care.

$1731 you'd spent so far.

A tight budget. You estimated $1500 for gas, if you kept your speed to below sixty-five. Your car was the one thing you trusted to do its job and it had a comfortable enough backseat that you could cover the windows and sleep there most nights. Motels offered a shower, a more luxurious night when your car wasn't the safest option.

That probably came to $800. You rounded up to $900 because you were being responsible.

Food was your next consideration. One meal a day was manageable, right? You weren't stupid, it had to be something substantial and diners usually offered affordable meals. You guess around $10/day for 42 days. $420. $500 if you wanted a coffee. You'd pack snacks for the road.

$1000 was for opportunistic recreational activities, leaving you $792 for emergencies.

You made a note. It was plenty of cash. Maybe you'd even indulge in some of the band's merch. A dreamy expression washed over your face as you thought about a shirt with The Sergeant's face looking up at you.

You'd figure it out, because people figure things out. You'd been called resourceful. Your parents had said you could do anything you put your mind to.

Except everyone said don't to this.

Your sister said it with the long-suffering patience of someone who knew she wasn't swaying you. Your office manager frowned, saying he couldn't hold any of your regular shifts. The girl you'd been seeing scoffed and used the word unhealthy more than once.

Your mother hadn't said a single word. She knew there was no point in trying. It'd felt worse than anything anyone else had said.

Because when all was said and done, they weren't wrong. You weren't stupid enough to deny it. Your plan was crazy. You were twenty-four, planning to spend your entire education fund on 42 days, 22 of which you'd be standing in the dark, looking up.

Here's what no one understood. What no one in your life seemed to have a category for. In your 24 years on Earth, you had never— not once— felt like you were standing where you were supposed to be. And then it happened. They had come to town. The Sergeant and The Sires. And for two hours, three nights a week, you stood in darkness, in a sea of people with the bass pounding through your feet, and finally every single atom in your body was pointing in the same direction. Your whole being had been drawn to them. To him. Seeing them perform had stirred something deep inside you. And for the first time in your life, you felt alive.

How were you supposed to weigh the cost of being alive against a nursing program? You weren't confused or naive. You'd just done the math and arrived at a different answer. You knew exactly what it cost, you had the number written on a receipt in the glove-box for your Corolla.

So you got in and turned the key.

Backstage smelled like every other backstage did— cold beer, hot cables, the sugar-rot of a fruit tray nobody touched. He loved it, but it was a smell with no pulse.

He was fine. He'd said that already but he wanted it noted.

Sam got the cooler open before his sweat was even dry, tossing the bottles around like it was a totally normal thing. Because to them it was. Except it wasn't beer he was passing, it was TruBlood. The good stuff, the quality O-neg that Yelena bought by the case because to her a happy band was a well-fed band. Steve caught his one-handed, cracking the cap with his thumb. He downed half in one go, the way he did everything— clean, without ceremony. Sam was talking his ear off, some story about a girl from Louisiana, half-laughing into his own bottle.

"Barnes!" Sam lobbed one at him.

He caught it. Like there was ever any doubt. His hands were the last thing to ever forget what they're for. Even the one that didn't quite belong to him.

It was warm. Yelena had done her duty and filled the cooler with hot water, warming the bottles until they were body temperature. It sat in his cold palm while he listened distractedly to Sam. He laughed in the right places. He twisted the cap. But he didn't drink.

He wanted that on the record too. The bottle was open. He was holding it. Anyone watching would say 'there was a man having his dinner'. But that little compass inside, the one that read the weather, it pointed at something else. Something through the hallway. At a carousel heart, beating at a happy gallop. He heard it. He felt it. It consumed him. The warm glass in his hand felt like a prop. A thing to hold so his hands looked busy. So no one would see what he craved.

Natasha had a way of appearing when she wasn't wanted. Silent. Stealthy. She found him by the instrument cases, doing this thing where she didn't look directly at you. She was doing it now, focusing all her energy on coiling a cable around her arm while her own bottle lay sweating and untouched on a case beside her.

"Good show," she said.

"Good show."

"You went somewhere. During 'Bloodletting.' You went somewhere and came back." She cocked her head, finally looking at him.

He told her he was on the beat the whole time. Which was true. He was! Ask any one of the thousands of humans in the crowd. Not one of them felt him leave.

She wrapped the cable slow. "That's not what I asked."

Across the room Sam called his name, wanting him in on the story, to confirm he remembered the girl from Louisiana. He answered, because he must. To keep the room warm, the atmosphere easy— to keep it to just the four of them, their bottles, a good show and the full house behind them. He didn't need Sam or Steve looking at him the way Natasha did. No one else needed to count, to clock that his bottle was still full.

Here was the part he didn't say out loud. You don't hand someone the stake and the cross. But deep down inside he knew. The girl in the crowd came back. The ray of sunshine in the darkness. She was here right now. Yelena had let her sneak in, like a stray cat.

He set the bottle down on the case. Still full. He told himself it was because he wasn't thirsty.

He was very calm about it.

It happened at night, mostly, in the back of the Corolla, adjustable shades pulled down. When the parking lot had gone quiet and there was nothing left for you to think about… but him.

It always started the same way— with his hands. The part of him that seemed to wreck you. Not his voice… although that was its own kind of problem. His hands… you watched them from six feet away for eight nights. The way they moved over the fingerboard, like they owned it, like the guitar was an extension of himself.

There was that moment in the third song where he’d flatten his palm across the strings to kill the ring. The silence hit low in your gut. You thought about those same hands on your skin. Sliding under your shirt. Callused fingertips tracing your ribs. Then lower, cupping your breasts. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they tightened. For him.

You thought about being alone with him. Somewhere with an actual door. The details of the room didn't matter. You were always looking at him looking at you.

You thought about him being slow. It was the thing you came back to every night, the thing that made your face burn and your thighs press together in the dark. He’d take his time, undress you like he was learning a new instrument, spread you open on the bed and just look, eyes dark and hungry, taking in every inch of your body.

Then those hands would move, sliding up your inner thighs, thumbs parting slick folds, circling your clit with steady, intimate pressure until you were shaking, dripping for him. He’d push two thick fingers inside, curling them just right while his mouth found your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you moan his name.

You imagined him eating you out— slow, filthy licks, tongue fucking into you while he held your hips down, growling against your pussy as you grind on his face. And when he finally pushed inside you, thick, hard and bare, he’d do it inch by inch, eyes locked on yours, watching every reaction as he stretched and filled you completely.

He’d fuck you deep, hips rolling with the rhythm he used on stage, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other rubbed your clit until you came clenching around his cock, gasping and soaking the sheets.

You imagined him moaning your name, as he buried himself to the hilt and came, voice rough against your ear, hips jerking as he spilled inside you.

Sometimes you didn’t even get that far. Sometimes it was just the idea of his mouth near your ear, breath hot as he whispered exactly what he was going to do to you. How he was going to ruin you for anyone else.

You’d have to stop, press the heels of your hands into your eyes, and laugh at yourself. A grown-ass woman in a Corolla following a band around the country, soaked and aching over a man who didn’t even know you existed.

You fell asleep like that most nights. Warm, stupid, and happy, thighs still slick with the evidence of how badly you wanted him.

You had no idea what you were asking for.

It happened in St. Louis. Number nine, though by then the cities had already started to blur into one long strip of welcome signs and exhaust fumes. You'd have to check the tickets in the glove-box to be sure which cities you'd passed through. The shows, however, were burned into your brain.

This had been a good week. That's what kept going through your mind afterwards. You were well within budget, the Corolla was behaving and you had the cash to splurge on a motel because your neck had opinions on the backseat of your car.

Eleven minutes was all it took. You had left the room to grab ice from around the corner of the complex. For those eleven minutes you were living the life of luxury.

The door was shut when you came back, but the second you crossed the threshold, you knew something was wrong. The same way you knew when Bucky was going to change keys in the middle of a song.

Your duffel was on the bed open. You walked over, resigned to the inevitable. The envelope gone, your wallet with it, both cards, the debit and the one you kept for real emergencies.

They'd left the tickets. All 22 of them. Untouched… because who would want those?

You cancelled the cards, then sat on the end of the bed, redoing the math. $161. It'd been in your jacket pocket. Three-quarters of a gas tank and 22 tickets. The next show was 300 miles west.

The strange thing was, the most obvious thought never arrived. The one where you gave up. Asked for help. Drove home. You waited for it. All night you waited. But it never came. Not even when you called your sister and swore her to secrecy.

Outside the next venue, you met Trish. You didn't find her, she found you. You had arrived early, since there was no where else you could afford to go. Instead you sat on the cold hard ground to contemplate your woes. You were in your denim jacket, covered in pins from each one of the shows you had under your belt. You were spilling your problems to her before she even introduced herself. She didn't give you the oh honey face. She just nodded, like she'd heard it forty times, because she had.

Cash problems, she said, were easy.

That's when she brought it up. Phrased it as a trade. Something clean. Regulated, even. There was an… agency, a three letter acronym, said too fast for you to catch. It was something you'd reflect on later, the size of the thing you chose not to ask. Trish described it exactly like donating blood, except this paid $200. Apparently everyone who come on tour did it. She rolled up her sleeve and showed you the inside of her elbow.

You looked down at the business card she gave you— GGB Ltd. $200 per unit. One a week was fine. Two was fine if you ate well. You did the math right there on the curb, and you knew everything would be alright.

Yelena found him where he'd put himself, as far from anyone as the room allowed— a chair turned backward, arms crossed over the back, watching the door.

She didn't announce herself. She never did. She crossed the room with an economy of movement only she had— all business— and dropped into a crouch behind a cooler she carried. Not the usual . A smaller one. Black, no logo, the kind you didn't leave lying around for anyone to find.

"You're not drinking," she said. Not a question.

"'m fine."

"Yeah, you said." She popped the latch. "Three cities in a row… you said. You think I don't count the bottles, Barnes? I count everything. It's my job."

He started to answer but she held up a hand without looking at him, and then she took the bottle out.

It wasn't TruBlood. He knew that before she'd even fully extracted it— knew it from the way the smell reached him a half-second ahead of his eyes. A glass bottle, yes, the same shape but unlabeled. Inside it something that wasn't the usual synthetic crap she offered them.

"B-neg," Yelena said, turning it in the low light. "Real. Fresh— not long from the host. Don't ask who, because I don't, and neither should you." She set it on the case in front of him with a small, delicate clink. "You've been walking around like a live wire and it's making the others nervous, even if they're too polite to say. So… eat something real. On me."

He looked at it.

For a moment he didn't move at all. That was the last of his control. The long-suffering habit he spent centuries perfecting. Never once letting it hold him by the collar. He told himself he wasn't going to now. He'd made it this long.

But the bottle sat there and as it caught the light, he could hear it, actually hear the way it whispered to him— a slick warmth that told the story of the person it had once belonged to.

He picked it up.

The screw-on top came away under his thumb effortlessly. He meant to take one sip. He honestly, genuinely meant it— just to taste, to be civilized about it, to prove to himself that he was a man having a drink and not a starving animal salivating at a trough.

The first swig undid it all.

It hit the back of his throat and something in him simply woke… some old animal that had been asleep, pretending to be furniture. After that there was no sipping. The rest vanished in seconds. He didn't decide it. It was gone before decision had entered into the equation, the bottle tipped all the way up, his throat working, the whole rare impossible pint emptied into him like water into parched ground.

He set the bottle down more carefully than he'd done anything else that night.

The room felt different now. He felt different— warm for the first time in decades, lit up, every sense turned suddenly to its sharpest setting. There was a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a brightness that had nothing to do with the overhead bulb. His fangs had come down without permission, more obvious now, and he didn't bother to hide them. He ran his tongue along them slow, cleaning the last of the red from his lips.

Yelena watched him with her arms folded. She didn't look pleased, more like someone confirming a suspicion.

"There he is," she said, a smirk on her lips.

You almost didn't go back. That was the truth of it. A truth you'd never tell anyone, because it sounded insane out loud. There was a woman with an official lanyard who singled you out after the show. She read your name off a list— your name, the one you'd signed in the parking lot for GGB— and for one chilling moment, you'd thought it was about the blood. That someone had found out and you were in trouble.

But she'd just smiled and said someone wanted to say hi, and would you follow her, and your heart had done something complicated and enormous in your chest.

So there you were. Backstage, past security, in a concrete hallway that smelled like stale beer and something smoky. You were wearing the Sunshine shirt— your favorite, one you'd washed so many times the print had started to crack. You'd have worn something sexier if you'd known. But you hadn't, and the shirt was clean, and was the one that felt most like you.

You'd pulled your left sleeve down before she brought you in. Habit now. Nobody's business.

And then he was just— there.

You forgot how to be a person for a second. The honest truth of it. You'd stood six feet from this man for eleven different nights but you'd never once been so close to him. And there was a difference, an enormous difference, that no amount of front-row devotion had prepared you for. On stage he was a shape in the light. Here he was a man, tall and still, close enough to touch, and he was looking directly at you.

"You're the one on the barricade," he said. "Front row. Every night."

He knew. He'd noticed. You made a sound that was supposed to be a word. And wasn't.

His voice did something to you. You'd heard it sing to ten thousand people and you'd thought that was the thing, that was the reason, but this was different— low, unhurried, pitched just for you. It went straight through you like the bass through the floor, settling somewhere behind your sternum. You felt, absurdly, like you already knew him. Like you'd known him a long time. Like all those nights in the dark had been a conversation and this was him finally answering.

"I— yeah," you managed. "That's me. I've been following the tour. Since Cleveland." And then, because your mouth had apparently decided to run without you: "Since before Cleveland, actually, since you played my town, that's— that's how it started, I saw you and I just, I couldn't not, you know?"

You winced. You sounded like exactly what you were. But he didn't laugh at you. He tilted his head a little, the way you'd seen him do on stage between songs, and he listened, like your babbling was worth listening to, and God, you could have died right there and been happy about it.

"Eleven cities," he said. "That's a long way to drive for a band."

"For you," you said, before you could stop yourself. "I mean— the band. Mostly. Kinda. Yeah."

Heat crawled up your neck. It was worth it, because something crossed his face when you said it— something you couldn't read, something that flickered and was gone— he stepped closer, and you didn't step back. You'd never step back. You'd spent your whole savings, slept in a Corolla, sat in a folding chair in a parking lot so you could stand exactly this close. Now that you were here, every atom in your body was doing the thing it only ever did in the pit. Pointing. At him.

"You drove all that way," he said, almost to himself, "and you're not even a little afraid?"

You laughed. It seemed like such a strange thing to say.

"Why would I be afraid of you?"

He smiled, close-lipped. It didn't quite reach the brightness in his eyes.

"No," he said. "Course you're not."

He knew it. That was the thing that stopped his unbeating heart cold. He knew that scent— had known it for weeks, had felt it move through him warm, rare and impossible. B-negative.

Not long from the host, she said. Don't ask me who. And he hadn't. Here was the answer standing in front of him in a washed-soft shirt with the word Sunshine painted across it.

It was her. The blood he'd drunk was hers.

Something in him went extremely quiet and impossibly loud at the same time. A trance, almost— the room narrowed to a single point— her. Everything else felt gray and irrelevant. He'd already tasted her.

It was still in him— her blood— singing, part of him now, and his body had learned the shape of her. And it wanted the rest. Craved it.

He noticed everything. He couldn't stop noticing. The sweat still drying at her hairline from dancing on a packed floor for him. The flush on her cheeks that had bloomed the second he'd stepped closer, nothing to do with the heat and everything to do with him. The line of her throat. The way she held herself, tipped slightly toward him like a plant toward a window, all unguarded warmth pointed straight at the most dangerous thing in the room.

She was beautiful. He let himself see it, which was its own mistake. Not the painted-on beauty of the people who usually made it back here— something better, something free and unfiltered, sweat, a cracked-print shirt and eyes so wide open they hurt to look at.

Under all of it, beneath the shirt, the flush, the babbling and the light, was that sound.

Her heart.

He could hear it the way he heard everything, but this was different, this was loud and strong, that happy carousel-gallop, the healthy, fullest sound in the world, a heart without fear. He could see it, if he let his eyes drop half an inch. The pulse in her neck. The soft flutter under her skin, keeping time, offering.

B-negative moves through her and he had tasted it, he knew what it was, and knowing was so much worse than not.

His fangs came down.

He didn't decide it. There was no deciding left in him. They lengthened against his tongue, sharp, eager and entirely beyond his control. He pressed his lips shut and prayed she couldn't see. She couldn't. She was still talking, still glowing, still asking him something with that open, unafraid face.

Why would I be afraid of you?

And there— right there— some old animal part of her did clock it. Just for a second. A flicker behind her eyes, a small instinctive stutter in that big strong heart, the faintest spike of something that wasn't quite fear, gone almost before it arrived.

It should have shamed him. It didn't. God help him, it did the opposite. That small spike, that tiny honest jolt of a body recognizing a predator— lit him up. It made the craving worse, sharper, unbearable, because now she was afraid and warm and she still wasn't stepping back. The wanting rose up in him like a tide with no shoreline.

He wanted to drink. Plain. Simple. He wanted to close the distance and put his mouth to that flutter in her throat and take what was already partly his, and keep taking. He knew— with a clarity that was almost peaceful— exactly how it would go. How her heart would change its tune. How the light would go out by degrees.

That was what stopped him. Not decency. Not restraint, whatever he'd told himself, whatever he'd told her. Just the certainty— cold and complete— that if he started he would not stop. Could not. There would be no sip. There was never going to be a just a sip with her. He would empty her right there in the concrete hallway with her favorite shirt on and her hands reaching for him. It would be the best thing he had ever felt, and then she would be gone. Forever.

So he held still. He pulled back on the centuries-old instinct inside him and smiled, close-lipped, hiding the teeth.

"No," he said softly. "Course you're not."

It never failed to surprise Bucky just how friendly some of the residents were at the assisted living facility his sister resided at. They always wanted him to stop and chat for a few minutes, especially some of the veterans. The ones from his era were far and few in-between and that bothered him more and more. 

Even though he would be in the building or sometimes just on the grounds near the parking lot, it would sometimes take Bucky 20 minutes to make it from the lobby to Becca’s hall. He gave a polite nod to the receptionist as he passed by her. She made brief eye contact with him as she signed for a package from the UPS driver.

“Oh! Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor isn't in right now,” she relayed. 

Bucky stopped walking. Becca was in her 90’s. She didn't go anywhere very fast so how had he missed her?

“Where is she?”

The receptionist gave a small shrug. “She didn't say, she just signed out and said “with friends”. She left about 30 minutes ago.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, not at the receptionist doing her job, but the fact his sister was still being an annoying little sister even now. “Did she say when she'll be back?”

The young lady shook her head. “I'm sorry.”

Bucky just shook his head and turned around giving her a wave as he left. This was the second time this had happened this week. She was always out with friends. Would it kill her to text him or call? He knew she knew how. She was always sending him memes that her grandchildren sent her. 

“Hey, Jim!” A man's voice called from behind him.

Bucky stopped and turned around. “Hey Nate, how's it going?” 

“Still alive,” Nate said with a small shrug as he shook Bucky’s hand. “My niece is taking me out for lunch, want to join us?” he asked, gesturing to the woman behind his wheelchair.

Bucky paused to think about Becca and her 'out with friends'. “I don't want to be a burden on your day out…” The first time Bucky had met Nate's niece, you, Bucky had thought you were a picture. He nearly beat himself up over that thought too. A picture. Like this was 1930 and his mom was talking to him about cute girls. 

“You won't be a burden, it'll be fun,” you said to reassure him. While you enjoyed visiting with your uncle, it would be nice to have something to look at in the form of Bucky. “We planned on lunch and then maybe the mall. Uncle Nate wants new clothes.”

“Alright, sure, let's go.”

Lunch with you and Nate had been nice. Bucky was much more relaxed than he anticipated he'd be for such a last minute thing. 

“Y'know, Jim, your sister is just the kindest person on the planet. I've been around a long time, I would know.” Nate turned to you. “She gets these cookies from …” he paused trying to recall the name. “David's! She orders them from Davids and they are fantastic. She'll give me a cookie here and there. But she's not kind just because of the cookies, no, she's just a good person. Always talking with folks and making people feel heard. She's just a great lady.”

Bucky listened intently to the praise. He knew his sister was an amazing person, even if he missed most of her accomplishments. 

You watched Bucky as he heard the words your uncle was saying and saw Bucky’s face change slightly. His face got softer; he clearly loved his sister very much. 

A few days later, Bucky tried again. The same receptionist was on duty and he raised an eyebrow as he passed. She gave him a nod; she was too busy to talk to Bucky today, Mr. UPS was back with more packages, Bucky thought he saw a David's Cookies box in the mix. That had to be for Becca. At least Becca could make time in her busy schedule for him today.  

As Bucky was walking up the hall, he saw one of the nurses exiting Becca's room. “Alright, Mrs. Proctor, I'll quit taking up so much of your time today. We can get together later to discuss Goncharov more. Have you seen the extended version?” He asked as he stepped more into the hall. “Oh you haven't? That has got to change. I'll swing by later. Thanks again for the cookie.” He shut the door and nodded at Bucky. "Hello Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Proctor has been looking forward to seeing you.”

Bucky nodded and he turned to stare at the nurse as he walked on. Something felt…off. He knocked on Rebecca's door. “Open up, I know you've got the goods.”

It took a few minutes but finally the door opened, “You're late. You said 2 o clock. I gave those cookies away.”

“Liar,” Bucky said, stepping into the room, and once in the door was shut, gave his sister a hug and a kiss on the top of her head. Becca didn't have a means of cooking, but she could buy the cookies Bucky loved. “Besides it's only” - he checked his watch - “2:25. Tell your neighbors to stop talking when I visit and maybe I'll be on time.”

“You could always get here early so you're on time,” she said and went back to her chair, gesturing for him to join her. “There's a container on the table. Grab a pop from the fridge.”

Bucky grabbed the container off the table and sat near to her. “So what's this I hear about you going out with friends all hours of the night?” He was exaggerating slightly. 

“What I do on my own time is my own business. Who snitched?”

Bucky put the container on his lap and held up his hands. “I'm not revealing my sources.”

Becca tsked. “I bet it's Holly at the desk. She's sweet on you. You should ask her to go out dancing.”

Bucky chuckled and shook his head. “I'm pretty sure she's barely 18. That is not my thing. Besides, I think she's into a delivery driver.”

Becca gave a non-committal noise but seemed a bit surprised. “Was it Ross?”

Bucky shrugged off her question. “I didn't get his name. You got a sweetheart, sis? You going out dancing?”

Becca just scoffed. “Do I look like I could go out dancing? I'd break a hip if I tried.”

He shook his head. “I think you're stronger than what you let on. You've been doing those exercise classes, haven't you?”

“Yeah…”

“We should go out dancing sometime. Be like old times. We go together and then ditch the other once we meet someone.”

Becca just laughed, “I don't think so, Jim.”

“So where are you and this gang of roaming seniors going off to?”

“If you must know, I found a group of people who play pickleball seated. It's fun.”

Bucky frowned. “Why didn't you tell me? I can take you.” 

Becca just gave him a look that was reminiscent of their ma when she was annoyed. “No, thank you. I can go out with friends on my own. I have a life alert and my phone which has you as a contact should I need it. I'm fully capable.”

Bucky looked at the floor, “yes ma'am, alright, message received. You do know that I'm connected to lots of people and can find out information,” he was absolutely trying to rile her up. He wouldn't violate her privacy.

“James Barnes. You will not. I'm not a child.”

“No, but you're still my little sister.”

“You're still a pain in my ass. Do you want to go downstairs and play Phase 10?”

He just nodded “sure, sure, lead the way. You'll be glad to know that Alpine jumped me in the bathroom the other night…”

“Good. Someone else needs to keep you in line. Which is why you need to find someone to marry. Get you a good woman - or man, I don't care - and settle down. I'd like to be someone's aunt before I'm dead. It's taken you long enough as it is.”

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