IRELAND*

Bucky shifts the vehicle into park and adjusts his sunglasses that had been slipping down his nose. Even obscured, you can still see the warmth in his eyes as he turns to look at you, knees awkwardly butting up against the cupholders, and takes hold of your hand to give it a squeeze.

“R’member what we talked about. You don’t owe anyone your story. These spots are here to be used by anyone who needs them, including you. You deserve to feel good and take up space, and get out of the house without causing a flare-up.”

You repeat after him like a mantra.

I am allowed to be here.

The opinions of others do not negate my needs.

My health is not worth less than anyone else’s.

“Do the honours when you’re ready, doll.”

You chew on your cheek and look to Bucky for his steadfast nod of reassurance before letting go of his hand and reaching up to hang the parking pass on the rearview mirror like you’re ripping off a bandaid. It hooks on with ease and swings with the inertia.

In a matter of seconds, it’s done.

Lightning doesn’t strike from the sky, a crotchety old fellow doesn’t bang on the window to heckle you. With a proud smirk and a soft pat on your thigh, Bucky slides out of the drivers seat. You close your eyes and let deep breaths flood into your lungs until your door unlatches. He offers a hand as you swing your legs to the side and plant one foot after the other firmly onto the running board and step down onto the pavement.

Heat rolls off the asphalt in waves, washing over your face and sending goosebumps across your skin. Not a single cloud obscures the sun, and the songbirds can’t seem to get enough of the wide expanse of blue. You hear nothing but their happy tune and the rumble of shopping carts. The open sky and trees look like someone has dialled the saturation up. Seed pods from the nearby elms made a mess of the parking lot, but they look so pretty fluttering down that it’s hard to be all that upset about it. The unfurling new leaves shine and wave in the breeze, finches and sparrows darting between them.

The air smells like chlorophyll and sunscreen and summertime.

It really is a beautiful day.

One hand on your cane and the other entwined with his, you make your way into the big-box store. The garden centre outside is overflowing with green-thumbs itching to plant their flower beds for the summer and blooms in all shades of violet, fuchsia and gold. Puddles form underneath the plastic pots, freshly watered in the sweltering heat to drip down from the top rack to the seedlings below.

A blast of air conditioning hits you as you breach the entryway of the warehouse, its wide smile welcoming you into the cool. Bucky steers you over to the mobility scooter you usually use here, that had been its own fear to face. He makes sure you’re steady as you find your footing and get settled, unplugging it from the wall while you stow away your cane in the basket with a clamour.

You flick the switch, and the battery panel lights up green and full.

“All juiced up?”

“Ready to roll. Watch your ankles!”

Bucky smirks as you whiz past him at full throttle, a whopping 5 kilometers per hour. You say it every time, and he has yet to grow tired of your little joke. He keeps pace with ease and pulls out the handwritten shopping list crumpled in his pocket, smoothing it out between his fingers before inevitably handing it over to you to decode the chicken-scratch handwriting of the team.

The store is abuzz today, the masses soaking up the icy reprieve while they load up on their summer essentials before again braving the blazing sun outside. Bucky strides alongside you as you attempt to weave through each section of the store, grabbing the things you ask him to fetch or that you can’t reach, checking them off the list as you go along. At the end of each aisle, he weasels his way in front to carve you a path and ensure the coast is clear for you to pass like the world’s most overqualified crossing guard.

However, he dutifully waits outside as you loop around the produce cooler. Even though it’s sweltering out, Bucky will be the first to admit that he has had enough of the cold for a lifetime. He’ll settle for a popsicle from one of the obnoxiously large boxes of in the freezer section instead.

You like your little system, working together like a well-oiled machine.

The high shelves aren’t towering over you as much as they used to. A little kid snug in their stroller gives you a gummy grin that you return in full. Bucky sneaks snacks and sweet treats in between the groceries, and you feign innocence. You hum to yourself and take the time to browse and deliberate, not worrying about how drained you might feel later on.

You haven’t enjoyed a shopping trip like this in a long, long time.

By the time you’ve checked out, the spoils of your trip bagged and packed back into your cart, your receipt is long and you have enough food to feed an army of super-soldiers. You bring the scooter back to its parking space, cringing as it beeps obnoxiously while you reverse. Bucky’s steady hand is already there to help you find your land legs again. He bears the weight of your purchases on his stronger arm, a hand still free to hold yours as you stroll back to the SUV.

This time, any chance of hostility doesn’t even cross your mind. You relish in the lack of obstacles.

“That went surprisingly well, I think! It helped so much, I’m not exhausted, and no one said anything. I’m not sure what I was even worried about,” you muse, swinging Bucky’s arm contentedly in time with your cane’s rhythm against the pavement.

“I promised you, didn’t I?”

“And who am I to doubt you?” you concur, pulling in even closer to his side. “Thank you for being here.”

Bucky, ever the gentleman under the spell of your praise, helps you back up into your seat, a billow of hot air hitting you head on as soon as the door opens. The leather burns against the back of your legs where it makes contact as you reach over the console to turn the ignition and crank the AC, and he methodically packs the groceries into the trunk.

Bucky can’t help but smile to himself, looking past the headrests to watch you cue your summer playlist on the stereo and begin to sway along to the music.

He hopes one day you’ll get to live in a world where you don’t have to justify your actions.

He had glared at the woman who’d made a scandalized look in your direction and took pleasure in the way her cheeks flushed under pressure. He returned the sneering and whispers behind your back with a scowl that would make a grown man cross the street, and the masses learned quickly that Bucky Barnes meant business. The walking wall of muscle and the glint of his vibranium were enough to divert the attention of anyone who knew what was good for them and leave a wide berth.

He’d done his duty. He’d deflected the near-constant scrutiny you’ve always despised. Good, he thinks, they didn’t deserve your attention anyways. There were always going to be people that challenged you, that doubted you or called you a liar but for now? You are safe, cared for and happy, and that’s all that matters to him. Most of all, he is just immensely proud that you stood your ground and made use of the supports you deserved unapologetically, that they made such a difference.

And if they ever tried to keep that from you?

One look at the bared teeth standing guard behind you and they wouldn’t dare.

It’s a battle just to be awake some days, let alone function. Physiotherapy is its own special brand of torture. Your energy is finite and fluctuating, results varied. The last gym, filled with its countless athletes and other perfect specimens of health and wellness, had only rubbed salt in the wound. You knew you could never be like one of the girls with their hair bouncing in time with their footfalls on the treadmill, or the ones with the worn out power belts that deadlift and it shows. No, you were an imposter in spandex, stewing in your own frustration that the universe had set your starting line so far back and pushed everyone else’s forward. It’s all you can do just to survive without crumbling into dust at a mundane task that sends your body over the edge.

The gym at the Tower seems no different on the surface. There’s still steel beams and concrete walls, monochrome colours and exposed bulbs. Individuals who move like water and hit like trucks train to carry the whole city on their shoulders, but this space has something the others didn’t, and if anyone could make you feel welcome in it, it would be your Bucky.

Bucky knew training. His form had been built on conditioning and discipline and blood. He had long cursed the protocols that were burned into him, but not if they could be made of use to you. He just had to make them…softer. Kinder. You didn’t have to hate it like he had.

It didn’t have to break you. And it wouldn’t, not if he could help it.

He’ll make your mats and resistance bands materialize out of thin air, laid out before you even step over the threshold. He takes your water bottle, the one in your favourite colour because it always brings a bit more light into your eyes, and fills with your choice of electrolytes from the stash he keeps, the condensation cold against your palm. He’s already got your playlist queued on the stereo system, filled with pop anthems and empowerment because he knows that his words alone aren’t enough some days.

There are days where you are in such pain that he is helpless to do anything other than comfort you. But any day that you are able to do something to build up yourself after crashing down, Bucky considers a good day, and he will stop at nothing to remove every obstacle in your path so you can do so.

He had stumbled across your physio binder while tidying up your bedroom one weekend. Page protectors stashed beneath your old workout clothes, filled with diagrams and exercises he had not once seen you doing.

“Hey, doll?”

“Yeah?” you’d called back from inside the walk-in closet—you had to admit, Valentina had great choice in design—where you were finally getting around to putting away your clean clothes.

He flipped through the pages. “Are you supposed to be doing this stuff?”

“What stuff?” Your poked your head out and scowled when you saw what balanced across his palms. “Hey! Don’t touch that!”

“M’sorry, didn’t mean to snoop but…sweetheart, this is important. Especially for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ripped the binder out from his fingers and slammed the cover shut, shoving it into the nearest drawer with a thud, just to get it out of sight. “It’s not like it’s going to cure me, James.”

James. Oh, you were pissed. Bucky tread carefully from there, trailing behind as you stomped back into the closet and threw his dress shirts onto hangers with fire.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Just…this could make things more comfortable for you.” He encircled you from behind, arms wrapped loose around your waist. You didn’t push him away, which he took as a good sign. “Honey. You know I’ll never push you to do more than you can. You know that.”

The hot, frustrated tears that coated your cheeks had started to dry down and make your face feel tight. You tipped your head back to rest against his shoulder but let your face fall to the side to hide your dour features.

“I’m sorry. I know how difficult things are for you right now. I see it, alright? How hard you’ve got to work just to get through the day. I promise, it does not go unnoticed. And all I want is to support you through that.”

The tightening of his hold, that stable, comforting squeeze, was proof enough. Your walls began to splinter at his acknowledgement, coaxing out a whimper you couldn’t quite swallow.

“So maybe we can just do a little. Once a week, to start? You could even come down when I’m working out and we can do them together. How’s that sound?”

“I don’t know, Buck…”

“Hey, that’s alright. You don’t have to decide right now, just think about it. But I’ve got to know…”

You braced for impact.

“There’s a lot of papers in there. Takes time to accumulate all that. You must’ve been going pretty regularly at some point, so why’d you stop?”

You sniffled. “Wasn’t working…”

“Wasn’t working how, sweetheart?”

“…I tried so hard, did everything right. For months. Never missed a day or appointment. I was proud of myself. I felt stronger. Then I got hurt again, like I hadn’t done it at all. All that work, all that energy and effort, and it hadn’t mattered.” The tears wanted to well up again. Bucky hummed, letting you vent without intrusion. “It’s never going to fix me. So why bother?”

“Because it’s good for you, honey. It’s good to move, good to sweat a little. So we won’t push so hard, no big deal. I can find ways to motivate you and make it easier to manage. But I think a little is better than nothing, don’t you?”

You didn’t want to admit it, but he was right.

“…Okay,” you conceded.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He planted his hands on your shoulders whipped around to press a wet kiss to your cheek from behind, stubble scratching at your skin. “Okay.”

So, it begins.

He waits for a day that your schedule is light to breach the topic again. Even then, there’s no pressure. Just an offer, and an enticing one at that. Bucky Barnes is not above bribery.

“I’m heading up to the gym if you want to come along? I’ll take my shirt off,” he teases with a cheeky wink. You just roll your eyes, but follow along anyway.

Hook, line and sinker. Because yes, you would very much like to see that.

You find him on the couch one night, so late it’s early, reading by lamplight. Sleep evades you, and as you try to tiptoe across to the kitchen for a nice cup of tea, the pages come into view. He’s not reading one of his beloved fantasy novels tonight. No, these are…scientific articles, dozens of them. All about your condition. Research papers and medical studies arranged around him like battle plans.

“Super-soldier hearing, doll,” He murmurs, not even having to look up from the paragraph he’s engrossed in.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“You’re never a disturbance. Do you need something?”

“No, I’m alright. What are you reading?”

He sucks you into his orbit, your sleepy delirium no match for the warm arms that pull you toward the couch and into the cushions. “Want to make sure I understand what we’re up against here. Everything you’re dealing with, so I’m not pestering you with questions all hours of the day.”

“I don’t mind…” you yawn.

“I know, and thank you, but it shouldn’t have to be your responsibility alone. You can use that energy better elsewhere. M’sure I’ll still have things to ask you, these things can’t teach me everything. Just want to help the best I can.”

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“I ask myself the same thing every day I get to wake up with you beside me.”

Bucky is true to his word. He gets up early and preps with the same intensity he would for an op. Your chores disappear from your to-do list one by one, checked off with the sunrise and morning traffic as the backdrop. Smoothies appear in the fridge, protein powder and creatine masked by yogurt and fresh berries, and a truly overwhelming amount of banana. He’s folded and put away your clean clothes exactly where they belong, with the occasional sweet note pressed inbetween that flutters out when you pull them from the dresser.

A routine begins to take shape, and it feels like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Your muscles loosen. Your head feels clear.

For a while you can almost forget about the pain.

For a while it works.

Until it doesn’t.

As soon as you open your eyes that morning, you’re near tears. They hover at the surface, threatening to overflow at the slightest inconvenience. You ache down to the marrow of your bones. Consciousness itself weighs down on you like a sandbag. All the strength you can muster goes into lifting the covers and putting your feet on the floor.

The moment he lays eyes on you after you’ve dragged yourself out of the bedroom, he knows. And you shatter.

“I was doing so well…” the words quiver as you voice them.

He moves like a bullet, discarding whatever he had in hand and bundling you against his chest before the first cry pierces the air.

“I hate this…I hate my body,” you sob into his sweatshirt, until wet patches bloom across the knit and you’re gasping between words. “I can’t even do something as simple as get up in the morning without it all falling apart!”

With his fingers threaded through your hair, Bucky holds you close so you don’t have to see the way he has to stare up at the ceiling and bite his lip or the tear that slips past his defences.

“Please don’t say that. I love this body. She works so hard, and she never gives up. Not once. She knows what she’s got to do, you just have to give her time…Look how far you’ve come already.”

“But I’m so tired…”

You mean it more than most people do. It’s deeper than that, and Bucky understands the words don’t do it justice. It means you are fed up. It means you are in pain. It means you’re at your limit, backed against the edge and teetering.

“C’mere,” he purrs, “let’s get you to back to bed, alright? I’ll make you something to eat, and we can have a slow day together.”

“M’sorry…”

Bucky steadies you as you amble back down the hall, the sheets still warm when he pulls them over you. “Not sorry,” he rumbles and kisses your forehead. “Just say thank you. I’ll take care of everything. You rest.”

He raids the kitchen for every indulgent comfort food he can find on short notice, bundling up as much as he can carry and depositing the spread across the bedside table to be forgotten about in favour of sprawling across the mattress and cradling you against him. He rubs your back until your heart rate attempts to match his and your breathing evens.

“…how did you do it?” you finally ask as the weepiness begins to leave you.

“Do what, doll?”

“Cope. With having no control over the changes that happened to your body.”

“You talking about my arm?”

You nod. He sighs.

“It took a long time, not to be at odds with it or be bothered by it. When I finally got the chance to process what happened…I can’t say that there wasn’t grief. Or anger, because there was a lot of that. I spent a long cursing Hydra, the fall, the war. I was mad at the world for doing this to me, because I knew I didn’t deserve it. And you don’t deserve this kind of pain, either. There’s no reason for it, you didn’t do anything wrong. But I had to learn that in order to live our lives and get through the day, we have to roll with the punches it throws at us. And yes, that sucks, and yes, it’s not fair, but we’ll never get anywhere if we stay stuck in the things we can’t change. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You hum.

“You’re going to have days like today. But you’re also going to have so many good ones. It might not balance out, but it’s enough to keep going. You’re allowed to be pissed and frustrated or cry until you’re all shrivelled like a raisin,” he exhales in a chuckle. “You need to take a break, shut out the world for a while? We’ll take a break. You want to get angry and punch something? We can spar and you can give it to me with everything you’ve got to spare. But you can’t just give up, because good days are coming. I will be your crutch, I will be your advocate, your shield, your cheerleader. Anything you need to make it to tomorrow so you can have them.”

“…But I can’t help but feel…like I’m a burden on you.”

You might as well have slapped Bucky across the face. Shame rolls off of you as the ugly thought that has lurked in the back of your head for far too long claws its way to the surface, unable to meet his eyes as you say it. He bolts up, propped on his elbow to face you head-on with a determination in his eyes that you’ve never seen to such an extent. The grip of his hand clutching yours leaves no room for you to run.

“Listen to me. You are not a burden. You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. You give me purpose, and strength and joy that I never thought I’d get to have. I love you, and I love caring for you. Don’t think for a second that I don’t want to do this. I am exactly where I want to be.” He states it like an indisputable fact, and it tugs at something in your chest like a loose thread, threatening to unravel your whole worldview with a single motion.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to worry about that, then.”

When you start to giggle and crack a smile again, red-rimmed eyes scrunched up in delight as you curl further into him, it’s infectious. His thumb skirts across your cheek and smooths your hair in tender passes “There’s my girl. One day at a time, alright? Think we can do that?”

“One day at a time.”

And by other plans, you mean the exact same plans, but before you.

Curse him and his self-discipline and his early-rising ability, because before you do much as open your eyes, you can hear the sizzling of bacon from the other room and the range hood whirring to muffle the sound. Your palm grazes over the dip in the mattress beside you and finds it empty and growing cold.

That little…

You can’t help but yawn as you glance at the clock and peel back the covers, shivering at the sudden chill. You slip your housecoat from the hook on the bathroom door, wrapping it around your mismatched, rumpled pyjamas and tying the belt in a haphazard bow before padding down the hall in slipper-clad feet.

Sound travels easily under the vaulted ceilings of your New York apartment, the melting snow outside nor the exposed beams and industrial pipes no match for the coziness you’ve both built beneath it. You follow the off-pitch melody of his humming to the open kitchen and pause for a moment, leaning against the edge of the kitchen island just to watch from afar.

Bucky is a marvel. Six feet of corded muscle and toned flesh softened by morning light, sweatpants slung loose and low on his hips, his shoulders and back open to the elements. His hair is a sight, sticking up in all directions in the lax kind of way that just made you want to run your fingers through it, whether it smoothed or not. He is deliciously domestic when his walls come down like this, unguarded and unafraid to make noise or take up space.

“What’cha up to, Buck?” you close the distance, fingers ghosting a pass over his shoulder blade. The transfer of cold sets off a shiver that ripples up his neck and makes the hairs stand on edge.

He turns under your grasp, wearing that ridiculous “Kiss The Cook” apron Alexei got him as a wedding gift as part of his curated “grilling essentials” bundle, and his whole being brightens when he sets his sights on you.

“Mornin’, sunshine…” He hasn’t been up for long, his voice still gravelly. Bucky discards his spatula in favour of drawing you into his arms and against his lips, tasting like dark roast. “Sleep well?”

“Very. Do you…happen to know what happened to my alarm?”

He turns his head, but the flush on the shell of his ear gives him away. “I don’t know nothin’ about that…”

“James Buchanan Barnes! I was going to make breakfast for you!”

“Come on now, sweetheart. I couldn’ bear to let you do all that just for me when you were sleepin’ so soundly. You’re already working yourself to the bone, and sleepin’ terribly as it is.”

How were you supposed to say no to that, when he looks down at you with such affection and tenderness? His skin is warm when you pout into his collarbone. “Would’ve done it anyway…”

Bucky cards through your hair just as you had wanted to, fixing your bedhead with practised ease. “I know you would, and I love you for it, but it’s my turn. That alright?”

“It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Smells amazing. What did you make?”

“Full spread. All your favourites.”

“It’s your anniversary too, y’know. You don’t just have to cater to me.”

“Wanted to, doll. Besides, my favourite is watching you eat your favourites.”

“…and turkey bacon.”

“Yes, and turkey bacon.”

“Can I help with anything?”

He shakes his head. “It’s all handled. You just sit your pretty self down,” he switches off the burner and takes you by the shoulders, herding you into the breakfast nook, “before it gets cold.”

And it is a spread.

Strawberries cut into rosettes, his knife skills repurposed and certainly not going to waste. Heart-shaped pancakes stacked a mile high, golden brown with crispy edges. Eggs and toast, fruits and potato hash, pastries and preserves, all plated on your fanciest dishware and set on a vintage lace tablecloth. Next to them, the pile of turkey bacon that has become Bucky’s one modern obsession. A bouquet of spring blooms so big the vase is overflowing blocks out the sun from the window to cast wispy shadows over the table.

Your heart swells. “Buck! You’re unreal! How long have you been up doing all of this?”

“Irrelevant.”

“This is too much…”

“S’the perfect amount, I think. Makin’ up for all the late nights and long missions you’ve put up with,”he noses your hairline and kisses where it meets the curve of your ear. Bucky reaches around your form and pulls out the chair with the handsewn seat cushion, motioning for you to claim it before settling into the banquette across from you himself.

“And where did these flowers come from? How did you manage to sneak these in here?”

“Met the delivery guy downstairs while you were still dreaming,” he reaches across to snatch your plate and fill it with all the things he knows you love, down to the pancake toppings, before repeating the process for himself.

You can’t help the groan that slips out as the first bite touches your tongue.

“Good?”

“I’th delithith,” you mumble, mouth full.

“…Translation?”

You swallow, washing the lump down with a swig of orange juice. “It’s delicious, I said. Did you get an email from the restaurant for tonight?”

“Our reservation is confirmed and I pressed my suit.”

“The pinstripe one that makes me want to eat you alive?”

“That’s the one,” he winks over the lip of his coffee mug.

“Man, do I love that suit…” you muse, driving your fork into one of the berries before setting the utensil down entirely and circling back. “I still can’t believe this you pulled all this off under my nose! I mean, I had everything planned out, bought the ingredients and everything.”

“That explains why there was a Costco-sized pack of bacon in the fridge,” he shovels a generous helping of it onto his plate. “And why the pantry was so well-stocked.”

“You love that stuff. You’re such a carnivore, you’re like a…I don’t know, a T-Rex.”

“Old as one, too,” Bucky quips.

Your poorly-timed sip of juice spews as you snort in laughter, pulling the liquid up into your nasal cavity. “Ack! It burns!” you sputter and hiss as your eyes start to water. You continue to cough and hack and choke as Bucky all but lunges over the table with a napkin, howling in his own laughter with such intensity he turns red as the strawberries.

“Are you okay?!”

“I can taste my thoughts…”

He gazes at you with as much concern as adoration. “I love you.”

“…Even when I shoot orange juice out of my nostril?”

“Especially then. And when you drool all over my shirt in your sleep and when you put on your clothes backwards or inside out. I love it all.”

The burning subsides, leaving your vision in a sort of dreamy haze perfectly suited to the occasion.

“I love you, too. Even when I find your arm in the dishwasher or trip over your massive boots in the entryway or when I wash your stinky, marinated mission laundry. And I am going to get to surprise you one of these days! Just you watch!”

Bucky just beams. “Can’t wait. Happy anniversary to us,” he toasts.

“Happy anniversary, love.”

Could she have been at that press briefing, face buried in a notebook and he hadn’t noticed? Or sitting at the coffee shop he likes on 37th obscured behind a billow of steam? His mind runs with every permutation, every calculation. Had she been in the city when the Void took over? Was she safe? Maybe that had been the key to how he crossed over into a future that had angelic vignettes around the edges.

Some days, he thinks he sees her, somewhere passing in the crowd then disappearing like a puff of smoke. He becomes a tourist in his own city. He wanders the Met, and pays no attention to the painted faces. He pops into the shops at Chelsea Market and doesn’t even register what they sell. Sometimes he takes the subway between boroughs just to people-watch. To her credit, this was the kick he needed to stop isolating himself. Bucky is constantly surrounding himself with people, in hopes that just one might be right.

His patterns shift. His training changes. When he tugs his running shoes on in the common room, he gets stares.

“Where are you going?” Ava questioned.

“For a jog.”

“We have a treadmill, you know,” Walker points out matter-of-factly, earning a scowl.

“Just…prefer the fresh air.”

“This New York! There is no fresh air!” Yelena calls after him.

He runs anyway, up to Central Park and along the Reservoir, legs pumping and clearing his head enough to dissect every detail of their encounter like it will help him predict when she’ll materialize. The bedroom was wallpapered, he thinks, the barest hint of botanical pattern that bled warmth into the careful design. She must like flowers, with all the plants inside and out. There was a bouquet on the kitchen counter. Hollyhocks? No, gladiolus. He hopes that there’s always a fresh bouquet in that vase, and that she’s always delighted by what he brings home. And his daughter. Oh, his precious little girl. He’ll be sure to spoil her rotten, too. He thinks to call her Winnie, after his mother, give her the life that she tried to provide and wanted for him. But really, he would just be happy to have her.

When darkness blankets the city and his nightmares grip him like a vice, he presses his hand to his cheek and imagines that it were hers. On nights he can’t sleep at all, instead of staring at his ceiling Bucky goes up to the helipad and stares up at the sky, comforted by the fact that somewhere, she was under it too. His thoughts drift to picturing what his life will be like. In those few moments alone, he felt younger. Grounded. More at peace. Back to the cool concrete, he imagines how many stars he would see in their cottage outside the city. What was he going to say to her, anyway? “Hey, I saw the future this one time and you were my wife in it”?

Ew. Gross.

He’ll workshop it.

Seasons pass, fall, and spring, and fall again. To his horror, the more time that goes by her image starts to slip away, the slope of her nose and curl of her lashes fading, her silhouette falling through his fingers like sand. Bucky kicks himself for not asking more questions, for more to hold onto. Where did she grow up? Is she a morning person? What does she do for work? At least then, he would have some sort of direction to track her by. He almost asks Bob if he could try to send him back, but figures that would just be cruel for the both of them. He wouldn’t dare tell a soul, anyway.

So he stops looking.

Bucky has never been a patient man, but he waits. He lives day-by-day, comes to terms with the fact that some things cannot be forced. Instead, it leaves room for doubt to come creeping in. The dark parts of his brain starts to convince him it was a hoax. It was too good to be true. He should have known. Shouldn’t have thought anything otherwise or assumed he was worthy of anything more.

Like all good things, that is exactly when it happens.

The sun beams down on Manhattan, not that anyone can tell from the scaffolding and skyscrapers of Midtown shading the streets. Bucky looks like he hasn’t slept in days, because he hasn’t, too busy drowning in mission reports and beating himself up for being naive enough to want. To top off his joyous start to the morning, somebody has emptied the carafe without starting another and finished off the milk in the kitchen without any consideration for the consequences of caffeine deprivation.

So, after cursing under his breath, Bucky throws on the baggiest hoodie in his closet, rips the grocery list off of the fridge and grumbles all the way down to street-level.

The bell above the corner store door chimes as he pushes through and slips a basket over his elbow, relieved when the usually-chatty cashier ignores him for another patron. The dairy case is overwhelming as always. There used to just be milk, why did society have to go and make it complicated? He sighs and grabs the whole milk anyway. Bucky makes his way through his list. Bob and Yelena used up the last of the mac-and-cheese. Ava and Walker had fought over the last protein shake, so it was best if he picked some of those up, too. If they had the Wheaties back in stock, Alexei wanted another box.

Bucky is reaching for the package plastered with their faces when he hears it, from the next aisle.

“Yes, Mum, I’m settling in just fine…Yes, I know New York makes you nervous…”

His hand hovers in mid-air.

“No, I haven’t met any strange men! You’re being dramatic!”

His body moves on autopilot, basket abandoned on the linoleum in favour of fixing his hair in the reflection of a fridge door.

“The apartment is fine. I’m just not used to all the noise. I’ll learn to sleep through it eventually, I guess…”

He rounds the endcap and his breath sucks out of his lungs like an airlock.

Because she’s real.

Standing in front of the candy display wearing kitten heels and the smile etched into his very being. Every detail comes flooding back into vivid clarity. Bucky would recognize her anywhere. She’s younger, sure, dressed differently with her hair shorter and styled, but in many ways, in all the ways that matter, she is much the same.

Her ear presses her phone to her shoulder as she juggles her conversation and scans the label on the back of a bag of chocolates. “Okay. I love you too, mum! Send my love to everyone! Mwah!”

Her manicured nail taps the screen of her smartphone and drops it into her purse before sensing the presence lurking at the end of the aisle.

“Oh, sorry! Am I in your way?”

Tongue-tied.

“N-no! No, you’re good. S’fine.”

He waited nearly two years to see that smile again. It was worth every second.

“That’s a relief. I came in trying to find this one kind of chocolate bar, or at least something similar because I was feeling homesick thinking it would make me feel better, and I just seem to keep getting in everyone’s way.”

Bucky must make some kind of face, because she shrinks.

“Sorry, I’ll stop rambling. I know New Yorkers aren’t ones for small-talk. I’ve got to get used to that too.”

“Don’t,” he blurts. “I mean, you don’t have to. It’s…nice. Change of pace.”

“You don’t have to lie. I’m catching dirty looks in the elevator at my place all the time.”

“M’not, I promise. This city will suck your soul out if you let it. Your first lesson in being a New Yorker, don’t care about what anyone else thinks of you. Still workin’ on that one, and I was born here.” He hopes the smile he offers puts her at ease.

“Well, thank you. It’s been quite the adjustment. I’m not really blunt like everyone else is here. Just keep doing my best trying not to take up too much space.”

“We do mean well.”

“Do you?”

“…Most of the time.”

“Say…didn’t I see your face on a cereal box back there?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny.”

Her laugh is sunshine and summer incarnate. “And what was your name, strange man from the cereal aisle?”

“…James. Yours?”

And he finally hears it. He repeats it back, forming the syllables carefully in his mouth. It tastes sweet. It suits her.

“Well, James, since you’re a local and I’m new to the area,”she begins, scrounging around in her purse for a scrap piece of paper and a pen, “I’d love it if you showed me around sometime…Or maybe just meeting up for coffee?”

His response tumbles out faster than he can quell it. “Yes. Yeah, I’d love that too. That’d be great. I know a good spot. All the good spots.”

She chuckles to herself and presses the torn-out sheet against the store shelf to scribble across it, then folds it crooked and holds it out in offer. “My number. So we can make a plan. My schedule is pretty open.”

He catches a waft of her perfume when she reaches out, and it’s like he steps back in time. Or forward, because it’s the exact same scent that ripples down his spine as all his muscles release tension. He doesn’t even look down to confirm what she handed him wasn’t just a used candy wrapper before responding.

“I’ll call you later. Today. When I get home. Did ya…find what you were looking for here?”

“Something better, I think.” Her eyes never break from his, her thoughts suddenly hard to decipher from the rise in her cheekbones and mysterious glint in her eyes, but he thinks he sees the upward shift at the corner of her lips and decides it means well. “It was really nice meeting you, James.”

She passes by him with a brush of shoulders, disappearing into the masses on Park Ave. A moment of panic washes over him in a chill once she’s out of sight, but when he looks down, the paper is still resting crumpled in his palm.

Tangible. Solid. Real.

Electricity thrums in his veins. Bucky all but floats back to the Tower, forgoing the elevator entirely to bound up 90 flights of stairs before he even realizes what he’s done. Chest heaving, he strides into the penthouse like he’s 22 again and just come back from a date at Coney Island with a grin he is unable to wipe.

Yelena comes to investigate the sound of the usually-unused stairwell door opening, brow quirked and chipped coffee mug in hand.

“Did you get the milk?”

…Crap.

A bedroom. The bed is made, more pillows than blankets. Piled on top of the blues and seafoam greens of the comforter, the fabric lays wrinkled like it knows it will just be mussed again in a handful of hours. Matching bedside tables flank the headboard, littered with personal effects and a novel each, one in near perfect condition, the other weathered and worn with its cover detaching at the spine.

There are photographs. Some faces he knows, some he can’t identify. He finds himself in many. Candids he doesn’t remember being taken. Achievements he has yet to attain. In the centre of them all, wearing a tuxedo, holding a woman draped in white. Hair shorter, grayer, his beard more salt than pepper. His smile lines deeper.

The space is tidy, but lived in. A sock or two left on the rug from a missed toss to the hamper, the closet door left slightly ajar. The rocking chair in the corner with the handmade blanket draped over the back still smells of pine, a bassinet tucked close to the side of the bed. The top of a dresser pushed against the far wall has mostly been converted into a changing table, diapers and wipes stacked next to a jewelry box and some fragrances.

A perfume bottle sits next to his usual cologne.

Bucky tears open the drapes and recognizes nothing of what he sees. A backyard on a rolling hill that sweeps down to an inlet, water sparkling where it laps lazily against the rocky shore. Garden boxes overflowing with flowers, sweet potato vines spilling over the edges, their bright green heart-shaped foliage bringing the world outside further into technicolor. If he craned his neck, he could just see the arm of a porch swing, just hear the chains creaking in the gentle breeze and the wind-chimes hanging from the rafters.

Not a soul in sight. Just the silence of open land and old bones.

Until he hears a voice.

A soft humming coming from somewhere else in the house.

The words are muffled, the accent one he can’t quite place. It’s a voice he swears he’s never heard before, but it settles into his bones like it belongs there, his pounding heart rate slowing to near-resting.

The sound draws closer with the groan of the floorboards until it is right on the other side of the door and he freezes, head snapping to watch as the brass knob turns and the woman from the photographs materializes in front of him.

Bucky’s heart hasn’t skipped a beat like that since 1942.

She wears faded blue jeans and a ratty old t-shirt with a baby nestled into her hip, barefaced and hair messy. There are bags under her eyes, but she smiles brightly.

She is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

“Oh, honey! You startled me! You must have snuck past, I didn’t even hear you come in!” She slips past him into the bedroom, and as she does, places a kiss on his stunned shoulder. “I had no idea you had a half-day today. I would have booked us a sitter…” She was talking more to herself than to him as she dug through one of the drawers of the dresser, paying no mind to the gaping hole in the drywall where he had crashed through, pulling out another old shirt that looked suspiciously like one in his wardrobe at home.

Her bare feet planted, Bucky follows with his eyes as she looks him over from head to toe and back again, then sets the baby in the cradle and rounds the bed to the ensuite bathroom. “Keep an eye on her for a minute, please? Just going to change, that girl’s spit-up is no joke.”

And she vanishes again behind the rumble of a barn door, like all of the skeletons he kept locked away so tightly hadn’t just been ripped from the closet moments before.

She reemerges in seconds, hair loose and…yup, that is definitely his shirt. “Well, this is a treat. You look weary, love. It’s good you’re taking a break. I just put a fresh pot of coffee on, so you have perfect timing. Isn’t that right, little one?” she coos, tracing her pointer finger down the bridge of the baby’s nose before scooping her up again and resting her against her clavicle.

Against his better judgement, Bucky follows her like a rip current down the picture-lined hall, through a door that leads, not into another nightmare, but further into the house.

“I hope Bob didn’t give you too much trouble trying to get here,” she rambles, rounding the kitchen island and pouring a cup of coffee onehanded. “He’s a really sweet boy. Still got some things to work through, I think, but he has a good heart. They all do.”

Bucky blanches. “…How do you know about that?”His fingernails bite into his palm, shoulders creeping up toward his ears.

Her mouth curls into a lowercase ‘o’ in a flash of panic. “It’s alright, James. You’re safe here. This isn’t one of your bad memories.”

“No, this…This isn’t my memory at all, it’s…”he breathes. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

She just smiles expectantly. “You will someday. Not long now.” She presses the mug into his palms, prying open his clenched fingers and wrapping them one after the other over the porcelain. Bucky’s brow tightens. It was made just like he always drank it: a heap of sugar and just a dribble of cream.

Bucky looks down at his trembling hands for the first time since he got here. Really looks. The skin around his fingernails isn’t inflamed and peeling where he usually picks at them from the compounding stress. His knuckles aren’t bruised or cracking. Etched right into the vibranium is a wide gold band that’s new, tucked up against the joint of his fourth finger.

“Those…The pictures…This can’t...”

A gust of wind in his general direction could have bowled him over as the pieces come together. Bucky braces himself on the closest chair back. His head swims, heartbeat in his ears and thoughts dying on his tongue. He shakes his head, drilling his eyes shut to make sense of what he is seeing, whether it would all disappear when he opens them.

It doesn’t.

A hand finds hold of his wrist. Featherlight. Steadying. He can feel her pulse hammering through her fingertips.

“Breathe, James,” she appeases. “Come sit down, alright? I’ll explain. Answer as many questions as you have.”

She manages to coax him into the open living room and places the infant into a baby swing, colourful rings and things dangling from the top bar. The little girl snuggles into the cushion beneath her without a fuss and shakes her soft toy contentedly, cooing to herself as it rattles in her miniature fist. The woman then settles at the far end of the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, inviting but granting him distance.

Bucky still hesitates.

The sofa looks like it will swallow him whole, the cushions plush and deep. Another blanket is bundled in a heap on the armrest (there were blankets everywhere in this house it seemed). He reaches out to run the fringed edge between his fingers.

“This is all very strange, I know,” she breaks the silence. “We’re not sure how this happened, just that it did. It took you a long time to believe even that much. I wish I had a more satisfying answer for you. Bob is still getting a handle on his powers, but even now he has no idea.”

Finally. The first thing she’s said that’s made any sense. Bucky tries to rationalize it, but he’s grasping at straws. Time travel is not a new concept to him. He knows the consequences, that the past can change the future. Knowing too much alters the course of history or leaves it shattered in its wake. One small deviation and the world shifts on its axis. His head spins instead.

“There’s probably nothing I can say that will prove it to you, but you are supposed to be here, James. I was starting to wonder when you’d come around, but time’s been a little relative to me these days. Jamie asked me not to spook you when you arrived, though I think I kind of failed at that. It took me a second to realize that you weren’t…you.”

Jamie. He’s hung up on that. Nobody has called him that name in decades, and he can’t help but like the way it sounds when she says it.

“You knew I was coming?”

“Eventually. You and I talked about it not long after we met; what you saw, what it changed for you. Could never pin down what the date was so it was always going to be a waiting game, but I’m glad you’re here now. You look like you could use something peaceful.”

He continues to tread carefully. “Where is this?”

“Our house. Upstate New York. We bought this old fixer-upper on the bay and did all the fixing ourselves. Well, mainly you. I picked paint colours, watched you tear down walls and told you when you screwed cabinet doors on upside-down.”

The room they occupy has a wide bay window that spans almost from floor to ceiling, flooding the space with light. Houseplants thrive in every corner, nook and cranny. A cat tree is set up overlooking the front yard, a fluffy white tail swishing over the edge of the highest perch, unfazed by whoever this strange visitor is in the feline’s house. Bookcases are built into one wall, filled with sci-fi and fantasy and romance novels. More photos are displayed in small frames dotted across the shelving, between alphabetized authors and mementos. His turntable, the only real luxury he owns in his bare-bones DC apartment, sits proud on its shelf, worn by years of use but otherwise exactly the same. A collection of vinyls he could only dream of occupies its own shelf below.

“You built those bookshelves from scratch. I always tell people that we were sold on the house when we saw that wall because it was the perfect place for them, where we could start our library. Felt like we looked at dozens of houses but this place just felt right. Perfectly imperfect.”

“I’m reading again?”

“When you have the time. Right over there,” she points with her sightline to an armchair with a floor lamp curving over it, “with a cup of tea and your little old man reading glasses.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh through the fog.

Oh, her smile. “It’s a good life. Quiet. Your favourite thing to do is take a nap on the couch in the sun with the baby scrunched up on your chest. I want to say that we sleep through the night, but that’s kind of changed as of late. We smile. Laugh a lot.” The list keeps growing. Going to farmers markets on the weekends. Board game nights. Beach days in the summertime. “We try a new recipe every week for dinner and dance in the kitchen. I still step on your toes sometimes. We’re working on finishing the nursery for when this big girl grows out of her bassinet.”

“What’s her name?” he nearly pleads, voice so soft.

“That would ruin the surprise, Bucky!”

“How old is she, then?”

The woman absolutely illuminates with pride. “Almost 3 months now. Runs this whole house. You cried when you held her for the first time. She’s had you wrapped around her finger from the day she was born.”

“…Wasn’t sure if…they did something to me. Never knew if I’d even be able to have kids.”

“Neither did I. She’s our little miracle.”

His daughter’s bright blue, undeniably-Barnes eyes peer up at him without an ounce of fear for the man crusted in dirt and dust. Bucky doesn’t need to know her name to know that he’ll adore her, can’t take his eyes off of her. Something so small, so fragile, yet trusts him completely. To his daughter, he isn’t a soldier or a vigilante. He’ll just be Dad, when the only thing he’ll have to fight is the monster under the bed.

Bucky swears he sees her smile at him, and his ribs cave in.

“She just started doing that last week. All gums, smiling up atcha like you’re her whole world. I hope she never grows out of that.”

Neither does he.

Bucky marvels in it, this place, this safe haven that he had supposedly helped build, helped make warm and comforting and whole. Someone wanted him. For all the hurdles he crossed, all the evils he fought, someone saw this shell of a man and chose him. Built a life with him. Had a child with him.

But the more he looks around, he sombers. Shrinks.

“Hey, I know that look. What is it, James?”

“…I feel like I don’t deserve this.”

“Hey, none of that. You’re wrong. You have earned this and so, so much more, but for now this is what makes you happy. I’ll remind you as many times as you need me to.”

Tears begins to leech into his five-o’clock shadow as his shoulders begin to quiver.

This woman, this incredible woman, had been trying to keep her distance not to spook him. He saw how her fingers twitched, how she wanted to reach out and stopped herself. This time she couldn’t. The couch cushion to his side sinks as she gathers him in her arms.

And he lets her.

Bucky lets out a whimper like a wounded animal into her neck, his hands finding solace loosely on her hips. “I want to stay,” he whispers, any louder and his voice would begin to crackle. “I want to hit fast-forward. It’s selfish, I know, but I’ve spent so many nights wishin’ for a life like this.”

Her hold tightens around him. “And I would let you stay here forever if I could. You’ll have the rest of your life to enjoy this, but I can’t keep you right now. Your ragtag team of hellions still needs you. Yelena would never forgive me.”

He turns away from her, cheek pressed into her shoulder so she can’t see the contorted expression he makes to prevent a sob from leeching out, nose scrunched and teeth gritted, his hair falling into his face.

“You have more memories to go through to get to the others. Be brave, just a little longer.”

Bucky wants to get on his knees, to beg, plead and pray to any god he could conjure that this would in fact be real someday, that his life would turn out just like this. That all the pain, suffering, blood and sweat wouldn’t have been for naught. “What do I have to do to see you again? To make it real?” he croaks.

“Look at me, James.” She is so tender as she guides him to meet her gaze, pressing her forehead to his. “It’s already real. It’s already set in motion, just be patient. Keep doing what you feel is right. Until then, you’ll dream. Of what you want to call her, what she’ll call you one day. Of what you want to plant in the spring and what new project you’ll tinker with. Of me,” she titters, “if you want. Whatever it takes. And when it’s time, we’ll find each other. Don’t forget about us, okay? About this.”

He takes deep cycled breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth to the rhythm of her hand skating between his shoulders. “…They really need me?” he murmurs.

“They do.”

Bucky flicks away the lingering tears with his thumb, pulling back enough to just…look at her. Memorize the curve of her lips and cheeks, the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair. Taking the moment to lock it away where no one could ever take it from him. His wife.

“…Okay.”

“You will be,” she assures him.

It takes every ounce of strength he has left to pry himself from her steadiness, but the floor feels solid beneath his boots.

The front door remains the only obstacle.

She hugs her torso and trails a few steps behind as he stalks up to it, whatever horror that waits on the other side suddenly not as daunting. The oak is solid, but the doorknob threatens to crumble under the vibranium. Bucky turns back for one last glimpse and inhales with a shudder.

“Thank you.”

With glassy eyes, she blows him a kiss.

He rolls his shoulder. Readjusts his grip. Turns his wrist a beat after the exhale…and puts one foot in front of the other.

Find part 2 here!

Manhattan was dreary to come home to, earthy petrichor battling against exhaust in the fall air, when fallen leaves clogged storm drains and it started to get dark far too early. Bucky graciously tipped the cabbie as he was let off outside the Watchtower, hauling his bags out of the trunk and briefly staring upwards, the building’s glass edifice not as intimidating as it once was.

His roller bag rumbled over each of Valentina’s carefully selected tiles beside his squeaking oxfords to the elevator, leaving two parallel trails across the marble. His tie sat loose around his neck, coat buttons abandoned with seeping raindrops dotting his shoulders. Bucky despised few things more than flying in a suit, than wearing a full suit at all these days, no matter how short said flight actually was. Dulles to LaGuardia might as well have been a red eye because it had been just as uncomfortable.

He passed his briefcase into his opposite hand, awkwardly holding onto the handles of both bags to jam the ‘up’ button repeatedly with his thumb like it owed him money. Each ding as the elevator descended grated on him until it ground to a halt at the main floor. He was grateful they didn’t play music anymore, it would have only have made the climb drag. Bucky tapped his fingers on the handle of his suitcase and watched as the numbers above the doors rose steadily, until the letters ‘PH’ illuminated at the end of the line and the car slowed.

He tugged his bag a little harder over the gap into the penthouse, giving the expansive space a quick scan, the tips of the New York skyline looming large through the windows partially obscured by swaths of grey, disappointed when he didn’t find what he was looking for.

“Ah, Winter Soldier! You are back early!” Alexei bellowed from the couch at the sound of the elevator doors sliding open, drink in one hand and remote in the other, a taped Russian television program playing in the background.

Bucky pulled his cheeks tight in some semblance of a smile in greeting. “Where’s my girl?”

“Your room, I think. Resting.”

He offered a polite nod in thanks as Alexei returned to his program and turned on his heels toward the residences.

It was not as though you hadn’t communicated while he was away. You texted often, less taxing on you than a phone call although he longed to hear your voice. Bucky knew that you were unwell, that fatigue had crept deep into your bones while he was not around to fight it off. You had done more than your body could handle and, much like Icarus, had crashed back down to Earth. He wanted nothing more than to help piece your wings back together again.

The hinges croaked as he pushed the door ajar with slow, even pressure, the room dim with the curtains drawn. Your water bottle was half-full on the nightstand, various other used dishes stacked neatly and beside them your current read, its cover curling up from use. The wicker basket you kept your crochet supplies in sat on the floor an arms length away, a few loose loops of yarn spilling over the side. The window was open just a crack to let the air circulate, the stale slipping out and the fresh meandering its way in with each ripple of the curtain hem. And in the middle of it all was a faintly you-shaped figure beneath the covers.

A mountain of pillows cradled your form in his bed, each keeping you supported and comfortable as you lay on your side, chin tucked to your clavicle while your chest rose and fell with each soft inhale. Your lashes rested on the apples of your cheeks, so serene Bucky almost assumed you were fast asleep until your voice cut through the repose, gravelly with disuse. “Hello?”

“Hey, sweet thing,” he greeted, low and tempered.

His heart swelled as your eyes opened and found him backlit in the doorway, face lit up in a toothy grin. “You’re home…”

All the paperwork and bureaucracy was forgotten. “Missed my girl too much.” Carry-on abandoned and wasting not a second more, he took long strides to close the distance, taking a knee at your bedside and brushing away the few hairs askew on your forehead to plant his lips there. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. Everyone’s been so kind, doting on me while you’ve been gone.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhm. Yelena and Alexei have been cooking for me. Bob comes to refill my water every few hours and take my plates. Ava even braided my hair for me.”

“Looks beautiful.” He let his fingers trace down your face, thumb skimming over your brow bone before his palm came to rest against your cheek, tracing the creases your pillowcase had left there. “M’glad to hear they took such good care of you. Even if Walker’s still bein’ Walker…”

“Hey,” you reached out to swat at him, arm warmed by flannel and breath. “Don’t be mean to John, he has custody of his kid this week. We haven’t seen much of him at all. Cut him some slack,” you pouted.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled, catching your hand against his chest.

“Have time to join me?” you wiggled your way further out from your plush fortress, pulling back the comforter for him to slip under.

Bucky didn’t need to be asked twice. He shucked his shoes and slung his suit jacket and tie over the footboard of the bed, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt with practiced fingers before tossing one of the pillows for him to replace, slotting himself in beside you and bringing your head into the dip of his neck with a gentle hand as the other settled in the valley of your waist.

And he melted.

Bucky groaned as his bones settled, every knot and semblance of tension melting away as you found your place on his chest. His calloused hand guided you to drape yourself over his torso before it heaved the dense blanket up to your chin and skated down over the planes of your shoulder in soothing passes. Breathing you in, you smelled like coconut lip balm and fabric softener and skin, and he had to hold back from inhaling it like a man starved.

You reached up behind him to pull his hair loose with one hand, freeing it from its half-up twist. The elastic that kept it tightly coiled fell away as you shook out the strands and combed through them with your fingers, still damp from their brief rain exposure. When you raked your nails over his scalp, he shuddered beneath you, skin erupting in gooseflesh, and you let out a huff at the intimacy of it.

“So, how was DC?” you broke the silence, barely above a whisper. “What’s going on outside of my bubble these days?”

The statement stung a bit. Maybe not for you, but he selfishly wished you were well enough for the world to see more of you, because he knew you were such a gift. Bucky knew how it frustrated you, when you would rather be people-watching at Bryant Park with your usual tea in a paper cup, giving directions to tourists and striking up conversations with strangers, or whatever other sickeningly-sweet things he imagined you got up to while he was away. Just…to be out where there was life.

But you wanted to know, and if you wanted to know then he wanted to tell you. Not the congressman things, the mind-numbing budget hearings or subcommittees or all the other pomp and circumstance, but the frivolous things that would be considered inconsequential to anyone else. Those, you were far more invested in.

Maintenance had at long last replaced that creaking office chair he had complained about, the one that threatened to give way each time he took a seat. His admin assistant Ravi had adopted a new puppy he was affectionately calling “Jalebi” who was leaving golden fluff all over his suits that somehow spread across the whole office no matter how much lint-rolling occurred. Niamh from reception was getting ready to go on maternity leave and had instructed Bucky to relay her thanks for the baby shower gift you had sent along with him, packaged in pastel tissue and ribbon that he admitted got squashed in transit but your sentiments remained undamaged. The card she sent in return was tucked safely in his briefcase for you to read later.

His chest rumbled against your ear with each uttered word, white noise dampening New York City traffic. You listened to his stories with eyes fluttered shut, breathing in the remnants of his aftershave. Your exhales were a little shallower, a little shakier than usual, and he subconsciously tightened his hold on you as if you might slip away. You didn’t have to open your eyes to feel his fond gaze washing over you, almost reverent in its warmth, each contented sigh sending him falling evermore in love with you.

He buried his face into your hair and told you so, a muffled “love you,” tumbling from his lips, like he knew it was all you needed to hear. Even now, when the world was heavy and you felt you could do nothing for him, nothing for yourself but survive, he loved you. Cherished you. Held you like something delicate and precious.

He had yearned for this. Dreamed of it. To have a purpose that wasn’t fighting, to create more than he destroyed. And you, you had trusted him with your vulnerability and looked at him with such fondness, like he was innocent and was only capable of good. It near tore him in two, prying his ribcage open exposing his bleeding heart, and gave him more energy and motivation than any amount of caffeine ever could.

He peeled your splayed hand from his ribs and brought his lips to the ring on your finger, to the vow he’d put there a few months ago. To the honour of caring for you, and to the reminder that he was at his core tender and gentle. He was well aware that he needed you more than you could ever have needed him, but he gave anyway.

“Have you eaten?”

“Mmhm,” you hummed. “Lunch, earlier. Some leftovers from last night.”

“Can I make you dinner?”

You propped your chin up on his shoulder and craned your neck to look up at him. “You’ve been travelling all day, and you want to make dinner?”

“Love to, doll. Feels like a soup kinda day. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect…as long as I don’t have to let go of you just yet.”

He tilted his head just enough to rest against your temple. “Got me for as long as you like…”

Time moved slower when you were in his arms, and that? That was everything. You gave him quiet, and peace, and purpose, so when you wanted more than the universe thought you deserved and it sent you plummeting, he was going to be there to catch you.