C.

Steve wasn’t trapped in that thin hallway with you, your ass pressed to his crotch, his hands hovering right over your hips, his fingers twitching with the exhaustive effort to not just touch. Bucky had thought he might die right there. You’d been so warm, so perfectly molded against him, he could swear you’d always just been two pieces of the same stone, split in half and always able to fit back together.

Steve would tell Bucky that wasn’t how people worked. That everyone was their own person, and the idea of being incomplete wasn’t going to help his recovery from Hydra. Bucky would tell Steve that he didn’t get it. That he knew he didn’t deserve to drag you down with his titanium coated baggage, but that didn’t mean he could stop the twisted, selfish desire to. Bucky was a man on his own. An island or a continent or a mountain, or whatever the hell else his therapist told him to visualize as a stupid self-actualization exercise.

But the continents had been connected, all those millions of years ago. They’d been one piece, cut in half by time and nature. Asia wasn’t any less of a continent because it wasn’t connected to America’s ass anymore.

But if Bucky was Asia, he really wanted to be connected to your ass.

He’d closed his eyes, in that tight hallway. His breath had fanned over your neck and his hands had curled into fists, resting themselves right at the top of your waist. You’d shivered. He’d been able to hear your heart stumble, you breath hitch, a tiny, sweet little sound whine in the back of your throat.

He’d dropped his face against your neck, and you’d leaned back, exposing your neck to his thin-pressed lips. Bucky had kissed over your soft skin, the curve of your neck, the sweaty column of your throat, then line of your jaw, open-mouthed and hungry. His tongue had flicked against a pulse point, and you’d whimpered. His arms had wrapped fully around your body, one hand splaying on your upper stomach so his thumb could graze your breast, the other rubbing along your abdomen.

He’d teased your waistband. Sucked a dark, possessive mark on your throat and slipped his fingers into your pants. You’d spasmed against him, and he’d hummed, pressing his thumb against a thick, wet spot on your panties. Bucky had groaned and pulled them to the side, dipping his fingers into your heat, and he’d known it would feel this good. Soft and tight, a better smell than the beach, rich and earthy and perfect. Just like you.

You’d reached back, running your fingers through his hair and gasping his name. Bucky had groaned against your skin and pushed his finger into your tight entrance. You’d squeezed around him, and his thumb had found your clit, rubbing tight circles to ease you open.

“Shhh, babydoll,” he’d rasped. “Just relax. Lemme in and relax.”

You’d cooed, but given in. Bucky had covered your open mouth with a hand and kissed your neck, scissoring and pumping his fingers, and-

“Hey. Bucky.”

Sam snapped his fingers in Bucky’s face, and Bucky blinked. The fantasy drained from his head with all the blood in his face. He clenched his jaw, glowering at Wilson’s smug, amused expression, and raised his brows. Sam grinned, something gleaming in his eyes that Bucky didn’t like. It never spelled anything good, when Sam looked at him. Especially not now. When the mission had gone so horrible wrong.

“You looked a little lost in thought there, Buck,” Sam drawled, and—across the Quinjet—Steve glanced up with a curious expression.

“He’s probably just thinking about getting the detox,” Steve offered, and Bucky half-appreciated it, but the punk should know better than to even engage with Sam.

They all knew that wasn’t what he was thinking about. Sam and Steve both knew about his… sins. They’d gotten him drunk once—a feat within itself, but Steve had a supply of Thor’s super-mead stuff, and they’d both noticed that Bucky was acting weird—and he’d told them the awful, shameful truth.

So everyone in the jet knew exactly what Bucky was thinking about, almost every second of every day. So often he had to be finding new, split seconds between time, just to think about you a little more.

Everyone knew.

Everyone but you.

You sat on the far side of the jet, watching Bucky with that quiet concern that made every single inch of his body ache. His heart pounded because it wasn’t close enough to yours, his hands got sore because they weren’t pressed to yours, and his feet felt like they were made of bricks, unable to walk across the carrier to your side. But his stomach churned and twisted, reminding him why he couldn’t have you. You weren’t his. You might think you wanted to be, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could offer you that some other, safer, healthier guy couldn’t.

And he hated that guy. That faceless phantom that haunted him, that stole you away, that Bucky was going to have to pretend to like. He dreamt about wiping that invisible smirk off the man’s face, then socked himself in the gut for having the gall to be so possessive over the very thing he was trying to let go.

Bucky’s life was a cage, and he’d never be able to escape it. He owed an eternal debt to the Avengers, the government, the Starks. He was never gonna get the normal life, and he just had to wait for you to see that, and stop looking at him like he might be worth it anyway.

He caught your eyes, and you looked away, flushing furiously. Bucky could goddamn smell the pulse of your cunt, getting wet just from being under his gaze. Steve coughed loudly, and Bucky would laugh if he could find the humor, but there wasn’t much of it.

Not here.

Because the mission had gone horribly.

“What’re you thinkin’ about, Buck?” Sam asked, because he was the most annoying person Bucky had ever met.

His eyes were sparkling. Bucky glowered at the little shit, trying to pretend he couldn’t feel your gentle, curious gaze across the carrier. He clenched his jaw, locking it shut, not even daring to tell Sam to stuff it. An uneasy prickle settled over his skin, reminding him that opening his mouth could be the end of the damn world.

What was he thinking about.

You. Always just you. How you’d feel in his arms. How you’d call his name and look at him like he was worth something, when everyone else seemed to understand that he really damn wasn’t. Normally, Bucky would be able to whack Sam and hiss a warning. But he couldn’t.

He literally, simply, couldn’t.

“Could’ve been worse, Buck,” Steve had said when they got on the jet, and Bucky had given him a look so flat Steve winced.

Real damn easy for Steve to say.

Because Steve hadn’t been sprayed in the face with a truth serum. Steve wasn’t locked in a plane with the love of his life, unable to speak out of fear he’d bark out his devotion for the whole sky to hear. Steve wasn’t trapped in his head with visions of just crossing the damn carrier, caging you between his arms, and kissing your pretty, slack face until you begged him to fuck you, right there on the floor.

That was a curse for Bucky, and Bucky alone.

Bucky towers over you, his massive chest consuming the light in the room. It gives him the impression of an angel, fallen from Heaven just to stand the edge of your mattress.

And if he’s something holy, it’s only right to sink to your knees.

“You want it, baby?” He murmurs, tracing the curve of your face, and you nod. You’re almost drooling. He pulls out his belt slowly, and you press your thighs together, shifting restlessly on the bed.

Bucky’s free hand fists in your hair, and you smile up at him, easy and hopeful. His tongue flicks over his lips. He pulls out his cock—thick and uncut and angry, proud in his fist and swollen red—and strokes it slowly, watching you with a quiet, hungry affection.

“Take it,” he orders, low and smooth. “’S all yours, baby. Just gotta take it.”

You nod nervously, rolling down to your stomach. Your feet kick behind you like a schoolgirl and Bucky’s smirks, petting your head and pressing his hips forward. You take his thick cock in your hand and stroke slowly, watching him twitch and flex under your light touch.

Bucky groans your name, and it rolls through the room. You get confident, and press a kiss to his throbbing head. He grunts, hips jerking forward, and you pump the base of his cock with a firm but gentle grip.

The sounds he makes are sinful. You take him fully in your mouth, and he’s thick and heady, all salt and a thick, perfect weight in your mouth. He tugs on your hair when you start to suck, bobbing your head up and down. You take his balls with your free hand and massage them, getting drunk on the way he hits the back of your throat, the way he calls your name, the pressure building between your legs as you choke on his massive cock.

You’re humping the sheets, bunched and sticky between your thighs. You’d start writhing, if you weren’t so focused on Bucky’s dick. He moans at the sight of you, desperate for any possible friction, and starts to fuck your mouth like you’re just a toy. You’re so wet you can feel it dripping down your thighs, so wet you think you’re going to leave a stain on the mattress, and he fits in your mouth so well-

Your orgasm crashes through you, your cry muffled on the dildo you’d been fucking into your mouth. Your pussy flutters and gushes on your fingers, your hips twitching and eyes rolling back in your head. The thought of Bucky in your mouth rises like hot air, and carries you a little back over the edge. You moan, letting your eyes flutter shut, and drift down with slow, uneven breaths.

The guilt is immediate. Hot and shameful in your stomach, mixed a little too close to your arousal to be normal. Bucky isn’t feeling well—he barely even spoke on the way back from the mission—and you’re in your room, jerking off to the thought of him like some pervert. He might be in pain. He might need something. Sam told you to go check that he was actually sleeping off the drug he got hit with, and you agreed to.

An hour ago.

You were supposed to check on him an hour ago, but instead, you fell into the sheets and touched yourself, because that’s all you really seem to be good at.

You’d had a similar fantasy on the mission itself, when Bucky had been stuck behind you. A vivid dream where you’d gotten brave and spun around. You’d kissed Bucky and he’d kissed you back. He’d pushed you to your knees and pressed his cock between your lips, coaxing them opening with promises that you’d be his good girl, if you just sucked his cock. You had, you’d taken him until you were so aroused you couldn’t think straight, and Bucky had to let you hump his boot to stop you from crying around his warm, heavy dick-

You’re doing it again. You’re fucking doing it again.

You splash cold water on your face and clean yourself up. This can’t be how you spend your whole night, when you’re supposed to be checking on Bucky. It takes a little too long, though, to get yourself out into the hall and walking to his room. You just keep getting caught in fantasies about him in the bathroom, coming up behind you while you put on your shoes, grabbing your face between his hands and pinning you to the door-

A sharp, mental slap over your cheek gets you out of it. You shake yourself and glare down the dark hall, trying to steel the pound of your hopeless, burning heart. This isn’t about you. It’s about Bucky, and the truth spray, and making sure he’s okay. You march down the hall like a soldier, too lost in your determination to remember to knock. You push on the door and slip forward, trying to be quiet in case he actually is sleeping, and almost fall to your knees.

Bucky is not sleeping. You can’t remember how to move.

It’s such a lewd, beautiful thing before you, you almost think you’re fantasizing again. Bucky lying flat on his bed, one hand flat on his bare chest, the other beating into his cock. It’s just like you imagined, right down to the veins and thick, perfect girth. You’re salivating like a dog, thinking about it being shoved between your lips, guided into your hand, driven so slowly into your pussy your eyes roll back and you can’t breathe around the stretch. Bucky would press down on your stomach and make you feel it a little more, it would twitch inside of you just like it’s jerking in his hand-

Bucky moans, and you bite back a whimper. You should go. He wouldn’t want you to see this, it’s invasive and wrong and inappropriate and so fucking hot-

He moans again, thicker and deeper. A strangled sound that almost sounds like your name. Your heart stutters, and Bucky’s hips slam up to meet his fist.

This time, the cry is definitely your name, and you can’t hold it back.

You whimper, and Bucky’s eyes shoot open.

For a second, you just stare at each other. Your face burns, and you cling to the door, an unbearable ache pooling in your core. Bucky gapes, his hand still moving, faster and faster. A low, rumbling groan escapes his mouth. You glance at his cock, and your knees almost buckle. Bucky rasps your name, still pumping his cock, and you look back with panicked, desperate eyes.

Bucky chokes out your name, and his cock jumps, releasing seeming to slam through his body. Thick, unending ropes of cum spurt over his fist and thighs. He strokes himself through it, the room filling with that sticky, perfect smell, and you’re not sure you’re breathing.

He won’t stop looking at you. He won’t stop moaning your name and cumming all over the bed, and you’d think this was a dream if you didn’t feel like you had a fever.

It stops after what feels like an hour, and Bucky tosses his head back with a grunt. He rubs a hand over his face, the column of his throat working, and you slowly close the door behind you, barely keeping yourself upright. Your tongue darts over your lips. You breathe through your nose, head spinning as you take him in. Powerful, tanned body, painting white and slick with cum and sweat, right in front of you, close enough you can almost taste it.

Bucky groans, and you flush under his gaze, boring into your lust blown features. When you meet his gaze, it’s dark. His face is red, and his chest muscles flex with ragged breaths, neither of you daring to move an inch.

His cock starts to harden again. You take in a sharp breath, and his hand flexes on his thigh.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he croaks, and you swallow.

You can’t. He’s not telling you to go, he’s not even trying to hide himself, and he was moaning your name-

“Doll, please-“

“Do you want me?”

Bucky’s whole body seizes up. He’s propped up on an elbow now, but he closes his eyes tight, his nostrils flaring and his jaw working tight enough to look painful.

He can’t lie. You can almost see the truth pushing itself up from his chest, a geyser that’s going to explode and take you both with it, because Bucky can’t lie.

“Don’t ask me that,” he rasps, and it’s almost a plea. “Don’t make me tell you no, honey-“

“So don’t tell me no,” you breathe. “Just- Tell me yes, Bucky, please.”

He shakes his head, watching you under lidded eyes. “It- It’s not that simple, okay-“

“Do you want me,” you say it firmer this time, even as you cling to the door. “Because I want you, Bucky, I- I want you so bad-“

“No- No.” Bucky gives you a stern look, and it makes your heart falter. “You don’t know what you want-“

“Yes, I do-“

“You think you do-“

“And you get to tell me I’m wrong?”

Your tone is harsh. Bucky flinches, avoiding your gaze, and your face burns. He can tell you no and you’ll leave, but he won’t. The heat makes you see, so painfully clear. Bucky isn’t going to tell you he doesn’t want you. But you’re not moving, until he tells you exactly where he wants you to go.

“It isn’t about me,” Bucky says your name, exhaustion lining his tone. “You deserve better. Better than this,” he waves a hand at his body, and you’d laugh if he didn’t sound like he was in pain. “Better than me- Just, fuckin’ better.”

You shake your head, your voice small. “You’re wrong. You- You’re so fucking wrong, Bucky.”

He laughs, dry and curt. “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t lie-“

“But you can be wrong,” you counter sharply, and he falls silent. “And I can be right. Do you-“ You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to hold his hooded gaze, the shine in his eyes sending a fresh pool of heat between your thighs. “Do you think I’m right?” 

Bucky’s throat bobs. His lips twitch, his tongue darting out and the corner of his mouth pressing into a pained frown. You can see him fighting it. Fighting everything you’re trying to give him, like it’s a gift he can just return, instead of a pure given. You’re not offering him something you had to work to find. Your need for him can’t be flushed away or forgotten like an ugly ornament on the self. It’s either just going to overgrow you like an untended garden, or be Bucky’s to nourish.

And you pray he nourishes it. That if he lets himself have one good thing, it’s this. Shame is nothing, if you get to pour it at Bucky’s feet for him to drink.

So you pray. And someone out there must owe you a favor, because Bucky nods.

“Yeah,” he whispers, and you think the world falls from under your feet. “Yeah, I- I think you’re right.”

You stumble standing. Bucky reaches out his warmer hand, his voice dropping to something low. Something sacred.

“C’mere.”    

It’s like floating. You move across the room without your feet feeling the ground, your fingers trembling as you reach out. Your fingers lace together, and you knees hit the mattress. Bucky tugs you over his naked body, forcing you to straddle his torso, your hands planting on either side of his head as he falls back. His cock drags on the inner edge of your thigh. He brushes hair out of your face with the most tender touch, before cupping the back of your neck. Your breath hitches. His mouth curves into a small, teasing smile.

“Too long,” he breathes, his metal hand dragging up your hips, massaging the curve of your ass. “Been waitin’ too fucking long.”

He drags his hand forward, letting his thumb trace the shape of your upper lip. You take in a sharp, nervous breath between your teeth, and his throat bobs.

“You want it?” He mutters, and you nod. “I’m not gonna be gentle, doll, you gotta be sure-“

“I’m sure,” you say without thought, and his fingers dig into the skin of your ass. “I- I’m so sure, Bucky, you have no idea-“

You cut yourself off with a squeak, as Bucky pushes his thumb into your mouth and shoves you fully down against his abs. You’d been hovering on your hands and knees, scared to add too much weight, scared that this was just another dream. Bucky forces you down to reality. To his hand gripping your jaw and the pad of his thumb, warm in your mouth. The heat and strength of him below, his cock bumping against your ass and his slick, hard stomach pressed against your core.

It’s embarrassing, how fast you let him take control. His thumb presses near the back of your throat, and you start to suck mindlessly, watching the awe and desire wash over his handsome features. You swirl your tongue the same way you’ve thought about sucking his cock, fisting the sheets under your hands and pressing over him until your breasts are almost presses against his collarbone. His throat bobs. His hand on your hip starts to guide you back and forth against his core, the pressure and friction making your eyes roll back in your head.

“You like that?” Bucky grunts, and you nod, rolling your hips faster and faster against his abs. “Can smell how wet you are, babydoll. I’ve barely fuckin’ touched you and you’re already soakin’ through your panties.”

You flush, but doesn’t stop moving. The condescending tone just rushes through you like a high and fuels the arousal coursing through your veins. You arch your back, trying to push your hips further down, to get just a little bit more.

“Look at you, sweet girl. Giving me a fucking show.” Bucky slaps your ass, and your eyes flutter. “Makin’ it so fucking easy for me. Humping me like a good little slut.”

You keen, collapsing over his chest as the heat takes over your body. Bucky’s thumb slips out from your lips, and he smears the spit over your cheek in a small, possessive gesture that makes your head spin.

“Think you can cum just like this?” He drawls in your ear, petting the top of your head. “Just fucking yourself on my body?”

“Ye- Yes-“ You breathe, turning your cheek so it’s pressed between his pecs. “Fuck, Buckyyyy- Fuuuck-“

Bucky grabs your chin mid moan, forcing your face up. His lips smash over yours in a hungry, bruising kiss, all spit and teeth and need. You cry out against his lips, kissing him back with every pent up, depraved little need you’ve ever had for him, every bit of adoration you’ve kept stuff in your chest for far, far too long. Your hips bounce against his abdomen, your shorts bunching up under his metal hand. Cold fingers graze near your pussy. You gasp against Bucky’s mouth, and he presses his tongue down your throat with a deep, hearty moan.

There’s a loud rip, and your shorts are torn off your body in one, clean movement. You mewl, pushing further back against Bucky’s hand, and his dick starts to slide between your ass cheeks, still wet from the drip of your last orgasm. Bucky’s hand slides back around to your neck, holding it hard enough to leave a print, and you moan into his mouth.

Two metal fingers dip into the heat of your pussy, and the temperature contrast makes your whole body shudder. You shove on Bucky’s shoulders, unsure what to do with your own body, and he grunts, tightening his hold around you.

You squeal, as he rolls you over.

“Bucky-“

“Shh,” he grunts, nipping at your lower lip, and you hum. It might not be good, how much control he already has over your body. Right now, you don’t really care.

It feels too good, the way his metal fingers rub the outside of your pussy lips, pressing them together while his palm grinds against your clit. You’re trapped between him and the mattress, your thin shirt the only barrier between your bodies, and Bucky seems determined to remove it. His lips wander down your neck and over your collar, sucking tiny lovebites and bruises over your skin. You wrap around his head, tugging at his hair, and he lets out a low, desperate groan against your skin.

His mouth moves lower. He rips off your shirt with the same, fluid motion, and your back arches up to meet his lips. Bucky mouths and kisses every inch of your breasts, swirling his tongue around a nipple while his palm rolls around your clit. Your breathing comes short and desperate, a tension building in your lower stomach, hot and humid like a summer storm. Bucky slips one finger between your swollen pussy lips and groans around your nipple, sending a little jolt of electricity straight to your cunt.

“All ready3 for me,” he groans, spreading your arousal around your sensitive inner thighs. “I’m gonna slide right in there, baby, shit-“

He drops his brow against your chest, watching his hand work against your cunt. You shudder, combing your fingers through his hair, trying not to lose yourself so fast.

“Always,” you manage to say. “Always for you, Bucky.”

He glances up, the lust in his eyes giving way to something darker. It’s like watching the moon shift. Something that’s always been there, shrouded and hidden from view, finally letting itself turn to the light.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, reverence lining his every word. “I know.”

You blink at him, eyes watering with desire. You’ve never been this close from so little, but it’s Bucky. And you can’t be expected to be anything more than putty in his arms.

“You need to cum?” He asks, mockingly sweet, and you babble out an agreement. “Oh, I know it’s hard, baby, but you gotta use your words-“

“Please,” you gasp, pulling on the collar of his shirt. “Please, Bucky, need- Need to cum so bad.”

Bucky smiles, and presses the lightest kiss to the space between your eyes. “Then cum.”

It’s quick. A snap at the base of your spine and a broken scream that falls from your lips. Your toes curl and your vision goes white, your pussy clenching around nothing and your body bucking off the bed. Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, forcing your hips back down to the bed. He silences your cries with kisses, squeezing your jaw with is free hand and dragging his lips over your drooling mouth, your flushed cheeks, your fluttering eyes.

His rests his lips against your ear and gives your raw cunt one, tight slap. You squeal in surprise, the feeling almost overwhelming in your sensitive body, and Bucky chuckles.

“Oh, now it’s too much?” He spanks your pussy again, and you let out a loud, pathetic whine. “You were all pretty and beggin’ for me a second ago, doll. Where’d that needy little slut go?”

Tears burn at your eyes, that shame mixing with arousal and making you all the more sensitive. Bucky spanks your pussy again, then rubs over the hurt. You grind up into the touch and he smirks, spanking you once more. You mewl, rolling around in his arms, unsure if you’re trying to chase him or get away.

“So fuckin’ reactive,” he rasps, almost in awe. “Look at you, better than a damn dream.”

You coo, twisting your face to press against his bicep. He noses at your cheek, lips brushing over your tears and parted lips.

“Been waitin’ so long, haven’t  you,” he murmurs. “Waiting for me to stuff up this sweet little cunt, waitin’ to be fucked stupid like the sweet little whore you are.”

You’re not trying to squirm anymore. You’re pressing your hips down, trying to hump his hand again, and Bucky laughs. He pushes your thighs apart with ease, exposing your oversensitive pussy to the cold air. Your eyes shoot open, and immediately trap on Bucky’s. An involuntary moan pulls itself from your chest, as his thumb circles around your clit.

“Think you deserve some dick, baby?” Bucky teases, flicking his thumb over the sensitive button. “After being so patient and good?”

You swallow, and shake your head. This is the kind of question that’s a trick. You’re going to be told to earn it, and you’re going to suck his cock until he’s had his fill, then maybe you’ll get another orgasm. In your fantasies, you’re usually limited to one overall, before you get too sensitive and the shame hits.

But Bucky smiles at  you like you’re the sweetest thing in the world, and bumps your noses together, gliding his metal thumb over your fluttering entrance.

“Wrong answer, babydoll,” he murmurs, kissing you between soft words. “You deserve the damn world.”

Bucky’s mouth slots over yours, and you lose yourself in the slow, easy kiss. He’s so gentle you forget about the pleasurable sting in your cunt, letting him overtake your senses, your thoughts, the very beat of your heart. He kisses you like you’re priceless, and you try to give him every moan and touch back. You dig your nails into his back and nip on his upper lip, and he grunts, pressing you further into the mattress. His thumb keeps circling around your cunt until it’s pounding and needy, but you only whimper into the kisses, worried to ask for more than he’s willing to give.

You should’ve known better.

Bucky’s nothing, if not generous.

His hand leaves your cunt, but you don’t get a second to protest before his cock is sliding between your folds, slicking him up to push inside of you. Your head falls back with a sharp gasp, and Bucky kisses over every inch of your skin he can seem to reach. The head of him presses against your clit before dragging away, leaving you throbbing and staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.   

Bucky notches himself at your entrance, and lets out a slow, sharp breath between his teeth. You’re clenching around him, unable to help it. He’s massive, and you’re open from the two orgasms, but you’ve also never been this wound up. You think Bucky could just blow on your pussy and make you cum again. Being impaled on that massive cock might make you pass out.

“Take it easy,” he warns, and you whimper.

“C- Can’t-“

“Yeah, you can.” Bucky pushes in, barely the tip, and your breath is knocked from your chest.

“Bucky-“

“I know,” he kisses away your cries, splaying his hand on your tummy, letting his thumb drag back around your overworked clit. “I know it’s big, baby. Feels like too much, doesn’t it. Pretty little cunt, not used to takin’ it like this.”

You nod, still trying to chase his lips. “So- So big,” you babble, and Bucky grunts, pushing a little further in.

“Biggest you’ve ever had?” He growls out the question, his cock bumping against every sensitive, wired spot inside of you.

“Ye- Yes,” you gasp out, and Bucky’s hips jerk further forward. “Oh my god, Bucky- Yes-“

Bucky moans, bottoming out deeper than you knew you could take. He presses his lips against your brow, his chest heaving and his hand on your stomach pushing down. The movement forces you to feel every ridge and bump of his cock, every twitch and drag with the rise and fall of his chest. It’s almost impossible to handle. You’re dripping and soaking his cock, getting more and more sensitive with every passing moment. The pain has long ebbed into mindless, easy pleasure. Bucky’s hand shifts, and pins your g-spot against his massive dick, and the tears return to your eyes.

You know Bucky’s trying to collect himself, but he’s taking so long. You scratch his back with trembling fingers, pinned on his cock with nowhere to go, trapped beneath his massive body with nothing to do but take it.

“Bucky,” you manage to breathe. “Please- Please move.”

Bucky grunts, his lips attaching to a pulse point on his neck. He starts to suckle, grinding shallow thrusts into your cunt, and you moan loud enough to echo through the room. You didn’t know something so small could work you up so fast. The short movements work you more and more open, all while bullying into your g-spot, over and over again. Bucky’s tongue flicks against your skin and you cry out, turning your face to try and hide it in the pillows.

That pushes something in Bucky. He grabs your jaw again and turns your face, dragging you into a deep, rough kiss. You keen, your scratches becoming longer, like you’re trying to claw your way into his body. Close isn’t close enough. It can’t be. Bucky starts to drag further out, pushing back in with a harsh snap of his hips, and you throw your head back with a loud, confident moan.

“That’s it,” Bucky grunts, setting an unforgiving, bed-creaking pace. “That’s a good fuckin’ girl, taking my cock so damn well.”

You roll your hips, trying to meet his thrusts. Bucky pushes his hand down further, forcing you to stay still, and your eyes roll back in your head with the force of each thrust. Bucky speaks against your lips, unable to help himself, but also unable to look away.

“You feel that, baby?” He angles up, letting his cock drag so slowly against your g-spot before delivering another, brutal thrust that makes you scream. “Feels so good, doesn’t it? Getting fucked like the perfect little doll I know wanna be, lettin’ me give this greedy little pussy exactly what it needs.”

You make a sound that’s supposed to be Bucky’s name, and he grunts, picking up the speed until your eyes begin to cross.

“Try again,” he snaps. “Use that pretty mouth, sweetheart, tell me what I wanna hear.”

You just moan, unable to get your mouth to agree with your head. Bucky buries himself deep and presses his whole weight down, not even giving you space to move. You sob, pressing your face into his shoulder, and he clicks his tongue.

“C’mon, baby,” he coos, teasing and cruel in the best possible way. “You can’t already be that dumb.”

You swallow, the pressure of Bucky’s cock inside of you driving every thought from your head. You don’t know how you cobble the words together, let alone find your voice. Not when he starts to grind again, angling his thighs so his balls press against your ass, his thumb teasing back over your clit.

“Please, Bucky,” you choke out, grabbing his hand near your head, giving him your most desperate, doe-eyed gaze. “Please.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. Every time you’ve hit the bottom of the shame well, you find more. But Bucky only looks at you like you’re beautiful. His cock twitches inside of you, and his controlled thrusts become jagged and sharp.

“Shit,” he grunts. “Shit- You’re fuckin’- Christ-“

You’re not sure what’s happening until he moves. Bucky grabs your knees and pushes them up to your chest, folding you neatly in half. The angle pushes his cock deeper, and he drags it out for a second, smearing it on your juices and tapping it against your clit. Your pussy clenches around nothing, cold and empty without him. He smirks and eases himself back in, slow and careful. You watch with an open mouth, as your pussy swallows up his cock. It’s the most obscene, beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Wet and messy, a ring of arousal at the base of his shaft, his muscles flexing with control that you can’t even think not to submit to.

“Eyes,” Bucky orders and you immediately obey.

That’s a mistake.

His gaze is intense. Unrelenting and adoring and mocking all at once. He grabs your jaw with a lighter hand than before, tapping your cheek gently. You open up quickly, and take his thumb back in your mouth like before. It helps, with the overwhelming pressure of his cock inside you. Bucky smirks, rolling his hips once, and you moan around his finger, sucking harder than before.

“There she is,” he coos, starting to slowly, torturously fuck into your cunt. “All cock drunk and stupid, you’d let me keep you like this forever, wouldn’t you. Just a sweet little fuck toy?”

You hum, your toes curling, the pleasure washing through you white and hot. Bucky groans, mesmerized by the sight of you taking his cock and finger at the same time, his thrusts becoming deeper, rougher, more desperate.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping over taking the room. “My perfect girl, most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ see, y’know that? God, you’re- Fuuuck-“

Bucky moans your name, his condescending praise falling off into broken grunts and groans. You smile at him, dazed and lost in the stretch of his cock, lighting up your every nerve, making your head spin until you’re just a drooling, giggly mess. Bucky stares at you with a hanging mouth, fucking into you like an animal, and a strange, wet pressure begins to pool in your tummy. You grab his wrist, your lips moving but no sound able to come out, and Bucky understands.

He spits on your clit, spanks it once, and doubles over with a final, brutal thrust. You cum with a silent scream of his name, flying off the bed and writhing in the sheets. It’s a pleasure so blinding you can’t see anything but stars, can’t feel anything but that odd heat gushing out of your pussy, over Bucky’s cock and down your thighs and onto the bed.

Bucky roars your name and starts to fuck you in brutal, rough strokes, like he didn’t expect himself to fall over the edge with you. You’re still squirting and trembling, when he starts to full up your cunt with thick, white ropes of cum. There’s so much of it that your eyes cross. You’ve never been this full and sensitive at the same time, you don’t even know what to do with yourself. A small aftershock of an orgasm pushes through your trembling body.

You think you pass out, the heat too much, your body overstimulated and worn out from being wrung with every bit of pleasure. You come to with Bucky between your thighs, kissing around your pussy, licking the mix of your releases with his warm, thick tongue. You moan softly, threading your fingers through his hair, and he smiles at you with shining eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to your swollen clit.

Your hips jump, a whine escaping your throat, and Bucky chuckles.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, kissing the spot right over your pussy. “Couldn’t help it, baby.”

Baby.

The moment is over, and he’s still calling you baby.

Bucky cleans you up with gentle, careful hands. You watch him, propped up on your elbows and still a little dazed. He smiles and kisses your hip, then your navel. He’s massaging your thigh like this matters.

You can’t begin to say, how much you want this to matter.

Bucky brings you to the bathroom. He changes the sheets while you pee, then offers you a clean, warm shirt to replace the one he destroyed. It smells like him. Everything smells like him, and you never want it to fade.

He sits on the edge of his mattress, while you get changed. You slip out of the bathroom, hugging yourself tight and watching him stare at his hands. He drags his gaze up slowly, that adoration from before still shining in his eyes. You swallow. He licks his lips, flexing his hands on his thighs.

“I- Uh- I’m not good at talking about things,” he mutters, watching you carefully. “I’m workin’ on it, I promise. I’m even getting better. But- Doll, you- Me- That.” He nods back to the bed, his voice getting strained. You’re starting to worry about him. “Can’t lie, right?” He laughs weakly. “And that- It wasn’t- I mean- It was everything, so-“

You put him out of his misery.

You cross the room in two strides and take his face between your hands, kissing him long and slow. He grabs your hips and kisses you back immediately, craning his neck to try and deepen the angle. It’s loving, everything you never got to offer him in the heat of the moment. Every last drop of love you hadn’t gotten to show him, offered up like morning dew to the rising sun.

Bucky lets out a slow, ragged exhale, his eyes still shut when you pull away.

“You wanna take me out on a date?” You prompt softly, and Bucky immediately nods.

“Yes- Yes, please.”

You smile, and Bucky smiles back. He leans up for another kiss, and you let yourself melt over him. His fingers dig into your hips, and you know you’ll be covered in bruises come morning. Good. It’s proof that this really happened. That it wasn’t just all in your head.

Bucky’s really yours, and you’re never going to have a dream you can’t reach again.

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So, of course Steve Rogers found you when he needed to find a ghost. Steve found you when the world turned on James Buchanan Barnes. 

After the UN bombing in Vienna, when Bucky was framed and every intelligence agency on Earth wanted him in chains or dead, Steve came to you— he heard of you through old SHIELD files— with desperation and a duffel bag full of cash. 

“I need you to find him,” he said. “Before they do.”

You didn’t even hesitate before taking the job. Because even then, before you met Bucky you believed Steve. And more than that, you believed in redemption.

You tracked Bucky down with your senses—following the scent of gunpowder and cold metal, the subtle trail of heat left in his wake, the ragged sound of breath through the cities of Bucharest. 

You found him before the world did and pointed Steve and Sam in the right direction.

— 

By the time the Avengers disbanded, you were a fugitive—hunted by that least half of the world’s government. Helping Steve Rogers had branded you a traitor in their eyes, but you didn’t regret it. Not then. Not now.

When T’Challa offered sanctuary to Bucky, he extended the same offer to you. Wakanda didn’t just take you in; it gave you purpose. In exchange for refuge, you worked for the royal family— tracking those who dared to steal vibranium from the borders and ensuring justice found them before they slipped through the cracks.

Your home was a modest apartment tucked into the east wing of the palace. It was secluded, perfect for someone like you.

—

When Bucky finally woke from the ice and the trigger words were gone, he didn’t know who to trust. The world had changed too much. He had changed too much.

He trusted Queen Ramonda, who always made sure there was room for both of you at the palace table. He trusted Shuri and the Dora Milaje, because they helped him heal his mind. He trusted both you and T’challa, simply because… Steve trusted you. 

He didn’t expect to fall for you, though.

—

At first, Bucky barely spoke. He moved like a shadow through the palace when he even left his little hut at all. 

He was healing, but not whole. Not yet. The arm was gone—torn from him in Siberia, left behind with the rest of Hydra’s wreckage. 

Bucky hadn’t gotten his new arm yet. Shuri insisted they take their time, that his body and mind needed rest before they complicated him with upgrades. It was the right call. But it left him vulnerable in ways he hated. 

For a man who’d lost so much already, it felt like one more cruel subtraction. You noticed how he avoided using his left side. How he winced at imbalance. How he hated needing help.

You didn’t pity him. You just made space for him to breathe. You shared meals together in the palace garden, never pushing for a conversation he wasn’t ready for.

Sometimes, you’d sit and sharpen your blades while he watched the sky. Other days, you’d bring him small things—a worn paperback with dog-eared pages, a piece of fruit from an outreach mission, or a knife he could train with using only one hand.

“You're not trying to fix me,” he said once, more surprised than grateful.

You shrugged. “You’re not broken.”

You started getting really close because of jars. Peanut butter, mostly. Occasionally pickles. Once, a stubborn jar of papaya jam.

You noticed how he hesitated at cabinets, how he didn’t ask for help even when he clearly needed it— especially because he didn’t know how to use just one hand. 

If he needed a jar opened, you’d walk by, say nothing, and twist the lid off. Then you’d leave it on the counter and move on. No questions. No pity. 

Over time, it turned into more than jars.

He started joining you on your patrols—not in an official capacity, just to walk, perhaps to feel the beauty of the world again without being chased. You’d track down potential threats to Wakandan borders—smugglers, black market mercs—and Bucky would wait for you to get back before having his meal. 

He eventually told you about Bucharest in fragments. About Hydra in pieces. In return, you told him about the experiment. Not all of it—just enough for him to understand that you, too, had been shaped into something you didn’t ask to be.

Days passed like water through your fingers.

You trained with him in the early mornings — barefoot in the dirt, palms open, bodies moving like you were learning each other through motion. You’d fight, laugh, fall, rise again.

At night, you sat together under the stars, sharing stories in fragments — half-finished memories neither of you were strong enough to say out loud in full. You learned he liked fruit, that he slept on his side, that he sometimes talked in Russian in his dreams and didn’t realise it.

One night, you asked, “Do you remember who you were, before all of it?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I think… I remember who I loved. My sister. Steve. The Howling Commandos. But who I was a long time ago? He’s long gone.”

“He’s not,” you whispered. “You’re him. Just… in pieces.”

He looked at you like you were a miracle.

And one of those days, you fell in love with him. 

You didn’t fall in love all at once. It happened slowly, quietly—like stepping into warm water without realising how deep it’s gotten until you’re already submerged.

You tried not to make too much of it. Tried to keep it buried. But your heart had a mind of its own.

So one afternoon, you found yourself pacing in the royal garden while Nakia and Okoye pruned herbs, and blurted it out before you could stop yourself.

“I think I’m in trouble.”

Okoye raised an eyebrow, “Did you get injured?”

“No,” you said, “but I—“

Nakia interrupted you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Is this the kind of trouble with blue eyes and long hair?”

“Well, yes, I—“ You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “—I think I like him.”

Okoye tutted, not unkindly. “You think? I’ve seen the way you look at him like he’s a sunrise after a long night.”

Nakia laughed.

“I’m serious!” you said, trying to sound firm and absolutely failing. “He looks at me like I’m not broken.”

“What is wrong with that?” Okoye asked.

“Because I might believe him.” 

Nakia finally stopped  laughing. Her voice softened. “Sounds like someone sees you the way you’ve always deserved to be seen.”

You didn’t answer her. 

—

Meanwhile, Bucky sat on a sun-warmed bench beside T’Challa, overlooking the city below. After a long silence, Bucky confessed, “I think I’m in trouble.”

T’Challa turned to look at him and raised a brow. “The kind with bullets or feelings?”

“Feelings,” Bucky muttered under his breath. 

“Ah. More dangerous,” T’Challa smiled slightly. “The tracker?”

Bucky blinked. “How the hell does everyone know?”

“You are not subtle, my friend,” T’Challa said, patting him on the shoulder. 

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckled cynically, “Well…”

There was another pause, and then T’Challa spoke softly, “When I was hung up on Nakia, my baba used to tell me Uthando aluyomdlalo; ngumlambo ongenamkhawulo.”

Bucky stared at him for a while, translating in his head. Love is not a game. It is a river with no end.

“You cannot control where it takes you,” T’challa explained, “Only whether you choose to step in.”

Bucky sighed. “I think I already have.”

—

Later, by the lake, the air was still. The moonlight danced on the surface of the water, casting silver over the little hut Bucky called home.

You stood at his door, hands in clenched fists at your sides, heart racing in a way you hadn’t felt since you first got your powers. You knocked, and it was softer than intended— like a question more than a demand.

He opened the door like he’d been expecting you. You didn’t wait. You didn’t explain. You just looked at him and said, “I think I’m in trouble.”

He stepped aside without a word and let you in without a word. “Me too,” he whispered.

Inside the hut, the world seemed a bit quieter.

Bucky stood a few steps away, uncertain. You didn’t move at first. Neither did he.

Then he reached out, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His fingers brushed yours. You curled into his touch without thinking. “I— I think,” you choked out the words. “Fuck— I don’t know how to say it or where to begin…”

“Shhh, I know,” he whispered reassuringly, “because I do, too.”

You nodded, throat tight. “I know.”

You had known for a while now. Your senses allowed you to smell the oxytocin in the air when he was around you, to hear his heartbeat quicken when you spent time together, 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to. He just stepped closer, forehead resting against yours like it was the only place he belonged. Your fingers traced the curve of his jaw, then slid to the scar marring his shoulder—a mark where his Hydra arm used to bed.

“I’m scared,” he confessed, voice low.

“Me too,” you whispered, your lips trembling.

But then you leaned in, and kissed him.

At first, it was tentative—testing. Then, almost immediately, it turned urgent, like you needed to carve this moment into memory, like you were oxygen to him. 

He kissed you back with desperation, like he was terrified you might vanish if he let go. His hand gripped your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left, no more hiding. When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed, fingers still clinging to each other like anchors, you said it again, softer this time. “I know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, “I know.”

The next few months unfolded in pieces.

You were his lover, though neither of you used the word much. Labels felt too fragile, too small for what you were building. You sparred in the mornings, slept tangled together some nights. Sometimes you held him through dreams he didn’t remember. Sometimes he held you through memories you couldn’t say out loud.

Neither of you said “I love you.”

You didn’t need to. You showed it in the broken ways people like you do. He cleaned your knives after missions. You kissed the scars on his body without asking where they came from. But in each other, you found peace.

But you did, though you didn’t say it until a year later, When Thanos’ army broke through Wakanda’s barriers.

You stood on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder with the Dora Milaje. He was beside you, new arm gleaming.

You both knew you might die here.

So just before the charge Bucky turned to you and reached for your hand, calloused fingers threading with yours.

“I love you,” he said.

You looked at him, heart pounding. And in that final moment—when the world outside this little bubble burned and the force field opened—you said it back. “I love you too.”

And then you let go and ran into the fire together.

—

The battle was chaos.

Together, you carved a path through the madness, never far from each other’s side. Each glance was a tether. But when Thanos snapped—

You felt it first. A strange pull in your chest. Like gravity forgot you.

Bucky turned just in time to see you stumble.

“Doll?” He breathed out, voice catching in his throat.

You looked down at your hand— and your fingers were dissolving.

“Hey…” you said softly, like you didn’t want to scare him.

And then— you were gone, carried by the wind.

Bucky’s knees gave out next.

His vision blurred as your hands started to vanish. The world felt far away as he turned to Steve next and said his best friend’s name.

There was no time to be afraid. He just had one last thought— I’m coming with you.

And then— nothing. 

—

Five Years Later.

You came back gasping.

One moment there was nothing—and the next, the battlefield roared around you again. Portals opened. War cried out for soldiers. You ran through it, only searching for one person. You searched the air for his scent, tracked body heat through the crowds looking for Bucky.

When you found him, he grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, and held you so tightly it hurt. But you didn’t care. You buried your face in his shoulder and let yourself feel everything all at once. 

You fought side by side again that day, but even after Thanos was defeated, even after the dust finally settled, the weight on Bucky's shoulders hadn’t lifted.

That night, you and him laid down on a half-collapsed med tent. You were bruised, your leg cut, his knuckles torn open—but you both refused to be separated.

“Bucky,” you said gently as you took his shaking hands. “I’m here.”

He didn’t answer, he just stared blankly at you like you might disappear again.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

And then— he broke.

His hands grabbed your face and kissed you like he had to prove you were real. Like if he didn’t, the universe might take you away again. His breath was uneven, voice hoarse as he finally spoke, “You turned to dust in front of me.”

You pulled him in, forehead to forehead, hearts thundering between bruised ribs. “We came back.”

“I watched it happen,” he choked. “You looked right at me—and then you were just gone. I—“ 

“I came back,” you repeated, firmer now. “I am here.”

He didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. He just pushed his forehead into your collarbone and let his walls fall. 

And in that surrender, you undressed in a desperate attempt to feel something, anything at all. 

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His hands shook against your bare skin, yours ached. You kissed the scar at his shoulder where metal met flesh, and he kissed the bruise on your cheekbones as if he could heal it. 

And when you moved together, it was achingly intimate— two ghosts trying to remember how to be alive.

After, he stayed wrapped around you, hand on your stomach, breath finally steady. You ran your fingers through his hair and kissed his temple.

—

You soon learned that you were different people to who you were five years ago. 

You were still yourself—but edged. The senses they’d carved into you had only grown keener in the dust. You could smell grief in the air. Taste the metallic echo of time. You threw yourself into your work because it was the only way you could process anything. You have given more time to your job and less to everyone else in your life because it was the only way to block your demons out. 

And Bucky—God, Bucky.

Maybe it was watching you vanish into nothing. Maybe it was watching Steve choose a life he didn’t get to have. Maybe it was both. Whatever it was, it left him wound tight, walking through the world like it might crumble beneath his feet at any second. He became suffocatingly protective.

Now, he was always checking exits. Watching windows. Reading strangers’ faces. Looking for ghosts with Hydra insignias or familiar flags. Always ready to run.

You soon realised that while you both have survived death, surviving life was harder.

Some nights, he woke drenched in sweat, eyes wide and terrified. Sometimes he dragged you with him—out of bed, into the hall, whispering about danger that wasn’t there. About people who might take you from him again. You held him anyway.

You wrapped your arms around his trembling body.. You whispered to him that he was safe, that you were real. And some nights, he even believed you.

And on the quietest nights, when your pulse thudded steady beneath his hand, you’d say the only promise that mattered, “If we vanish again—we vanish together.”

He would nod against your chest and weep. 

And while your words helped him in the moment, things only got worse. 

He was still obsessed with not losing you again.

He watched you like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. Always scanning, always planning, always afraid. He checked your comms before you left on a mission. He memorised your schedule like a battle plan. He begged for access to your Kimoyo beads so he could track your movements like a tactician studying the terrain.

It wasn’t protective anymore. It was paranoia.

He wouldn’t sleep if you were out past dark. Would sit by the window, waiting for footsteps or the sound of your key in the lock.

You tried to reason with him—gently, at first. You reminded him who you were, what you could do. 

None of it mattered.

To Bucky, you were breakable simply because you were his.

When he got pardoned, the first thing he said was, “Come with me. Brooklyn. I have to… make amends.”

“Bucky, the Wakandan royal family is extending my contract,” You sighed, kissing the crease between his eyebrows. “They trust me. I’m not leaving that behind.”

He didn’t argue. Not really. He just clenched his teeth and nodded. But you could feel the storm brewing, so you compromised. You would spend three months in Brooklyn with him, then three in Wakanda for work. A split life. 

But even in that compromise, the obsession bled through. Every time you left, he’d call. Text. Ping your locator chip on your kimoyo beads. Just checking, he’d say. Just making sure you’re okay.

It stopped feeling sweet. It started to feel like surveillance.

Sometimes you’d be halfway through a mission—deep in a jungle or in the middle of a compromised crowds—and his name would light up your screen five, six, ten times. His worry grew into desperation. 

You knew he didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t make it easier.

And then one day— it was too much.

You’d just gotten back from a run along the Wakandan border. You were bruised but fine as you walked into your apartment and found your phone flashing with fourteen missed calls and a message that said, “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I’m calling Shuri. I’ll track your signal myself if I have to.”

When you called him, he picked up instantly. “Are you okay? I thought—God, I thought something happened—”

“Bucky,” you snapped. “Stop.”

You were pacing now, your heart hammering harder than it had in the field. “You have got to stop doing this. I am not going to disappear every time I step outside!”

“I just—” he started, but his voice cracked. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t—”

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said, quieter this time.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” you said, softer now. “But this—this isn’t love. This is fear in disguise. You’re watching me like I’m one wrong step away from disappearing, and it’s like you’re still stuck in that moment five years ago.”

“I am,” he said, unbearably honest. “You turned to dust. We can't just pretend that's not real.”

“We turned to dust, Bucky,” you corrected, your voice shaking now. “And we came back. We both did.”

There was a long pause. He just exhaled like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said again, but this time, it sounded like a prayer. 

You wiped a tear from your cheek and whispered, “Then let me live.”

That night, he promised he’d do better.

He swore he would be on time to his therapy sessions. That he’d let you breathe. That he’d learn how to love you without gripping so tight it left bruises.

And for a while, he did. 

But healing isn't linear, and Bucky Barnes fell back into the spiral like it was a black hole.

Two months later, the calls started again. The check-ins. You’d wake to a dozen voicemails. You’d tell him your mission schedule, but he’d still show up unannounced in Wakanda under some flimsy excuse, saying he just needed to see you, to make sure.

Then the court notices started coming. Missed sessions. Warnings from the state department. Red letters in bold ink.

He wasn’t going to therapy anymore. He was tracking you instead.

When you returned from your latest mission along the southern border, there he was— waiting in your apartment in Wakanda, hands shaking.

“Bucky?” you asked, dropping your gear. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just stepped toward you, breathing hard like he’d run the whole way from Brooklyn.

“I tried calling,” he said. “You didn’t answer. You were late reporting in. You weren’t supposed to be gone that long—”

“I was on a stealth mission, James!” you shouted, incredulous. “Do you hear yourself?”

He winced when you used his first name. “I thought you were in trouble.”

“You thought I was in trouble so you hopped a plane, skipped two international borders, and missed court-mandated therapy to come stalk me?!”

“I wasn’t stalking—” he started, but you cut him off, voice shaking.

“Bucky, go to fucking therapy! You are missing mandated sessions to follow me around like I’m going to vanish into smoke again. You’re not okay.”

His eyes flashed with tears building up in the corners. “I’m not okay because the one person who makes me feel safe disappears for weeks at a time without warning!”

“What kind of pressure is that? I am not your fucking safety net!” you finally screamed, though you did not mean to. “I am your girlfriend, not your property.”

He flinched.

“You don’t trust me,” you said, your voice cracking at the seams. “You trust your fear more than me. You trust your obsession more than you trust my skills, my choices, my life.”

“I do trust you—”

“No, you don’t!” you snapped. “If you did, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be in therapy. Not sitting on my damn bed, panicking because I missed a check-in by three hours.”

He looked down. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“I know,” you said softly, bitterly. “I know. And I love you. God, I love you.”

Your voice cracked again, but your words were firm. “But this isn’t love anymore, Bucky. This is control. This is not good for you. Being here? With me? It's hurting both of us.”

Finally, Bucky nodded. Just once.

“Do you think we’ll ever be okay again?” he asked, voice barely audible.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and sat next to him, squeezing his human hand. You didn’t want to do this like this. But the moment you looked at him you knew you couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine and dandy. 

You took a breath.

“This…” you started gently, like saying it softer might hurt less. “This isn’t working.”

He blinked. “What?”

“This,” you said, motioning between you with a shaking hand. “Us. The way it is right now. It’s not working.”

He jerked his hand back, standing up in shock like you’d slapped him. “Wait—what the hell are you saying?”

“I’m saying you left Brooklyn without clearance. Again. You broke parole—again. You’ve got people looking for you.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” he snapped, eyes dark. “You weren’t answering. You were off the grid. What was I supposed to do? Just sit around and wait?”

“Yes,” was all you said. You didn’t need to remind him that he needed to trust you. That he needed to trust your skills. 

His voice was shaking now. “What happened to ‘if we vanish again, we vanish together’?”

You closed your eyes at the words. You’d meant it.

But promises can rot when fed with obsession.

Your voice cracked. “I said that when you could breathe without having to know where I was every second of every day, Bucky.”

He looked down, jaw, hands balled into fists. “I can’t lose you again.”

“And I can’t live like this,” you said, voice strained as you wiped your tears away. “I’m not your leash, and I’m not your cure. You can’t chain yourself to me because you don’t know how to be with yourself.”

His eyes filled with watery tears, and he didn’t speak.

So you did. 

“Please,” you said, “leave by morning. Go home. Check in with Dr. Raynor when you land. If you don’t, they’ll arrest you.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head. You couldn’t do another round of argument.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Don’t make this harder.”

He took a breath, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon just to make it this far. “So that’s it?”

You didn’t answer.

Just stepped up and pressed your hand gently against his chest—where his heart still beat too fast and your enhanced hearing was picking it up too well—and whispered, “Goodbye, Bucky.”

He turned without another word, because anything he said might break you both.

And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed felt like a funeral.

—

Bucky didn't know where to go, so he wandered and wandered until he sat down on the palace steps, hands shaking, heart swirling like a thunderstorm in his chest. 

He didn’t notice T’Challa approach until the king sat beside him, arms resting on his knees.

For a long while, neither of them spoke. “She told you to leave,” T’Challa said simply. Not unkind, but not sparing.

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “Yeah.”

“She’s right, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear that right now.”

“I know,” T’Challa said. “But I am saying it anyway, my friend.”

Bucky said nothing, fists digging into the vibranium infused staircase step beneath him. T’Challa went on, “You love her. I know. She loves you too. But love twisted by fear is dangerous. You were not protecting her. You were holding her hostage in your panic.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” T’Challa interrupted gently. “And she forgave you for longer than most would. But she cannot carry both her past and yours. You nearly became what you once fought against: control.”

Bucky turned his head away, chest tight. “I didn’t mean to. I just— I couldn’t lose her again.”

“It’s not just you,” T’Challa said softly, “she… she needs space. She’s throwing herself into work, and perhaps that’s how she copes, but she’s becoming… distant. From you. From all of us.”

Bucky’s breath hitched.

“You know I know what it feels like firsthand to come back from being turned to dust.” T’Challa said, “and when we came back, we all changed. I believe you might need time away from each other to first understand how you both have changed.”

Bucky finally looked at him, eyes rimmed with red. “So what, I just pretend none of this happened?”

“No,” T’Challa said. “You leave. You go to therapy. And you become someone who deserves a second chance—not from her. From yourself.”

Then T’Challa stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes. He looked down at the man once known as the Winter Soldier— now just a man.

“I will have a jet ready within the hour,” he said. “You will not say goodbye. That would only cause more pain.”

Bucky could only nod. Deep down, T’challa was his friend as much as he was yours. He was looking out for him as much as he was looking out for you. 

—

Bucky didn’t go straight to the jet in the landing pad. 

He walked around first—through the gardens he used to kiss you in, down the quiet stone paths lined with flowering trees. And then, when he couldn’t stall any longer, he found Shuri.

She was in her lab, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of grease on her cheek, working on a new upgrade for the Kimoyo bead system. She didn’t look surprised when she saw him.

He stood just inside the door for a while, fidgeting with the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. 

“I’m leaving,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

Shuri nodded with a sad smile. “I heard.”

He hesitated. “Can you keep tabs on her for me?” He asked. As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he realised how bad it must’ve sounded. “I’m not asking you to spy on her. I swear.”

That made her pause. She turned to him, brows raised in wary curiosity. “Sounds like you are.”

“I’m not,” he said again, hands up in surrender. “But I need—I just need to know if she’s hurt. That’s all. If she’s injured. If something happens in the field. Not every move, not every detail, just... if she’s okay.”

Shuri’s eyes softened. “She wants you to move on. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Bucky said quickly. “And I won’t reach out. I won’t interfere. But if something serious happens—if she’s in the med bay or worse—I need to know. I can’t breathe not knowing that.”

Shuri crossed her arms. Studied him.

“You still think it’s love, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

He flinched. “I don’t know what it is anymore. But I know that it’s not trust. Not peace. That’s why I’m leaving.”

She held his eyes for a long time. Then she nodded once. “If she’s ever in danger, you’ll hear from me. That’s all I’ll promise.”

He nodded, relieved. “Thank you.”

Shuri stepped closer, pressing a new set of Kimoyo beads into his palm. “These won’t track her. But they will let you receive encrypted pings if I send one. No contact. Just information.”

Bucky curled his fingers around the beads like they were a lifeline.

“I’ll earn my second chance,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Even if it’s just for me.”

Shuri nodded. And with that, she turned back to her work.

Bucky walked out of the lab with the bracelet tucked into his pocket and boarded the jet alone.

Not with closure. But with a choice to begin again.

—

Six Months Later

You hadn’t meant to watch the news. It was just playing in the corner of the lab, the volume low was meant to be background noise.  

But there he was.

Bucky, onn screen, his hair shorter now, beard shaved. He was standing next to Sam, both of them looking like they’d just walked through hell and come out victorious. 

“Barnes and Wilson led the operation to contain a Flag Smasher attack—”

The footage cut to shaky video: Bucky saving hostages from a burning truck. Sam dropped from above, wings that Shuri gave him expanding in the night sky

You stopped breathing for a second.

Not because he looked good— though he did— but because he looked... different. Lighter. Still sharp around the edges, still Bucky, but not strung so tight he might snap. His shoulders weren’t so hunched. His eyes didn’t carry that haunted glaze you'd come to know too well.

You looked down at your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Muscle memory had already opened your messages. The text thread was still there.

You started to type. 

Saw you on TV today. You looked—

You paused and backspaced.

Took down some Flag Smashers, huh? Didn’t even trip once. I’m impressed.

Delete.

You looked okay.

No.

You stared at the screen. You wanted to say something small, something kind. Something to let him know you’d seen him, that you still cared.

And then—

“Nope,” Okoye said from behind you.

You jumped, flipping your phone face-down like a teenager caught texting a crush.

Okoye raised an eyebrow, arms crossed in full general-mode. “I know that look. You are thinking about him.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “He looked... better.”

“Good. That is what healing is supposed to look like,” she said, tilting her head. “But do not dishonour that progress by dragging each other back into the fire so soon.”

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you muttered under your breath. 

Okoye gave you a really? look. 

You smiled sheepishly. “Okay, maybe. But just a little.”

She stepped forward, took your phone, and pocketed. “Let him move on. I will take you on patrol,” she said briskly, already walking toward the hangar. “And after, we have tea. And girl talk.”

“Girl talk?” you chuckled, following.

“Yes. I have opinions on your taste in emotionally volatile men. It is time you heard them.”

You laughed despite yourself.

—

One Year Later.

The palace was quieter now that T’Challa was gone.

And grief didn’t move cleanly through your body like it used to. It crept and lingered and collected behind your eyes, in the back of your throat, in the hollow ache of your chest that wouldn’t quite go away.

You’d expected to feel lost. But not like this.

You stood at the balcony outside your quarters, fingers curled around a steaming cup of tea Ayo had forced into your hands. 

You hadn’t slept. Couldn’t eat. Before returning back to your quarters, you stayed with Shuri the entire day today, being present for her and Queen Ramonda.

And then the doorbell chimed.

You opened it to find a small wrapped bundle of flowers on the floor. A delivery slip attached in elegant Wakandan script: With honor and remembrance.

In the bouquet was Snowdrops, winter jasmine, and White hyacinth.

It was a winter bouquet.

Not many people in Wakanda would choose those blooms. Not unless they’d meant something.

It was him. Bucky.

He must’ve contacted his old florist in the city to have it delivered to your wing of the palace. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, the flowers still in your hands, too stunned to cry.

And then, before you even realised what you were doing, your phone was in your lap. You opened the message thread with Bucky. 

You typed, Shuri said she texted you. Said you could come to the funeral. Why didn’t you?

You stared at it. Then, slowly, you deleted it.

Because what would he even say? That he wanted to give you space? That he didn’t know if you wanted to see him? That he sent flowers because showing up would hurt you more?

Maybe he thought the blooms were enough. But they weren’t.

You needed him— a friend who had known T’Challa like you had. Someone who remembered the man like you did— not just the king.

You wanted Bucky to hold you and reminisce about that time you dared T’challa to arm wrestle him. You wanted to laugh about his horrible jokes during harvest. But all you got were flowers.

And wasn’t this what you asked for?

You had told him to let go. To move on. To live his life. And he had.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your wrist, too tired to be angry. Too empty to cry. Later, you placed the bouquet beside the small altar in the throne room, next to T’Challa’s photo.

A winter gift for a king.

You whispered, "I miss both of you."

—

You didn’t sleep much the year after that.

You didn’t eat much either. Grief gnawed at your gut like hunger, but nothing ever settled. Not even water. Not even rest.

All you had left was work. You helped Wakanda defend itself from foreign attacks, and when the time came, you helped track Riri Williams for Shuri. 

But when Shuri was taken by the Talokan, your sanity was cracked clean in half.

You didn’t feel fear. Or rage. Just focus. Razor-sharp, ice-cold, deadly focus.

You helped Nakia track her— followed her scent through the water, infrared vision scanning jungle heat signatures, nose full of salt and humidity until found her underwater. You got her back.

But then Namor attacked, and Queen Ramonda didn’t make it.

You had to look at one more coffin. One more goodbye to one more person gone who had offered you safety, love, and dignity.

Ramonda had seen both you and Bucky when you came to Wakanda scarred and haunted. She had welcomed you with open arms. And now she was gone too.

At the funeral, you held Shuri up because she was shaking. You held her hand. And when it was over, you took her into your quarters and let her sob into your shoulder for hours

You didn’t cry.

You couldn’t. You had to be strong for her.

That night, your phone buzzed with a message.

Bucky : “You okay?”

That was it.

You stared at it. You read it again. Then again.

Are you okay? 

You almost laughed. As if that was a question that could be answered in a text. As if that was something you could possibly explain.

Your queen was dead. Your sister in everything but blood had just buried both her brother and mother within 14 months. The kingdom you had called home for the past decade was under attack. You hadn't slept in four days. Your body was covered in bruises. And Bucky—the man who had once buried his face in your collarbone and sobbed because he couldn’t bear to lose you—sent a text.

A fucking text. Not even a call. 

You set your phone down and didn’t respond.

You didn’t throw it. You didn’t curse. You didn’t scream. You just... sat there. Numb. 

And that was the first night you drank.

You drank because your hands wouldn’t stop shaking and your mind wouldn’t stop screaming and no mission could numb you enough to silence the memory of T’challa’s last words or Ramonda’s last breath or Shuri’s tears soaking through your shirt.

You didn’t stop after one. You wanted to not feel at all. And when the bottle emptied, you drank again. And the next night. And the one after that.

It didn’t fix anything.

—

A Year Later.

You had buried yourself in fieldwork— back to back missions for Wakanda with little to no rest in between. It dulled the ache of grief, but it never fully faded. You were getting better. Still dying inside, but a little slower now.

You took risks that made even Okoye grit their teeth, but you didn’t care. With Shuri as the new Black Panther and the Midnight Angels at your side, it felt like movement was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. 

You didn’t care if the assignments were dangerous. Maybe you even preferred it that way.

Shuri was adjusting your new visor in her lab when she glanced up casually. “You know your ex is running for Congress?”

You tilted your head, “What?”

She flicked her fingers and brought up a holographic newsfeed. There he was—James Buchanan Barnes. Neatly combed hair in a dark blue suit, sporting a nervous half-smile. He was shaking hands somewhere in New York, surrounded by cameras.

You stared. “Bucky… in politics? Are we sure that’s not a skrull?”

Shuri laughed, brightening the room. “Positive. He filed last week. His campaign’s all over the place—veteran advocacy, post-Blip recovery programs.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Making amends.”

“He always said he wanted to,” she said gently.

You nodded, silent for a second too long. “He’ll do well.”

Shuri studied your expression. “You think?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes stayed on the image—on Bucky’s restrained expression, the way he looked down like he was afraid to take up space.

“Yeah,” you said. “Have you seen that smile? He could charm a whole room without opening his mouth.”

Shuri laughed again. You found yourself smiling too, even if it hurt to do so.

For a while, she was as self-destructive as you. But now, you didn’t know how Shuri carried her own losses so gracefully, how she held herself together. Maybe it was the suit or the legacy. Or maybe she was just stronger. Your method was simpler: run into danger and don’t care if you make it out. It wasn’t healthy. But it was efficient.

Still, your senses were stronger than ever. You have noticed how Shuri’s heartbeat always picked up when you mention Bucky. You always assumed it was because she was worried about you— about the old wounds reopening. 

What you still didn’t know, what she never told you, was that she and Bucky were in constant contact. And after her mother’s death, her updates to him became more detailed, more frequent. Perhaps, it was because you were the closest thing she had to a sister. Perhaps she wanted to keep you safe— and letting Bucky know of your missions meant that if anything were to go wrong, he would be there to help.

She had already lost T’challa and Ramonda. She was not going to lose you, too.

—

Utah. Thunderbolts* timeline.

The gas station was run-down, lit by flickering fluorescent lights and signs buzzing with static. Inside, the team Yelena had apparently nicknamed the Thunderbolts stood in varying degrees of impatience as Bucky took off the last of their restraints.

Yelena rubbed her wrists and shot Bucky a sidelong glance. “So. How are we going to track Bob?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He was already pulling out his phone, lips pressed in a hard line. “Can’t track Mel’s phone,” he muttered under his breath. “Wherever they are, they must have signal jammers.”

“Great,” John said. “And we’re just supposed to... drive and hope we’re going in the right direction?”

Ava narrowed her eyes. “We don't have time. If Val has Bob, there’s no telling—”

Bucky raised a hand. “I… I might know someone nearby who can track a scent halfway across the world.”

Alexei straightened with a hopeful gleam in his eye. “Ah! We are getting reinforcements?” He cracked his knuckles. 

Bucky was already reaching for his phone, hesitation coiling in his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

He shouldn't be doing this, right?

Were you ready to see him? After everything? After how you ended things? Did you even want to see him?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shove down the uncertainty clawing at his ribs. 

Focus, Barnes. 

This wasn’t about closure or guilt or anything personal. Civilians could be in danger. And if Sentry project was as dangerous as they said, then they were way past playing it safe.

Even if it was messy. Even if it hurt.

“Something like that,” Bucky muttered, then hit Call—and walked out into the gas station parking lot.

—

Call to Shuri,  Wakandan Secure Channel.

“Bucky,” Shuri answered briskly, “If this is about a replacement arm because the raccoon stole it again—”

“It’s not,” Bucky cut in. “I need hotel information.”

A pause. “For whom?”

“For her.” He didn’t have to say your name. Shuri knew exactly who he meant.

“Why?”

“You told me she was in a joint op with Everett Ross in Salt Lake City. I just need the hotel name, Shuri.”

“That’s classified,” she said, more defensively than she meant. She was willing to give him many things about you, but this might be teetering on a line she wouldn’t cross.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t urgent. We need to track someone before he levels a city,” Bucky explained, “Please.”

Shuri went quiet, because she knew a call from the White Wolf meant things were getting out of hand. 

—

You smelled him before he knocked.

He smelled like leather and metal. He had that faint, signature scent — like snowmelt clinging to old wood. 

You just finished an intel swap with Everett Ross, and now all you wanted to do was lie down and sleep. That was until you caught a whiff of his scent and you stopped dead in your tracks. 

The knock came a second later.

You took a breath, schooled your expression, and opened the door.

And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes. Standing in a Salt Lake City hotel hallway. 

His hair was longer than you last saw on TV, a little more silver threading through the temples. A black t-shirt that clung to him in all the ways that weren’t fair, leather jacket over it. 

You froze for a moment. 

“Wow… I— you…,” he said, as if he couldn’t help himself. “You’re still as beautiful as the last time I saw you.”

You let out a dry laugh before you could stop yourself, folding your arms. “You showing up uninvited in a hallway in Utah wasn’t exactly how I imagined hearing that.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided little smile — the kind that once made your knees weak. “Yeah, well… surprise?”

You rolled your eyes. But it was hard to ignore how your heartbeat had kicked up. “How did you even know I was here?”

He winced. “Okay, so… don’t be mad.”

“Oh no,” you said, flatly. “Great way to start.”

“I, uh… may have asked Shuri.”

Your brows rose. “You what?”

“Just for updates.”

“Bucky.”

“She didn’t tell me much! Just—like—general stuff. Missions. If you were injured. If you’d… eaten.”

“You’ve been asking my best friend to report on my food intake?”

“Okay, that was one time!”

“You don’t get to be worried anymore,” you cut in ever so gently, and the smile dropped from his face.

“I know,” he said. 

You stared at him, longing pressing under your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you said.

He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed your help. For something. But part of me… I- I don’t know. I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see you.”

“Well, congratulations.” You rolled your eyes, “You found me.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there with that goddamn puppy-dog look on his face — the one you used to wake up to. The one that said he still loved you in ways he probably didn’t know how to stop.

The silence stretched thin.

Finally, you sat down on your bed and said, “You weren’t there.”

Sitting down on the armchair across from you, Bucky’s brows pulled together, and he knew instantly what you meant.

“T’Challa,” you said. “Ramonda. You didn’t come. You sent flowers. A text. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracked at the edges. “You don’t get it, Bucky. You were family. They loved you.”

“I loved them, too,” he said. “God, I loved them. T’Challa gave me a second chance. Ramonda treated me like a second son. You think it didn’t kill me not to be there?”

“Then why weren’t you?” you asked, quieter now. “Why didn’t you show up?”

He looked away. “Because I knew I’d see you, too.”

Oh. 

He continued, voice rough, eyes fixed on a random point over your shoulder. “I knew I’d see you in white, standing in front of that city that saved both of us. And I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold it together. I couldn’t go to Wakanda to grieve them and be reminded of you. I was already falling apart. I couldn’t break in front of everyone.”

Your breath hitched, just a little.

“You think I didn’t fall apart?” you whispered. “You think I didn’t wake up everyday being reminded of you? That I didn’t carry Shuri when she couldn’t stand even when I missed you?”

He looked back at you, “You are stronger than me.”

“No, Bucky,” You shook your head. “I just showed up.”

He swallowed hard, his chest heaving just slightly.

You stared at each other again — that thick, choking silence drowning you like a wave.

And still… underneath it all, there was love. Frustrated, frayed, unresolved — but alive. 

Bucky leaned forward. “I know I messed up. I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”

You didn’t answer. You just watched him, waiting.

“I’ll stop,” he promised. “The updates. Everything. I’ll leave you alone. I just… need you to do one thing.”

Before you could respond, your nose twitched.

You frowned and sniffed the air, eyes narrowing when your ears picked up four new heartbeats in the vicinity. 

“Bucky,” you said slowly. “Does this have anything to do with the four jackasses currently pressed up against the hallway wall?”

He blinked. “...No?”

You sighed, walked to the front of the room and opened the door.  Yelena, Ava, John, and Alexei all flinched like a bunch of kids caught behind a curtain.

“I told you to wait in the car,” Bucky groaned. 

You crossed your arms at the four extremely guilty faces frozen mid-lean.

Ava, arms crossed like she wasn’t just eavesdropping with laser focus. Yelena, who gave a tiny wave. “Hi.” John, trying very hard to act casual. Alexei was grinning wide. “Ah! She is even more terrifying than Mr. Soldier described! I like her.”

You stared at them. Then at Bucky.

He winced. “...So yeah. About that one thing.”

—

They gave you the rundown on Bob and the Sentry Project—chaotic, riddled with questions and coded language that made you realise that Bucky was right— this was a larger-than-life situation.

It was enough to raise every red flag in your head, and by the end of it, you were just dragging a hand down your face like you were wiping off the last shred of peace you had left.

“Fine,” you muttered, already rerouting your mental map like instinct. You stepped in closer, tilting your head just slightly at the three people who had been in close vicinity to Bob. 

Yelena, John, and  Ava.

You went in close and did a focus inhale through your nose. Your senses lit up. You could smell a thread between them— that must be Bob’s smell. 

You could pick apart the sweat and smoke residue. You could smell the iron-spike scent of stress hormones surging through their blood. You could practically taste the adrenaline.

“Got it,” you said, nodding once.

Then you turned, already moving.

Your pupils contracted as you flipped into the edge of your infrared vision, sweeping the environment in layered pulses of heat and light. People lit up like sketches in flames. Your hearing tuned up next, catching radio chatter three blocks out, the thrum of a drone overhead.

You walked out, and they followed you as you followed the scent straight toward Avengers Tower.

—

Void, New York.

The city was being devoured—block by block, building by building—into a yawning chasm of darkness,a  negative space eating reality alive. It was as if Bob had carved a hole in the fabric of reality and let nothingness bleed through. The skyline blurred at the edges, buildings sucked into the black like paper into flame. 

People were turned into shadows, and what scared you the most was you can’t smell them anymore. You can’t hear them anymore. They… vanished.

You stood on the edge of where Grand Central Station used to be. Bob was in the center of it all—or what was left of him. 

You had found him, and it had gone bad. Catastrophically bad.

Yelena didn’t hesitate. She was the first one to go in. 

The others had followed—Alexei, John, Ava—one by one, swallowed whole by the nothingness.

Now it was just you and Bucky.

The edge of the Void shimmered like a heat mirage, the floor fracturing under it. 

You stared into the nothingness and it looked exactly how you’d felt the day Wakanda lost its king. The day Ramonda breathed her last breath in that throne room. The day you held Shuri’s hand as she lost everything.

And all you could think, selfishly, was how Bucky hadn’t been there.

You swallowed hard, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared.”

Bucky looked at you, eyes softening.

You didn’t know what was on the other side. You didn’t know what you’d see— what the Void would show you, or take from you.

But for the first time in years, the love of your life reached out and took your hand. 

“If we vanish again,” he said quietly, “we vanish together.”

Right. 

Your fingers curled around his, Your voice barely trembled as you said it again, “Together.”

Then you stepped forward and let the Void take you both.

—

Bucky woke up in the snow.

He recognised this place even before he heard the screaming wind, before he looked down and saw his blood soaking into the white ground.

Bucky was twenty-something again—still Sergeant James Barnes. Still just a soldier, a friend, a smartass.

He was watching himself fall. Watching his arm catch on the railing, and breaking on impact. He watched his body spiral and bounce once before settling.

He tried to look away, but he couldn’t.

He remembered waiting for hours for help. No one came.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispered, but the younger version didn’t respond. He blinked once more and then stopped moving altogether.

Then, in an attempt to escape this vision, he buried himself in an avalanche of snow.

He woke up in another room. It was his apartment, familiar and claustrophobic at the same time. The curtains were drawn tight, the air thick with the scent of cheap whiskey 

And there he was — himself again. This Bucky was slouched on the floor, back against the wall, surrounded by a graveyard of bottles. Some still full. Most empty. The floor was soaked where he’d dropped one earlier.

He had a bottle pressed to his lips now. He took another long, angry swig. Then another. Then—

Nothing.

No burn. No warmth in his chest. No haze. He roared suddenly, launching the bottle across the room. It shattered against the wall. Glass rained down like glittering snow.

“Why won’t it work?” he shouted, voice hoarse. “Why won’t it fucking work?”

He lurched to his feet, fumbling for another bottle in the kitchen. His hands shook. His breathing was ragged.

“Just let me forget,” he begged, staring at his reflection in the microwave’s glass. “Let me forget. Let me be numb.”

But his body refused. His curse of super soldier metabolism was that he would never let him escape. He would never get drunk ever again.

He threw the next bottle harder. The glass cut his knuckles. He didn’t feel it.

He had only landed from Wakanda twelve hours ago. But this time, he landed with the knowledge that you were not his anymore. And now there was no one to fight with. No one to talk to. No one to hold his hand when the nightmares got bad. No one to anchor him when he spiraled.

He slid down the wall and pressed his forehead to his knees like he could disappear into his own body.

He whispered your name over and over again.

The most devastating part was knowing that he had finally found someone who saw him, and still, somehow, he had driven you away.

He stayed like that for what felt like hours. Days. Maybe he never left that floor at all.

Then — Bucky saw a ripple from a puddle across the room where he had spilled his drink earlier. 

He looked into it, and instead of a reflection, he saw you. 

You were curled up on a couch in another life, in another room. Fingers wrapped around a half-empty bottle. Your head lolling against the armrest, eyes glazed. Laughter bubbled out of your mouth that didn’t belong there — not the happy kind. This laughter was crooked, the kind you used to hide the sobs building beneath your ribs.

The bottle slipped from your fingers and onto the floor.

You were drunk. Not a buzz. Not a haze. You were gone, and it showed.

You started slurring words to no one and between fits of laughter. The makeup smeared across your cheek wasn’t from a night out — it was from wiping away tears with the back of your hand over and over again.

You were wrecked in a way Bucky couldn’t be.

You had the freedom he envied, the escape he was never allowed. You could bury the grief. He had to live with it. And then— he saw what you were clutching in your lap.

It was a photo of You, Bucky, Shuri, and T’challa, taken by Queen Ramonda by the lake, only a couple of days before Thanos attacked. 

You stared at the photo like it might move. Like if you looked hard enough, you could reach through the glossy paper and pull them out.

But they were gone.

T’Challa. Ramonda.

And Bucky.

He hadn’t died, but he wasn’t there either. Not when it mattered.

Your grip on the bottle tightened. And then—suddenly—you screamed. “WHY AREN’T YOU HERE?!”

The words tore out of you like glass, shredding you from the inside out.

You hurled the bottle across the room. It hit a wall, shattered, and splashed liquor across the floor. Your body jolted with it, like you’d thrown a piece of yourself.

And then you just collapsed yourself, rocking back and forth. “My fault,” you whispered over and over again. “My fault. All my fault. My fault.”

Bucky watched from the other side of the reflection, both of you broken in different ways—he, invulnerable and furious that he couldn’t feel the poison work; you, drowning in it.

The grief between you wasn’t just shared.

It was mirrored.

Both of you in your separate corners of the world, drinking like it might erase memory, like it might bring someone back, like it might turn regret into penance.

With a deep breath, he took a leap of faith and stepped into the puddle. 

It felt like falling like leaping off a rooftop with no guarantee of landing, but choosing the fall anyway because it might bring him back to you.

And he was right.

He was there, with the real you. 

You were in that room, in the corner, watching it all play out like a film you couldn’t pause.

That puddle had been more than a doorway. It had been a choice. And he had chosen you.

Bucky knelt down beside you slowly. He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled you into him.

And for a moment, you didn’t move.

But then his arms wrapped around you, the walls gave in. Your fingers clutched at the back of his jacket and you buried your face into his shoulder.

You stayed like that for a while. 

Then, muffled against him, you said, “I should’ve called.”

He just held you tighter.

You continued. “You gave me flowers. A text. It wasn’t much, but… at least it was something. I didn’t even text back. I didn’t give you anything.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to look at you, his hands still resting gently on your shoulders. “No,” he said. “Don’t apologize. I—” He exhaled slowly, eyes dark and honest. “I was suffocating you. I… I ruined you.”

“You never ruined me, Bucky,” you said. “You broke my heart. But you never ruined me.”

Silence stretched again — for a while.

“I was scared I’d never see you again,” you admitted, quieter now. “That you’d disappear into some mission and I’d never get to tell you I was still… that I still— fuck… I—” Unable to finish your sentences, looked away instead, chewing the inside of your cheek. Then you asked what had been burning in the back of your throat this whole time: “Are we ever going to be okay again?”

His answer was quiet, immediate. “We already are.” He kissed your temple — not possessive or desperate, just… loving. 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

He smiled. “You’re here. I’m here. We’re talking. Yelling. Holding each other. That’s more than most people get.”

You chuckled, exhaling a shaky breath, forehead resting against his. “So what now?”

“Now?” he murmured. “We get up.”

Your hand slid down his arm and laced your fingers with his. “And what about the end of the world?”

He gave a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Right. That.”

You both stood, like people learning how to walk for the first time again.

He looked at you, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “C’mon,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s go find Bob.”

And this time, you walked out together.

—

Post-Void. New York, again.

You’d done it. You’d pulled Bob out, helped him control the void inside of him. 

And just as the dust started to settle, Val ambushed you all with a press conference. She threw around the word New Avengers like it was already printed across a glossy magazine cover. 

Your phone immediately lit up like a Christmas tree.

Everett Ross: Did my EX-WIFE just put you in the New Avengers lineup? Why did you not tell me this?

You winced. Ex-wife. Of course.

Then, Shuri: ??? What is HAPPENING? Should I have not given Bucky your hotel?

And the kicker came from the current king of Wakanda himself.

M’Baku: Weren’t you on a foreign mission on behalf of Wakanda? You are now on AMERICAN NEWS? Call back immediately.

You groaned and thumbed your phone to Do Not Disturb.

The others were watching you now. Bob was still sitting in the sun. Yelena tried ignoring the cameras with practiced disinterest. 

Beside you, Bucky was catching his breath, hair tousled, jacket streaked with dust. 

“You wanna come back to my place?” he asked, pointing to your phone. “Make the calls from there, if this is too much.”

You blinked. “Don’t you live in D.C. now? Whole Capitol Hill, suit-and-tie Bucky?”

He shrugged, glanced at a hovering drone cam, and flipped it off without changing expression. “Kept my old apartment in Brooklyn. Rent controlled.”

You smirked, though the change in his heartbeat did not go unnoticed. “You’re sentimental.”

“No,” he chuckled. “I’m cheap. But if it helps, the water pressure is still garbage and the radiator still sounds like a haunted typewriter. Just like last time you were there.”

Before you could answer, Alexei called out from behind you. “Can we all come? Team debrief?”

You turned, and shook your head. “Top secret. I’ll find you later.”

Ava lifted a hand lazily. “She’s a tracker. She will.”

She was right. If anyone tried to disappear, you’d have them in an hour.

As you turned away with Bucky at your side, your super-hearing picked up everything. Far behind you, John Walker, never one for subtlety, muttered to someone — probably Yelena, “Twenty bucks says they’re back together by tonight. I mean, do you see how they look at each other?”

You kept walking. Bucky hadn’t heard it — his senses weren’t as sharp as yours, even with the serum.

You debated pretending you hadn’t either. 

—

You knew before he even unlocked the door that keeping this place wasn’t about rent control.

When it creaked as you walked, the first thing you could smell was remnants of yourself. 

The radiator still coughed in the corner like it was dying. Everything smelled faintly of old wood and clean laundry, and something faintly him — steel and cedar and memory.

Your breath hitched when you saw the shelf to your left still had your copy of Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, the one Bucky swore he never borrowed.

Your old hoodie — the grey one with the thumb holes — was folded on the arm of the couch like you had just worn it yesterday.

The photos in the frames hadn’t changed. There was one of you and him, laughing in the sunset. One of Bucky, Sam, Steve, and T’challa with you and Shuri making faces while photobombing them. Then, a photo of you, him, Shuri, and T’challa— his copy of the one Ramonda had taken. 

Oh. 

The space was like a museum and a time capsule rolled into one.

You didn’t say anything at first.

You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone. A stack of voicemails and messages had piled up, still buzzing in the background. The world was catching up to what had just happened — the Void, Val’s PR machine spinning headlines while you were still scrubbing concrete dust out of your hair.

You answered M’Baku first, then Shuri, then Ross. But your eyes kept drifting to the photos, the jacket, the battered mug with the chipped rim that you used to have your coffee in, no matter how much it leaked.

Bucky stayed quiet. 

He didn’t hover. Just leaned against the counter with a mug in his hand that had long since gone cold.

When you finally finished the last call, you let out a deep breath. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the table. Then, you looked at him. “Rent control, huh?” you raised an eyebrow.

He blinked, looking down to his feet.

“You’re full of shit,” you added, gentler this time.

And Bucky chuckled his first real laugh since your reunion. He dropped his head for a second, shaking it slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

He stepped a little closer, leaning one hand on the table across from you. His other hand hovered, like he wanted to reach out but didn’t want to break whatever fragile platform you were both standing on.

“I kept thinking I’d throw it all out,” he said. “That I’d come back one day and finally… take it all down. Pack the clothes. Box up the books and mail them to you. But I never did.”

You looked down at your hands. You could feel his eyes on you.

“I think,” he said, quieter now, “that part of me thought… if I kept it all exactly the same, maybe you’d come back.”

Your throat tightened.

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not… good at this. At any of it. But I don’t want to keep pretending I don’t want you in my life .”

Silence stretched for a long moment.

Finally, you said, “Shuri told me something the other day.”

Bucky straightened a little.

“She was trying to explain quantum entanglement to me. That even when particles are separated by galaxies, they still feel each other. React to each other. Like distance doesn’t matter. Not really.” You met his eyes. “That’s us, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky gave you a sad smile, “It’s us.”

You looked around the room again.

“I’m not ready,” you said. “I don’t know how to go back to what we were. I don’t even know if we should.”

“I don’t want what we were,” he said, without hesitation. “I want better.”

You studied him. He looked different than the last time you saw him — older, maybe. Not physically. But his eyes were angry. Less anxious.

You nodded. “Slow,” you said. “We take it slow.”

He looked… relieved. 

He didn’t step closer. He didn’t grab you or kiss you or make some grand statement. Instead, he reached out and gently rested two fingers against the back of your hand, just enough to feel you there.

“Okay,” he said.

And somehow, it was enough.

Not everything was fixed, but for the first time in a long time, you had him back in your life. —

You didn’t know what you expected when you landed in Wakanda. Maybe M’Baku would challenge you to one final sparring match and attempt to win the truth out of you with his bare hands. Maybe Shuri would yell. Maybe Okoye would look at you like a traitor.

But no one raised their voice, and that almost made it worse.

The throne room was still. M’Baku stood tall with his arms crossed. As you stepped forward, you tried to square your shoulders, trying to find the version of yourself that had once stood tall here— not as a visitor, not as a liability, but as someone who helped this nation rebuild from the blip, from the loss of their king, from the loss of their queen.

But your throat was dry. Your heartbeat thrummed in your chest. “I came to explain,” you said, voice thinner than you’d hoped.

“You do not need to,” M’Baku replied, his voice grave but not unkind.

You stopped, stunned by how final he sounded.

He descended the steps from the throne, each footfall echoing through the vibranium coated walls. “I regret to inform you that your contract with Wakanda is terminated,” he said. “Effective immediately.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand before you could speak.

“You are now aligned with the New Avengers,” he said, reciting an uncomfortable truth. “You report to the CIA’s director. Your loyalties have shifted—by necessity, perhaps, but shifted nonetheless. Wakanda cannot afford blurred lines.”

Fuck. 

“I didn’t ask for the public announcement,” you said as a last line of defence. “Valentina made that move without consulting anyone.”

“And yet the world knows,” M’Baku answered. “Perception, as you know, is reality. The eyes of the world are on you now. And those eyes inevitably turn toward Wakanda.”

You lowered your gaze, heart dropping in your chest. “I understand.”

“But…” he continued, “I want you to know that you were never just a contract to us.”

When he stepped closer, his stance shifted. He wasn’t Wakanda’s king now. He was M’Baku— your sparring partner, your most stubborn friend, the man who once cracked your rib in training and called it ‘bonding.’

“You were family,” he said quietly. “You annoyed me more than any outsider I’ve ever met, and I will miss that more than you can imagine.”

Before you could speak, he pulled you into his arms and… hugged you.

You held onto him—tighter than you meant to. You didn’t want to let go. Wakanda had been more than a mission or a job. It had been your home. It was the place that gave you purpose when the rest of the world had hunted you. And now, with a few words and a king’s goodbye, it was slipping through your fingers.

“You’ll be alright, sister,” he reassured, voice. “You always land on your feet.” He pulled back just enough to smirk. “Like a very ugly cat with no grace.”

You laughed. Or maybe you cried. You weren’t sure.

—

Outside the throne room, Shuri was waiting.

She stood like she’d been pacing with her eyes trained on the floor— but when you appeared, her head snapped up. Okoye was beside her, and even her usual perfect posture had softened.

“I’m sorry,” Shuri said the moment your eyes met, brittle at the edges. “For giving Bucky your location.”

You let out a deep breath and a sad smile ghosted across your face. “Don’t be.”

“He said there was a threat,” she shook her head, stepping closer. “And he wasn’t wrong. But I didn’t know it would end…. like this. I thought I was helping.” Her voice broke slightly. “I thought I was giving you back something you’d lost.”

You shook your head. “You weren’t wrong.”

She didn’t look at all startled by that— as if she knew whatever hole had been carved into you by the loss of Wakanda had immediately been filled by Bucky coming back into your life, by the rest of the team that you found. 

“Every time I hit a wall,” you said, just above a whisper. “I throw myself into work and pretend I don’t need anyone.” Your voice cracked open without permission like a dam that had held too long.

“But maybe…” You glanced down, then up at her. “Maybe it’s time I stop pushing away the people who love me. Maybe it’s time I meet them halfway and let them care for me.” You took her hand, “like you do.”

Shuri stared at you like sunlight through storm clouds— equal parts pride and heartbreak.

“Bucky cares,” she said. “Do not let each other slip away this time.”

You swallowed hard.

Okoye, always watching, always knowing, stepped forward.

“He is better,” she said, almost approvingly. “He has learned how to breathe without you. Perhaps it is precisely the reason you need him again. And he might just remind you that life is not all about survival and contracts— it is meant to be lived.”

You tried to blink away the sudden sting in your eyes. “Okoye…” you managed.

She raised a finger in warning. “Do not make me cry, girl.”

That startled a snorting laugh from Shuri.

You smiled. Just a little.

—

Two days later, Bucky helped you move into Avengers Tower.

He smiled sadly when he spotted your duffel bag on the curb beside a single, battered box.

“That’s it?” he asked, easily lifting the box labeled in your unmistakable handwriting: SENTIMENTAL SHIT.

You raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to have more emotional baggage?”

He let out a small laugh, missing your sense of humour. “I meant literal baggage. But…” he glanced down at the label, the corner of his mouth twitching, “…noted.”

You fell into step beside him, entering the still-mostly-empty tower. The echo of your footsteps followed you down halls that smelled like fresh paint and industrial cleaner. A few rooms were already occupied—Bob’s, Ava’s, and an unnamed office space—but yours was at the far end of the residential floor: a bit secluded, sunlit, and overlooking New York in a way that felt almost too generous.

You dropped your duffel onto the bed with a sigh. He set the box on the desk and stood back, studying in the space like he was mentally filing it away for future reference.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

You shrugged, arms crossing out of reflex. “I guess. Feels… weird.”

“What does?”

“Living out of Wakanda.” You glanced at him. “It’s even weirder being around you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Friends,” you said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s what we are now, right?”

“I guess so.” He gave a gentle laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Friends who know exactly how the other one likes their coffee.”

You smiled for real then. “Friends who have seen each other naked. And cry. And leave.”

His voice was quieter now. “And come back.”

—

Two days later, the tower was silent after midnight.

It didn’t feel like a base yet—more like a draft of a memory— place still deciding what it wanted to be. The lights in the common room were dimmed to an amber gold. Somewhere down the hall, a ventilation unit clicked and sighed like an old house learning how to breathe again.

You couldn’t sleep.

You’d unpacked your bag. Stacked your few books with spines you knew by heart. Hung your jacket on the back of the door and lined up your toiletries with mathematical precision, like symmetry might trick your brain into believing this was home.

But your body didn't buy it yet, So you wandered barefoot down the hallway in an oversized sweatshirt—the same one Bucky had given you all those years ago.

You found him in the common room, curled into one corner of the couch, damp hair curling at the ends from a recent shower and mug of tea cradled between his metal fingers,

He looked up when he saw you. “You too, huh?”

“Sleep is a myth,” you said, plopped onto the cushion beside him. 

He handed you the mug. You didn’t hesitate before sipping— he used to share drinks with you all the time. The tea was warm, chamomile and honey, just the way you used to make it for him when he couldn’t sleep.

You let the heat sink into your palms for a few seconds longer than necessary before handing it back.

“This place is too clean,” you said at last. 

Bucky nodded. “Won’t be for long. Alexei just moved in. Give it two days before something explodes.”

You snorted. “I give it twelve hours.”

That made him laugh, as he leaned his head back against the couch cushion and looked up, like he could see constellations through the ceiling. You looked at him and, for a second, you imagined  you were both back in his hut again, painting stars on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stickers and half a bottle of wine.

“Remember that night by the river?” you asked.

His eyes flicked to yours. “The one after T’challa’s birthday dinner?”

You smiled. “Yeah. We dragged the blankets out and tried to sleep under the open sky. You brought out your old army jacket. I stole your pillow.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingertips across yours. 

—

The next few months passed easily.

You and Bucky slipped back into some old habits. Mornings were for training. Afternoons often ended in sparring sessions and conversation. And in the hours in between, you found each other again and again— sometimes late night tea. Sometimes, you'd leave a book by your door. Sometimes, he’d put in your favourite movie after a stressful day. He never made a big deal out of it, and neither did you. It wasn’t discussed. It simply was.

Of course, the team noticed.

Ava, subtle as a brick, started running a betting pool in the group chat on who would initiate getting back together. She never said who the odds favored, but winked at you every time you entered a room with Bucky in tow.

John grumbled about “weird tension” on mission briefings, mostly because he lost his first bet. Even Bob— still learning how to survive in a household of ex-spies, assassins, and super-soldiers—picked up on it. One morning over coffee, he glanced at you, then at Bucky, then said, completely unprompted, “You breathe easier when he’s around.”

You blinked at him, stunned. He just sipped his coffee and went back to his crossword.

But the real kicker came at breakfast, a few weeks later.

You were barely awake, slouched at the long kitchen island in the tower. Bucky sat beside you, reading news with a tablet in hand.

Yelena walked in, grabbed a banana, and without hesitation said, “So. When are you two getting back together?”

You nearly choked on your tea. Bucky froze mid-scroll. You coughed for a solid ten seconds before managing, hoarsely, “I—what?”

Yelena leaned on the counter. “Please. The movie nights? The sparring together all the time? You are basically together.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re… talking. Taking it slow.”

Yelena squinted at him like he was the world’s worst liar. “Slow like friends slow, or slow like ‘you slept in her room after the Prague mission and thought no one noticed’ slow?”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Bucky stared at the ceiling like he was considering defenestration.

“I—I didn’t—we didn’t—” you stammered.

“She had a nightmare,” Bucky said valiantly. “I stayed in her armchair.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows. “How noble. You’ll be married by June.”

And with that, she bit into her banana and walked out as if she hadn’t just casually set your entire life on fire before 8 a.m.

You stared at the doorway for a long time before turning to Bucky. “We are never living that down.”

He smiled, just a little. “She’s not wrong, though.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

He shrugged. “About the slow part not really being all that slow anymore.”

That shut you up, but not in a bad way.

—

The day it had finally happened, though, you’d been in the tower’s comms room, backlit by flickering screens, teeth clenched as you watched the mission feed buffer and skip. Bucky and John were on the field on recon and containment. It should be routine. No reason to worry.

You told yourself it was fine. You knew Bucky could handle himself. You’d said it a hundred times.

But then the feed glitched again. Then John mentioned gunfire and Bucky’s comms went dark.

The jet returned fifteen minutes later, skidding onto the landing pad. You were already waiting there when they brought him in.

Bucky.

His combat suit was torn, blood soaking through the thigh, gashes deep in his side. His vibranium arm was scorched, still hissing faintly from an energy blast. And yet… he was awake. Breathing. He gave you a small smile, somehow, even when the poor nurse wheeled him into the med bay. You ran to follow

He could’ve died. And you weren’t there.

That’s when you saw John.

“You were supposed to watch his six!” you shouted at him before you could even register how much you meant them. “Do you even know what a field partner does, or do you just wing it and hope the super soldiers heal fast enough?”

John blinked, surprised. “Jesus, I didn’t—”

“Don’t!” you snapped. “You were with him! He had your back—where the hell were you?”

“He told me to take the high ground!” John barked, his voice rising. “I didn’t know they had long-range fire!”

“It’s literally your job to know!” Your skin felt like they were on fire now. “Do you even remember the brief? You think because he’s got the Hydra serum he can take every shot for you?”

“Hey.”You heard Bucky say from the bed behind you. “Relax.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Relax?”

He half-winced as a doctor pulled a bullet fragment from his thigh. His breathing was shallow, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward in dry amusement

“Yeah. Relax. You’re doing that thing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What thing?”

“You sound like me back in the day,” he managed to say, letting his head fall back on the pillow. “God. The role reversal’s kinda scary.”

And just like that, you shut up.

He did used to do this. When you were still together. When it was you on the field and him pacing the halls of the palace like a caged wolf. Every bruise you got, he catalogued. Every mission report, he read twice. When you brushed off injuries, he’d pull you aside and look at you like you'd died and no one told him.

And now here you were, standing over him, boiling over like your heart had been under for years.

“It’s different,” you whispered under your breath. “You were obsessed.”

Bucky opened his eyes again, squinting slightly. “What?”

You could hear the beeping of monitors overwhelming you. You could taste the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. “You were obsessed,” you said, a bit louder, “I’m freaking out over bullets. You used to freak out over a scratch.”

He gave a nod, not flinching. “Yeah. I know.” He shrugged. “Wasn’t healthy. But I cared.” But then his tone shifted. “And you don’t get to talk to John like that.”

You took a step back, caught off-guard. “Are you serious?”

“He’s not perfect,” he said, matter-of-fact.

“Wow,” John interjected under his breath, “Thanks.” 

Bucky paid him no mind “But he tried. This wasn’t on him.”

You pressed your fingers into your temple, trying to breathe. “I know, I just—I didn’t know what else to do, Buck.”

You looked at him then, and all the fire in your chest dimmed into ash. He looked… tired. Older. Stronger, too. But there was something in his eyes—some flicker of the man you left behind. 

Bucky glanced toward John. “Give us the room when they’re done, yeah?”

John, for once, didn’t argue. He just nodded and backed out, probably relieved.

The door shut with a hiss, and you waited until the doctors had finished stitching him up and giving him the okay to rest before you walked back to his side, a little more tired, a little more human.

You sat on the edge of the bed. Your hand found his immediately, as if it was instinct. His skin was warm and he smelled like bullets and iron, the way it always got when he’d been running on too much adrenaline and too little self-preservation.

“Is this okay?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded before reaching for you with both hands in that familiar, greedy way he always used to, like he couldn't stand another second without you touching. “C’mere,” he said.

So you climbed carefully onto the too-small mattress beside him, your body curving into his like muscle memory. You avoided the bruised side, settling in close with your head tucked beneath his chin, just where it used to belong. His wrapped his arm around you.

Your palm rested over his chest, right above his heart. It beat steady, and you wondered if it ever really stopped beating for you.

He breathed in your hair. "You always smell like home," he whispered, so quiet you almost missed it.

You watched the little cuts and bruises heal on their own, bit by bit. His lashes fluttered like he was teetering on the edge of sleep — then opened again, just to make sure you were still there.

You stayed tucked beneath his chin for a long while. Eventually, you spoke, your voice muffled into his chest. “I didn’t mean to scream at Walker,” you said with a small laugh. “Or be… so overbearing. Like you used to be.” You peeked up at him with a sideways smile. “Funny, right?”

Bucky chuckled. “I deserved that,” he smiled, rubbing slow circles against your back with his human thumb

You swallowed, then pulled away just enough to look at him properly.

“I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, like they mattered. Because they did. “For the first time in a long time, work isn’t the most important thing to me.” You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along the edge of the bruise on his cheeks. “You are.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I… I just wanted you to know I never stop caring — just didn’t know how to care right.”

You both laughed a little at that — sad and sweet, like the punchline to a very old joke.

“Remember that time you hacked into a satellite feed because I missed one check-in?” you teased, smirking.

Bucky groaned, his cheeks turning pink. “Okay, first of all, it was a tactical recon satellite, I didn’t hack it, I borrowed a login.”

“Oh, that makes it better,” you said, eyes sparkling. “You bribed M’Baku with a reservation at a two Michelin Star vegan restaurant just because I didn’t text ‘safe’ fast enough.”

“I was worried,” he shook his head, then, quieter, “You didn’t answer for four hours.”

“I know,” Your brows relaxed again. “I know you were trying to love me. I just… couldn’t let myself be loved like that back then.”

Bucky reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Are you now?”

You smiled, eyes filling up with a puddle of tears.“Well,” you said, voice a little wobbly, “Only if we meet halfway.”

He smiled, and god, it was like the sun rose just for you.

“Okay,” he agreed, leaning in until you could taste the air he breathed.

Just before your lips touched, he stopped. “You sure?” he asked, looking down at your lips.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

He didn’t move yet.

“You sure you’re sure?” he whispered, voice lower now. His fingers had tightened just slightly at your waist, anchoring you there,but he just needed to give you one last chance to run — but you didn’t take it.

“Bucky…” you whispered, and the way you said his name answered everything for him.

“Okay,” he said, more a sigh than a word. “Okay.”

Then he kissed you.

It was heat and hunger that only two people who had been starved of each other, who’d tasted what it was like to be apart and never wanted to go back could feel. His mouth claimed yours like he needed to make sure you were his and you kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperate to prove that you were.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his tac vest, pulling him closer, and he groaned against your lips. His metal hand slid up your back, and his other hand cupped your cheek and pulled you closer

And he kept saying it between kisses, like a litany, “You’re sure?”

You answered with another kiss. Deeper now, borderline bruising.

“You’re sure?” he asked again

“I’m sure.” Your lips parted on a gasp, and you nodded, forehead pressed to his. “I’m so sure, Buck, I— I never stopped—”

His mouth was on yours again before you could finish, and it didn’t matter. His thumb traced your cheek like he was re-learning you all over again, when he realized he still remembered all the ways you liked to be kissed. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he looked at you like you’ve been to hell and back for him.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I missed you so bad, doll.”

You smiled, blinking back the tears that weren’t sad at all. “I missed you worse.”

He grinned, all wrecked and completely in love.

You kissed again, gentler this time, remembering how good it felt to be known by each other again.

Which was exactly when the door slid open with a cheerful whoosh.

“—Bucky! I was gonna check on—oh,” came Alexei’s voice, suddenly flat as pancake batter left too long on the griddle.

You froze, lips still an inch from Bucky’s. Your heart leapt straight into your throat, and you turned slowly toward the door, horror across both your faces.

Alexei stood there, blinking once, before giving the slowest nod known to man. His hands were crossed on his chest, looking too smug for his own good.

“Well,” he said, dragging his voice out. “Well. I’m going to tell team it finally happened!”

Bucky let out the deepest, most resigned sigh imaginable and let his head thunk back against the pillow. “Can you please wait until I’m discharged?”

“Nonsense!” Alexei said brightly, already halfway down the hallway. “Ava owes me twenty American dollars. And John will make that face. You know the one.”

You groaned and buried your face in Bucky’s chest, playfully mortified. 

“Back then,” he chuckled, lips brushing your hair, “I would've fought him for interrupting.”

You peeked up at him, “And now?”

He smiled. “Now I’m just glad you’re here.”

You promptly rolled your eyes. “Well, the first thing I wanna say is I’m not in love with him. I just… like him.” It felt so weird letting the words fall from your lips for the second time that night. “Which honestly kinda feels just as bad as being in love with him.”

Eddie laughed a little as he pulled out a perfectly wrapped joint that was tucked behind his ear. He lit it with the lighter from his jacket pocket, took a hit, and then held it out for you to take, but you shook your head because you weren’t in the mood; which definitely said a lot, and your best friend took note of that. 

“Okay, is this whole liking him thing really even that big of a deal?” Eddie asked before taking another hit of the joint. “You guys changed the deal, so it’s not like he’s seeing other girls anymore. So, what’s wrong with just pretending that your feelings haven’t morphed into something more and continuing to fuck him, business as usual?”

The idea of doing that sounded easy, and you truly wished that you could do that, but it quite literally felt impossible.

“I can’t pretend like everything’s normal because I can already feel myself wanting more than just sex with him,” You said and then sighed, covering your face with your hands. “I want to kiss him just for fun and hold his hand for no reason at all. And I wanna do all of the boring, mundane shit with him too, like sit on his couch and talk about nothing. I literally even had a fucking dream about it.”

“Aw, that is probably the most disgustingly adorable thing I’ve ever heard you say,” Eddie told you, and you rolled your eyes behind your hands.  

“Shut up,” You mumbled, even though what he said was true, and you pulled your hands off your face. “Help me. What do I do?”

“I think you should tell him.”

Your laugh was immediate because you assumed that Eddie was joking. However, when he didn’t join in on your laughter or tell you that he was kidding, you stopped. 

“Wait, you’re actually serious?” You asked, and when he nodded in response, you shook your head. “That should be a last-resort option, not your first suggestion.” 

“If he doesn’t like you back then that means he’s a moron, and you definitely shouldn’t be fucking a moron, so this will be a win-win situation no matter what,” He explained in a ‘duh’ tone. 

Eddie’s words reminded you why he was your best friend and why it had been like that for as long as you could remember. He would never fail to remind you that if someone didn’t like you, it was their problem, not yours, and there were many instances where you had told him the exact same thing too. However, in this moment, you were unable to accept Eddie’s words as easily as you usually did. 

“I can’t do it. I can’t tell him,” You said, voice soft because you were the tiniest bit embarrassed to admit it. 

Instead of calling you out on that or asking why, Eddie gave you a small nod. “How long have you been avoiding him again?”

“Since we changed things last Friday.”

“Okay, I’ll give you the advice you wanna hear— Keep avoiding him,” Eddie told you. “He’ll think that you’re over it and don’t wanna have sex anymore. And your feelings for him will blow over in a week or two, and everything will be back to normal.”

You knew that he didn’t actually believe that— he was only telling you what you needed him to tell you in this moment— but you were so grateful for it. 

You gave him a small smile. “Thanks.”

You were about to ask him to pass you the joint, but your attention was grabbed by a pair of headlights. It was easy to make out Steve’s maroon BMW, and you both watched as he parked in the grassy spot behind Eddie’s van. 

During your current weeklong stint of avoiding Steve like the plague, the thought of him seeking you out hadn’t crossed your mind once. A part of you thought, or more so hoped, that he wouldn’t care enough to ask questions about your sudden disappearance. Now that he was here, though, a weird feeling coursed through your body at the realization that you’d been wrong about him; it was a mix of surprise and dread and something that reminded you of just how much you liked him romantically. 

“Do not leave me alone with him,” You whispered to Eddie as you both watched Steve step out of his car. 

“Got it.” Eddie gave you a quick nod and smiled at Steve as he started walking over to where you two were sitting. “To what do we owe the pleasure, big boy? You here for her or me?”

Steve nodded his head in your direction. “Her.”

His eyes met yours, and you forced a small smile, even as your heartbeat started thumping in your ears. “Hi.”

“Hey,” He responded, and you couldn’t read the look on his face. “Can we talk?”

Before you could figure out the best way to say no, Eddie let out an overdramatic yawn and stretched out his arms. “Wow, I’m suddenly really tired. I think I’m gonna head inside for the night. You can take my chair, Harrington.”

Steve nodded as Eddie stood up. “Thanks, man.”

You watched him take Eddie’s spot, and your brain failed to come up with a way to stop all of this from happening. Apparently, the words “Do not leave me alone with him” went in one ear and out the other. Eddie gave you a spirited thumbs up, and you flipped him off in response because, luckily, Steve wasn’t looking at you right then. Eddie fake-coughed while saying, “Rip off the band-aid,” before going inside, and you inwardly rolled your eyes at his words. 

“So, what brings you around here? No raging parties tonight?” You asked Steve, only because you were hoping to avoid whatever he wanted to talk about for as long as possible. 

“There’s something going on at the lake,” He answered, eyes finding yours, and you once again tried and failed to read his face. “I kinda thought you’d be there.”

“I didn’t know about that,” You said, which was a complete lie because you had heard about the bonfire, and if the current circumstances between you and Steve were different, you definitely would’ve gone. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You immediately shook your head and let the automatic lie fall from your lips. “That’s not true.”

Steve gave you a look that essentially said, “Bullshit,” and you had to look away because you didn’t know what else to do. 

In this moment, it felt like there were only two options— actually admit the truth or pretend like everything was fine, as per Eddie’s original advice. 

You looked at Steve again and then nodded toward your place that was next door to Eddie’s. “Do you wanna come inside?” 

“Do you want me to?” He asked, and you only nodded as you stood up from your chair instead of saying anything else. 

Maybe Eddie was right; maybe you could pretend that everything was fine and normal and as if absolutely nothing had changed on your side of things. Business as usual. 

The second the front door was closed behind you two, your lips found Steve’s. Just for a moment, he seemed surprised by the abruptness of the action, but then he was quickly kissing you back. His arms circled your waist, and your hands found themselves tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

Barely a week had passed since the last time you’d been with Steve in this way, but you were hit with the sudden thought that you had really missed this; being this close to him, the feel of his mouth on yours, the sounds he’d so easily pull out of you. You wished that things could stay this easy and simple, that real feelings hadn’t taken over and made everything in your head so complicated and confusing.

It wasn’t a straight shot, but you two eventually made it to your couch, tumbling onto it with you on top of him. Your legs became tangled for a second before you shifted so that you were straddling Steve’s lap, and his hands didn’t hesitate to find your hips. You kept kissing him, focusing on how good it felt— how good it always felt— instead of letting your mind roam anywhere else. 

“I’ve missed you,” Steve whispered against your mouth as he pulled you as close as you possibly could be to him.

He was saying what you had been thinking about barely a minute ago, but there was something about his words that struck something inside of you. You knew that the part of you that he was talking about was your body, your mouth, everything that made up the “not serious” part of what you two had with each other. 

You wanted more. You wanted something real. 

But why did it feel so impossible to tell him that? Why did the thought of being rejected by him scare you so much more than you wanted to admit? 

You were in deep, so deep, you were suddenly realizing, and it felt equal parts embarrassing and annoying to think about. It probably should’ve been obvious during your conversation with Eddie, but no, it was now that it was truly hitting you like a ton of bricks, and it became the only thing you could think about. 

You pulled away from Steve when your never-ending thoughts became too loud. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry for what?”

“Sorry just for everything, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Your voice was quiet, almost embarrassingly so, but Steve heard you clearly.  

“Does it feel too real now or something?” He asked, hands still on your hips to steady you. “Because for me it’s still not. Nothing has changed.”

You sighed as you got off his lap completely, and he got the hint and shifted too so that you two were sitting side by side on the couch. “Yeah, I think that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“I like you, Steve,” You blurted out because it genuinely felt like the only thing to say in that moment. “And not just in a friendly ‘I like you as a person’ kind of way, in a ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, you give me stupid giddy butterflies in my stomach’ kind of way.”

Weirdly enough, it actually felt like such a fucking relief finally admitting it. The “rip off the band-aid” technique was surprisingly quite effective, and you’d never tell that to Eddie because you refused to give him the satisfaction. 

“Oh,” Steve said after letting your rushed-out words process for a few seconds. “Oh, I’m such an idiot.”

“Trust me, I’m the one who feels like an idiot,” You told him. “What we had was so simple and easy and good, and I just completely fucked that up because I want more.”

Steve shook his head. “No, I’m definitely the idiot because I just lied.”

Now it was your turn to become completely confused. “What?”

“I said nothing's changed for me, but that’s a lie. Probably from the beginning of this, what we have has always felt different to me. You’ve always felt different to me than anyone else I’d been with,” He told you, eyes staying on yours the entire time he spoke. Hearing him say that made your heart race, and the butterflies abruptly returned. “I realized it the first time you accidentally spent the night in my bed. When I woke up in the morning, and you were still there, it just hit me; how much I really liked you. But I pushed it to the side to keep things easier and because I assumed that’s what you’d want too.”

The first time you’d fallen asleep in Steve’s bed had been a month ago, a week after everything had started, and you hadn’t thought too much of it. You woke up early due to the lack of curtains in his bedroom and stayed longer than you intended to because of how comfortable his bed was. Steve ended up driving you home a little after ten in the morning, and you saw him again that night; that time in the backseat of his car. 

In this moment, you tried to think if you noticed anything different about him when you finally pulled yourself out of his bed or when you saw him that night at some random dude’s party. Nothing about him had seemed out of the ordinary or as if anything had changed for him; everything was exactly the same. He was a damn good actor. 

“You’ve been keeping your feelings a secret for a month; meanwhile, I couldn’t last a week,” You said, scooting closer to Steve on the couch so that you could playfully bump your shoulder with his. “The competitive side of me feels very disappointed in myself now.”

He laughed a little at your words as his hand found yours and intertwined them, like it was second nature to do so. “Maybe acting is my true calling.” 

“I think you might be right,” You responded and leaned into him completely, resting your head against the side of his shoulder. 

“That night we changed the agreement, I wanted to tell you then, but I got too in my head,” He said softly, giving your hand a light squeeze. “When I said I wanted to stop playing games, I meant completely, not just the flirting and being with other people part of it. I wanted to tell you that I wanted to throw away all of the stupid rules that I came up with when we started this.”

You pulled your head off his shoulder so you could look at him. “And you still feel that way now?” 

You were pretty sure you knew the answer to your quietly spoken question, but you wanted to hear him say it. 

Steve smiled at you as he nodded. “A thousand percent.”

You kissed him then because you couldn’t imagine doing anything else in this moment. Your free hand found his cheek as you leaned in and tilted your head upward. Steve reciprocated immediately, kissing you back and pulling you impossibly closer. His warmth radiated against you, and you reveled in this moment and how content you felt with Steve right next to you.  The butterflies in your stomach came back with a lethal vengeance, and you couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, which made Steve start kissing all over your face; the corners of your mouth, your nose, your cheeks, your forehead. You softly laughed as you pulled away. 

“So, I like you, and you like me.” You summed up the last few minutes in those eight words, and saying it out loud that way made it sound so silly, so middle school, but also really sweet. “What do we do now?”

“Updated terms of the agreement again,” Steve started, arms circling your waist so that he could pull you into his lap. Your legs were on either side of him, and you reached up to rest your hands on his shoulders. “This is an actual real relationship. We’ll go out on dates, see each other at normal hours of the day, not just nights, and do very cheesy, adorable, coupley things. Deal?”

One of his hands left your hip so that he could hold it out for you to shake, and you were smiling as you grabbed it. “Deal.” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The night was going perfectly until you walked in.

Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.

Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.

The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didn’t remember starting, let alone winning.

He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.

Some girl he couldn’t name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.

Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.

The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.

It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.

A girl from Tony’s econ class—Eden… or Edith, he couldn’t remember—had her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.

The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didn’t need to hear to understand.

Bucky let himself be pulled.

One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.

Then the front door opened.

He didn’t hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Sam’s drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle he’d smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.

But Bucky’s head turned anyway.

Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.

You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natasha’s forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.

Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girl’s wrist.

He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.

Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Oh, here we fucking go.”

He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldn’t stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.

Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat she’d had a lock on before the front door opened.

She didn’t know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.

Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like she’d already become background noise.

She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.

He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.

And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.

The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.

He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew he’d be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.

“—and I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you can’t fit it through the door, it’s not coming home with us.’ And I said, ‘Watch me.’”

“That did not happen, Lang,” Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“On Hope’s life it did,” Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. “Would I lie to you girls?”

The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.

“Ladies,” he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.

“For fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Bucky’s focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.

He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.

“Party started at nine,” he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “It’s almost twelve. What’s your excuse?”

You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. “You’ve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?”

He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. “Whatever, doll.”

The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.

“And where is this from?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.

Bucky’s brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.

“Barton.” He said it flatly, like it was obvious. “Got bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.”

He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didn’t want to say some girl blonde chick whose face he’d already forgotten. Didn’t want to see that hint of something—jealousy? disappointment?—cross your features. Even if he wasn’t sure it would.

Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.

“I just got here, Buck. Don’t be rude.”

He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.

“May I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?” He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.

Gamora didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.

It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.

“Just bring her back in one piece,” Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “Preferably still clothed.”

Bucky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasn’t about to give you the chance.

He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d won.

“Where are you taking me, Bucky?” you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You’ll see,” he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.

Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.

By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.

Bucky’s room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.

He didn’t spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.

You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky,” you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. “You’re a pig.”

Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didn’t bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.

“Crash here tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, “and you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.”

His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.

“You wish, Barnes.”

Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Sweetheart, I wish every damn night.”

He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.

A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. “You know, you’re cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.”

He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Shut up.”

He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.

His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.

When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. “Look what I got.”

You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.

Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.

And God help him, he’d take it. He’d take every scrap of attention you threw his way.

“On a scale of one to ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’,” you asked, tilting your head, “where exactly are you right now, Bucky?”

He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.

“Enough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.

You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. “And I’m doing it anyway.”

He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.

“C’mon. Let’s get high.”

Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.

Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.

He’d stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.

“That was my last,” you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.

You didn’t bother aiming it away from him. He wished you’d blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.

“No such thing as ‘last’ with me, sweetheart.” His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. “You started this. Gotta finish what you started.”

He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.

“You’re such a bad influence on me, Barnes.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. “I’m the bad influence?”

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. “Baby, I’m just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. You’re the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like I’m your favourite toy.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.

“If anyone’s the devil here, sweetheart… it’s definitely you.”

Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.

“Shut up,” you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.

The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.

“Make me.”

The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if that’s what it took.

Your eyes dropped to his lips.

Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.

He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.

But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.

Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.

“As fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Nat’s gonna send a search party if I’m gone much longer.”

You didn’t wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.

Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.

He didn’t give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.

“You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”

Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “Pay for what?”

“Leaving a man hanging.” His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. “Making me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.”

You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. “Poor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you can’t just charm your way into.”

His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.

But something in him snagged on it anyway.

Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.

Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.

Bucky’s thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.

“Maybe I’m not trying to charm my way into it.”

Your smile didn’t fall all at once. That would’ve been merciful.

It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadn’t agreed to.

Bucky should’ve stopped there.

He knew he should’ve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.

But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.

So he kept going.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”

Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.

For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.

Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.

“Bucky.”

He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.

“What?” he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.

“You’re drunk.”

He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. “Yeah, you said that already.”

“And high.”

“And still not stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.

Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.

There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.

Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.

His stomach dropped before you even spoke.

“I should go back downstairs.”

Of course.

Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.

“Right.”

Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. “Act like I did something.”

He stared at you.

You stared back.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.

Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasn’t pretty.

“You didn’t,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something flashed across your face.

Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.

Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.

Your voice was quieter when you said, “I was just joking with you.”

“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. “You’re good at that.”

The air stalled between you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.

That was the worst part.

You would let him.

You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.

And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.

Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.

“Go on, then,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Nat’s waiting, right?”

Your eyes lifted to his.

He could tell you didn’t like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didn’t seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.

But you still went.

You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.

At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.

Then you paused.

“Buck?”

He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.

You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him a small smile.

“Don’t sulk too much.”

Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.

Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.

Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.

“Yeah,” he muttered to the cluttered room. “Sure.”

Bucky hated spring festivals.

That was a lie.

Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.

Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.

Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.

Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.

Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldn’t muster the energy to care about.

Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.

“He wore a wig, man,” Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. “Like that was supposed to make people forget he’s still Clint fucking Barton.”

Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. “The volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.”

“She panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.”

Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someone’s shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.

He wasn’t hearing any of it properly.

His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.

Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

He was not looking for you.

He wasn’t.

He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.

He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.

He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didn’t.

If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.

He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.

No.

This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.

“You good?” Steve asked.

Bucky blinked.

The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadn’t realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.

They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.

The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.

“What?”

Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. “He lives.”

“I’m good,” Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.

“You sure?” Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.

“Christ, Rogers, I said I’m good.”

Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. “Nobody said you weren’t. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.”

Bucky looked over.

Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.

The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like she’d been caught stealing.

Great. Perfect.

Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.

“I’m getting a drink,” he muttered.

“From the lemonade stand?” Sam asked.

“Fuck off.”

Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.

The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.

Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.

A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.

Normally, it would have been easy.

Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.

Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasn’t entertained by the whole spectacle.

That was what pissed him off most.

Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.

Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.

Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.

Good.

He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.

“Bucky!”

He turned, half out of reflex.

A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.

She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.

Her name was Mia.

Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.

Bucky smiled anyway.

There. Easy. He could do easy. He’d been doing easy his whole damn life.

“Hey,” he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, “You runnin’ this scam?”

She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. “It’s not a scam. You’re just bad at aiming.”

“That’s hurtful. I’m great at aiming.”

“Prove it, then.”

Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.

Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.

Bucky noticed.

He also noticed that he felt nothing.

Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.

He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.

But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.

He threw the first ring.

The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.

Mia laughed, bright and sharp. “Great at aiming, huh?”

“Wind interference,” he said, already reaching for the next one.

“There is no wind.” She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.

“Spiritual wind, then.”

Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.

She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didn’t have to work for.

He should have wanted that.

He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.

But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldn’t stop chasing.

Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.

Nat’s laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.

It wasn’t yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she was…

Bucky’s whole body went tight.

The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.

He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.

Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.

And there you were.

By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.

You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes.

You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.

Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.

After that, Mia became background noise.

Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.

But background noise all the same.

Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.

He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex he’d honed over years of easy conquests.

He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.

It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.

Nothing.

Worse than nothing.

Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didn’t catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didn’t hook into something raw and leave him breathless.

Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.

She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.

And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.

You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.

Mia said something. He missed it entirely.

“Right,” Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.

Her brows lifted, “You have no idea what I just said.”

He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. “I was distracted by your beauty.”

She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.

His gaze still slid over her shoulder.

You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.

Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.

You were not looking at him.

Good. Fine.

Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.

Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. “Spiritual wind again?”

“Violent spiritual wind.” He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.

“You’re terrible at this.” Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.

Bucky let it.

He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.

Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.

He did not need you.

He didn’t.

He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.

So maybe you should see that.

Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.

Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.

Your eyes moved.

Just once.

A quick glance over Natasha’s shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.

Bucky should have felt triumphant.

He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.

Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.

Because you did not look angry.

You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.

And that was worse.

Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.

Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.

“You want to try again?”

No.

The word cut through him clean and fast.

He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasn’t allowed to cross.

He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like that—like he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone else’s hand rest on his arm.

He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.

He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.

He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.

“You know what?” His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. “I’m gonna quit while I still have some dignity.”

Mia laughed, “You had dignity?”

“Once. Briefly.” He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. “Freshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.”

She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.

All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.

Instead, he stepped back.

“See you around, Mia.”

Her face flickered. The smile didn’t drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.

“Maya,” she corrected.

Fuck.

Bucky blinked.

He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Right. Maya.” He let the apology bleed into his voice. “Sorry.”

Her smile thinned.

Bucky deserved that too.

He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.

For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.

He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.

He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judges’ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being “the same small blond criminal in a wig.”

The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Bucky’s shoulder.

Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.

He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Bucky’s entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.

He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.

That was the pathetic part.

His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.

By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.

Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasn’t intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.

But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldn’t seem to coax from you.

He was exhausting.

But he couldn’t stop.

By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.

The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.

Bucky had finally lost sight of you.

At first, he told himself it was a relief.

Good.

Great.

Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.

He lasted thirty seconds.

Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.

Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

You were not beside her.

Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.

Bucky looked away immediately.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

Fuck.

He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.

“Hey.”

Bucky turned too fast.

And there you were.

Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.

For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.

The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.

Then you smiled at him.

Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.

He did not trust himself to name it.

“They messed up my order,” you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. “Gave me hazelnut instead of caramel.”

Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.

You held the cup out toward him.

“I remembered hazelnut’s your favourite.”

That was all.

One sentence.

One stupid fucking coffee.

And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.

He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.

Instead, he took the coffee.

His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.

“Thanks,” he said.

The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.

Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.

“You haven’t talked to me all day.”

Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.

“Been busy.”

“I saw.”

The straw stopped against his lips.

There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.

He took a sip to give himself something to do.

Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.

Of course you remembered.

He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.

“Did you?”

Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.

“Bucky.”

He hated that too. The softness. The warning.

“What?” he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.

“You’re being weird.”

He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. “I’m being weird?”

Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.

That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.

But you did not.

You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.

Then you said, “Are you mad at me?”

He was finished.

He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.

Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.

He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.

You did not answer immediately.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you weren’t ready to say.

When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.

“I don’t know,” you said, and your voice was thinner now. “I thought maybe the other night…”

You trailed off.

The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You weren’t pretending it hadn’t happened, weren’t going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.

“You thought maybe what?”

Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”

The words went straight through him.

Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.

Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.

And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.

His anger lost its shape.

It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.

Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.

“You didn’t,” he lied.

Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.

He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.

“Fine,” he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. “Maybe a little.”

Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.

“I’m sorry.”

There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.

Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.

“You always apologise with beverages?”

“Only when I’m feeling generous.”

“Dangerous habit.” He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. “I’m very bribable.”

Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.

All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.

“You’re cheap,” you said.

“Not cheap.” He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. “Accessible.”

“That’s worse.”

“You say that like you’re not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.”

“Seven fifty,” you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. “Campus pricing is criminal.”

He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.

Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.

Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.

His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.

Bucky ignored him.

He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.

A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.

Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.

“You wanna go on a ride?”

You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.

“With you?”

“Don’t sound so horrified.”

“I’m not horrified.” You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. “I’m considering the risk.”

Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.”

You looked at him for a second too long.

Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.

“Fine,” you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”

Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.

“Good,” he said, “Then at least you’d be consistent.”

For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.

A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parents’ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.

First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.

Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as “intimate” in the same way someone might call a riot “spirited,” given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.

Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.

Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were “essential to the ecosystem” despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.

Bucky had always loved it.

How could he not?

It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.

Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.

Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.

And this year was supposed to be the best one.

Senior year.

The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.

Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.

The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.

Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.

Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.

Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. ”Stop making the trip sad, Rogers. You’re gonna manifest a bad vibe.”

Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.

He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they weren’t looking.

Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.

Like the fact that you were coming.

Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadn’t checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadn’t hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.

He hadn’t carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than he’d ever admit.

He was just excited for the trip.

That was all.

The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.

The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.

The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.

Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.

“My children,” he called as soon as the car doors opened. “You made it.”

Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. “You say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.”

“I survived being seated beside Barton,” Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. “Which is worse.”

Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. “I heard that, Stark.”

“You were meant to.”

Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.

Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tony’s parties never waited for the host.

Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.

No other car yet.

He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.

Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.

“Subtle,” he said, the word drawn out.

Bucky frowned. “What?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s grin widened, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.

Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Sam’s teasing.

Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.

“I’m getting a room before all the good ones are gone.”

Tony scoffed. “Please. Your rooms are assigned. I’m not running a hostel.”

Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. “You assigned rooms?”

“Obviously.” Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. “I’m not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people don’t know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.”

Clint, trailing behind, muttered, “That was one time.”

“It was twice,” Tony shot back, not looking back.

The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.

A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.

Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.

Tried and failed.

Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where he’d have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?

Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. “Rogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.”

Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Damn.”

Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. “This is excessive.”

“That’s the family motto,” Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “There’s food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Don’t break the bed, I’ll know.”

Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.

The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.

He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.

The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.

Down below, the patio had already started filling.

Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.

A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.

Still no you.

He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.

Fine.

He had time.

He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.

Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.

“Don’t start,” Bucky said, not turning around.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “I just came to tell you Tony’s making drinks downstairs.”

“Great.”

“And to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.” Sam’s voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.

Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. “I know how to have fun, Sam.”

“Historically, yes.”

Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.

He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. “What are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky said.

“His disease,” Sam said at the same time.

Bucky stared at him. “My what?”

Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Symptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.”

Steve sighed. “Sam.”

“What? He needs medical attention.”

Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

“See? Irritability. Another symptom.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. “I’m not doing this all weekend.”

“Good.” Sam’s voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, “Don’t.”

It was said lightly, but not entirely.

Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.

Sam’s shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.

Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.

He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.

But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t force them out.

So he said nothing.

From downstairs, Tony’s voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. “First round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!”

Sam clapped his hands once. “Saved by alcoholism.”

Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.

Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.

Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.

Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted God’s plan for her evening.

Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.

It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.

Perfect.

He tipped his head back and drank half of it.

By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.

The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.

Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.

Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.

He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Sam’s shoulder and Steve’s long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.

Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.

Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.

Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.

Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.

“Too pretty to die on Tony Stark’s imported marble,” Sam had said.

Bucky had laughed in his face.

Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.

And you had seen it.

You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.

Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.

It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.

You weren’t ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.

Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.

You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.

And fuck, you looked good.

That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.

You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.

The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.

A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.

Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.

He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.

He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.

You wandered back to him sometime after Tony’s third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.

Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.

“No.”

You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. “No?”

“I challenged Thor,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.”

“That was stupid,” you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m acutely aware.”

Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.

You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. “Come on, Buck,” you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. “One more. Just for me.”

He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.

Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.

“Fine,” he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.

The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.

You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.

Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. “Awful, right?”

“Awful,” you croaked, coughing once into your fist.

“You brought it to me,” he pointed out, still grinning.

“I wanted you to suffer with me,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.

“Romantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Don’t get excited.”

“Too late.” The words came out rougher than he meant them.

He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.

You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.

Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.

He didn’t think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.

“You’re drunk,” you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.

“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.

“Mm. Maybe.” You didn’t pull away.

“Definitely.”

“You always this handsy when you’re drunk, Barnes?” The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.

Bucky’s thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.

He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. “No,” he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. “Just when you’re dressed like that.”

You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.

“I think I need to call it a night.”

Bucky’s head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.

“No.” The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. “No, no, no.”

You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.

“It’s only eleven,” he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. “Party’s gonna go on for another couple of hours.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“Don’t leave me alone.”

Your smile curved against his neck. “There’s like forty other people here, Buck. I’m sure you won’t be that lonely.”

He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. “None of them are you.”

The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.

You went quiet for half a second.

Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. “I wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. I’m not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.”

“You’re so boring,” he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.

“And yet.”

“And yet,” he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I’ll let you take me to my room, then.”

Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. “If that’s the only way to keep you with me.”

“It is.”

“Well.” He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. “Who am I to deny a lady?”

“Oh God.”

You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.

Or tried to.

The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.

You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.

The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.

Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.

Bucky ignored all of it.

All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.

“Is this even the right way?” you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.

“Yes.”

“You’re lost.”

“I’m exploring Malibu.”

“That is not what that means.”

He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.

By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Bucky’s pulse kicked harder.

He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.

The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.

You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.

“This is not my room, Buck.”

Bucky blinked.

Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.

“Oh.”

He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.

“Oops.”

You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.

“I cannot believe you,” you said.

“Honest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.”

“Sure.”

You should have turned around.

You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.

Instead, you walked farther in.

Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.

You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.

The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.

You looked obscene.

You looked perfect.

Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.

Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.

Thrown off.

Completely, catastrophically fucked.

“You’re in my bed,” he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.

You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.

“So I am.”

Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.

The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.

He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.

He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.

“C’mon, get up. Let me take you to your room.”

“Mhm-mhm,” you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.

You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water. 

Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. “But I’m so comfortable here, Buck.”

His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.

“You gonna get me in trouble, honey.” The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t let me do this.

You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.

“Yeah?” you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. “How?”

You weren’t just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.

“For fuck’s sake,” he heard himself mutter.

He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.

He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.

The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.

Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.

He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

He couldn’t get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.

Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.

He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.

“We’re drunk,” he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didn’t want to make. “We... we shouldn’t do this.”

And then he felt it.

One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.

Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.

“But I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Don’t you?”

Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.

He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.

They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.

And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.

The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.

His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.

A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.

Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid he’d disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.

But he couldn’t get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.

He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.

“Sit tight, honey,” he breathed.

His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.

His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.

“Tell me to stop, baby.” The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. “Tell me to fucking stop.”

You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.

“Please don’t stop, Bucky.” Your voice cracked, “Please. I’ll die.”

The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.

But first, he needed to see you.

He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.

He stared.

It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.

She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.

A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.

“Bucky.” Your voice was a whine, “Stop staring. You’re making me shy.”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.

He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.

“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was a murmur against your flesh, “She’s just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.”

You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. “Really?”

He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.

Then he went for the kill.

He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.

Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.

Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.

You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.

You didn’t need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.

He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.

“Want another one, sweetheart?” His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.

You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. “Stop fucking with me, Bucky.”

He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. “Don’t wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.”

He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist. 

Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.

He didn’t give you a second to recover.

He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.

He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.

Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.

He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.

And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.

He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.

“Let me suck your cock.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.

“No, no, no, no.” He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. “No, sweetheart, just—stay—let me—”

You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.

“If you even breathe on my cock, I’ll cum on the spot. I promise.” His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. “Please. Not tonight. Just let me have you. I’ve been waiting for this—waiting for you.”

You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.

He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.

Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.

He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.

And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.

“You’re really that desperate for me?”

Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. “Okay, baby.”

He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude… and then his eyes flew wide.

Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.

He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.

He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldn’t even muster the shame to wipe it away.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.

It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.

Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises.

“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Stay still for me. Just… keep still.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”

You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. “I can’t help it, Bucky.”

And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.

Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steve’s ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.

He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay. Go ahead, baby.”

You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.

Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.

All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.

Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, he’d die the happiest man alive.

This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought he’d ever had.

And then he realised.

You were still wearing that top.

The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.

Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didn’t even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.

Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.

Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. “Bucky!”

“’M sorry.”

The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.

The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.

“Needed to see them,” he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. “Needed to feel them.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.

But he needed more.

The angle wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t be buried deep enough inside you.

Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.

In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.

A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.

Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. “I need you to cum,” he grunted against your skin. “Please, baby. Need it.”

“Huh?” The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.

“Cum now,” he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Shit… now.”

He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.

Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.

There. He’d found it.

“Right there, Bucky—right there—”

The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.

He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.

Then you broke.

He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.

Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

It was enough to push him over.

Bucky let go.

His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming… violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.

He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.

For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.

Then his body went lax.

He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.

And then—

“You’re not gonna be weird about this, are you?”

The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.

You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.

Like you hadn’t just carved something out of him.

Bucky went still.

He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.

The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.

Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.

Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.

Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.

The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.

He had let himself think—

No.

He didn’t get to finish that thought.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.

“Weird?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Me?”

Your mouth curved, “Yeah. You.”

He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.

“Sweetheart, I’m the most normal guy you know.”

A beat. “That is deeply untrue.”

You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. It’s fine. Keep it light.

He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didn’t push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadn’t hit him like a fist.

Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.

The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.

Still, he didn’t move away.

His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.

Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.

“Relax,” he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. “I’m not gonna propose before breakfast.”

Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.

Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. “Good.”

Good.

Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.

“Would’ve been a nice proposal, though.” He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldn’t stop picking at the bruise. “Real romantic. Me, you, Tony’s guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. “Probably.”

Your smile flickered.

There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.

Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.

Instead, your gaze dropped first.

“I just don’t want things to get complicated.”

Bucky stared at you.

Complicated.

You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.

And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.

He nodded once. “Right.”

Your eyes flicked back to him. “Buck—”

“No, I get it.”

He didn’t get it, yet he got it perfectly.

Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.

He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.

And he did try. God, he tried.

He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.

Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.

The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.

You closed your eyes.

Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.

Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.

And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.

Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.

He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.

Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.

You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.

He hated you a little then.

The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.

He hated you.

Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.

Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadn’t spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.

Selfish, he thought.

And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.

Selfish fucking brat.

You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.

The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.

Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.

He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.

Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.

And Bucky melted.

He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.

Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.

His throat tightened.

“You’re so fucking confusing,” he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.

He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.

His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.

The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.

And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.

He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.

Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadn’t been inside you, like you hadn’t held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.

Instead, he held you tighter.

Because this was still more than he had before.

Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.

His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.

You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.

And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.

He would take it because he didn’t know how to stop.

Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. “I won’t be weird.”

a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at what’s going through reader’s mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending

oh well…

Then the world changed.

During the incident everyone now referred to as the Void Crisis, Paul happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. While everyone else was running, he ran toward people who couldn't. He pulled collapsing concrete off trapped civilians, carried people to safety, and stayed until emergency responders arrived.

The videos spread across the internet before he even made it home.

Nobody could explain how one man had lifted pieces of a collapsed building with his bare hands.

You could.

Well... sort of.

Years ago, long before you remembered much of your own life, Paul had told you about an accident at work. He'd crossed paths with dangerous people, people he insisted were long gone now, and somehow walked away... different. Stronger. Faster. Harder to hurt.

Whenever you asked for more details, he'd simply shrug.

"Guess I got lucky."

You never believed that was the whole story. But it was the only story he was willing to tell.

A few weeks after the Void incident, Congresswoman Valentina Allegra de Fontaine knocked on your apartment door with an offer. The New Avengers Initiative. A new team. A new beginning. You remembered Paul laughing after she left.

"You know," he'd said, scratching the back of his neck, "I fix carburetors. I have no idea why she thinks I'd fit in with superheroes."

You'd laughed too. Then you'd watched him accept anyway.

Six months had passed since then. Life had settled into a strange rhythm. Paul disappeared for missions more often than either of you liked. You worried every single time he walked out the door, even if he always reminded you that he could handle himself.

"I'll be fine."

He always said it with that same reassuring smile. And somehow, it never made you worry any less.

In the meantime, you buried yourself in nursing school. It was your final-year and between lectures, clinical postings, late-night revision sessions and trying to catch up on everything you felt you had missed, you barely had time to think about anything else.

Which was probably a good thing.

Because whenever you weren't studying...

You were wondering if your brother would come home safe.

So when Paul insisted you take one evening off to attend a celebration for his team, you almost refused.

Almost.

After their successful mission, a months-long operation that ended with the dismantling of an international black-market network trafficking stolen Stark technology and Chitauri weaponry, Valentina wanted to showcase the New Avengers to the world. She wanted cameras. Headlines. Public approval. A chance to prove that she was not just another politician, but the visionary congresswoman who had brought together the next generation of heroes.

So she organised a massive celebration, a formal event filled with reporters, government officials, investors, and the general public. A night designed to introduce the world to the New Avengers.

Paul insisted on taking you.

"You deserve one evening to yourself after your exams," he'd said. "You'll officially start working as a nurse soon. Life's only going to get busier from there. So enjoy the break while you still can."

He wasn't wrong. Tonight was the first time in weeks you had spent more than ten minutes getting ready.

The moment the car stopped outside the venue, a strange feeling settled in your chest. You couldn't explain it.

A pull in your chest. A strange nervousness twisting in your stomach. You brushed it aside. You were just excited. After all, you were finally going to meet the people your brother had been talking about for months. You knew them almost as well as if you had met them before.

Ava was quiet, observant, and somehow always appearing exactly when someone needed her. She was also the one Paul talked about the most. According to him, she was impossible to sneak up on because, as he put it, “she’s literally a ghost.”

Yelena, who apparently had no concept of personal space, constantly teased everyone, and somehow managed to insult someone while also complimenting them. Paul had once told you she could turn a normal conversation into an interrogation within thirty seconds.

Alexei, loud, dramatic, and completely convinced that every story needed him as the main character. According to the stories, he spent more time talking about his past glory days than actually listening to anyone else.

Bob, gentle, awkward, and surprisingly kind. The one who seemed almost uncomfortable with how much attention came with being an Avenger. For now, Bob rarely went out on missions. Most of his work happened before and after them, research, planning, logistics, and recovery, while he continued training to better understand and control the Sentry's immense power.

John, outspoken, competitive, and had a habit of saying whatever came to mind. He admitted that John was a good soldier. But he carried the pressure of living up to a title that was never really meant for him, and it had a way of making him defensive.

And then there was Bucky.

James Barnes.

According to Paul, Bucky was the most dependable person on the team. He always showed up. Always had a plan. Always got people home. He also had a habit of risking his own life a little too easily.

Maybe it was Bucky's way of making peace with everything the Winter Soldier had done, like somewhere deep down, he still believed every person he saved could somehow make up for the innocent lives he'd been forced to take.

You weren't sure anyone could carry that kind of guilt forever.

After the Void crisis and his announcement as one of the new Avengers, Bucky had stepped away from politics too, leaving behind his position as a congressman and returning to the work he seemed to understand better than anything else: saving people.

And apparently, he was also... interesting.

Some days, he'd barely say ten words, sitting through an entire briefing in silence before disappearing without anyone noticing. Other days, according to Paul, he'd make the driest joke imaginable with such a straight face that half the room wouldn't realise he was kidding until five minutes later.

You frowned at yourself. It was a little strange, now that you thought about it. Somehow, over the past few months, you had learned more about James Barnes than anyone else on the team.

You looked over at Paul as he stepped out of the car.

Instead of walking toward the main entrance, he headed toward a smaller, quieter entrance on the side of the building. You followed him, raising an eyebrow.

"VIP entrance?" you asked.

"Something like that," he replied with a small smile.

The security guard checked his identification and invitation card before looking at you. Paul handed over your invitation. After a quick verification, the guard stepped aside. Together, you stepped into the waiting elevator.

"Have fun," Paul said as the elevator doors slid shut. "You deserve this."

You smiled softly, leaning back against the polished metal wall as the elevator began its ascent to the twenty-fifth floor.

"I will try my best," you whispered.

A soft chime echoed through the elevator as it came to a stop. The doors slid open, and you found yourself momentarily frozen. The long hallway led to the main hall.

And it was breathtaking.

The entire hall had been transformed into a perfect mix of luxury and modern technology. Massive glass walls overlooked the city skyline, reflecting the golden lights of the decorations inside. Elegant chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while holographic displays showed images of the New Avengers' recent missions. Tables covered in white cloth were scattered around the room, filled with food, drinks, and small displays celebrating the team's achievements.

It looked less like a superhero event and more like a declaration. A statement. The world was watching.

"There you are."

You turned at the voice.

Ava stood there, dressed in a sleek jumpsuit, her dark hair styled neatly. She had a small smile on her face, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Hey. You must be the sister." She approached and extended her hand.

You smiled and shook it.

"I'm—"

"I know," she interrupted gently. "I'm Ava. Or, as they like to call me, the ghost."

You laughed quietly.

"I know. My brother won't stop talking about you."

The smile on Ava's face flickered. Just slightly. And beside you, you felt Paul tense. You immediately realised what you had just said.

"Guys, you guys. The New Avengers. His team, of course."

You quickly corrected yourself.

Ava gave a small nod, though the awkwardness lingered for a moment.

"Right," she said. "Come on. Everyone's getting ready for the press briefing Valentina scheduled."

"Of course she scheduled a briefing," Paul muttered.

You smiled. "She seems like the type."

"You have no idea," Ava replied.

Paul sighed and took your hand, guiding you toward the group. You gave him an apologetic smile for the awkward comment. He only shook his head slightly, silently telling you it was fine.

The team was gathered around the table, and your brother introduced you to them. They welcomed you warmly, each of them offering their own version of a greeting. Despite the unusual circumstances, their easy familiarity made you feel less like an outsider and more like someone they had been expecting.

Before the conversation could settle, Valentina approached the table, quietly mumbling to herself as she reviewed the notes in her hand.

"We need to make sure the public understands the importance of this initiative," she said. "The New Avengers represent stability, cooperation, and a new era."

Yelena leaned closer to Alexei. "She has practiced that speech in the mirror."

Alexei nodded seriously. "Many times. Maybe thousands."

"I can hear you," Valentina said without looking up.

Yelena smiled innocently. "I know."

Bob looked down at the files in his hands, trying not to laugh. Ava shook her head.

"This is why we can't have normal meetings."

Your brother smiled slightly. You noticed that immediately. This was the first time you had seen him so relaxed around other people. These weren't just teammates. They were becoming his family too.

You took a drink from one of the passing servers, wrapping your fingers around the cool glass as you smiled to yourself. This felt nice. Maybe Paul had been right. Maybe you did need this.

Everything felt... alive.

Then...

The feeling returned. That strange pull in your chest. Your smile faltered. You frowned ever so slightly, instinctively rubbing your thumb against the cool glass in your hand.

Then you noticed someone walking toward the group.

James Barnes.

His head was lowered, attention completely focused on the file in his hands. He looked as though he was allergic to any conversation that did not involve work. He flipped through the pages carefully, checking every detail.

He was taller than he looked in photographs, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit tailored well enough to hide nothing. A navy-blue tie rested neatly against a crisp white shirt, the color making his startling blue eyes seem even brighter despite the exhaustion they carried. His dark hair was trimmed shorter than in most of the pictures you'd seen, and the neatly kept beard framed a face that looked both impossibly young and unbearably tired.

The blazer stretched slightly across his shoulders and arms whenever he moved, hinting at years of relentless training beneath the formal attire. The only visible giveaway beneath the expensive suit was the sliver of silver metal peeking out from beneath his left shirt cuff, the unmistakable Vibranium arm that had become almost as famous as the man himself.

There was something quietly commanding about him.

He wasn't the loudest person in the room. He wasn't trying to draw anyone's attention. Yet the crowd seemed to part around him naturally, conversations dipping for a moment as he passed before resuming again.

You couldn't explain it.

Maybe it was everything you'd read about him.

Maybe it was the weight of his history.

Or maybe it was simply the sadness that lingered behind his eyes, the kind that made you wonder what someone had endured to carry it so silently.

You found yourself smiling without realizing it, hoping Paul would introduce you.

You wanted to speak with him.

“The extraction happened from the northwestern wall, not the western entrance,” he said as he approached the table. “And, just to make the report a little more inaccurate, John was extracted first. I activated the remote destruction sequence for the lab afterward. So, unless we’ve started rearranging events for dramatic effect, the report has it backwards.”

“Okay, let’s change it after the press briefing,” Yelena replied, casually taking another sip of champagne. You had a distinct feeling she was only saying that to get Bucky to relax and, more importantly, to stop him from talking about the report.

Your brother looked at him and smiled. He picked up a glass from the passing server and held it out to Bucky.

"Here. Relax before the press briefing."

Bucky closed the file, setting it carefully on the table before accepting the glass, looking more than happy to let the report go.

"Thanks." 

Then he looked up. His eyes met yours. And everything changed.

The movement was almost imperceptible at first. His hand tightened around the crystal glass so suddenly that the ice clinked loudly against the sides. You watched his shoulders stiffen beneath his suit jacket. He didn't blink. Not once.

His expression emptied so completely that, for a fleeting second, you wondered if he'd somehow forgotten where he was.

You instinctively looked behind you.

Maybe he is looking at someone else?

But there was no one there. When you looked back, his eyes were still fixed on you. Unmoving. Searching.

Your heartbeat quickened beneath the strange intensity of his gaze. It wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't threatening.

It was heartbreaking.

There was something in his expression that you couldn't name. 

Disbelief? 

Relief? 

Grief? 

Or maybe all tangled together into something so raw that it almost made you feel guilty for witnessing it.

You'd never seen someone look at another person like that. Like they had just found something they'd spent a lifetime mourning.

A strange warmth spread through your chest. Not because you knew him. You didn't. At least, you were almost certain you didn't. But something about the way he looked at you made your own heart ache in response. As though some part of you was reacting before your mind had the chance to catch up.

You smiled instinctively.

Small. Friendly. The kind of smile you gave anyone you were meeting for the first time.

It didn't seem to help.

If anything, his expression crumpled even further.

His blue eyes glistened beneath the lights, and for one impossible second, you thought he might actually cry. The thought caught you completely off guard.

This was James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The man you'd spent weeks reading about after Paul joined the team.

A decorated soldier.

An Avenger.

Someone who had survived more than most people could imagine.

Yet standing in front of you, he looked less like a legend and more like a man whose entire world had just been ripped out from beneath him.

Slowly, you offered him your hand, believing this might break the ice. That this might bring him back to reality and away from whatever distant place his mind had disappeared to.

"Hi," you said with an easy smile. "I'm _"

He never looked at your hand. He simply stared at your face, completely motionless. His lips parted ever so slightly. Like he wanted to say something.

A name.

A question.

Anything.

But no sound came out.

Your hand lingered awkwardly between the two of you before you slowly lowered it back to your side. Maybe he wasn't a handshake person. Maybe crowds overwhelmed him.

Or maybe...

Maybe something was wrong. Your concern quickly outweighed your embarrassment. The colour had drained from his face. His breathing had become shallow, almost imperceptible. He looked as though he were trying very hard not to fall apart.

"Bucky?" Paul's voice cut through the silence as he stepped beside him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. You looked away from him for a moment, only then noticing that everyone around the table had stopped talking. Yelena had raised an eyebrow, Ava watched him carefully, and even Alexei had gone unusually quiet. 

"You okay?"

The question seemed to pull him back into the room.

He blinked.

Once. Then again.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice rough enough that it barely sounded like speech. "I'm fine."

He wasn't.

You didn't know him well enough to say why. But every instinct you had insisted on the same thing. Whatever had just happened, it had nothing to do with the press briefing. It had everything to do with you. And for reasons you couldn't begin to understand, that realisation made your chest feel impossibly heavy.

The silence stretched just a little too long.

It was Alexei who broke first.

"Well," he clapped his hands together once, far louder than necessary. "That was... incredibly awkward."

Yelena immediately shot him an unimpressed look.

"You are helping so much."

"I am trying," he defended himself, placing a hand over his chest dramatically before turning toward you with an apologetic smile. "Do not worry. Bucky is... strange."

"He gets worse when people are nice to him," Ava added dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "You get used to it."

Bob let out a nervous laugh. "Maybe he's just... overwhelmed? Or tired from the mission?" he offered. "I mean, he did take down fifty armed men all by himself."

That earned a small nod from some of the team. It was a reasonable explanation. At least, it was the easiest one to accept.

Valentina cleared her throat, gathering the scattered files from the table and straightening them with practiced efficiency.

"Enough. We have a press briefing in five minutes. I'm going to do the final checks. Avengers, please be ready to take your entry positions."

With that, she walked away from the table, moving toward the stage where the reporters and cameras were already waiting. You watched as she adjusted her expression into the confident, composed face she showed the public, quietly murmuring parts of her speech under her breath while reviewing the final details.

The conversation around you slowly picked back up, though it felt slightly forced now. Everyone returned to their preparations, accepting microphones and speech notes from Valentina's staff, reviewing the details one last time, and making small adjustments to their appearance as they waited for the cue to take the stage.

Paul lingered for a moment, his eyes shifting toward Bucky with a quiet concern you couldn't quite understand. But before he could say anything, one of Valentina's staff members approached him with a last-minute update, pulling his attention away.

But your attention never truly left him.

He was still standing exactly where he had been.

The untouched drink remained in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the crystal glass so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale. His gaze had finally dropped from your face, settling on the table in front of him, as though looking at you for even another second was something he couldn't allow himself to do.

A strange knot formed in your stomach.

Have you done something wrong?

Embarrassed him somehow?

You replayed every word, every expression, every second of your interaction in your mind, searching for something, anything, that could explain his reaction.

But you found nothing.

You had simply introduced yourself.

You had smiled.

You had offered your hand.

Nothing about that should have caused someone to look at you like they had just seen a ghost. A strange thought crossed your mind, had you known him before the accident?

As though sensing your eyes on him, Bucky lifted his head for the briefest moment.

Your eyes met again.

This time, he was the first to look away. He exhaled quietly, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking around the room.

"I'm... gonna head out."

John frowned immediately. "The briefing starts in a few minutes. Valentina is already on the stage."

"I know."

"You sure you're okay?"

Bucky gave the smallest nod.

"Yeah."

It was the same answer. Just as unconvincing.

Before anyone could question him further, he placed the untouched glass back onto the table and walked past the group. The crowd instinctively parted around him as he crossed the ballroom, his expression unreadable, his shoulders carrying a weight that seemed far heavier than the suit jacket resting over them.

Only when he was completely out of sight did you realize your eyes had followed him the entire way.

And somehow...

His leaving left the room feeling strangely empty.

"Valentina is not going to like this," Alexei chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the doors close behind Bucky.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The press briefing began shortly after.

You stood slightly away from the crowd, watching as the New Avengers walked onto the stage one by one. Cameras flashed. Reporters called out questions. Valentina stood confidently at the center, speaking with the ease of someone who had practiced every word.

When someone inevitably asked about Bucky's absence, Valentina didn't even hesitate.

"James Barnes had some unfinished business from the previous mission that required his immediate attention," she explained smoothly. "He is one of the most dedicated members of this team. If there is something left unresolved, he will make sure it is handled."

Her words painted his sudden disappearance as a strength rather than a problem.

A small smile appeared on her face as she continued.

"That level of commitment is exactly what makes him an exceptional Avenger."

You couldn't help but think there was a small trace of irritation hidden beneath her polished expression. She was clearly not pleased that one of her team members had walked away moments before a major public appearance.

But she handled it. That was what she seemed to do best. Turn chaos into something controlled.

The rest of the evening continued.

You tried.

You genuinely tried to enjoy yourself.

Yelena pulled you into conversations you barely expected to have. Alexei told exaggerated stories that made everyone roll their eyes. Bob apologised every time he interrupted someone. Ava quietly observed everything while occasionally adding comments that made you laugh when you least expected it.

Paul filled in the gaps whenever the team broke into laughter over inside jokes, explaining the stories behind them and sharing some of their more unbelievable missions. Bucky's name came up often, usually when they talked about the missions that had gone wrong but somehow ended with him saving the day.

And every now and then, your eyes drifted toward the doors.

Half expecting him to return.

Half wondering why you cared if he did.

On the drive back home, you found yourself asking Paul about the past again. About the people you'd known before the accident, again. About why no one had ever reached out to you, again.

His answer was simple, again.

“We moved.”

You knew that was true. You knew your entire life had changed after the accident. You knew you and Paul had started over somewhere new. But still, it didn't explain everything.

You didn't remember anything from before the Snap.

As far as you knew, the accident had happened sometime during all that chaos. The years before it were nothing but empty spaces, pieced together from stories Paul had told you and records you'd read yourself.

It was the only explanation you'd ever had.

You knew you didn't have parents. They'd passed away when you were young. You'd apparently been raised by your grandmother, though you didn't remember her either. You didn't remember the house you'd grown up in, the places you'd lived, the people you'd known, or even what your life had been like before everything supposedly changed.

You had always known Paul was hiding things from you. You weren't naive enough to believe otherwise. You saw it in the way he avoided certain questions, the way his expression changed whenever you got too close to something he didn't want to talk about.

But you never pushed too hard.

Because he was your brother.

And because whenever you asked about the past, he didn't get angry or defensive. He just... shut down.

He would go quiet, distant, like he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere you couldn't follow him no matter how many questions you asked.

You had tried to push once.

Really push.

It had ended in the biggest fight the two of you had ever had.

You had demanded answers. Who you'd been before the accident, why there were years of your life you couldn't remember, and why certain things about you had never quite felt... normal.

Like the healing.

Cuts that should have taken days sometimes disappeared within hours, bruises faded far too quickly, and injuries that should have left marks simply... didn't. It wasn't dramatic enough to call a superpower, but it was strange enough to make you wonder.

For the first time in your life, Paul had yelled back.

Not out of anger.

Out of desperation.

Then, just as suddenly, he broke.

You still remembered the way he had sunk into the couch, rubbing a hand over his face as though he was trying to hold himself together.

"It's best if you know as little as possible."

That was all he had managed to say.

You had waited for him to explain.

He never did.

Seeing your brother, your steady, dependable brother, fall apart like that had taken the fight out of you.

After that, you stopped asking so often.

Not because your questions had disappeared.

But because you couldn't bear to watch him carry whatever burden made those words sound like a plea rather than an excuse.

So instead, your thoughts returned to Bucky.

Maybe he was someone you'd known before the accident.

It was the only explanation that seemed remotely possible. Maybe you'd crossed paths somehow, been acquaintances, friends. But the thought fell apart almost immediately. You would've been in college back then. He was an Avenger. How could your lives have intersected?

And if they had, there should've been something—a photograph, a message, Paul mentioning his name, anything proving you'd once been close to a man the entire world knew.

Still, the Blip complicated things. He'd disappeared for five years, and even if he'd wanted to find you, he couldn't have. Maybe he'd looked for you after returning, found you living a new life without any memory of him, and decided it wasn't his place to interfere.

But that didn't explain the confusion in his eyes, or why he seemed just as lost as you were.

So you settled on the simplest explanation.

Maybe you just had a familiar face.

Maybe you reminded him of someone he'd once known.

Someone important.

Someone he'd loved.

Someone who wasn't you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The next morning, Paul was gone.

Something about Avengers life always seemed to involve paperwork, meetings, and things he described as "political bullshit." According to him, he was only going to the headquarters to submit some documents and deal with whatever endless requirements came with being part of the New Avengers.

You had learned not to question it too much.

There were days when he didn't come home, staying overnight at the tower because a mission briefing ran too late or because there was always something else that needed his attention. You never liked those nights, but Paul always made sure to call.

Lock your doors.

Keep your phone nearby.

Don't open the door for anyone.

The usual things a protective brother would say.

You decided to do something simple. Go grocery shopping, make yourself a warm dinner, and enjoy a quiet evening before returning to worrying about the future. Since Paul usually took the car for Avengers-related work, you decided to walk to the nearby grocery store. Having two cars was still not something either of you could justify, especially when one was already enough for most days.

Being part of the New Avengers came with a steady income, but Paul had never been interested in spending it on himself. Instead of saving up for a bigger house or rushing into a more comfortable lifestyle, he insisted on putting most of it toward your education and your future.

"You have worked too hard to start over again," he always told you.

So you stayed in the same rented home, close to the New Avengers headquarters, with a little less convenience but a lot more stability.

You moved through the grocery store aisles slowly, pushing your cart from one section to another, picking up ingredients while your mind wandered somewhere else entirely.

James Barnes.

You barely knew him.

And yet, you kept thinking about him, not because of the way he'd looked at you, but because of what that look might mean.

He had known you.

At least, that was what you'd started to suspect.

Maybe if you talked to him, he could tell you something Paul never would. Something about the person you'd been before the accident. Where you'd lived. Who you'd known. Maybe even who you'd been to him.

You were still lost in your thoughts when your cart caught against the edge of a display, sending a stack of cans tumbling onto the floor and rolling in every direction across the aisle.

"Shit," you muttered, immediately crouching down to pick them up.

A few people nearby glanced over, while others stepped forward to help. You thanked them quietly as you collected the cans one by one, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping up your face.

As you reached for one of the last cans, another hand reached for it at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

For a brief second, you felt the roughness of callused skin beneath a black glove. It was strange, something about the touch felt familiar, though you couldn't explain why.

You assumed he was just another person helping you clean up. Until you looked up.

A mask covered most of his face, hiding his identity, but you saw enough.

The blue eyes. The familiar intensity. The way he looked at you for a fraction of a second too long.

Your breath caught.

No.

It couldn't be.

But some part of you already knew.

Before you could say anything, before you could even ask what he was doing here, he stepped back and walked away quickly, disappearing between the aisles before you could follow.

You stood there, frozen, staring after him.

Your mind first told you it was impossible.

That you were imagining things.

That you were connecting two unrelated moments because you had been thinking about him too much.

But then you were pretty sure that was James Barnes.

You sighed and put back the last can back in the aisle, picked up your cart, finished your shopping, and tried to convince yourself that nothing unusual had happened.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The next time you saw Bucky, it was three days later.

That evening, you had planned to have dinner with Paul after he finished work. It had been three days since you last saw him, and you were looking forward to spending some normal time together. After dinner, he would probably have to return to the headquarters anyway. Valentina had already been breathing down their necks about a new mission, which meant the team was constantly being pulled into briefings and preparations.

At around six, you arrived at the New Avengers headquarters and settled into the lounge area, scrolling through hospital listings on your phone, looking for places where you could apply as a nurse while you waited for Paul to finish.

You had barely gotten through a page when your phone rang.

Paul.

"Hey," he said when you answered.

"Hey. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm going to be late."

You sighed softly.

"How late?"

There was a pause.

"Probably... a while."

Despite yourself, you smiled.

"What happened?"

"New information came in about a mission. The team needs to go over everything tonight."

You weren't surprised.

This had become a familiar pattern.

"I'm sorry about dinner," he added.

"It's okay."

"No, seriously. I owe you one."

You chuckled lightly.

Then he hesitated.

"Actually... why don't you come upstairs?"

You looked toward the elevators.

"Paul..."

"They are ordering takeout. You can grab something if you're comfortable with it. Everyone's here."

You knew you should probably say no. You didn't want to interrupt their work or make yourself feel like you were intruding.

But the truth was, you liked their company. Spending dinner with them didn't feel like an inconvenience.

And maybe...

Maybe there was another reason too.

A part of you wanted to see James Barnes again.

You wanted a chance to actually talk to him, to ask him what he'd known about you, and why he'd looked at you that way the first time you'd met.

Maybe, if you could get him alone long enough, he might finally tell you something about the life you'd forgotten.

And you wanted to know.

"Okay."

"Cool. I'll let the guards know to let you in.” He hung up, and a few minutes later, your phone buzzed with a message from him.

“Come up to the thirteenth floor.” 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌It was Bob who greeted you first. He looked up from the files scattered across the table and immediately gave you the gentlest smile you had ever seen. "Hey," he said, standing slightly. "You made it."

“I did, although I must say, it was a long way here.”

Bob laughed softly, glancing around at the mountain of documents, laptops, and empty coffee cups surrounding them. 

"Good to have you. I was starting to think this place was just going to be us staring at screens until we forgot what sunlight looked like." 

Beside him, Ava sat with earbuds in, quietly working through stacks of paperwork. She didn't look up immediately, only lifting a hand in a brief wave of acknowledgement before returning to the reports in front of her.

"Hi," she said absentmindedly, her eyes never leaving the page. "Sorry. Deadline."

You looked at the piles of files in front of them. "Five hours of paperwork?"

"Five hours and twelve minutes," he corrected seriously.

You raised your eyebrows. "That's concerningly specific."

"I have been counting."

You couldn't help but laugh. "So that's what being a superhero is really about?"

Bob sighed.

“Everyone talks about fighting and saving people. Nobody mentions how much paperwork comes with it. I don’t mind the work, but this much of it is starting to feel excessive.”

"He's been complaining about it for the last hour," Yelena added as she walked over.

Bob immediately looked offended. "I have not been complaining."

"You have been describing your suffering in great detail," she replied.

"...Now that is more accurate."

You smiled at their exchange. 

"How have you been?" Yelena asked, turning her attention back to you.

"Good. Tired, but good."

"You told us your exams were over," she said, pretending to sound disappointed. "So now you can stop by more often. Honestly, it's ridiculous that this is only our second time meeting when Paul has been an Avenger for months."

You laughed. "I will. Paul is just... a little secretive."

From beside Bob, Ava finally looked up from the file she had been reading. One earbud remained in her ear while she held the other between her fingers, clearly wanting to join the conversation now.

"He is," she said. "Half the time, we don't know what he's thinking either."

Yelena smirked. "Except apparently you."

Ava looked at the papers again. "Keep talking and I'll volunteer you for the paperwork."

"I know there is a reason he always sits next to you during briefings," Yelena muttered under her breath.

Ava simply rolled her eyes, slipped her earbud back in, and continued reading as if the conversation had never happened.

You smiled to yourself. It was clear that your brother's crush on Ava hadn't gone unnoticed. They obviously teased them about it whenever they got the chance. And maybe the feeling wasn't entirely one-sided.

Your eyes wandered around the room. Paul was sitting near the other side with John, Bucky, and two people you hadn't met before. Two laptops sat open between them, with files spread across the table. The two unfamiliar faces moved between the documents and screens, comparing information while Paul and John discussed something quietly with them.

Your attention lingered on Bucky for a moment.

He sat slightly apart from the others, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, his vibranium hand resting against the edge of the table while his other hand held onto the file in front of him. He listened more than he spoke, occasionally leaning forward to point out something on the pages or exchanging a few quiet words with the others before returning to his silence.

Even surrounded by people, there was something solitary about him.

Yelena noticed where you were looking.

"Oh," she said casually. "Paul's still working."

Then, just under her breath, "Or maybe you were looking at Bucky."

You caught it. You quickly looked away.

"What are they working on?"

"Hacking into a server or, as they would say, extracting information," she replied, making air quotes with her fingers. "Which is just a fancy way of saying they're breaking into someone's system legally."

You let out a small laugh.

"So, corporate-approved crime?"

"Exactly."

"So, we are ordering some burgers. Should we get you one too? With a french fries, of course."

"Yeah, that sounds perfect."

"No worries. We always order extra anyway."

Yelena laughed as she opened DoorDash on her phone. Apparently, everyone else had already added their orders because you saw eighteen cheeseburgers sitting in the cart. You stared at the screen for a moment.

"Eighteen?"

Yelena shrugged.

"You learn quickly that feeding superheroes is a full-time job."

You smiled at that. Your gaze drifted back toward Bucky without meaning to. This time, he was already looking at you. And for a moment, neither of you moved. The surprise on his face was impossible to miss. His expression softened almost instantly, as if he hadn't expected to find you looking back. There was a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, followed by something warmer, something almost like relief.

Then he seemed to realize he had been staring.

The softness disappeared behind the familiar guarded expression, his shoulders straightening slightly as he looked away and returned his attention to the file in front of him. His jaw tightened, like he was forcing himself back into control.

"Looking at Bucky?" You turned to find Yelena giving you a knowing look.

Your face warmed immediately. "What? No."

She smiled. "You can talk to him."

You frowned slightly. "I don't think he'd appreciate me interrupting whatever... this is."

Yelena glanced over at Bucky before looking back at you. "I think he’d enjoy your company."

But before you could answer, Alexei appeared beside you, looking far too interested in the conversation.

"I knew it!"

You blinked. "Knew what?"

He pointed dramatically between you and Bucky.

"The eyes. The staring. The mysterious soldier man looking like he has seen a ghost."

"Alexei.." Yelena warned.

"No, no, listen." He continued. "I saw it at the party. The way Barnes looked at you. Like man who found treasure after losing map."

You tried not to blush. "That's not exactly how I would describe it."

"I tried talking to him about it," Alexei continued. "Everyone tried. We all saw it. But he just says, 'I'm tired.'"

He shook his head dramatically.

"Tired? No. That was not tired. That was something else. Deeper. Rawer."

"Alexei," Yelena repeated.

"What? I am a romantic man. I understand these things."

You let out an awkward laugh, unsure where to look.

"I think maybe we should not analyse this too much," you said, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere else.

"Analyse?" Alexei looked offended. "I am simply observing."

"Alexei, please don't make this worse."

"Worse?" He looked genuinely confused. "This is beautiful. Like Romeo and Juliet."

Yelena immediately grabbed his arm."Dad, please stop comparing people to tragedies."

"Fine. But I am just saying, I see something."

You smiled awkwardly as Yelena guided him away.

"Ignore him," she said. "He thinks everything is a dramatic movie."

"I noticed." You gave Yelena a polite smile. In return Yelena pushed you gently toward one of the couches. 

"Come sit. Before he starts giving you relationship advice."

You sat down beside Bob, who had returned to reading the files, facing the direction where Paul was sitting. A few minutes later, Paul finally noticed you. His entire expression softened, and he immediately stood up, walking toward you.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry about dinner."

You smiled. "Paul, it's fine."

He looked relieved. "Thanks for understanding."

"Of course I understand."

You glanced around the room, watching everyone working together. "Honestly, I don't mind."

Paul smiled.

"Really?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I like them."

His expression softened slightly. "I was worried you would feel out of place."

You smiled. "I think I'm likable enough for a group of superheroes to like me."

That made him laugh.

"I know. I just..." He shook his head slightly. "I wanted to make sure you were comfortable."

"I am."

For a moment, he simply smiled.

“Good.”

You smiled back. “Now stop looking so guilty. It’s a very annoying brother habit.”

He smiled and nodded once, then glanced back toward the group.

“I’ll wrap this up.”

With that, he turned and walked away, returning to the group he’d been working with.

You settled onto the couch beside Yelena and went back to your hospital research. Around you, the room gradually began to loosen as people reached the end of their files, closed their laptops, and started drifting into casual conversations and laughter.

One by one, the group began putting their work away, clearly ready for a break.

Everyone except Bucky.

He stayed where he was, continuing to type and scroll through whatever information was on his laptop.

But now that you were paying attention, you noticed something different.

He wasn’t actually relaxed.

Not completely.

His posture was calm, his expression unreadable, but there was a quiet tension in the way he moved. His fingers kept working, clicking through files and searching through information, yet it felt less like he was focused on the task and more like he needed something to do with his hands.

Like sitting still was harder than pretending to be busy.

He looked like if he stopped moving for even a moment, all the thoughts he was avoiding might catch up to him.

When the food arrived, everyone moved around the room to collect their meals. You took yours and looked toward Paul. He was still sitting with John and the others, talking between bites.

Your eyes moved again. Bucky was sitting alone at the dining table, his meal in front of him. Not far enough away to seem like he was avoiding everyone, but far enough that it felt intentional.

For the first time all evening, you saw a perfect opportunity to talk to him.

"I'll be back," you murmured to Yelena.

She was already eating and drinking from an opaque cup that you were fairly certain did not contain coffee.

She simply glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"Sure."

You ignored the tone and walked toward the dining table.

As you got closer, you noticed that he wasn't only eating. His burger sat mostly untouched while his attention remained fixed on the laptop beside him. He stared at the screen in-front of him, occasionally scrolling, his expression focused in a way that made the rest of the room disappear around him.

You hesitated for a second.

But before you could change your mind, he noticed you.

The reaction was immediate.

His hand stopped moving.

For a brief moment, his expression changed completely, surprise first, then something softer. Like he hadn't expected you to come over but some part of him had hoped you would. Then he seemed to remember himself. He closed the laptop screen with a quick motion before looking up at you.

It was almost like he had been caught doing something he didn't want anyone else to see.

"Hey," you said, giving him a small smile.

"Hey." His voice was quieter than usual.

You looked at the empty chair beside him.

"Is this seat taken?"

For a second, he looked almost startled by the question.

"No."

He moved his meal slightly, clearing some space on the table even though there was already plenty of room.

You sat down.

A small silence followed.

You stole a glance at him. His attention rested on the closed laptop, his expression distant, as though part of his mind was still caught up in whatever he'd been working on moments ago. Then your eyes drifted to his food.

"You're not actually eating, are you?"

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "I am."

You looked at the plate. "Really?."

He followed your gaze and seemed to realise he had barely touched it. "I'm eating slowly."

You smiled softly. “I can tell.”

For the smallest moment, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth move. Almost a smile. "I get distracted."

"Clearly."

You looked around the room. "So, is this normal?"

"What?"

"Everyone sitting around, working, arguing, eating together."

He glanced toward the others. "Most days."

"And you always sit here?"

The question came out more curious than you intended. His eyes flickered back to you.

"Sometimes." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "When I want to miss out on the stupid."

"How's that working out for you?"

He looked around the room. "Poorly."

“I was going to say,” you replied with a soft laugh, glancing at the empty space around him before looking toward the group across the room. “Considering you basically live with them.”

He shrugged and nodded.

“You might enjoy your food a little more with some company,” you added.

He looked at you, slightly amused. "Is that your professional opinion?" 

"Actually, yes," you replied seriously. "As a future nurse, I can confirm that avoiding social interaction is probably not the healthiest lifestyle choice."

That earned a quiet laugh. "Future nurse?"

You nodded.

"So, have you started working with real people yet, or are you still practising on mannequins?"

The way he asked it made you narrow your eyes slightly.

"I don't know what that tone was."

"What tone?"

"The one where you sound like you think mannequins are easy."

A small smirk tugged at his mouth. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

You shook your head, smiling.

"You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to treat a plastic person. Honestly, I might argue it's harder than treating real patients sometimes. At least real people can tell you when you're hurting them."

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you. Then he smiled again, a little more this time.

“I believe that.”

You smiled back. Talking to him was easier than you'd expected.

“So…” You nodded toward the black mask folded beside him on the table. “Do you usually go grocery shopping dressed like that?”

A faint smile crossed his face. “Occupational hazard.”

“I figured.” You rested your elbows on the table, studying him for a moment. “So is disappearing from parties also part of the job?”

His eyes flickered up to yours.

“The party?”

“Yeah.” You tilted your head. “You left pretty quickly after you saw me.”

Something shifted in his expression, but it was gone almost immediately.

“I had somewhere to be.”

You watched him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You weren't entirely convinced.

“You looked a little surprised to see me.”

Bucky's gaze held yours for a second before he glanced down at his laptop.

“I was surprised.”

Your heart gave a small, involuntary jump.

“Why?”

He paused.

“Because you looked familiar.”

You went still.

Bucky seemed to notice, because his expression softened slightly.

“But that's not exactly unusual,” he added. “I've been around for a long time. I've met a lot of people.”

You searched his face, trying to find something that would confirm the feeling you'd had that night, but there was nothing obvious there now.

“So you didn't actually know me?”

His eyes lifted to yours again.

“No.”

The answer came easily enough that, for the first time, you wondered if you'd simply imagined everything at the party, the recognition in his eyes, the way he'd frozen, the strange feeling that he'd been looking at someone he had known rather than someone he'd just met.

Maybe you'd read too much into it.

Maybe he really had just thought you looked familiar.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Bucky gave you a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Sorry if I made it weird.”

You shook your head. “You didn't.”

But you weren't sure you believed that either.

"So," you smiled, deciding to let him off the hook, "next time I see a mysterious masked man sprinting through the soup aisle in a grocery store, I'll know not to take it personally."

He gave a genuine, quiet laugh. The laugh that will melt the coldest hearts.

"I'd appreciate that."

Your eyes moved briefly to his plate. "You're really not eating."

He glanced down.

“I am.”

“You’ve been staring at your closed laptop for the last five minutes. I think you’re allowed to take a break.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You noticed that?”

You shrugged. “Hard not to.”

A faint smile crossed his face before he looked back down at his burger, slowly picking it up.

“You always wanted to be a nurse?”

You shrugged.

“Maybe. I don't know.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words.

“Medicine always felt like something I was supposed to do. Understanding what people were going through, helping when I could... it just made sense to me.”

“So, you like helping people.” He said, more to himself than to you.

You smiled slightly. “Yes.”

He looked at you for a little longer than necessary.  "I think they would like having you around."

The simple sincerity of it caught you off guard.

"That's a very nice thing to say."

He looked away almost immediately.

"Just telling the truth."

You smiled.

"You're less scary than people make you sound."

That surprised him. "People say I'm scary?"

"Not exactly."

You glanced toward the others. "They just make you sound very serious."

He looked across the room.

"They're not wrong."

"Maybe."

You tilted your head.

"But I think they also know you're the person they'll call when things go wrong."

His expression softened slightly.

"Yeah." A pause. "I guess they do."

And for some reason, the way he said it sounded less like pride and more like someone who still couldn't believe he had people who trusted him. You didn't know what to say to that. So you didn't.

And neither did he.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

It was just quiet.

A few minutes passed, and you finished your burger while he continued eating slowly, taking his time with every bite like he was finally remembering he had a meal in front of him.

You stood up and gave him a small, polite smile.

"I'll let you get back to your very important paperwork."

His eyes flickered briefly toward the untouched files. "Very important."

You smiled at the seriousness in his voice.

"Right. Wouldn't want to interrupt."

A faint hint of amusement appeared on his face. Along with something like disappointment 

You returned to the couch, where Yelena immediately glanced between you and Bucky.

"You survived."

You frowned.

"Survived what?"

"Conversation with Barnes."

"Is that supposed to be difficult?"

Yelena shrugged, glancing briefly in Bucky's direction.

"Not difficult. He just doesn't usually stay around unless he really wants to."

You looked at her curiously.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing."

Before you could ask or think about it further, she changed the subject.

Soon, everyone slowly returned to their own conversations. You talked with Yelena about random things, listened to Bob complain about another round of paperwork, and watched Alexei attempt to convince John that his training methods were "historically inspired."

Every now and then, you caught Bucky looking in your direction. Not staring. Not enough to be obvious. Just brief glances, like he was quietly observing without meaning to.

You ignored it. Old habits, you supposed. A man who had spent decades as a spy and assassin probably noticed things automatically. It didn't have to mean anything. 

Still, some part of you remained alert, replaying the conversation in your head and searching his answers for any little clue that might confirm what you suspected, that he'd known you before. But you found none.

Eventually, you realised it was getting late.

You gathered your things, saying your goodbyes to everyone as the room slowly began settling down. Yelena gave you a knowing smile when you thanked her for the evening, while Bob wished you luck with your future applications. Alexei, of course, insisted that next time you had to try his cooking, which earned him an immediate warning from Yelena that you should not agree to anything without supervision.

John simply gave you a polite nod before returning to his conversation.

Paul was also wrapping up, preparing to drop you home

Before walking out, your eyes moved briefly across the room.

Bucky was standing near the table, his attention no longer on the files in front of him. When your eyes met, he gave you a small nod.

“Goodnight,” he mouthed.

You smiled, nodding in response.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌It had been a week since you last stepped outside. Between finishing your exams, finally allowing yourself to rest, and researching everything you could find about Bucky, leaving the apartment had somehow become less urgent than staying in.

And eventually, you had to accept the most reasonable conclusion: James Barnes didn't know you.

You'd gone through everything you could find, old articles, interviews, photographs, records, and there was nothing. No connection, no shared history, nothing that suggested your lives had ever crossed before.

He had been telling the truth.

Whatever you'd seen in his expression that first night, you'd simply misunderstood it.

But on the bright side, your nursing results had arrived three days ago.

You'd passed.

Not just passed. You'd passed with flying colours.

You had celebrated the only way you and Paul ever really did, with takeaway food and your brother insisting that he had "always known" you would top the class.

Now came the difficult part.

Finding somewhere to start your career.

Your laptop had become permanently buried beneath tabs from different hospitals and teaching institutions across Virginia. Every morning started the same way.

Applications.

Requirements.

Residency programmes.

Trainee positions.

Somehow, you always got distracted. One search became another—an article about the Avengers, a charity event, an interview.

Then, before you knew it, you were reading an unnecessarily long discussion about whether James Barnes was actually as intimidating as the media claimed.

Half the comments called him terrifying.

The other half insisted he was secretly the sweetest Avenger, citing blurry photos of him carrying sleepy children after charity events or patiently helping elderly women across the street.

You smiled to yourself before closing the tab.

Again.

You really needed to stop doing that.

There is no connection.

Back to more applications.

Most of them wanted experience.

Which would have been incredibly helpful if someone had first given you a place to gain that experience.

You were halfway through comparing two hospitals when your apartment door unlocked.

"You alive?" Paul's voice echoed through the apartment.

"Barely."

He stepped inside, dropping a duffel bag by the couch before stretching his shoulders with an exhausted groan.

"You look terrible."

You looked up from your laptop.

"You've literally been on another continent."

"So?"

"You've slept... what, six hours in the last three days?"

He considered it. "...Maybe."

You pointed toward the bathroom. "Go shower."

"You sound like my mother."

"You should be grateful."

He laughed before disappearing down the hallway.

It wasn't until nearly forty minutes later, now dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants instead of tactical gear, that he wandered back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch beside you.

"You smell like shampoo."

"I've been told that's an improvement."

"It is."

He leaned over, looking at your laptop.

"What are we looking at?"

"Hospitals."

He frowned.

"Still?"

"There are more hospitals in Virginia than I thought."

"Mm."

"I've narrowed it down to six."

Paul reached for one of the printed applications scattered across the coffee table. "Memorial Medical."

He picked up another.

"Fairfax."

Then another.

"You've really been doing this all week."

"I kind of have to."

"You'll get hired."

"I know."

You sighed.

"I just want somewhere that'll actually teach me. Not somewhere that'll throw me into a ward on day one because they're understaffed."

Paul nodded slowly.

"I get that."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He kept reading through the papers before quietly asking,

"What exactly are you looking for?"

You thought about it.

"I want somewhere busy. Somewhere I'll actually learn. Good mentors. A decent trauma department."

You smiled faintly.

"And preferably somewhere that doesn't make new nurses cry on their first shift."

Paul chuckled.

"That's a high standard."

"I know."

He placed the papers back on the table.

"Let me see what I can do."

You looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He simply shrugged. "I'll ask around."

"You know hospital administrators now?"

"I know people."

"You always say that."

"And I'm usually right."

You narrowed your eyes. "I'm not taking special treatment."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not getting you a job. I'm getting you an interview. And there's a difference."

You weren't entirely convinced.

But before you could argue, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it. "I've got to head back for a briefing."

"You just got home."

"I know."

He stood, pulling the duffel bag closer before unzipping it. "The Australia mission still has paperwork."

He began sorting through it with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times. A few spare clothes were pulled out and tossed onto the couch. A half-empty medical kit followed. He shifted a stack of classified folders toward the top before rearranging what remained inside.

You caught a glimpse of tactical gear. A sidearm. Several sealed evidence bags.

Then, tucked beneath everything else, were bloodstained bandages.

Paul's hand paused for only a fraction of a second. He noticed where you were looking. Without a word, he pushed the bandages farther into the corner of the bag, covering them with the folders before zipping that compartment halfway shut.

"The press says you were chasing some government escapee." Your eyes never left the duffel.

Paul let out a quiet snort. "The press says a lot of things."

"So... were you?"

He looked up at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I'm legally obligated not to answer that."

You sighed, pushing yourself off the couch.

"Please get whatever injury you're hiding properly checked."

His eyes flickered toward the duffel before returning to you. "I'm fine."

"You literally just hid bloody bandages from me."

"They're old."

"You are a terrible liar."

A small laugh escaped him. "I've had worse."

"Paul."

"I'll get it looked at."

You weren't entirely convinced, but it was as much reassurance as you were going to get. He slung the duffel over his shoulder, then pointed a finger at you.

"Don't stay up until three in the morning filling out applications."

"No promises."

Shaking his head with an amused smile, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving the apartment quiet once again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Two days later… 

You were still awake late at night. At some point, researching hospitals had turned into reading an article about the Avengers' latest humanitarian mission.

Which somehow became a video interview.

Which somehow became a YouTube channel called BuckyFanEdits.

You refused to question your life choices.

The edits were... surprisingly well made.

One clip showed him helping an elderly woman carefully down a flight of stairs after a charity gala, carrying her handbag without seeming to realise someone was filming. Another caught him laughing at something Sam had said during an interview, only for the smile to disappear the second he noticed the cameras were still rolling. One edit had stitched together his painfully serious congressional hearing, cutting from him answering, “Very worrying,” with complete sincerity straight into footage of him crashing through a wall during a mission.

There were clips from missions, awkward public appearances, behind-the-scenes moments the media had somehow captured, and an embarrassing number of slow-motion edits set to dramatic music that probably gave him far more credit for looking mysterious than he deserved.

You rolled your eyes. And watched another one. You couldn't help it. It had been more than a week since you talked to him.

You hadn't seen him since. 

Then again, you hadn't really seen anyone.

Apart from Paul… And Luca, your DoorDash driver, who had delivered food often enough this week that the two of you were now on a first-name basis.

Your laptop was still open beside you when you heard the apartment door unlock.

Paul.

You glanced at the clock.

2:03 a.m.

You waited to hear his bedroom door close. Instead...

Three soft knocks landed against yours.

"You awake?"

You smiled despite yourself. "Barely."

He walked in holding a large envelope. "I have something for you."

You sat up. "What is it?"

Instead of answering, he handed it over. Across the front, embossed in dark silver lettering, were the words:

Avengers Medical Facility

Your eyebrows shot up.

"...Paul."

He leaned against the doorframe. "Open it."

You pulled out the letter inside. Your eyes skimmed the first paragraph.

Interview Invitation.

Graduate Nurse Trainee Programme.

Avengers Medical Facility.

You looked up so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "What?"

"You said you wanted somewhere you'd actually learn."

He folded his arms.

"They've got some of the best trauma surgeons, biomedical researchers, rehabilitation specialists and emergency physicians in the country."

You looked back at the letter.

"This..."

"...isn't a joke?"

"No."

"How?"

"I asked."

You stared at him.

"I told you. I know people."

"You got me an interview at the Avengers' hospital?"

"The medical facility." He corrected you. "It's attached to headquarters, but it's its own institution. They train military medics, trauma nurses, doctors, researchers..."

He smiled.

"You'll see things there that most hospitals won't see in ten years."

You looked down at the letter again. "But..."

"You'll also be close."

His voice softened.

"I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens..."

He shrugged.

"I'll know you're somewhere safe."

Your chest tightened. "Paul..."

"It's just an interview.” He smiled. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still staring at the letter in your hands, too surprised to say anything.

"Good night." Paul said, quietly closing the door behind him.

Silence settled over your room once again. Your eyes slowly drifted toward the still-open laptop on your desk.

The tab at the top proudly read: BuckyFanEdits - Best James Barnes Moments (Part 17)

Yeah.

Those fan edits were probably not going to help you pass the interview.

With a reluctant sigh, you closed the tab.

"Back to studying," you muttered to yourself.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The morning of your interview arrived far sooner than you would have liked.

You had changed outfits three times, read through your notes one last time, checked your folder at least five times to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything... then checked it a sixth, just in case.

"Text me when you're done," Paul had reminded you for what felt like the third time that morning. "And take the car home."

You had tried to argue. He would probably need it more than you would, especially if he ended up working late.

"I'll get a ride."

That had been the end of the discussion.

Paul dropped you off outside the main reception entrance. After wishing you good luck one last time, he headed toward the secured elevators beyond reception, the same ones you had taken the day you first visited headquarters. He flashed his credentials to the guard stationed beside them before disappearing behind the closing doors.

You took a slow breath and looked up.

The Avengers Headquarters looked even more impressive in broad daylight.

After checking in at reception and presenting your identification, a woman behind the desk handed you a white visitor badge.

VISITOR

The word sat beneath your name in bold black letters.

"You'll be heading to the Medical Sciences Division," she explained. "Follow the blue line until you reach Elevator C."

You thanked her and clipped the badge onto your blazer. The corridors surprised you. You had expected something... flashier. Instead, they looked remarkably normal. Scientists hurried past carrying tablets. Engineers discussed something involving drone diagnostics. Someone in scrubs pushed a patient toward radiology.

It felt less like superhero headquarters...And more like a hospital attached to a research university.

The blue line eventually led you to a quieter corridor. At the end waited Elevator C. You stepped inside.

Instead of floors, the panel read:

Training.

Operations.

Ground.

Engineering.

Medical Sciences.

You pressed the final button and the elevator descended. The doors opened onto an entirely different world. The medical facility stretched farther than you expected.

Glass-walled rehabilitation rooms. Simulation labs. An emergency department. Operating theatres. Physical therapy suites. Teaching rooms filled with nursing students and residents. A trauma bay where a team was practising emergency procedures on a high-fidelity mannequin.

Your heart skipped.

This...

This was exactly where you wanted to be.

The interview lasted nearly an hour. There were four people on the panel. A trauma surgeon. The head nursing coordinator. A rehabilitation specialist. And the director of the facility.

Most of the questions weren't designed to catch you out.

They wanted to know how you thought. How you communicated. How you handled pressure.

You answered honestly. When you didn't know something, you admitted it.

When they presented difficult patient scenarios, you explained your reasoning instead of rushing to an answer.

By the end, you felt... Good. Not certain. But good.

As you gathered your papers to leave, one of the pages slipped from your folder. You reached down too quickly. The edge of the paper caught your finger while you were collecting the rest of your documents.

"Ow."

It was barely more than a sting.

You glanced down, expecting to see a small cut.

By the time you stood again, the pain had already disappeared.

You looked at your finger.

The cut was gone.

Completely.

Just like it always did.

You ignored it and stepped back into the corridor. 

Now where was the exit?

When you had first arrived, the facility had seemed simple enough. A few hallways, a clear direction from reception, an elevator that brought you straight down and signs that lead you towards Conference room 3. But now that you were leaving, the place somehow felt twice as large.

You turned left. Wrong.

The door ahead required clearance you definitely didn't have.

You turned around and tried another direction. Another restricted access area. 

"Project 890 personnel only."

You stared at the sign for a second.

"Okay."

You muttered under your breath.

"Not this way either."

You turned back again, taking another corridor that looked promising.

A few minutes later, you found yourself standing in front of a set of doors marked Men's Washroom. You quickly looked away, pretending you hadn't just accidentally wandered somewhere you absolutely weren't supposed to be.

The next corridor led to a large meeting room in the general ward area. Empty chairs surrounded a table covered with files and tablets, but there was still no sign of the elevator or the way back to reception.

You sighed, ready to admit defeat and ask someone for directions.

"Lost already?"

You turned around.

Bucky.

He stood a few feet away, a tablet tucked under one arm. The sleeves of his Henley were rolled to his forearms, the vibranium catching the overhead lights as he adjusted his grip. His expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

For a moment, you just stared at him.

Of all the people who could have found you wandering around the facility like you didn't belong there...

Of course it had to be him.

"I am absolutely…lost." You admitted

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"The lifts are this way."

He pointed toward the very corridor you had just come from.

You followed the direction with your eyes before letting out a quiet, embarrassed laugh.

"Oh."

Mercifully, he didn't tease you about it.

He simply turned and started walking, and after a moment, you fell into step beside him.

The corridor stretched ahead in comfortable silence, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor. The facility felt strangely peaceful now that the interview was over. The rush of doctors, trainees, and staff had settled into a quieter rhythm, broken only by the occasional voice drifting from behind closed doors.

"You work down here?" you asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Sometimes. I was just leaving."

That was all he offered.

He reached the elevator first and pressed the call button. A second later, the familiar chime echoed through the corridor, and the doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum.

You expected him to walk in.

Instead, he stepped to one side.

His vibranium hand caught the edge of the elevator doors before they could begin closing again, holding them open.

He looked at you.

"Ladies first."

You blinked.

It was such an old-fashioned gesture that it caught you completely off guard.

You couldn't remember the last time anyone had done something so simple and yet so thoughtful.

"Thank you..."

You hesitated.

"...James."

For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression.

It was subtle.

His eyes lingered on you for half a heartbeat longer than usual before he simply gave a small nod and followed you inside.

You pressed the button for the ground floor.

He selected another floor further up. Training

The doors slid shut.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The elevator hummed quietly as it climbed, the numbers above the door changing one by one. You found yourself watching them instead of looking at him, suddenly far more aware of how small the space felt.

Beside you, he shifted his weight almost imperceptibly.

You could hear the faint, absent rhythm of his boot tapping lightly against the floor.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Then he broke the silence.

"Interview?"

You looked over.

"Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

You let out a small breath.

"I think it went well."

His head tilted slightly.

"You think?"

A smile tugged at your lips.

"I didn't see anyone making concerned faces, so I'm choosing to be optimistic."

He considered that for a moment, his gaze settling on you with the same quiet attentiveness he'd carried throughout your conversation.

"I've met enough people to know when someone leaves a good impression."

His voice was calm and matter-of-fact. There wasn't a hint of exaggeration in it. No attempt to flatter you. He simply sounded... certain.

You looked at him, caught slightly off guard.

That wasn't the kind of compliment people usually gave. It sounded like an observation. Like he had looked at you, listened to you, and reached a conclusion.

For some reason, that made it mean far more.

A warmth settled quietly in your chest before you could stop it.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The corner of his mouth lifted just enough for you to notice.

"You should."

A small pause followed.

"I meant it as one."

You smiled instinctively and lowered your eyes, suddenly finding the brushed steel floor of the elevator far more interesting than looking at him. You weren't entirely sure why those few words had affected you as much as they had.

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors slid open onto the reception floor.

You stepped out before turning back.

"Thanks again..."

You hesitated for the briefest second.

"...for rescuing me from getting lost in your headquarters."

A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and the faint smile that appeared this time reached his eyes, softening them.

"Try not to get lost again."

You laughed.

"I'll do my best. No guarantees."

His smile lingered for another moment before he gave the smallest shake of his head, equal parts amused and resigned.

The elevator doors began sliding together.

He didn't immediately look away.

Instead, he held your gaze with the same quiet steadiness that somehow made the busy reception disappear around you.

"See you," he said.

Not goodbye.

See you.

The words were simple. Almost casual. Yet something about the certainty with which he said them made your heart skip in a way you chose not to examine too closely.

You found yourself smiling before you even realised you were.

"Yeah."

Your voice came out softer than you intended.

"See you."

The narrowing gap between the doors framed him for one last second, standing relaxed with one hand in his pocket, watching you with that same gentle expression that seemed so at odds with every intimidating headline you had ever read about James Barnes.

Then the doors met.

The elevator disappeared.

For a long moment, you remained exactly where you were, staring at your own reflection in the polished metal doors long after he was gone.

It was only when someone approached the elevator and called it that you remembered you were supposed to be leaving.

You let out a quiet breath you hadn't realised you were holding and started toward the exit. His words stayed with you the entire drive back to your apartment.

There is one thing many people know about the once Thunderbolts*, now appointed New Avengers, and no one knows it better than the team themselves: they get their asses kicked. A lot.

As a result, the team is now stuck trying to find a reliable healer who can patch up three super soldiers, a man who can turn into a void, an ex-widow, and a woman who can phase in and out of the visible spectrum.

“There’s this woman I know,” Alexei rambles for what feels like the fourth time today, despite it barely being noon. “Lovely lady. Lives in some... cottage somewhere.” He waves a hand like the gesture itself can fill in the blanks. “She crafts these strange potions that can mend pretty much anything!”

“What, like a wizard?” John asks, raising a brow from where he sits on the couch.

“Wizards don’t exist,” Bucky interjects matter of factly.

“No, not a wizard.” Alexei wags his fat finger. “Better than a wizard. She gathers all these herbs and plants and—”

“So... an apothecary?” Ava asks, one hand settling on her hip.

“What the hell is an apothecary?” Yelena squints, her gaze flicking between the group.

Alexei stands there, dumbfounded, mouth hanging slightly open at everyone else's audacity to interrupt. “If you people would actually listen to me and let me explain, then you would know.”

Bob, slouched lazily on the couch beside John, raises a finger with a guileless smile. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you, Bob—”

“I don’t need to hear any more,” Bucky interrupts, pushing himself off the seat with a groan. “We are not resorting to an apothecary.”

Alexei, dramatic as ever, throws his hands into the air in disbelief. He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Bucky is just as ready to shut him down with a dismissive wave.

“I’m sure there are plenty of capable doctors out there with futuristic, high-quality equipment that can keep up with all of our abilities,” Bucky says gruffly, sweeping a wary gaze around the room as if daring someone to argue.

And John, of course, does.

“I don’t think that’s within our budget.”

“I can’t believe we’re the Avengers on a budget,” Bob mutters, disappointed.

“New Avengers,” Yelena corrects with a pointed look. “Don’t forget the New.”

Bucky can already feel himself aging the longer he stays in this room. “Regardless, we are not going to some old woman who plays with flowers and leaves and calls herself a healer.”

“She’s not an old woman,” Alexei mutters quietly, mostly because no one is listening to him anyway. “She’s quite beautiful, actually—”

“I don’t care,” Bucky cuts him off immediately, his face twisting into a muddled expression. “We’re going to find another healer—an actual licensed doctor who knows what they’re doing. And that’s final.”

Before anyone else can get a word in, he storms out of the room, his boots echoing against the floor. No one dares speak until the door clicks shut behind him.

Once the brooding soldier is gone, everyone finally lets out the breath they’ve been holding.

Yelena rolls her eyes. “Since when did he become the leader?”

Ava, John, and Bob shrug.

Yelena sighs before nodding at Alexei. “Tell us more about this apothecary friend of yours.”

It’s not often that you get visitors at your little cottage, tucked away beneath towering trees and overgrown grass. On the rare occasions you do expect someone, they already know your policy: all correspondence goes through mail-in letters. From there, you prepare whatever elixirs, salves, or tinctures they need—a process that usually takes days—before they stop by to collect their order and go on their merry way.

So you can only imagine your surprise when you open the door to find Alexei of all people standing on your front porch.

“Alexei?” you frown, making no effort to hide your confusion. “What are you doing here? I wasn’t expecting you.”

You peek past him, only to find what looks like a misfit party of five lingering at the foot of your steps like its Halloween and they’re waiting for their candy.

Most of them look... reasonably okay to be there. Or, at the very least, resigned to it. But one man in particular looks like he had been dragged across the country by his metal arm and held at gunpoint just to stand still and play nice.

“And I certainly wasn’t expecting visitors,” you add.

Alexei chuckles, scratching at his beard. “Yeah... well, you know how it is. When duty calls. Or something like that.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly is your duty calling for?”

“Our team needs a healer.”

To your surprise, Bucky is the first to speak, despite being the most reluctant to come here in the first place.

“And Alexei vouched for you,” he continues. “Though I don’t know how much I trust his judgment.” He mutters the last part under his breath, but you hear him just fine.

Ava nudges him in the arm, a silent warning to show some class.

“We’re interested in working with you,” Yelena says, deciding to take over. She steps onto your porch, subtly nudging Alexei aside. “As the team’s medic. You’d be staying at the base—”

You blink before letting out a small chuckle, lifting a hand to stop her.

“I’m sorry. You must be mistaken,” you say, offering the group an awkward smile. “I don’t know what Alexei told you, or what you’ve heard, but I don’t work with groups.”

Yelena crosses her arms with a frown. “Why not?” she asks. It is ironic, considering everyone in this group was a lone wolf before they were forcibly lumped together.

You gesture to the lush greenery surrounding the cottage—to the bright red strawberry bushes and the carefully tended patch of soil near the front.

“Because everything my soul requires is right here, rooted in this very earth,” you say, your voice taking on a dreamy, sing-songy cadence that gives them goosebumps. Not in a good way. “The soil sings to me. I cannot possibly hear the secrets of my remedies if I am near danger. All the chaos disrupts their vibrations. It simply isn’t safe for me, or for my leafy little green children.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky groans, his face twisting into a sour cringe. “I’m meeting you guys back inside the Quinjet. This is pointless—”

“Bucky,” John warns over his shoulder. “We did not travel all this way just to turn around and leave. Let’s hear her out. Don’t be rude.”

That makes Bucky stop, his brow twitching in annoyance at being lectured by John Walker of all people. He mutters something grumpy under his breath, crossing his arms and staying put.

“Okay, fine,” Yelena shrugs, “but it’s just as my teammate said—we didn’t travel all this way for nothing. Can we maybe work something out? How about we try one of your elixirs that we can take on the go? Just to keep us from getting killed on our missions until we find a real doctor.” She winces slightly at her last phrase. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you say, dismissing it with a serene smile. “Though, my precious brews are not mere trinkets to be pulled from a dusty cabinet. Each tincture must be sung to, tailored specifically to the unique essence of the soul who drinks it.”

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you eye the team warily. You already know Alexei is a super soldier of some sort, and the man with the metal arm brings a whole host of concerns. Considering the rest of the group’s heavy gear, you assume they all have their own peculiar…. afflictions.

“I can make something for each of you, but it will take time.”

“And we’ll pay you for your time,” Ava speaks up. “How long?”

“There are six of you,” you say, gesturing across the group. “It will take about a week.”

John furrows his brows. “A week? That’s too long. We keep getting our asses kicked out there, and without proper medical care, it’s only a matter of time before we’re put into the ground for good.”

You tuck your hands behind your back, tilting your head slightly. You hate talking about money—you explicitly moved out to this isolated cottage to get away from modern society and capitalism—but everything comes with a price.

“I can get it done sooner. Maybe in about two days, max. But it will cost you extra.”

The team exchanges apprehensive glances before their eyes land on Bucky, the only one still openly against this. A silent debate seems to pass between the group until Bucky finally lets out a defeated sigh. The group nods in unison, reaching a quiet agreement.

“Fine,” Yelena says. “We’ll take it. What’s the process?”

Your smile widens. “Good. I don’t need much—just a list of each person’s specific powers and abilities. When I start brewing, I need to know exactly what I am working with.”

“Okay. Sure. That makes sense.” Yelena looks around the group, crossing her arms. “But if we want this done in two days instead of seven, she’s going to need an assistant. Someone to stay behind, write all this down, and help her keep the details straight.”

The team falls silent, everyone warily looking around to see who can get out of it.

Alexei is already shaking his head, gesturing to his massive hands. Ava looks away, unwilling to sit still in a remote cottage for forty-eight hours. Bob was out of the picture—they needed Bob. John looks like he’s about to volunteer, but Yelena cuts him off with a subtle warning look. Terrible idea.

Slowly, all eyes turn and lock onto Bucky.

It actually makes perfect sense.

Bucky Barnes was a literal U.S. Congressman. If anyone on this chaotic team knows how to organize information and keep a meticulous track record, it’s him.

Bucky realizes they are all staring at him and immediately shakes his head. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Bucky,” John says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I mean… despite the whole brainwashing thing, you’re pretty good at keeping track of details. You used to read policy packets for a living. You’re perfect for it.”

“What?” Bucky scowls. “No. I haven’t even touched a single policy packet since I was in office.”

“Either way, we need someone to stay, and you’re the best fit,” Yelena interjects.

Bucky hates this. He hates the plan, and he especially hates the whole idea of an apothecary healer thing.

“Think about it,” John adds, trying to sound enthusiastic to help his case. It doesn’t. “Being out here kind of reminds you of your time back in Wakanda, doesn’t it?”

Your eyes go wide with interest. “Wakanda? That’s wonderful! I import many of my rarest herbs and minerals from Wakanda. It’s a beautiful place.”

Alexei gives Bucky a heavy pat on the back, though it comes off more like a shove in your direction. “Perfect. Now you two have something to bond over.”

While you stand gleefully in the doorway, thrilled by the thought of having a personal assistant—especially one who lived in Wakanda—Bucky stands frozen, holding an energy so dark it feels like it might wither your nearby plants if he so much as glares at them.

“Yeah,” the grumpy soldier mumbles. “Perfect.”

Bucky has never seen anything like this before. When he spent time in Wakanda, it was the perfect blend of high technology and nature. Being here feels like he has been transported into a fairy tale book.

Except, you aren’t the princess. You are more like a witch, moving briskly around the cottage. You set down glass vials and stone mortars while Bucky stands by the wooden table, looking entirely out of place as he holds a blank notepad and a pen at your command.

“Alright, let’s begin with the blonde one—Yelena,” you say, tossing a handful of blue petals into a mortar. “Tell me of her physical trials. What are her abilities?”

Bucky is amused by the way veins pop out of your forearms as you work the stone pestle—likely from years of grinding and manual labor. He thinks the contradiction to the white dress and apron you are wearing is funny.

“She’s a Widow,” Bucky explains. “Came from the Red Room, so she has enhanced human conditioning—”

Before he can finish, you shoot him a look. He raises a brow in confusion, and your eyes point sharply down to the notepad in his hands to emphasize, why aren’t you writing this down?

With a reluctant sigh, he starts writing down everything he just said.

“Okay,” you huff. “And what of her endurance? Her cellular recovery?”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s good, I guess.”

You frown. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully being stubborn, or if he just isn’t understanding you.

“Can you please be a little bit more specific?”

“She recovers fine, alright?” Bucky grunts. “Just make a standard healing potion.”

You pause your work, blowing a stray strand of hair away from your face in mild frustration. You wipe your hands on your apron as you step closer to the table.

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” you warn, meeting Bucky’s eyes. “It is incredibly important that I know these details. My elixirs are potent. If I balance the herbs incorrectly because you are being stubborn, the side effects will be disastrous. Do you want your teammate to drink a remedy for a flesh wound and end up vomiting neon green bile for a week? Or worse, having her lungs seize up because it clashed with her natural chemistry?”

Bucky makes a face, lifting his pen from the notepad as if preparing to say something smart back. But then he stops.

You furrow your brows. “What was that?”

“What was what?” he tries to play dumb, which only annoys you more.

“It looked like you had something to say,” you point out. “So, what is it?”

Bucky presses his lips together, his eyes looking innocent, and shakes his head. “I have nothing to say.”

You huff, pouring the freshly ground petals into a vial. Capping the lid, you give it a gentle shake before holding it out to Bucky.

“Here,” you say. “Try it.”

Bucky raises a brow, hesitantly taking the glass from your hands. “I thought this was for Yelena?”

“Based on the very vague details you’ve given me, it seems like you, Yelena, and John share similar capabilities. The tinctures I’m brewing for the three of you won’t differ by much—this is just the base.”

He hesitates, swirling the mysterious liquid and eyeing it with suspicion. “So, what, I’m your test subject?”

You give him a bright and serene smile that makes him visibly uncomfortable. “Well, we have to test them all eventually, don’t we? Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”

Bucky studies the smile on your face. Ever since he arrived, he’s felt like you’ve taken a personal delight in getting on his nerves. What started out as natural incompatibility has quickly turned into a deliberate effort to get him riled up. It is no wonder you work alone.

Knowing that arguing with you will accomplish nothing and only delay his sweet release from this cottage and your presence, he gives up. With a defeated sigh and a wary glance in your direction, he pops the cap and downs the vial in one gulp.

He sets the empty vial back down on the wooden table with a clink—just to emphasize that he did exactly as he was told.

“How do you feel?” you ask with a curious tilt of your head.

Bucky shrugs casually. “I didn’t have any injuries to begin with, so I feel fine.”

You nod with an approving hum. “Good.” Stepping back over to your station, you add, “Let me know if you experience any strange side effects. I’m going to prepare the rest of the vials using that same base, and then we’ll get down to the nitty-gritty.”

As you line up empty vials and neatly label each one with the team members’ names, Bucky nods in satisfaction. He’s pleased that things are moving much faster than he anticipated.

But as the minutes tick by, Bucky feels himself growing increasingly restless.

The air in the cottage suddenly feels thick, hot, and suffocating. It has nothing to do with the plants or the aromas—and yet he can smell every single note. He can pick up the faint, sweet scent of your sweat from across the room. Every grind of your pestle echoes in his ears, and he can hear every soft rustle of your clothes as you move.

He swallows hard, but his throat is bone-dry. He tries to focus on his own station—on anything else—but his eyes keep drifting back to you.

When you pause to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath hitches. His heart stutters. When you absently lick your dry lips while double-checking a label, a heavy ache coils tight in his gut.

What the hell is happening?

He grips the edge of the counter, fighting the dizziness consuming him. His clothes feel suffocating, his entire body is burning up, and his nerves are spiraling out of control. Every sense is firing on all cylinders, hypersensitive to the tiny cottage—and above all, to you.

He tries to adjust his hands, but his palm accidentally sweeps into an empty glass jar. It flies off the counter and shatters against the floor.

“Shit,” he curses, bending down to pick up the shards, only to prick his own fingers on a sharp edge.

When he swears again in pain, you turn sharply, gasping at the mess. “Bucky! Are you okay?”

You hurry over, catching his forearm to help him stand back up. You are surprised by how heavily he slumps against you, leaning his weight into yours just to keep his balance. You take his wrist, pulling his hand closer to inspect the slice dripping blood onto the floor.

“Let me see—you’re bleeding, hold still—”

With you standing so close, your fingers ghosting over his cut, he catches the faint scent of those blue petals on your skin—the very petals you made him consume just minutes ago.

The scent, the proximity, the gentleness of your touch—everything acts like gasoline poured onto the flame roaring in his gut. Every instinct in his mind screams at him to push you away, to bark at you to give him space, but his body rebels at the thought of losing your touch.

He breathes hard through his mouth, sweat beading at his temples as strands of dark hair fall over his face, partially shielding him from your sight.

“What—what the hell did you do to me?” he hisses, forcing himself to stare at the ground.

You blink at him, confused. “I didn’t do anything—”

You pause, a sudden thought striking you. “Oh. Oh, no. You must be experiencing a side effect from the base tincture.”

You lean closer, your soft, warm hand reaching up to brush the dark, damp strands of hair out of his face. As you rest your palm against his forehead to check his temperature, a growl rumbles deep in his chest. He flinches at the contact, but he doesn't pull away.

When he finally looks up, meeting your gaze head on, the intensity in his eyes sends a shiver straight down your spine. His bright blue irises are swallowed by his dark, blown out pupils.

“Your fever is spiking,” you breathe. “The properties in the blue petals... they must have reacted with the super soldier serum.”

“Properties?” Bucky rasps, sounding almost angry. “What properties?”

You swallow hard, worried about how he’ll react. “I’m talking aphrodisiac properties.”

Bucky’s hand tightens around your wrist. His fingers are molten, his grip strengthening in a way that keeps you in place, showing you just how frustrated he is with all this.

It is no wonder he feels so warm, his body coiled up so tight. His pants strain against his pelvis, trying to fight away the sudden tightness drawing up in his groin.

There is no doubt about it—he’s aroused.

A feeling a man like him thought he’d never get to feel again, after everything. But one sip of your potion and one sniff of your scent, it’s enough to make his heart pound like an animal in heat.

“Fix it,” Bucky commands roughly. “Or so help me God, because I won’t be able to restrain myself.”

Instead of making the tinctures for the rest of the team, you spend the entire day coming up with a remedy for Bucky. You’ve never had an experience quite like this, and you find yourself stumbling over your own feet trying to reach a resolution.

Bucky sits on a wooden stool in the corner of the cottage, his head rolled back against the wall as he watches your every step.

His blue eyes follow you as you frantically scramble from counter to shelf, from glass jars to leather bound herbology books. The serene composure he was met with from the beginning is nothing like the woman he’s seeing now. You’re nervous, muttering under your breath and spilling dried leaves across the wooden table, fighting against your internal panic to heal him.

In another circumstance, seeing you flustered might have brought him a twisted sense of satisfaction, but right now, every passing second feels like torture.

The aphrodisiac courses violently through his bloodstream, amplifying every throb between his thighs, every drop of sweat slipping down his neck, and every scent that radiates off your smooth skin.

His jaw clenches so tight, his gums ache. Watching you stumble over your own feet, picking up the wrong vials and second-guessing your every move makes him unreasonably angry.

“You’re taking too long,” Bucky growls from where he sits.

You freeze, glancing over your shoulder with a look of impatience. “I’m trying, Bucky! The super-soldier serum is accelerating the chemical process, so I have to adjust the proportions carefully, or—”

“God,” he cuts you off with another groan, his fists tightening against his thighs. “You’re stumbling all over yourself.”

You try your best to ignore the clear outline throbbing against his pants in your direction. He gets up abruptly, pushing the stool back until it clatters onto the floor. His boots stomp over to you, each step heavy with frustration, causing the bottles on the shelf to rattle. He stops right before you, his chest heaving.

“Do you even know what you’re doing? Or are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink at his sudden outburst. A scoff escapes you, offended by his accusation.

“Excuse me? No—of course not. Why on earth would you think that?”

While Bucky towers over you, you feel the heat coming off his body and dance with your own warmth. He steps closer, closing what little space remains between you until your lower back hits the edge of the counter.

“You’re punishing me,” he snaps, hot breath ghosting across your cheeks. “This is payback for not cooperating with you earlier, isn’t it?”

Your brows furrow with frustration. Here you are, delaying your work to find a remedy for the angry man before you, and he dares to question your intentions.

“I can’t believe you would assume I’d be setting you up,” you snap back.

You raise your palm, a placating gesture meant to create distance between you two, but you might as well be holding the shovel for your own grave. Your hand rests on his chest, giving him a slight push that only does more damage to his self-control.

“I am trying to save your life—or at least your dignity! If I mess up this ratio, the reaction could be permanent, or worse. So excuse me if I want to get it right!”

Bucky huffs a harsh and bitter laugh. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before he bites down in annoyance. He steps back to you, but his snarky comeback dies in his throat once his throbbing length makes contact with your leg.

He chokes out a gasp, eyes flying wide as his forehead dips against yours. The mere contact of another human makes his cock beg desperately for some sort of release—it begs his hips to rock back and forth for any friction.

He watches, wide-eyed and a face burning with humiliation, as his cock rests heavy against your thigh. All he has to do is hike up your skirt, unbutton his pants, and…

“Bucky?” you whisper, leaning in closer.

That soft, gentle voice is broken with concern for him—yet all he wants is to hear it broken with moans in pain and bliss.

He pulls back sudden and fast, as if you hurt him.

You inhale deeply, swallowing your pride for him just this once. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Where’s your bathroom?” he interrupts. “I’m going to take care of this myself.”

You blink, momentarily stunned before pointing to the right, not wanting to elaborate any further. “Just down the hall. Make a left.”

Without another word, he pries himself away from you completely. He stomps down your hallway, his frame far too large for the narrow corridor, but he makes do by tilting his body to the side. The bathroom door shuts behind him roughly, making your glass vials shake on the counter.

As the minutes tick by, you try your best not to think about what he could be doing behind those closed doors.

Grunts of frustration and breathless curses echo from the bathroom and throughout your tiny cottage. You pound the pestle harder, trying to drown out his moans, but it’s futile. Your mind can’t help but wander.

You picture him standing large and imposing in the center of your bathroom. Shirtless, probably. Broad shoulders hunching over as he dips his head, beads of sweat rolling down the side of his face while his large hand circles around his length, stroking himself fast for any form of relief.

You remember the way he pressed himself up against you not that long ago—you felt how big he was, and you’re certain he wouldn’t be able to satisfy himself with just one hand.

“Fuck.” “God—fuck…” “Mmph—”

Moans and grunts continue to filter from your bathroom, and each sound and thought sends a wave of heat deep into your stomach to pool between your legs. You bite your lip hard, subconsciously pressing your thighs together, rubbing them against each other as a soft gasp slips past your lips.

You’re shamelessly wet, your mind running wild with filthy thoughts of what the brooding man could be doing just a room over. Your fingers trace down your body until they find the sweet spot between your legs. Rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your dress, you begin to stroke yourself, moaning in time with Bucky’s.

You feel your legs growing weak, gripping onto the table for support as you play with yourself, but then a loud grunt echoes down the hall, followed by a hard thump that shakes the entire wall.

It doesn’t sound like pleasure.

It sounds like he’s in pain.

Eyes flying wide, you abandon everything at your station—including your own pleasure—and run down the hall to tend to Bucky.

“Bucky?” you call out with a frantic knock. “Bucky? Are you okay?”

Silence, save for his labored panting.

Panic takes over your senses. “I’m coming in!”

You throw the door open to a room that is suffocatingly hot. You smell his sweat and masculine musk from where you stand by the doorframe. Bucky is hunched over the edge of the sink, half-undressed, his pants shoved down past his hips. His cock is thick, red, and throbbing angrily in his flesh hand, slick and agonizingly unsated.

You gulp. He looks exactly as you imagined just seconds ago, and the sight is doing no favors for your heart rate.

You expect him to startle at your entry. You wait for him to bark at you to get out, but the order never comes. Breathing heavily with one arm propped on the sink to hold himself up—tricep muscles and forearm veins popping with frustration—he slowly glances over his shoulder.

He looks like a wild, untamed beast. His hair hangs in dark strings around his face, his blue eyes lost to lust, and a thin strand of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth and down his jaw.

Bucky catches you staring at his humiliating state, but he doesn’t point it out. You clear your throat awkwardly, already stepping back toward the doorway.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were hurt—”

“Where are you going?”

You pause. “I should leave you alone. Let you finish, or go back to working on the remedy.”

Before you can escape, Bucky turns his body to face you, not even bothering to cover himself up. His chest heaves, glistening with a light sheen of sweat. The sight of his heavy, veined length standing proud and untreated between his thighs makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“It’s not working,” he rasps, hungry eyes tracing your curves shamelessly. “I’ve been going at it for ten minutes, and it’s doing nothing.”

You’re terrified, but you can’t bring yourself to run, and the dampness between your legs gives you away. “Bucky, it’s your serum. I don’t think your hand would be enough to fix it. A normal remedy will take time—”

“I don’t have time,” he growls, grabbing your wrist tightly. “Look at me! I’m losing my fucking mind.”

You wince, the warmth of his skin burning yours.

“Did you just come in here to taunt me?” Bucky leans closer, baring his teeth as he snarls in your face, forcing you to look at him and nowhere else. “You tell me my hand isn’t enough. So what do you think I need, huh?”

He backs you up against the wall, pressing his legs between yours, forcing you to part for him. His cock rests heavy against your skirt. He reaches up to find your waistband, tugging it down in a rough motion that makes you gasp.

The fabric falls and pools uselessly around your ankles, baring your legs and panties under his hungry gaze. The sight makes him groan roughly—taking in the damp patch resting right over your center. Soaked, and ripe for the taking.

“Looks like you need more than just your hand, too,” he murmurs.

Releasing your wrist, his hand settles for your waist while the other guides the length of his cock against your soaked underwear. He rubs his leaking tip up and down, hissing at the sensation.

“Bucky,” you pant so helplessly, it comes as a moan. “We shouldn’t—”

“I need you to fix me,” he interrupts, gazing at you with desperate, pleading eyes. “I can’t—I can’t continue on with this ache. Especially if I’m going to be stuck here with you for two days, smelling you, looking at you…”

His head falls into the crook of your neck pathetically, breathing you in. His eyes flutter shut in bliss as he rocks his hips forward against your core.

“Fix me,” Bucky pleads. “Just let me slip it inside—just for a little bit. I’ll finish quick. Fuck, please. It hurts so bad.”

You’re holding your breath, your heart pounding so loudly in your chest that you’re certain he can hear it.

With vibranium resting on your hip, his right hand tickles the waistband of your panties before dipping beneath the fabric.

His warm fingers stroke your prodding clit gently, applying enough pressure to make you toss your head back with a gasp—giving him an even better opportunity to leave love bites all over your neck. He groans against your skin as his fingers move even lower, slipping against your slick folds and stroking back and forth, teasing the entrance.

“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re so wet—could easily slide my fingers right in. Bet you could take something bigger, too.” He rasps a laugh, his stubble tickling your skin. “There’s no way you could’ve gotten this wet just from hearing me.”

His cock twitches at the realization.

“You were touching yourself, weren’t you?”

Your face burns with a humiliation you don’t want to admit.

“No,” you try to deny it, but your breathless voice gives you away. “I was trying to make the remedy—”

Your voice cracks into a moan when two of his fingers slip past your entrance. Your walls tighten as he slowly eases himself in, just until his knuckles hit your opening.

“My remedy is right here,” he grunts, savoring the way you tighten up around his fingers. “Tight, wet, and already opening up just for me.”

Bucky’s nose tickles your neck again, closing the space with his lips. His tongue dances over your skin, warm lips sucking and tugging to leave his mark. While his fingers fuck your pussy, you can’t help but moan into the sensation, encouraging him to continue.

His cock trembles against your leg, his hips subtly rocking into your thigh. Just the sight of it terrifies you. Hard, engorged, red, and begging to be taken care of. You almost feel sorry for him, considering how long he’s had to deal with this up until now.

Your body works pliantly against his fingers, your hips rocking in subtle movements to meet his digits. He groans, relishing the way you leak around his fingertips. His thumb pads over your clit, working the sensitive bundle of nerves. You mewl helplessly into the air, panting his name and clawing his back for support.

The heat of his skin burns you. He’s so hot and sweaty, like he’s breaking a fever.

With your earlier ministrations, coupled with Bucky taking over your pleasure, your body tightens up as you get ridiculously close.

“Bucky,” you pant. “Don’t stop, please.”

He groans in frustration, forcing his hand to still. “I’m dying over here, and you want me to let you come?”

Bucky moves back just slightly, heaving and angrily glaring you down in a way that makes you feel like a cornered cat. You feel dirty and exposed right in your own home.

“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.

His hand finds your panties once more, tearing the soaked fabric easily and letting it slip down your hips to meet the discarded skirt on the floor.

“Then prove it to me. Show me that you can take care of a man in need.”

You tremble as the cool air embraces your skin after the sudden loss of his touch. His eyes rake over your body while he lazily strokes himself, trying to decipher where he wants to start. Blue orbs hone in on the space between your legs. He grunts, as if he’s made his decision, but his gaze slowly rises to your face, stopping at your mouth.

“On your knees,” he urges.

Your breath catches in your throat. At your hesitation, he steps closer to you, giving you a sudden thrill.

“You want me to say please?” he rasps in frustration, tugging at his cock. “Get on your knees, please.” The word comes out bitter.

Without breaking eye contact, you finally submit and sink to your knees. A low groan tears from his mouth at the sight of you kneeling before him—face feverish, lips parted in shock at his size, eyes burning with lust.

He steps closer, guiding his cock toward your plump lips.

“Thank you,” he says, though the words sound almost painful. “This’ll make me feel better. I know it.” He taps the tip gently against your lips. “Come on. Open.”

You slowly open your mouth, strings of saliva already beading between your tongue and the roof of your mouth. Bucky’s breathing is heavy as he slowly guides his cock into the warm expanse.

His eyes roll and his head tosses back at the immediate pleasure he finds in your mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” he drawls, using his right hand to thread through your hair. “God, this feels—fuck. I don’t even know how to describe it—”

Slowly, he rocks his hips back and forth. His cock feels heavy against your tongue, your lips stretching obscenely around his length until your jaw aches.

“Yes, just like that. Fuck. That’s a good girl,” he groans, his hips increasing their pace. “My good little healer.”

Bucky stares down at you with heavy eyes, forcing himself to stick to a steady, medium pace so he doesn’t overwork your jaw. The dark, curly hair at the base of his shaft tickles the tip of your nose as he works his cock deeper into your mouth.

You gag and choke, drool dripping obscenely down his length and over your chin while he uses your mouth like his personal toy.

“Mmph,” you choke around him, and the vibration of your moan makes his cock twitch and his balls draw up tight.

“I don’t know how—” his voice cracks into a groan, “—but just fucking your mouth like this… is already gonna make me cum faster than when I tried to use my hand. Shit—”

Your hands rest on his strong thighs, your eyes watery as you peer up at the man who has his cock deep down your throat. His eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and he lets out a sound that comes off half growl and half choke.

“Stay like that,” he grunts. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

The words leave his mouth breathlessly. His hips stutter against your lips, his cock twitching heavily against your tongue. His balls slap against your wet chin, drawing tight and pulsing with every stroke inside your warm mouth.

You do exactly as you’re told and keep your eyes locked on his. Tears streak down your face from the ache of your jaw being stretched open, but your pain is Bucky’s pleasure. His jaw hangs loose as his hips pick up speed, fucking your mouth deeper and making you gag.

“God, those eyes,” he moans, his grip in your hair tightening. “Fuck—gonna cum. Look at me while I cum inside this tight little mouth.”

His hand tightens in your hair, holding your head completely still while he thrusts shallowly. A deep groan fills the air, his quad muscles tensing beneath your palms as his balls draw up tight.

His tip pulses against the back of your tongue until, finally, a thick release spills from the slit, coating the back of your throat with hot seed. He holds you still while you choke and gag around the sudden rush filling your mouth. He holds you there until you can’t take it anymore, and only then does he finally release your head.

You sputter and hack, his spunk coating your throat. Some of it dribbles down your lips as you heave to catch your breath.

He stands right before you, completely bare, taking in shallow, heavy breaths. But his cock still shadows over your face—still painfully hard and throbbing, even after his climax subsides.

“Shit,” he breathes, his right hand wrapping heavy around his length, stroking it furiously. “It won’t go down—why won’t it go down?”

“Bucky, wait—” you manage to choke out, wiping the back of your hand across your lips. “Listen to me—”

He staggers back, staring down at his fully erect and still throbbing length in absolute disbelief. His chest is slick with sweat, his eyes wild with confusion and a mounting frustration that tests his patience. His hand strokes the underside of his tip, trying to feel for any decrease in sensitivity, but it remains rock solid, flushed deep red and leaking. Again.

“I just came!” he growls in anger. “I just filled your fucking mouth, and it still feels like it’s going to burst. What the fuck did you put in that drink? What did you do to me?!”

A frustrated sound escapes you. “If you would just let me go back to my station, I could finish your remedy. I’ll make something strong enough to burn through your metabolism, and you can wait it out—”

“I can’t wait it out anymore. I’ve tried,” his wild eyes snap to you. “If your mouth didn’t work—then I’ll have to use something else.”

Before the last word even clears his teeth, his patience boils over completely. Bucky reaches down, his large hands gripping your arms. He lifts you effortlessly off your knees, hauling you up like you weigh nothing.

“Bucky—!”

You gasp as he spins you around, slamming your hips roughly against the edge of the sink counter hard enough to make the bottles on the shelves shake.

Coming eye to eye with your reflection in the mirror, your face heats up at how utterly debauched you look. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your lips puffy and swollen, and a sheen of saliva and leftover cum reflects off your chin.

“H-how do you know if this will even work?” you stammer.

Bucky’s vibranium hand settles on your hip while the other finds the small of your back, forcing you to bend until your ass tilts up to him. He grabs your knee and hitches your leg up and over the counter, spreading your thighs wide.

“It’ll work,” he grunts deeply, aligning the head of his cock against your drenched entrance. “I’ll make sure it works.”

His relentless arousal is screaming at him to take what he wants. He doesn’t bother teasing or easing in; he knows you’re soaked enough to take it. He drives his hips forward, burying half of his length—forced to pause briefly from your tightness—before pushing the rest of his length deep inside from behind.

A high, breathless scream tears from your throat, your fingers desperately clawing at the wood for purchase. Your walls aren’t used to this size, forced to stretch wildly around his girth.

“Fuck!” Bucky roars out, his head falling forward between your shoulder blades.

The scorching heat of your body suffocating his angry, unsated length makes him shudder violently.

“Fuck, yes—right there. You’re gonna help me burn it off.”

The counter shakes in time with his thrusts.

With your leg propped up on the sink, it allows Bucky to drive deeper and deeper, his balls slapping against your wet folds with every move. You watch him pound into you relentlessly from behind through the reflection of the mirror.

Bucky’s face is twisted in a mix of both pleasure and frustration. He looks almost animalistic—sweaty, hot, and desperate for release.

A litany of moans and curses drifts from his mouth to fill the air while the mirror fogs up with your collective body heat. Bucky’s eyes watch your body from behind, and the sight makes him drive into you even harder. You look like a mess beneath him, your tits bouncing with every thrust.

He watches where his cock disappears in and out of your pussy, admiring the creamy white ring that sits at the base of his shaft and dampens the dark curls on his pelvis. Every sense is heightened to the max—every whimper that leaves your lips doesn’t go unnoticed, and your sweet scent fills his nostrils, swimming in his head like a drug.

Bucky reaches around your front with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your neck to crane it and force you to look at yourself in the mirror.

“Look at what you’re doing to me,” he growls, meeting your eyes in the reflection. “Look at how good you take it.”

You whimper, your head tilting back against his broad chest. Through the fog on the glass, Bucky doesn’t look like himself at all. The aphrodisiac has turned him into a monster who won’t let you go until he gets what he wants.

“Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he grunts into your shoulder, his teeth nipping at the warm skin before licking over the bite mark. “Moan for me. Let me hear how wet you are for this. God—you’re squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe.”

He hitches your leg up even higher over the edge of the sink, opening you up completely. The new angle lets him hit that deep, aching sweet spot inside you with every single stroke.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, watching the reflection as his thick length disappears into your cream coated entrance, over and over. “You’re taking every inch of it. Right where you belong. You’re gonna milk every drop out of me until this fever breaks.”

His eyes roll back as his grip on your hip tightens. Every inch of him ravages your body like it belongs to him, every move delivering a kiss to your cervix and leaving a trail of pre-cum in its wake.

You’re stuffed completely full, and as his right hand circles around your hip to pad at your clit, it’s only a matter of time before you cum all over him.

“Oh my god! Right there, don’t stop!” you instinctively roll your hips against his palm, the movement sending lightning bolts of pleasure straight to Bucky’s gut.

Bucky groans, feeling your core clench up tight around his cock. You’re already impossibly tight, and he can only imagine how tight your body will squeeze him when you finally come.

His cock works shallowly inside you while his fingers rub over your clit. The mixture of his length stretching you open and his fingers grinding against your swollen nerves is enough to make you see stars.

Finally, a broken scream tears from your throat, your fingers scrambling against the counter for purchase as you come undone all over Bucky’s cock.

Your body spasms violently, clenching and milking him for everything he’s worth, and Bucky can’t hold back any longer.

“Oh, fucking hell,” he gasps. His entire body locks up as his cool metal digits dig into your hip, forcing you to take every drop of his second release.

A scalding rush of his seed erupts deep inside you, coating your cervix and spilling past his thick shaft. It’s heavier and thicker than the first time—so much that your body can’t hold it all, and it shamelessly drips down your entrance to pool on the floor.

He holds himself buried deep, gritting his teeth and groaning through the endless, pulsing wave of his climax. His cock throbs in time with your pulsing core while you both try to catch your breath.

Pants and heavy breathing fill the hot, humid bathroom. Bucky’s cock stays warm inside you, but because of how swollen and thoroughly used you feel, you can’t even tell if this remedy helped him or not.

“Bucky?” you ask breathlessly, glancing at him in the mirror as you catch your breath.

Bucky keeps his forehead rested against the back of your head, his hot breaths tickling the nape of your sweaty neck as he steadies himself.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes in a broken voice that catches you off guard. His big arms wrap around your bare waist, pulling you in closer.

That’s when you feel his cock throb inside you again.

“That felt so good—but dammit, I’m still hard.”

A week has passed since the Thunderbolts picked up the elixirs from your cottage. Between all the fighting, jobs, and unnecessary damage they’ve taken as a team, they went through every single one. Not a single drop remains.

John opens one cabinet, then the next, and the next, his brows furrowing with growing confusion when he realizes all the shelves are empty.

“Hey, did someone misplace that extra batch of potions we were supposed to hold onto?” he shouts to the rest of the team over his shoulder.

“You mean elixirs,” Bucky says, stepping out of the elevator with a grumpy look on his face, already mentally checked out for the day.

“Whatever,” John waves his hand dismissively. “Where are they?”

“We went through them all,” Ava answers from where she sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table.

Bob frowns at Ava. “I thought we agreed this would be a no-shoes indoor household.”

Ava ignores Bob, not even bothering to take her boots off. “Ask Walker. He’s the one who used three of them on a minor scrape because he panicked.”

“It was a deep laceration!” John snaps, slamming a cabinet door shut. “And it was infected! Regardless, we need more. We’re going on that operation next week, and I’m not going in without backup med supplies. Who’s making the run back to the cottage?”

Bucky remains still at the kitchen island. He slowly raises a glass of ice water to his lips to take a long gulp, hoping the cold liquid might flush out the sudden heat rising up his neck.

The second John utters the word cottage, Bucky’s mind floods with memories he had been trying desperately to suppress for the past seven days.

The scent of sweet herbs mixing with sweat. The sound of your breathless whimpers moaning his name as he pinned you to the sink counter, helpless against a fever that had nearly driven him out of his mind. Even now, just thinking about the way your body had squeezed him—over and over, completely ruined beneath him—made his jaw clench hard enough to crack a tooth.

“Okay,” Yelena huffs, looking around. “I don’t know where Alexei is, so he’s out of the picture. Who volunteers?” She asks, already opting herself out.

The room stays quiet. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the glass in his hand, watching the ice cubes float.

“I’d go,” Bob offers gently, raising a hand. “Buuut I have that severe pollen allergy.”

“Well, Valentina is trying to arrange an interview with the press with me eventually, so..” John explains in a way that makes him sound more important than he actually is. “Gotta stay on call for that.”

Ava and Yelena glance at each other with a snort.

John turns around, leaning back against the empty pantry counter, and his eyes land on the other super soldier who hasn’t said a word.

John squints at him. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet.”

Bucky doesn’t break his stare with the water glass. “I’m drinking.”

Yelena raises a brow. “You know what? Yeah. Bucky, you should go. You two are already well acquainted, no?”

“And let’s be honest, you look like you need to get out of the tower. You’ve been moody all week.” Ava chimes in, finally releasing her feet off the coffee table, shifting on the couch to look over at him. Bob sighs in relief.

Bucky’s jaw clenches.

Going back means coming face-to-face with you for the first time after… everything.

His cheeks heat up at the sheer humiliation that’ll come with it, but his heart thumps with something he didn’t expect: anticipation. Ever since those two days he spent with you, you were the only thing playing in the back of his mind. And truthfully—a secret he would take to his grave—he’d been using more doses of the tinctures than normal just to have an excuse to see you, assuming he could build up the courage to actually do it.

You, and everything that transpired in your cottage, had been playing in his head like a movie on a loop. At night, he rolls around restless in his bed, thinking only of you. Even taking... sexual matters into his own hands isn’t enough anymore.

The room is awfully quiet as everyone stares at him. They expect him to fight back like he did the first time, maybe throw out a snarky remark.

Bucky lifts the glass to his lips with a indifferent shrug, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

“I’ll go.”

this was kind of fun to write at first, but then i abandoned the draft for like two weeks and got back to it and was like "wtf did i write"

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!

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You suppose it’s probably about time that you develop some self-respect. Or at least some fucking boundaries.

Wanda knows it, too - it’s why her eyes are narrowed at you in open disapprobation. She twirls a pen around in her fingers, movements abrupt and irate. You figure the tense hush of the library is the only reason you’re not getting an earful right now.

September is streaming in, dull and cold, through the ceiling windows. There’s something a bit eerie about it at this time of year. Most students won’t make an appearance until exams begin to loom over them in about a month’s time. Right now, however, it is shrouded in a bleak sort of emptiness. A student mills about in search of a particular volume every now and again, but yourself and Wanda have the table to yourselves.

You fix the sleeves of your sweater and try to immerse yourself into the article open in front of you, but you can still feel her stare.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” she snaps, voice low. 

“You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

“Well, I lied.”

You wince. “I know. Like, I really know. It’s just so hard to say no to him sometimes.”

Wanda’s expression shifts to something like pity and you think that might actually be worse because you can actually picture how pathetic you must look to her - the girl who takes absolutely no shit and never has. The pen falls to the desk as her hands reach forward to grab yours. She pauses until she coaxes your gaze over to her, fingers padding over your cold knuckles affectionately.

“I know, darling. But I want you to listen to me. This is going to be the last time I ever say this, because I’m really not sure that it’s having any effect and, to be honest, I’m tired. Maybe this is a lesson that you’ll only learn after you have been hurt one too many times, but I am going to try one last time anyway.”

Something about the finality in her tone takes you by surprise. Actually - it does more than that, it terrifies you. 

You have probably stretched the limits of what’s socially acceptable when complaining about your situation with Bucky and Wanda has put up with far more than she should have - always giving solid advice that is never taken. And you know that you need to stop talking about it. You have known for a while now.

But you can hear her loud and clear now; if you want to keep torturing yourself, you can do it alone.

“That boy is making a complete fool of you. We’re going into our third year of college and you’ve been on how many dates? You’ve slept with one person and came home crying afterwards because you felt like you betrayed Bucky. Meanwhile, he has a new girl attached to him at every frat party.”

She is gripping your hands tighter now, leaning closer with intense focus.

“And really, your feelings for him are just a symptom of one of the best things about you. You love hard, and I love that about you, darling. The right person will love that about you too - not take advantage of it. I mean, seriously, coming in to cuddle after messing around with another girl? That’s not being just-friends, it’s not normal and it’s not fair.”

Shame floods your stomach and finds its way to your face until you are sure you are the colour of plums. She hesitates, eyes flicking away briefly, before her face steels. 

“And- I’m not sure how to say this without being cruel… it’s getting a bit embarrassing, watching you accept it.”

You feel deflated. Like she had just pricked a hole in your skin and watched all the air hiss out. She look at you as if she had just imparted some words of comfort, eyes sympathetic and brows pinched, while you attempt to blink away tears.

You can’t be mad at her, even if you wanted to. Because she’s right.

You know that Bucky walks all over you. And you know that you let him. He doesn’t even need to ask for the notes for a lecture he has missed anymore - you email them to him before even leaving the theatre. When he pulls you onto his lap, you curl up, head lolling gratefully on his shoulder, even when you know that it’s just because there’s no other girl around that he has an interest in. When he calls you at 2am because he’s leaving a one-night-stand’s house and doesn't want to crash alone in his room, you open the door and the duvet to him with a smile.

But you are ‘just friends’. Always will be.

He kisses you, but never on the lips. He says he loves you, but in that dismissive, buddy-ish way. He stays the night, but never in the way you want him to. He calls you that weirdly affectionate pet name, sounding like your goddamn husband from the 1940s, but it never means what you want it to.

Meanwhile, you tell all your friends that you ‘don’t date’, because going out with anyone else feels wrong. It’s pathetic.

You feel Wanda’s words rattle through your head and you know you will think about them late into the night. But it’s not her words alone that let you know for absolute certainty that things have to change.

It’s a giggle. Sweet and playful. Coming from across the library.

And of course it’s Bucky, because somehow it’s always Bucky. He’s whispering something to a blonde girl you think you recognise from your module on the Byzantines. He’s standing behind where she sits, one hand on her shoulder and the other brushing her hair back so he can speak softly to her in that beautifully tempting way you had seen a million times before.

He catches your eyes for just a beat and you watch surprise flicker over his face before his mouth curls into a smirk and his eye drops into a soft wink.

And that is it. The nail in the coffin.

Your first real act of defiance is a text. It feels rebellious and subversive, even though you know it’s not.

YOU: Sorry, Buck! Was asleep.

You put the phone down, feeling very satisfied with yourself indeed. In truth, you never usually turn Do Not Disturb on and keep your ringer up full volume, just in case Bucky decides to call. And when he does - the feeling of his body against yours as you both drift off to sleep makes each time you had woken up to marketing texts from Dominos worth it. 

Last night, however, you tapped the Do Not Disturb button extra hard, as if proving a point. And, you think smugly, that point was now proven.

BUCK: no problem doll 

BUCK: found another place to crash

Your heart sinks before you can tell it that it is no longer allowed to do that. This new version of you can guess very well where ‘another place’ might be, but she no longer cares. At all. Even a little.

You leave the phone down and amble out of your room, kicking rogue clothing items out of your path. 

The flat is still in chaos from the night before. Beer bottles littered everywhere, a random body splayed unconscious across your sofa and a pouch of cat food open on the table for reasons you don't want to know. You are about ten minutes into clearing up the mess with a trash bag and microfibre cloth when Nat stumbles in, hair sticking up and makeup streaming off her face.

She looks so like something out of a comic that you can’t control your giggles. Nat rolls her eyes but she is smiling as she roots through the cabinet for some ibuprofen. 

“Big night?” you ask, looking warily at what you think might be someone’s underwear in a wet heap on the floor. You pick out a pair of gloves from under the sink.

“Yup. And another one coming up tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

She raises an eyebrow over the rim of her drinking glass. “Steve’s birthday. You’re coming too.”

“Oh.”

You pause for a second before returning to your task, now much more interested in the various beer bottles than before. You study them intently before tossing them, feeling her eyes burn through your skin.

Actually, you are planning on being sick tonight, but you had forgotten about that. You wonder what illness could suddenly seize you between now and this evening. Telling everyone you have diarrhoea wouldn’t be your preference, but it is starting to look like the obvious choice.

“Wanda told me about the whole Bucky thing. Says you seem to be taking it seriously this time, going on dates.”

Your throat contracts. You can only manage another “Oh.”

“You can’t just ignore him, you know. It won’t work like that.”

Yes, you know this. Of course you do. You met Bucky on the very day you started classes and since Steve and Nat started dating almost two years ago, your life had been inextricably linked with his. Scarcely a day goes by that you don’t see him, whether at lectures, in Steve’s flat or in your own. He is as inevitable in your life as death or taxes and even trickier to avoid. Which has made the last week a living nightmare.

You are aware there’s only so long that you can keep this up. But you’re not quite sure you’re ready to see him again. You’re not sure you won’t fall in hard again, the way you always do.

“You have to trust yourself. I do.”

Nat has a somewhat unnerving but mostly constructive habit of telling you exactly what you need to hear.

When Bucky sees you, it is as if he’s seen the sun after a month of darkness. Moments like this would have made the old you doubt herself, wonder if maybe there was something soft and secret lurking under that libertine exterior. 

The new you keeps her distance.

You walk into the kitchen with Wanda and Nat to pregame the pregame, as instructed by Steve.

Despite the fact that the new you totally, categorically does not care what Bucky thinks of her, you still made a little extra effort with your appearance, fixing up your hair and applying your makeup with a bit more precision than usual. If you can’t get Bucky’s attention in the way you want, you would make damned certain to get someone’s.

You purposely don’t see Bucky making those eyes at you - the ones that demand your complete attention. You can feel them on your skin, but you won’t look. 

Instead, you make idle chat with Sam, who doesn’t try to hide the way he is admiring you, eyes traversing your form leisurely. It makes you feel warm and giddy and pathetic. Because you know that excited feeling is just another symptom of your feelings for Bucky. Your body’s way of screaming, See, Bucky! Someone thinks I’m worth looking at!

You jolt when you feel large, warm hands on your waist, pulling you onto a familiar lap.

“Ignoring me?” he murmurs against your temple, pressing a soft kiss there. “Haven’t seen you in about a week, doll. Where you been?”

You fly into a standing position, perhaps a little too abruptly. Bucky’s chin jerks back in surprise, his arms raising involuntarily into a surrendered gesture.

“Forgot to get a drink!” you stammer out, stumbling away. All eyes are on you, now. The boys are confused, but you can feel pride rolling off Wanda and Nat in waves and it steels you. 

You read the bewilderment on Bucky’s face as he questions whether he did something wrong - but when you shoot him a warm smile for reassurance, he returns it. He leans back in the sofa, probably assuming you will be back on his lap in two minutes flat.

“Don’t take it personally Buck,” Nat says and you can hear the smirk in her voice. “She’s been a busy girl. Barely has time for us anymore since she started going on dates. She’s in high demand.”

“You’re dating? Since when?” Bucky’s voice rings out and you hate that you can hear the hurt festering there. He’s your best friend, up there with Wanda and Nat. He should know that you had made the decision to start dating again. You should have told him. But how could you? You weren’t even sure you could look at him until this morning.

“She’s making it sound like I’m some nympho,” you laugh, but it’s shaky. “I’ve been on one date.”

“Who with?” Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t even smiling.