jade rabbitt

“I find the theatrics help distract lesser players,” you said, cutting the deck without so much as a glance at him. “Consider it a handicap, sweetheart.”

From her spot on the couch, Yelena snorted, one knee pulled to her chest, tablet glowing faintly in her lap. “More like an ego massage.”

“She has to entertain herself somehow,” Ava added, eyes still glued to the book in her hand. She hadn’t looked up once since you'd started the game, but somehow still managed to insert herself exactly where it annoyed you.

You dealt the cards slowly, deliberately, letting the silence hang just long enough to feel like power.

“Jealousy’s not a good look on either of you,” you replied mildly, flicking the final card across the table toward Alexei. “But keep talking — I win faster when I’m being underestimated.”

Alexei picked up his hand like he was holding a newborn. “You know, in Soviet Russia, we play with knives. Much more interesting.”

“I’m not opposed,” you said, crossing your legs, silk robe falling open just enough to make Alexei blink. “But then I’d have to clean blood off the carpet. And I’m allergic to manual labor.”

Yelena cracked a lazy grin. Ava turned a page.

The Watchtower’s common room was dimly lit, warm from the flickering fireplace that Yelena insisted made the place feel “less clinical.” The rain outside painted slow-moving shadows across the hardwood floors. No one else was around — just your little core, spread out like some mismatched after-hours club.

You leaned forward just enough to reach for your bourbon — untouched, but placed with intention. Every move was deliberate. You’d worn the silk for yourself, technically, but you knew exactly what it did to the room.

Alexei scratched his beard. “One of these days, you’re going to lose. And when you do—”

You cut him off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “When I do, you’ll still be boring, and I’ll still be beautiful. It’ll be tragic, truly.”

Yelena let out a low whistle, muttering something in Russian under her breath.

Ava finally looked up. “Honestly, I’m just impressed you’ve managed to drag her into something that doesn’t sparkle.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” you said, “Not everything has to sparkle to be valuable.”

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen.

“Oh, you guys are playing?” John's voice cut through the warmth of the room like wet socks. “Deal me in.”

You didn’t even look up. “No.”

Alexei chimed in at the same time. “Nyet.”

Walker stopped mid-step. “Seriously?”

Alexei gave a lazy shrug, raising his glass like it might soften the blow. “Room already has enough energy. Don’t want to shift vibe.”

You finally lifted your gaze, eyes raking him up and down with a slowness that bordered on cruel. “Besides, I don’t play games with men who can’t take losing. And you, Boy Scout Barbie, are a sulker.”

Walker blinked. “I’m not a sulker.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Yelena muttered.

He muttered something under his breath and made his way toward the other end of the room, slumping into the seat next to Bob like a moody teen. Bob immediately stiffened like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Probably breathing too loudly.

“I mean,” Walker called out again, clearly not done, “what are you guys even playing for, anyway? Bragging rights?”

“No,” you replied, slow and dry. “We’re playing for dignity. You wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

Yelena snorted. Bob looked like he wanted to disappear.

Alexei chuckled beside you, swirling the last of his drink. “So, what I get if I win, devushka?” he asked, eyes narrowing with faux confidence. “Something real. Something good.”

You tilted your head, lips pursing. “If you win…” You let the pause stretch, dragging the silence like velvet. “You get to say you beat me. Once. And then I’ll let you frame the cards.”

Alexei groaned. “Bah. No fun. Okay, okay—what you want if you win?”

You leaned back in your seat, stretching your arms overhead just enough to make it distracting. “Hmm. What do I want from a man who has nothing I need?”

Alexei leaned forward on his elbows, cards fanned lazily in one hand, smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Okay, devushka. If you win… I get you something made of vibranium. Real Wakandan stuff.”

You scoffed, slow and unimpressed, barely glancing up from your hand. “I already have something made of vibranium.”

Walker twisted from his spot on the couch, scoffing. “No, you don’t.”

You turned your head toward him, the motion fluid, calculated. “Yes, I do.”

He raised a brow. “What, like jewelry? Pretty sure that’s not on the market for—”

“No,” you cut in, voice syrupy with disinterest. “Unlike you… with your cheap excuse for a shield.”

Bob blinked next to him. “Damn.”

Walker bristled. “My shield is—”

You held up a hand. “Please don’t embarrass yourself further.”

Ava didn’t even look up from her book. “Secondhand symbolism isn’t a personality trait.”

Walker opened his mouth again, then promptly closed it.

Alexei chuckled, sipping his drink. “So, what is mystery vibranium treasure you claim to own, hm?”

You looked at him over the top of your cards, shrugged one shoulder, and said casually, “James’ arm.”

There was a full beat of silence.

Yelena lowered her tablet slowly, blinking at you like you’d just recited an entire monologue about tax law. “I want you to really hear what just came out of your mouth,” she said flatly. “You just… took ownership of someone else’s arm.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Whatever’s his is mine.”

Simple. Like gravity.

Ava turned a page with a deliberate flick. “So, whatever’s yours is his, then?”

“I never said that.”

That earned a huff from Yelena, who muttered something in Russian under her breath that sounded vaguely like delusional but committed.

Walker looked between you all like someone had changed the language setting on the conversation.

Alexei exhaled, long and put-upon, setting his cards down as if they weighed something. “Okay, okay… what do you want, then?”

You tilted your head, lips curving slow, deliberate — the kind of smile that meant trouble and absolutely no regret. Feline and dangerous.

“The Orlov diamond.”

There was a beat of silence.

Alexei turned to look at you fully, eyes narrowing like he was sure he’d misheard. Yelena’s tablet dropped to her lap as she cut you a sidelong glance, brows raising.

You just blinked, perfectly serene.

“You’re not serious,” Alexei said finally, half-laughing like he hoped it was a joke.

“You asked what I wanted,” you replied, your voice light, almost bored. “I answered.”

Alexei sat up straighter, suddenly far more animated than any poker game warranted. “That is Mother Russia’s diamond,” he declared, gesturing like he was rallying a crowd. “It belongs in our history, our legacy. It is symbol of strength—of endurance! Stolen by the West, admired by the world, but born of Russian greatness—”

You didn’t even lift your head. Just slid a glance toward him, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. “It’s originally from India.”

He blinked. “What?”

Yelena let out a sharp laugh, hiding her grin behind her hand. Ava didn’t even bother pretending not to smirk.

Alexei sputtered for a second, searching for a comeback. Finally, he puffed up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Well then, I simply make sure you don’t win.”

You gave him a slow, sweet smile. “You can try.”

And then, with your eyes locked on his, you slid another chip into the pot.

Alexei cracked his knuckles. You tapped your fingers against your knee, calm but coiled. The game shifted. The easy banter faded into something quieter, more serious — the room narrowing down to the felt, the cards, the chips.

Everyone else had settled in to watch.

Bob sat hunched over on the armrest of the couch, eyes flicking between the two of you like he was observing a bomb defusal. Walker sat stiff beside him, arms crossed, a faint scowl pulling at his mouth.

Ava leaned back in the corner, legs stretched out, expression unreadable behind her book. Yelena was the only one who looked remotely entertained, chin on her fist as she watched with open amusement.

The pile in the center of the table grew. Slow. Deliberate. Neither of you moved quickly now.

Alexei furrowed his brow as he looked down at his hand, chewing the inside of his cheek. You sat still, legs crossed, a fingertip trailing the rim of your untouched glass. Your eyes never left his.

He blinked. Put down one card. Drew another. Tried not to flinch.

You played your move a moment later — no theatrics. Just quiet, smooth certainty. You placed your final bet, then leaned back, completely relaxed. The kind of calm that made people nervous.

Alexei hesitated. Looked at you. Looked at his cards again.

He sighed through his nose. “I regret offering anything.”

“Everyone regrets something,” you said, your tone light.

Finally, he matched your bet.

Cards were laid.

Alexei’s face fell before the last one even hit the table. His shoulders slumped, and he gave a groan like he was genuinely in pain.

You only smiled.

“You’re kidding me,” Walker muttered.

Bob made a small, strangled sound that might have been applause or shock — hard to tell with him.

Yelena just shook her head. “Of course she won.”

Alexei leaned back in his chair, defeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was pure luck.”

You gathered your chips with graceful efficiency, not bothering to hide the satisfied glint in your eyes. “Mm. I don’t believe in luck.”

Alexei gave you a side-eye. “So you really want diamond?”

You stacked the final chip on the pile, then leaned your elbow on the armrest and rested your chin on your hand, gaze cool and certain.

“I want it,” you said. “By the end of the month.”

Alexei groaned again. “Ridiculous.”

Watchtower — Conference Room, One Week Later

Everyone hated when Val came to the Watchtower.

She never arrived quietly. Always in heels, always carrying too many opinions and too little respect for the people who had enough evidence to lock her away forever. If she wasn’t here to corner them into another PR gala or some glossy photo-op for the press, then she was here to rip someone apart with thinly veiled passive aggression and backhanded insults dressed up like “feedback.”

This morning was no different.

You were seated next to Bucky, like always, mind somewhere else entirely as she paced in front of the projection screen, throwing her usual mix of threats and barely tolerable sarcasm around like rice at a wedding.

You had one arm looped casually through his, hand resting lightly on his forearm. Your legs were crossed, posture relaxed, entirely unbothered by the stiff tension that filled the room like smoke.

It had become routine. You in his space, wrapped around him like a claim. Him, settled beside you like he belonged there.

“Hong Kong and Japan are furious,” Val announced, clicking her remote like it owed her money. “You know, the kind of fury that comes with lawsuits, diplomatic tension, and entire governments not returning our calls.”

Yelena arched an eyebrow from her seat beside Ava. “So, same as last time.”

Val didn’t bother dignifying that with a response.

Walker leaned back in his chair with a shrug. “We literally saved Tokyo from a nuclear detonation last week. They could’ve had another Hiroshima and Nagasaki on their hands.”

Silence.

It was instant. Heavy.

Even the hum of the projector felt loud in comparison.

Ava looked up slowly. Bob blinked. Yelena tilted her head at him like she was trying to figure out how much brain damage a person could suffer and still hold a government clearance.

Walker glanced around. “Was that too soon?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s centuries too soon to make a joke like that.”

His jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond.

Val sighed, like she wasn’t even surprised. “This,” she muttered, waving a hand vaguely at Walker, “is why you guys need media training.”

She clicked through another slide she wasn’t even pretending to care about. The projector whined against the silence.

“And now,” she said, tone sharpening, “we have a completely separate mess to clean up — one that’s about to make headlines if we’re not careful.”

Yelena sighed audibly. “You say that like it's new.”

Val ignored her. Of course.

“Same day you all landed in Tokyo,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room slowly, “something else went missing halfway across the world.”

She clicked again. The screen lit up with a high-resolution image — the glint of light catching on flawless facets.

“The Pink Star Diamond,” she said. “Gone. From its private exhibition in Hong Kong. Security footage? Wiped. Guards? Drugged. No signs of forced entry.”

The room went still.

And then — every head turned.

Toward you.

Slow. Simultaneous.

Ava didn’t even try to hide her stare. Yelena gave a soft snort. Bob blinked like he wasn’t sure if he should make eye contact or duck for cover. Walker just sat there, frowning.

You didn’t react. Not even a twitch.

Val folded her arms. “Coincidence?”

You finally turned to her, face cool, mouth poised in that bored sort of half-smile. “Absolutely.”

Alexei leaned forward slightly. “We were in Tokyo.”

You leaned forward slightly in your seat, arm still threaded through Bucky’s as you rested your other hand on the table, fingers tapping once — slow and deliberate.

“I was never in Hong Kong,” you said smoothly, voice level. “I didn’t leave Tokyo the entire time we were deployed. Ask the field team. Ask Ava. Cross-reference satellite data. Internal comm logs. Flight manifests. Movement trackers.”

Ava didn’t deny it — just narrowed her gaze slightly, studying you with that unnerving, analytical expression of hers.

Val arched a brow. “The diamond was taken by someone who avoided every sensor in a high-security vault. Who moved with precision and didn’t leave a single trace.”

Yelena gave a small shrug. “I mean… she didn’t leave the drop zone. That I saw.”

Walker snorted. “Please. You’ve snuck past tracking before. No one’s doubting your ability, that’s the problem.”

You looked at him like he was gum on the sidewalk. “If I’d stolen it, you think I’d be dumb enough to let it get traced back here? Have some faith in my standards.”

“Oh, we have faith,” Ava cut in, folding her arms and staring you down. “Just not the kind you’re hoping for.”

You arched a brow, waiting.

Val took a step closer to the head of the table. “You were a jewel thief when I found you. Let’s not rewrite history. You were halfway through smuggling the Laurent Emeralds out of Geneva when I made you an offer.”

You smiled slowly, almost sweetly. “Correction. I was halfway out of Geneva. The emeralds were already in Paris.”

Bob blinked like he wanted to take notes.

“Let’s talk logistics,” you added, sharper now. “You think I snuck out of Tokyo in the middle of a live operation, somehow got to Hong Kong, cracked a vault with no gear, took a priceless diamond, and made it back — all without being seen or throwing off the mission timeline?”

Silence.

Then, “…Yeah, kind of,” Walker muttered.

You stared at him. “You can’t even open your own locker without help.”

Yelena snorted again.

Ava narrowed her eyes. “Just because we can’t prove it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“You act like this is personal,” you said, eyes skating over the room. “It’s not. It’s logistics. And none of you have a leg to stand on.”

Yelena didn’t even look up from her seat. “I can’t trust someone who doesn’t own a single pair of sweatpants.”

You turned to her with a lazy blink. “And I can’t trust someone who surrounds herself with rodents.”

Her head snapped toward you. “He’s not a rodent, he’s a hamster, and his name is Nathaniel. And you better keep that white she-devil away from him.”

Bob whispered, “I think Nathanial and Alpine are both adorable…”

Walker cut in, loud and self-righteous. “You’re a kleptomaniac. Just admit it already.”

“I’m selective,” you corrected. “There’s a difference. If I were a kleptomaniac, your watch would be missing.”

Walker looked down at his wrist instinctively.

Val stepped forward again, clearly running out of patience. “If you have the diamond, just give it back. We can clean this up before it escalates.”

You stared at her, jaw tight, smile gone.

“I’m not giving it back,” you said evenly, “because I don’t have it.”

“You know what?” Ava said sharply. “Even if you didn’t take it — which, let’s be honest, is a stretch — you still act like this team’s your personal playground.”

You didn’t respond.

“You don’t answer to anyone,” Walker snapped. “You don’t follow protocol. You steal. You lie. And we’re just supposed to deal with it because Bucky lets you crawl into his lap like a damn—”

Your head turned.

Eyes on Bucky.

No words this time. Just a look.

And that was all it took.

He stood like someone had flipped a switch — slow, calm, but absolute. A wall rising between you and the room.

“That’s enough.”

His voice cut through the air like a blade.

Everyone went still.

Bucky looked around the table, one hand still resting gently over yours, the other loose at his side — but the tension in his shoulders said he was ready.

“You’re accusing her with nothing. No proof. No data. Just gut feelings and guesses because you don’t like how she operates.” His voice stayed steady. “She’s not obligated to win you over with small talk and trust falls. She gets the job done. Every time. And if you can’t keep up with how she does it, that’s on you.”

Yelena opened her mouth, but he didn’t give her the chance.

“She was accounted for. We all saw it. And unless someone here can produce actual evidence that she left the mission zone, I suggest you stop throwing accusations like you’re on trial for your own insecurities.”

The room was dead quiet.

You sat back, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way his jaw stayed tight.

Yelena leaned forward, voice sharp. “That’s so unfair.”

You blinked, tilting your head with faux innocence. “What is?”

“That.” She pointed toward Bucky — now standing like a sentinel at your side. “Every time we call you out, you don’t have to defend yourself. You just look at him like a Disney princess and suddenly he’s barking at all of us.”

You raised your brows, lips parting slightly. “Are you suggesting I’m not a princess?”

“We’re suggesting he’s your guard dog,” Ava muttered. “Trained, loaded, and ready to bite.”

Walker scoffed. “You say ‘James’ and suddenly we’re all the enemy.”

“Maybe don’t act like enemies,” Bucky said flatly, still standing tall beside you.

You let out a quiet hum, fingers gently brushing along his forearm. “You all seem very emotional about this.”

Bob, barely breathing at this point, whispered, “She’s doing the thing again where she pretends she doesn’t know what’s happening…”

Val looked like she wanted to rip her own hair out.

Alexei finally spoke, voice low and deliberate. “You say you want me to steal Orlov diamond for you — and we all laugh. But then Pink Star goes missing and suddenly it’s out of question?”

You gave him a look like he’d just said something painfully unoriginal. “It was a joke,” you said coolly. “One you're all now taking way too seriously.”

“Because it’s not unbelievable,” Ava shot back.

“And yet, still unproven,” you replied, voice even, unbothered. “So what are we really doing here? Group therapy?”

Bucky let out a quiet breath and finally lowered himself back into his seat beside you, arm brushing yours.

“The conversation’s over,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “She didn’t steal the diamond.”

A pause.

“Very sorry for Hong Kong,” he added, almost deadpan. “But that’s their own fault for losing it.”

Yelena threw up her hands. Walker stared at the ceiling like he was praying for divine intervention. Ava just blinked slowly, lips pressed into a thin line.

Val looked around the room like she was considering setting the whole table on fire, but finally closed the file in her hand with a tight snap.

“Fine,” she said, “Whatever.“

And no one argued. Not after that.

You leaned into Bucky just slightly, your tone airy as ever. “I thought I handled that well.”

He didn’t smile—not really—but you felt the way his hand found your thigh under the table.

“You always do,” he murmured.

Your bedroom, That night

“James, you’re not admiring me enough.”

Your voice came out in a lazy drawl, like it wasn’t the first time you’d said it tonight—or ever.

Bucky didn’t look away from you, not even for a second. “I am, baby.”

His voice was quiet. Rough. The kind of hoarse that came from restraint, not disinterest.

He was seated in your vanity chair, his long legs spread wide, arms resting on his thighs. The golden light from a dozen candles danced across his face—across the sharp set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his throat bobbed when his eyes dropped lower.

The room smelled like rose oil and candle wax. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the cool New York summer air creep in, stirring the silk curtains. The rest of the Watchtower was asleep—or pretending to be.

You were stretched across your bed like something out of a painting, legs bare, skin glowing under dim candlelight. The rose gold silk of your nightgown clung to you like it was made for this moment, slipping dangerously off one shoulder.

And on your right hand—on your ring finger—the Pink Star Diamond glittered in a way that could never be mistaken for synthetic.

It sparkled as you moved, slowly dragging your hand down the curve of your own body, letting the diamond catch the light—your collarbone, your sternum, the dip of your waist.

Bucky's jaw clenched.

“Do you like it?” you asked, eyes meeting his through your lashes.

“You know I do,” he murmured.

“Mm. You haven’t said it.”

“Sayin’ it doesn’t do shit compared to what I wanna do, sweetheart.”

You stretched just enough to shift the way the silk slid over your skin, the gown riding high over your thigh as you tilted your chin toward him. The diamond caught another sliver of candlelight as you turned your hand, admiring it like it was a museum piece.

“I think it pairs nicely with this,” you said, voice honeyed, fingertip grazing the diamond choker around your neck — icy white, square-cut stones sitting flush against your collarbone.

Bucky’s gaze dropped instantly, breath catching in his throat.

“This one,” you murmured, drawing your hand slowly down between your breasts, “I stole in Prague. Four years ago.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. His fists clenched on his thighs.

You watched him watch you. Watched his restraint unravel one breath at a time.

The gown dipped as you rolled one shoulder forward, then the other. Silk slid down your arms, slow and fluid, catching briefly on your wrists before slipping away entirely.

The fabric pooled at your waist.

You made no move to cover yourself.

Instead, you lifted the hand with the Pink Star and cupped your breast — a subtle arch of your back pressing into your own touch, thumb brushing lazily over your nipple as you let out a soft, unaffected hum.

“I think it looks best like this,” you said, eyes locked on his. “Don’t you?”

Bucky looked wrecked.

Absolutely still.

Like touching himself would be a sin, but staying still was agony.

His voice broke low. “Jesus, baby…”

You adjusted your hand slightly, the Pink Star flashing as your fingers squeezed around your breast just enough to make him twitch in his seat.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared — like you were sacred and obscene all at once.

“You’re being very well-behaved tonight, Jamie.”

Your voice was soft, mockingly sweet — the tone you used when you wanted to draw blood with sugar. You dragged your thumb in a lazy circle, making your breath hitch just slightly, enough for effect.

“Is that for me?” you asked, tilting your head, eyes dropping briefly to the very obvious, very strained bulge in his pants. “Or are you just always that hard when you see me with something expensive on my body?”

His jaw flexed, a vein in his neck twitching. He still didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

This wasn’t new. Not for either of you.

Every time you acquired something rare — something stolen, expensive, yours — you made him sit like this. Made him watch as you modeled it, draped in nothing but luxury and intent. A necklace, a bracelet, a pair of earrings you'd lifted off a diplomat's mistress in Vienna.

Your thumb dragged over your nipple again, slow, absent, like you were just adjusting—like you hadn’t just knocked the breath out of him. The diamond on your finger flashed with the movement, sharp and pink and impossibly perfect.

“I think,” you said softly, “it deserves to be seen on something beautiful.”

Bucky was dead silent. Tense. Hard. Eyes fixed to your chest like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

You pinched your nipple between two fingers and let out a quiet, breathy sound that wasn’t quite a moan—just enough to let him feel it. His throat worked as he swallowed hard.

You let your hand trail down the center of your chest, past the soft dip of your sternum, fingers skating over your stomach before curling over the edge of your thigh. The candlelight made your skin look warmer, shinier—like satin layered over heat.

You shifted on the bed, spreading your legs just enough for the silk to fall open between them.

And then you smiled — slow, satisfied, dangerous.

“Don’t worry,” you purred, lifting your chin slightly. “You’ll get to touch.”

A beat.

“When I say.”

You watched his throat bob, the way his metal hand gripped the arm of the chair like it might snap.

You bit your bottom lip and let your legs fall a little wider.

“But for now…” your fingers ghosted across your inner thigh, just high enough to make his breath catch again, “you can keep watching.”

You let your knees fall wider, silk gathering at your hips, the cool air licking at the wet heat between your thighs. You could feel how soaked you already were—just from him watching, from the look in his eyes like he was praying and dying at the same time.

His breath was shallow now. Barely held.

You brought the hand with your diamond down, the weight of it glinting across your knuckles as your fingers brushed through your folds, slow and slick.

Bucky exhaled like he’d been punched.

You dragged your middle finger through your wetness again, slower this time—gathering everything at your entrance before circling your clit with the kind of practiced ease that made you hum in your throat.

“See?” you murmured, eyes locked on his. “Looks good with everything.”

Your finger dipped lower, slid inside—just the tip—and then pulled back out, glistening under the candlelight. You let him see it, held it up briefly like you were about to taste yourself, before trailing it back down again.

His legs shifted like he might stand, but you shook your head once, gently. “Stay.”

He froze. Swallowed hard.

You pushed two fingers in this time—slow, deep, your wrist angling to curl against that soft spot that always made your thighs twitch. You let out a quiet breath and arched, back pressing into the mattress as your palm flexed against your own heat.

The diamond caught the candlelight again as your hand moved—subtle, steady, your breathing picking up as the slick sound of your fingers filled the room.

“Do you know what turns me on the most?” you said softly, your voice catching on a gasp as you pressed deeper. “Knowing you’re sitting there, aching, while I get myself off with your favorite view in the world.”

Bucky’s hands gripped the chair again—one flesh, one metal—white-knuckled and silent, his eyes glued to your fingers moving in and out, knuckles glistening, thighs flexing.

You rolled your hips into your hand, thumb circling your clit now, pressure building fast.

And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You looked at him—sweaty, wrecked, waiting.

And you smiled.

“Good boy.”

You barely had time to pull your fingers out before he was on his feet.

The chair scraped back against the floor, and then Bucky was moving—fast, silent, like a man pulled off a leash. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed, hands braced on either side of your thighs, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d been running.

You tilted your head, smug even now. “Took you long enough.”

He didn’t respond.

He just hooked his hands under your thighs, yanked you closer in one hard pull, and buried his face between your legs.

Your gasp hit the ceiling.

His mouth was hot, wet, desperate. There was no easing into it—no slow, teasing warm-up. He licked you like he needed it, like he’d been starving for it. Tongue flat at first, dragging up your folds, collecting the mess you’d made on your fingers. Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, slow and firm, moaning like he was the one getting off.

You fisted the sheets, eyes slamming shut as your hips jerked up into his face.

“Fuck—James—”

His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you still, dragging you closer, his nose pressed right against you as his tongue worked in tight, devastating circles. The stubble on his jaw scraped against your skin in the best possible way. Your breath hitched with every pull of his mouth, every little sound he made like he was drunk on the taste of you.

And when he shifted lower, dragging the tip of his tongue down to your entrance, you felt him moan—felt it, the vibration of it buzzing right through your core as he fucked you with his tongue, messy and slow and deep.

“James—” you breathed, your voice breaking. You reached down, hand tangling in his hair, diamond flashing as your fingers curled against his scalp.

He groaned again, the sound raw, needy, and gripped your hips tighter, rutting his face into you like he was trying to drown. One hand slid up—flesh—and pressed down firmly on your stomach, pinning you to the bed like he knew you were about to come.

And he was right.

You shattered in seconds.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your hand dragging through his hair as your orgasm ripped through you sharp and fast, your hips jerking under his mouth as he kept going, licking you through it like he needed to make sure you felt every second of it.

He didn’t stop until you pushed at his head with a shaking hand, breathless and ruined.

Even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. Your slick was smeared across his chin, his lips red and glistening.

“Fuck,” you murmured, voice hoarse.

He looked up at you like you were holy. “Now let me fuck you.”

You lay back against the pillows, your thighs slick and parted, the diamond catching flickers of candlelight as your hand dropped to your side. Breath steadying. Body humming.

Bucky stood slowly, still panting slightly, eyes never leaving you. You watched him reach for the hem of his shirt, grip it tight, and pull it over his head in one smooth motion.

You always loved watching him strip.

It wasn’t even about the muscle—though that was perfect too, buff and scarred and solid—it was the way he offered himself. Like the moment his skin was bare, he belonged to you again.

He unbuckled his belt next. His pants hit the floor in seconds, and your eyes dropped to his cock—already flushed, thick, twitching, and leaking for you.

You bit your lip, letting your legs fall wider.

“Come here.”

He climbed onto the bed without hesitation, crawling between your thighs with a low grunt, hands already spreading you open again like he couldn’t get enough.

But he didn’t line up just yet.

No—he stared.

Then he reached for your cunt with his flesh hand first, sliding two fingers through your slick, watching them glisten. He dragged them up, circled your clit lazily, and then brought them back down to tease at your entrance—slow, just enough to make you twitch.

“Still so wet,” he rasped, his voice thick with awe. “Fuck, baby…”

You lifted your chin, smirking through your haze. “That’s what happens when you use your mouth instead of your attitude.”

He huffed a laugh against your inner thigh, then pushed his fingers in—two at once, filling you with ease. Your back arched slightly, the stretch so much bigger than your own touch had been.

He curled them just right. Pressed deep. His thumb rubbed at your clit again in tight, controlled circles as he watched your face like it held all the answers.

You moaned, soft and breathy. “Just like that. Fuck—James.”

He groaned, forehead pressing to your thigh for a second, then looked back up at you, pupils blown wide.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he said, voice rough, honest.

You just smiled and tilted your hips toward him, cunt still fluttering around his fingers. “Then don’t.”

Bucky pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your cunt clenched even after they were gone. You were still dripping, the insides of your thighs slick, the scent of your arousal thick in the air.

He shifted forward on his knees, hand wrapping around the base of his cock.

Thick. Hard. Heavy. The head flushed, already leaking pre-come.

He didn’t thrust in right away.

No.

He dragged the tip through your folds first, slow and deliberate, groaning low in his throat as your slick coated him. Up and down, again and again, catching on your clit just enough to make you jolt.

You sucked in a breath, thighs twitching, but didn’t tell him to stop.

He pressed his cock against your entrance—not pushing in, just resting there, teasing you with the weight of it—then pulled back to glide through your heat again, slower this time.

“Fuck,” he breathed, jaw clenched. “You’re so wet. I could slide in without even trying.”

You grinned, your voice low and mocking. “Then stop trying so hard.”

He huffed a laugh, his free hand gripping your thigh, holding you open.

Another slow grind of his cock through your folds.

And then—

He lined up properly. Pressed forward.

And sank into you.

Your mouth dropped open, a breath catching deep in your chest as he filled you in one steady, unforgiving thrust. No rush, no hesitation—just a smooth, deep slide that had you gasping by the time his hips met yours.

“Fuck—” he groaned, head dropping for a moment, his forehead brushing yours. “You feel like heaven.”

You clenched around him, pulling him deeper, dragging your nails across his back.

“You feel like mine,” you whispered.

And then he started to move.

He started slow—just for a second—dragging his cock out until only the tip remained inside you, then slamming back in with a force that knocked a sharp moan out of your throat.

Then again.

And again.

And again.

Relentless. Deep.

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass filled the room, loud and filthy, mixed with the wet drag of your cunt pulling at him like your body knew it was built for this.

You gripped his arms tight, nails digging into muscle and metal— and for a split second, your eyes caught on the contrast of your hand against his vibranium bicep.

The Pink Star flashed.

The diamond, shining and delicate, pressed against matte vibranium.

“Oh,” you gasped, laughing breathlessly even as he fucked you through it, “that looks so good together—”

Bucky grunted above you, hips stuttering just a bit. “Baby—”

You squeezed tighter, legs wrapping around his waist, dragging him in deeper, tighter. “Don’t stop. Just—god, sweetie—look at it.”

He didn’t.

He couldn’t.

His face was buried in your neck now, teeth scraping your skin as he rutted into you, desperate, panting, gone.

“Fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight, always—can’t—”

You clenched around him on purpose, smiling through your moans. “You gonna come already, baby? Or do I have to ride you ‘til you cry?”

He groaned—deep and broken—his thrusts growing erratic, harder.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

You arched beneath him, the diamond catching one last flicker of candlelight as he slammed into you over and over, the bed creaking, your body singing.

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Yours, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Not until he was buried so deep inside you it felt like you were one breath away from breaking apart completely.

His vibranium hand pinned both your wrists above your head, the cool metal firm against your skin, holding you open, helpless beneath him—not that you ever minded. You loved when he held you like this. Controlled you like this.

You felt his rhythm stutter for just a moment—his breath catching as his eyes flicked up, just barely—

To your hand.

To the Pink Star glittering on your ring finger, pressed tight beneath his palm, your fingers flexing under his grip every time his cock punched into you deep.

“Yeah,” he rasped, letting out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “You’re right, baby. That does look good.”

Then he slammed into you, harder, rougher—dragging a cry from your throat as your back arched off the bed.

“Fuck, baby—this pussy’s mine,” he gritted out, jaw tight, fucking you like he needed to brand it into your body.

“You are mine,” you panted, breath breaking into soft, frantic sounds as your orgasm coiled sharp in your gut. “All of you—this cock—your mouth—your fucking arm—mine.”

His head dropped to your shoulder as he groaned, full-body shaking, thrusts messy now, erratic, hips slamming into you over and over. The head of his cock dragged right against that perfect spot inside you, over and over, until your legs trembled and your cunt clamped around him—until suddenly he pulled out, slick and heavy, leaving you gasping at the loss.

You didn’t have time to complain.

He grabbed your hips, hands rough and urgent, flipping you with practiced ease. His metal hand pressed into your lower back, firm but not harsh, guiding you down to the mattress until your spine arched perfectly, ass up, face against the sheets.

You loved when he got like this.

When the control slipped just a little. When his restraint cracked open and you could feel the desperation underneath.

“Just like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse, reverent. “God, look at you…”

You felt him stroke the head of his cock through your folds again, dragging it through the mess between your thighs.

Then—he slammed back in.

Hard. Deep.

You let out a choked moan, fingers clutching the sheets as he gripped your hips and fucked you harder than before. The angle was brutal — his cock hitting deeper, faster, the sound of skin on skin now filthy and loud.

“Fuck, darlin’, you’re so tight like this,” he growled, pounding into you with sharp, perfect thrusts. “You love it—don’t you? Letting me bend you. Letting me take you.”

“Yes—yes, James—fuck, don’t stop—”

He grunted, grabbing a fistful of your hair with his flesh hand, pulling you up just slightly, your back still arched, mouth slack and moaning. His other hand stayed locked on your hip, keeping you in place, keeping you right where he wanted you.

Your whole body was shaking, orgasm coiling tighter, your cunt clenching around him again and again.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he rasped against your shoulder. “Bent over like my perfect fuckin’ toy?”

You nodded, nearly sobbing, hips pushing back against him. “Yeah—I’m—fuck, James—I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he growled. “Do it for me.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit hard, but Bucky wasn’t finished.

Not even close.

He pulled out just long enough to haul you back against him — one strong arm wrapping around your waist, the other anchoring your thigh as he dragged you into his lap. Your back met his chest, slick skin to slick skin, his cock sliding between your folds again as he settled you down on top of him.

You let out a sharp gasp as he thrust up into you from below—hard and deep—the new angle making your whole body jerk, your cunt already pulsing from how wrecked you were.

He held you there, tight against him, your legs spread wide across his thighs, his metal hand gripping your jaw as he turned your head.

You didn’t resist.

Your mouth found his in a hungry, desperate kiss — your tongues tangling immediately, breathing each other in like you needed it. His kiss was filthy and soft at once, the kind that tasted like devotion wrapped in lust, the kind that said I’d die for you, but first I’m going to fuck you until you forget your own name.

He fucked up into you hard and fast, your bodies slapping together, your breasts bouncing with every thrust as he moaned into your mouth.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, lips dragging to your jaw, your neck, kissing everything he could reach. “You take it so fucking good… tight little cunt just pulling me in—fuck—I’m so close—”

You could barely breathe, your head dropping to his shoulder, one hand gripping his thigh, the other tangled in his hair as he fucked you through another aftershock, your body shaking in his arms.

“James—fuck—I want it—want you to come inside me—”

His whole body jerked.

And then he did.

With a broken groan against your neck, his cock throbbed deep inside you, pulsing hard as he spilled into you, hips stuttering with each twitch, his arms wrapped around your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He held you there. Still. Breathing hard.

Your cunt still fluttered around him, your whole body sticky and spent and trembling.

You smiled against his shoulder, breathless, boneless, full.

And he kissed the side of your face like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then his breathing slowed, heartbeat thudding heavy against your back as the last few pulses of his orgasm faded. You stayed there, slumped against him, skin sticky with sweat, his arms still locked around your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

But then he shifted — carefully, gently — kissing the curve of your shoulder as he pulled his cock from you, slow and deliberate.

You whimpered softly at the loss.

The stretch, the heat, the fullness—all of it slipping away as his cock slid free, dragging through your soaked folds one last time.

And then you felt it.

Warmth.

His come leaking out of you, thick and heavy, trickling slowly down the inside of your thigh.

You sighed, content. Possessed. Ruined.

Bucky let out a soft, wrecked sound behind you—half groan, half awe—as he looked down between your bodies and saw it.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice low, reverent. “Look at that.”

His metal hand drifted down your stomach, tracing over your pelvis before his fingers slipped lower—collecting his own spend as it spilled from your cunt.

He rubbed it in. Slow. Gentle. Almost like he was marking you with it.

“Messy girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck. “You love when I fuck it this deep, don’t you?”

You let out a soft, satisfied hum, still dazed, your hand reaching back to curl around his thigh. “Just like I said…” you whispered, voice lazy, lips curling into a small smile. “Everything that’s yours is mine.”

His chest rumbled behind you. And he didn’t argue.

You exhaled slowly as you slid off his lap, your legs wobbly, your thighs still sticky with him. He caught your arm gently to steady you, but you were already shifting back onto the bed, sprawling lazily across the sheets like a queen returned to her throne.

You stretched, just a little, then sighed.

“Run me a bath,” you murmured, voice hazy but firm. “And bring me another nightgown, please. One of the white silk ones.”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question.

“Yes, baby.”

He leaned down to press a kiss to your shoulder, then stood — naked, flushed, his cock still glistening with you as he padded toward the bathroom first to start the water.

The soft sound of running water filled the space.

Then he disappeared into your closet.

The doors opened into a space almost as large as your bedroom — walls lined with mirrors, plush carpet underfoot, the scent of your perfume hanging faint in the air.

One side was filled floor to ceiling with clothing: dresses, robes, gowns, coats arranged by fabric and color. Beneath them, rows of heels, boots, and custom shoes in velvet-lined cubbies.

The other side?

Glass cases and open displays sat under soft lighting, each one housing a piece that could bankrupt a small country. Famous jewels that had vanished off the face of the earth—now resting silently in your private gallery.

The Luxembourg Sapphire.

The La Peregrina Pearl.

The Florentine Diamond.

Bucky walked past it all with the quiet, familiar interest of someone who’d seen it all before… and still felt like he wasn’t supposed to.

He didn’t touch anything.

He just found the white silk nightgown you asked for—thin, sleeveless, soft enough to slide over your skin like water—and brought it back to you.

You were still on the bed, eyes half-lidded, legs open, the candlelight dancing on your still-exposed skin.

“Bath’s almost ready,” he said softly, offering the gown.

You took it without a word, slipping it on slowly, deliberately. And smoothed the silk down over your thighs, the fabric catching just slightly where your skin was still sticky and flushed.

You looked up, and there he was.

Still watching you.

His body was relaxed, but his eyes were locked on yours — heavy-lidded, reverent. Like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch you again or just stand there and thank god you let him breathe the same air.

You lifted your arms slowly, languidly, wrists loose, fingers curled just slightly.

“Take me to my bath?”

Your voice was low. Barely a question.

His mouth twitched, lips curling into something soft, a little wrecked.

“‘Course, darlin’,” he murmured.

And then he stepped close, bent down, and slid his arms under your legs and behind your back — lifting you like it cost him nothing.

You sank into his hold, arms curling around his shoulders, nose brushing his neck as he carried you into the bathroom.

Later That Night

The room was quiet now, save for the faint hum of the city through the barely cracked window and the occasional creak of the bed shifting under your bodies.

The candles had mostly burned down, little pools of wax cooling in their glass bases, shadows soft and heavy across the walls. The sheets were a mess beneath you—kicked halfway off the bed, damp with sweat, and still carrying the scent of sex and silk.

You were naked again, your white nightgown discarded somewhere on the floor after round two had turned slow and rough—deeper, more desperate.

Now, you were draped half on top of him—chest to chest, your thigh slung over his hips, toes brushing his shin. His cock lay soft and spent between you, trapped under the weight of your thigh, resting against the hard plane of his stomach, still tacky with the evidence of just how hard he’d come inside you.

Your cheek was pressed to the side of his throat, your nose brushing lazily along the sharp line of his jaw as your lips planted slow, wandering kisses.

His arms were around you, one hand splayed wide on your lower back, the other lazily gliding up and down your spine—not really comforting you, more like soothing himself. Like keeping you close was the only thing holding him steady.

Your fingers toyed lightly with his hair, the weight of the Pink Star still glinting faintly in the low light as it caught against the strands at his temple. You hadn’t taken it off.

You never took your newest prize off the first night. It was a rule. Possession needed to be felt after all.

But this?

This was the part of the night no one else ever got to see.

No cruelty. No teasing. No commands.

Just you. A little sleepy. A little warm. Nuzzling his neck like a cat in her favorite sunspot, soft kisses trailing down his pulse point.

Bucky didn’t speak. He never did first. He just let you have this—his body, his warmth, the silence.

Because this was the closest thing you ever came to asking for comfort. And he knew that.

Your lips brushed his neck again, slower this time—less a kiss, more a lingering press of your mouth against his pulse. Your breath was warm on his skin, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw.

You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t change your tone. Just whispered.

“You won’t make me give back my diamonds… will you, James?”

The question hung in the dark between you—delicate, heavy, threaded with something that wasn’t quite fear but not far from it.

It wasn’t about the Pink Star.

Not really.

It was about the whole closet of them. The ones you stole before you met him. The ones you wore like armor. The ones no one ever understood. The ones that made people think they knew you—when they didn’t.

But he did.

You didn’t look at him as you said it. Just buried your nose in the crook of his neck, lips brushing his collarbone as you pressed another soft kiss there—almost like an apology.

He was quiet for a moment.

Then his arm curled tighter around your back.

His vibranium hand slid up the length of your spine with that same slow rhythm, fingertips dragging gently, almost reverently, like he was tracing the edges of something precious.

“No, baby,” he said softly. “I won’t make you give back anything.”

Your lashes fluttered against his skin as you breathed him in—warm and steady and always there. You didn’t answer his words. Didn’t say thank you. You just pressed another kiss to the hollow of his throat, your hand now lazily tracing down the slope of his chest, not teasing—just feeling.

It was quiet again.

But you weren’t done. Your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“You love me, don’t you?”

It wasn’t coy. It wasn’t playful. Just soft. Raw. Honest.

Like if he didn’t answer, the silence might fill with something too sharp to swallow.

He turned his head just slightly, lips brushing your temple, breath fanning across your hair.

“I do,” he whispered. “God, I do.”

Your hand stilled against his chest.

Then, a little quieter—

“You need me?”

His grip on your back tightened for just a second, like his body responded before he could.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispered. “More than anything.”

You didn’t speak right away. Your mouth just trailed lower along his jaw, pressing the kind of kisses you never gave anyone else. Slow. Thoughtful. Like you were imprinting yourself into his skin.

And then—

You breathed it into the space between his throat and shoulder. Quiet. Dangerous.

“You’ll never leave me…?”

His hand lifted to the back of your head, cradling it gently, thumb brushing your hairline.

“Never.“

His voice was firm now. Steady. Certain.

“Even if the whole world turns on you,” he murmured, “I won’t. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything else. Didn’t need to.

His hand stayed at the back of your head, stroking slow, mindless circles as your body finally started to sink against him—your breathing evening out, your leg still thrown over his hips like you were anchoring him to the bed.

The Pink Star glinted faintly in the low light, still on your finger, resting against his ribs as your hand settled over his heart.

And somewhere, in that half-conscious haze between desire and sleep, your mind wandered.

Diamonds.

You had hundreds of them.

Tucked away in velvet and glass, sealed behind locks and systems no one could break.

Each one rare. Priceless. A little dangerous.

But none of them compared to him.

He wasn’t flawless. Wasn’t carved or polished. He was scarred. Weathered. Real.

And he was yours.

Your most precious diamond.

You wouldn’t give him back either.

Ever.

Not even if the whole world demanded it.

You smiled against his neck, the last of your thoughts slipping into sleep as his arms tightened just slightly around you.

And you didn’t need to say you’re his.

That part was obvious.

Bucky when his girl is so obviously guilty and in the wrong:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @ashpeace888 @bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @lilac13 @fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @ozwriterchick

Then you saw it.

A single cup sat in the center of the kitchen island, white, ceramic, no lid. Steam still rose gently from the dark liquid inside, curling in delicate tendrils into the morning air. And on the paper cup sleeve, from the little café down the road that you liked, someone had doodled a crescent moon. Your breath caught. That was your moon. The same stylized shape you’d doodle on notepads, whiteboards, even the corner of mission maps. The same one that matched the silver pendant you wore around your neck, always hidden beneath your neckline.

You stepped closer. The scent hit you first, a rich, bold roast with a hint of cinnamon and just a splash of oat milk: exactly how you ordered it. You picked up the cup slowly, eyes scanning the kitchen, the hall, even the windows, but there was no one. Not a sound of retreating footsteps, no rustle of movement, nothing.

Except…

Out past the glass, heading toward the training wing, a figure moved briskly across the courtyard. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hoodie pulled up despite the July heat. The way he walked, stiff, precise, like he was trying not to look like he was walking away from something.

Bucky.

You blinked, instinctively stepping closer to the window, the warmth of the cup seeping into your hands. He didn’t look back. His pace didn’t falter. But something in your gut twisted, that odd fluttering feeling, soft and uninvited, like the moment just before a dream becomes something real.

You took a cautious sip. It was the perfect temperature.

There was no note or message, nothing but the doodle and the unshakable feeling that someone, maybe Bucky, had been paying much closer attention than you ever expected.

And for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion faded just a little.

*****

Lunch at the compound was always a strange affair—never quite formal, never quite casual, its tone dictated by who was present and whether the latest mission had ended in triumph or disaster. That afternoon, the kitchen hummed with quiet energy as Sam held court, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin while recounting Steve’s near-collision with a rogue protein shake spill. Natasha smirked into her coffee, Clint chimed in about finishing a thriller on the quinjet ride back, and soon the table had launched into favorite author confessions—Sam swearing by Octavia Butler, Natasha standing firm on Le Carré, and Vision offering a dignified nod to Austen, earning a groan from Sam.

“I used to read The Secret of Rowan Hollow every summer,” you said absently, more to yourself than anyone else, the name tumbling out like a familiar melody. “My aunt had this battered old copy with half the cover torn off. It had these eerie little black-and-white illustrations between the chapters. Felt like magic.”

Wanda glanced over with interest. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No one has,” you replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s out of print. I looked for it once, but it was like it vanished with my childhood.” You shrugged, brushing it off with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, then changed the subject before the ache of nostalgia could linger too long.

You forgot about it by dinner.

You remembered it again the next week when you stepped into your room and found the package sitting neatly in the center of your bed.

It was wrapped in brown paper, carefully folded and secured with a thin piece of twine, like something from a quaint corner bookstore . You hesitated, closing the door slowly behind you, and approached it with cautious curiosity. A small white tag had been slipped beneath the twine, but it didn’t have your name, only a tiny ink drawing of your crescent moon.

You slipped your finger under the seam and peeled the paper back.

Your heart stuttered.

The Secret of Rowan Hollow. The exact edition you remembered, aged but pristine, with that haunting forest illustration across the front and those familiar fraying edges you’d once traced again and again as a kid.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, almost afraid the whole thing would vanish if you blinked too hard. Your fingers hovered over the embossed title, then gently opened the cover. Pressed between the pages, page seventy-two, the scene with the ghost in the attic, was a daisy. Dried, whole, and perfectly preserved.

It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

Your mind raced through the few people who might do something like this. Steve? Maybe. Nat? Unlikely. Tony wouldn’t bother. But your gut, your instinct, told you exactly who it was. You looked over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to be watching from the hallway, but it was empty. 

Your eyes lingered on the book again. The flower.

No name, but a shape was starting to form in your thoughts. A tall shadow who moved like he didn’t want to be seen. A man who hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you, but always seemed to be somewhere nearby, watching without watching. Guarding without permission. 

You ran your thumb gently over the soft edge of the daisy, your chest blooming with something warm and fragile.

You didn’t know for sure yet, but you were beginning to suspect.

*****

The training wing always smelled faintly of sweat and rubber mats, sun-baked steel and adrenaline. Mornings here were usually quiet, early risers like Steve and Bucky cycling through punishing routines in near silence, but today, you’d been roped into a sparring session after Natasha claimed she “needed to see your right hook in action.”

Somehow, that had landed you on the mat across from Bucky Barnes.

He stood across from you now, calm and composed, arms loose at his sides, chest rising and falling beneath a slate gray T-shirt that clung just a little too well to the sculpted muscle beneath. His vibranium arm glinted under the overhead lights, that beautiful, sleek Wakandan design that hummed with silent power. There was a strange softness to him today, like he’d sanded down the sharpest edges.

His blue eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “You ready?”

You gave a playful roll of your shoulders, brushing a lock of hair back with the back of your hand. “Unless you’re scared of being shown up by a girl.”

A flicker of something, a smirk, maybe, tugged at the corner of his mouth. It vanished just as quickly.

“Nope,” he muttered, voice low and steady. “Just don’t want to break you.”

You laughed, stepping forward into position. “Try me, Tin Man.”

Ten minutes later, your lungs were burning and your knuckles smarted.

Bucky moved like water, fluid, efficient, and effortless. You could feel how much he was holding back in the way he dodged just enough to avoid contact, how he didn’t follow through on openings he could’ve exploited. He was careful, like if he hit too hard, you might vanish in a puff of dust.

You pushed harder because of it.

You landed a glancing blow to his side that made his eyebrow tick up. That was reward enough.

But then you tried a more ambitious combo, a sweep, a pivot, and a right cross that didn’t quite land right, and you felt the jolt immediately.

Pain burst across your knuckles, dull and pulsing. You hissed, pulling your hand back and shaking it out.

Bucky stepped forward instantly. “You alright?”

His voice dropped, concerned now. You nodded, stubborn, even as you cradled your hand against your chest.

“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth. “Just... overextended.”

He looked at your hand, then at your face. His jaw clenched. “You need to stop when that happens.”

His concern was real, edged with guilt, and something softer, tucked beneath the careful blankness in his expression.

You tilted your head, voice dipping just enough to sound coy. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a full second of silence, then back to your hand. His next words were quiet.

“I notice things.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Yeah?”

A beat. His lips parted like he might say something more, but instead, he nodded once, turned away, and muttered, “You should ice that.”

And just like that, the moment slipped from your fingers.

You made your way to the locker room alone a few minutes later, hand throbbing despite your best attempts to play it off. You sat on the bench, peeled off your gloves, and sighed at the angry red swelling across your knuckles. You were already dreading the stiffness.

Then you opened your locker.

Inside sat a small black zip-up pouch, a first-aid kit. Not the standard-issue kind the compound kept on hand, but a personalized one. Inside were your preferred flexible bandages, a cold pack, some gentle antiseptic balm, and, taped to the top, a square of dark chocolate and a yellow sticky note.

The handwriting was neat and blocky. You recognized it.

“You held your ground today.”

You stared at the note, your fingers curling around the chocolate like it might vanish if you didn’t hold onto it tightly enough.

It was him. It had to be.

And if you weren’t sure before, the tension in the gym, the way he watched you like you were some kind of impossible equation he couldn’t solve, the look in his eyes when you teased him, now you were certain.

You had a secret admirer. And his name was Bucky Barnes.

*****

It had been an offhand comment, one of those throwaway observations you make when you’re running on caffeine and a few hours of sleep, chatting just to keep your brain from turning off. You and Sam were walking side by side, each holding to-go mugs from the kitchen, trading bits of small talk on your way to the admin wing.

You tucked your free hand into your hoodie pocket and let out a breath. “My room still feels like a rental unit.”

Sam looked over, raising a brow. “You’ve lived here for over a year.”

“Exactly.” You sipped your coffee, wincing slightly, too hot. “I keep saying I’m going to decorate, but then missions happen, or someone blows up a hallway, or I just, I don’t know, forget.”

He smiled knowingly. “So decorate. What do you want?”

You hummed, thinking aloud. “I don’t know. Just something small. A plant, maybe. Something green. I feel like it would brighten things up a little. Bring some life in.”

Sam gave you a mock gasp. “You? A plant parent?”

You grinned. “Only the kind that doesn’t judge me for neglect.”

“Maybe you need something cursed and dramatic,” he teased, giving your arm a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Like a poisonous orchid that only blooms at midnight.”

You laughed as you turned the corner. “You joke, but I’d probably forget to water that too.”

The conversation drifted to other things, mission updates, Steve’s growing obsession with protein powder, the truly wretched breakfast Tony had tried to make earlier, and you didn’t think about the plant again after that.

But someone else had.

The admin wing of the compound was always cooler in the late morning, its temperature carefully calibrated to keep Stark’s precious server systems from overheating. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you made your way through the hallway, the soft soles of your sneakers whispering against the polished floor. You'd only stopped by your desk to drop off a signed report, half expecting a clutter of outdated files and a broken pen or two, but what you found instead made you stop short in the doorway.

It was small, simple, and alive.

A pothos plant sat neatly on the corner of your desk, its deep green leaves spilling over the ceramic edge of a round, glossy pot. The color of the planter was dark, nearly black with a faint shimmer in the light, like night sky glaze, and the leaves looked freshly watered, vibrant and thriving. Tied to one of the stems with a bit of twine was a hand-lettered tag made from thick, soft paper. Your fingers brushed it gently as you read:

“Low maintenance. But still needs care.”

Your stomach fluttered, not from confusion anymore, but from confirmation. Whoever had been leaving these things knew you. Or at least, they were trying to. It was thoughtful and deliberate, almost tender.

Your lips curved upward, slow and involuntary. The kind of smile that bloomed without thought, the kind you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

You turned slightly, scanning the hallway through the glass wall beside your desk. At first, you only glimpsed empty space, but then you saw him.

Across the corridor, half-shadowed near a supply alcove, stood Bucky Barnes. His back was to the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you in the stillest, quietest way.

He didn’t flinch when you met his gaze.

For a moment, one long, suspended beat, the air between you pulled tight, like a cord drawn taut between two ends. You could feel it in your chest. He wasn’t looking through you, pretending his focus was on something else. He was watching you, unblinking, like he needed to memorize something before it was gone.

And then, just like that, he looked away.

He pushed off the wall with one slow movement and walked down the hall without a word, shoulders hunched slightly, head down like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You stood frozen in place, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of the plant’s pot, heart fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird.

He’d seen you smile. He’d stayed just long enough to make sure you did.

*****

The common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday. You sat curled up in the corner of the sectional, an open tablet on your lap, one leg tucked under you and the other swinging slightly over the edge. You weren’t really reading. You’d scrolled past the same paragraph three times, barely seeing the words. Your focus had drifted elsewhere, into a quiet, persistent question you could no longer ignore.

Your thumb idly traced the rim of your mug as your mind replayed the moments in reverse. The quiet footsteps down the hallway. The look across the admin wing. The way Bucky had stood there, half in shadow, watching you smile at something he’d left, like he needed proof that he hadn’t gotten it wrong.

You couldn’t deny it.

It was him.

And he wasn’t just being nice. These weren’t generic gestures, they were personal. He was showing you the kind of attention no one ever gave unless they were really listening. 

You shifted on the couch, heart pounding as the realization settled in. You’d been seen in a way that was careful and quiet and completely unspoken.

But the part that made your chest ache was that he hadn’t said a word.

He watched, he gave, and he disappeared.

A part of you wanted to march straight to his room and say something, anything, but there was still that invisible wall between you. You could feel it every time he left a room just before you entered, or how his eyes would flick to you like a reflex before darting away again. Like he was afraid of being caught wanting something he didn’t believe he was allowed to have.

You set the mug down gently and rose to your feet.

You didn’t know what he was afraid of: rejection, being wrong, being seen in return. But you already knew he didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Tomorrow was your birthday.

And if he left something again, just one more silent offering, one more tender, wordless gift, then that would be it.

You’d stop pretending you didn’t know.

You’d knock on his door and ask him why he was trying so hard to love you from a distance.

*****

You weren’t expecting anything.

That was the lie you told yourself as you stood in front of your door the next morning, fingers hesitating just inches from the handle. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday to anyone. It was buried somewhere in your file or an HR calendar no one ever looked at, but it wasn’t the kind of day you usually drew attention to. Too many birthdays had come and gone with more silence than celebration. You’d gotten used to carrying the day quietly.

But this year felt different.

Because this year, you weren’t alone. Not since the coffee, the book, the chocolate, the plant, and the way he watched you like you mattered, even if he never said it.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and opened the door.

A small gift bag sat on the floor. The tissue paper inside was a muted silver, and it rustled softly as you knelt down and pulled it aside with tentative fingers.

Inside was a slice of cake, your favorite flavor, still chilled, the frosting wrapped neatly in wax paper to keep it from smudging. There was a candle tucked beside it, unlit, but the message was there all the same: someone remembered. Someone cared enough to make sure some sweetness was waiting for you.

You set it aside carefully, breath catching as your hand brushed a small box at the bottom of the bag.

It was velvet. Midnight blue. The kind of box you knew to open slowly.

Inside was a delicate pendant, a teardrop moonstone set in a fine silver chain, iridescent and pale, glowing faintly as it caught the morning light. You gasped before you could stop yourself. You had told Nat once, months ago, in the middle of a stakeout, bored and shivering in the dark, that you always loved moonstone. That it felt like carrying a piece of the sky close to your skin. You hadn’t thought anyone was listening.

Beneath it, folded with near military precision, was a piece of paper.

His handwriting.

You’re the brightest thing in a place full of shadows. I didn’t want to ruin that by being near it. But I hope this still means something. Happy Birthday.

No signature, no initials, but you didn’t need either.

You were already moving down the hall, heart thudding like a drum inside your chest, bare feet whispering across the cold floor. You didn’t even think. Your body knew the way before your mind caught up, past the kitchen, past the empty lounge, until you stood in front of a door you’d walked past a hundred times without ever knocking.

Bucky’s.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your knuckles hit the wood, three soft raps that somehow echoed louder than they should.

The door opened slower than you expected, like he’d known it would be you. He stood in the doorway, hoodie slung low over his brow, dark hair curling slightly at his temples, eyes wide and unreadable.

You held up the bag gently, “You’ve been leaving things for me,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “All this time.”

Bucky’s expression shifted immediately, from blank surprise to something closer to panic, his jaw tensing, eyes flicking down the hall as if looking for a way out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, voice a little too fast, too tight.

“Bucky,” you said, gently, not moving from where you stood. “Don’t do that.”

He shook his head once, almost like a reflex. “I didn’t— It wasn’t me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

“I guess someone else happens to know exactly how I take my coffee. And my favorite book. And the exact brand of bandages I like to keep in my locker. And how I’ve always wanted a moonstone pendant.” You took a slow step forward. “Was it Sam?”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“I did mention the plant to him.” you pushed, tilting your head. “Maybe Tony? I mean, someone left this outside my door this morning. With a note. In your handwriting.”

He flinched.

“Bucky,” you said again, softer now, letting the weight of everything between you settle into your voice. “You’ve been leaving things for me in secret. And I want to know why.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the gift bag, then to the floor. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to yours, throat working around a reply he wasn’t sure he was allowed to give. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to know it was me.”

You took a step forward, holding his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s hand curled around the edge of the doorframe. “Because... I didn’t want to ruin anything. You’re warm. You’re light. I didn’t want to get too close and put shadows over that.”

Your heart cracked, full and aching. “You could never ruin anything.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. “I just wanted you to have good things… And I didn’t think I could say that out loud.”

You reached into the bag, pulled out the moonstone pendant, and held it up between you.

“You did say it,” you whispered. “You just didn’t use words.”

For the first time, he met your eyes and you saw the fear, the tenderness, the desperate hope that maybe he hadn’t misread every silent smile, every teasing comment, every glance you thought was too brief to matter.

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked, voice low and careful, like it might shatter on the way out.

You smiled, and it felt like sunlight pouring out of your chest.

“Only if next time you get me something,” you said, stepping into his space, “you give it to me in person.”

His breath hitched, and then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled, soft, lopsided, and real. 

The man who stepped in looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jacket was damp, his hair curling at the ends from the rain, and when his eyes met yours, your Fig chirped in your ear. 

You almost missed it, but when your eyes dropped, and you saw the metal arm— Wakandan vibranium peeking from the edge of his jacket sleeve. You recognised him immediately. 

Fig tilted his head sharply and gave a warning chirp, feathers fluffed. His stranger danger mode had kicked in.

“He’s not a threat,” you whispered to the bird, which was easier said than done, considering the adorable thing was deathly protective over you.

Bucky looked at Fig. Fig looked back. 

Fig chirped again, and he was not disapproving, just skeptical. He was always wary of people with metal limbs after a bad experience with a garden gnome.

“Another Avenger in my shop,” you said with a welcoming smile. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

He blinked, stopped mid-step like you’d just spoken in Morse code. “I—what?”

“You’re taller in person.” You repeated and shrugged. “Our mutual acquaintance showed me some team-outing photos.”

That earned you a half wary, half confused head tilt, maybe a little amused, but he walked up to the counter anyway. Fig ruffled his feathers, clearly intrigued.

Bucky rested his non-metal hand on the wood between you, glancing around the cosy space. “Bob did say this place was good.”

You gave him a half-smile. Bob came in a few months when he moved to the tower in New York, asking for a blend of herbal leaves that would aid in his recovery, and since then, he had already sent in two other avengers in here– Yelena needed a calming brew and Ava needed one that helped with her energy— but you didn’t think he’d send yet another one your way. 

“He’s right,” you said confidently.

“He said,” Bucky measured his world carefully, “You could help me sleep.”

The words were small, but they didn’t feel fragile. It was as if he’d said them before to empty rooms and gotten nothing back.

You nodded, already turning to reach for a jar labeled Nightangel Brew.

“Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?” you asked. 

“I….” he paused. “A bit of both.”

You worked while you talked, scooping a blend of lemon balm, passionflower, valerian root, and a few curls of dried orange peel into a parchment sachet as an addition to the basic blend. The scent drifted up into the air. It was soothing, almost citrusy.

“No allergies?” you asked, as you scooped a bit of sea salt.

“No,” he confirmed.

You hesitated only a second before writing something on a notecard and slipping it into the brown paper bag with the tea.

He glanced at it, then at you. “You put your number on here.”

“Yep.”

He looked at you, amused but not complaining. “That’s… bold.”

You leaned in a bit. “Relax,” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “I only put my phone number in there in case you have questions about brewing the tea.”

Bucky took the sachet, eyes narrowing slightly. “You brew it differently?”

You shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not just steep-and-dump. If you want flavour and effect, you’ve gotta be kind to it. Use a covered mug to keep the volatile oils from evaporating. Bonus points if you add honey after it cools a little. Or call Bob, he’ll tell you I lectured him for ten minutes once about not microwaving water in a mug.”

He huffed between a scoff and a laugh. Fig chirped curiously.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching again. “And if I had questions about… more than the tea?”

You blinked, a little thrown off. But still, you leaned a little closer and said, “Then I’d probably still tell you to steep it for five minutes and not call after midnight unless it’s a tea emergency.”

He picked up the bag and took a step back. “Thanks…?”

You offered your name.

He repeated it slowly, like he was letting it settle on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”

You shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, come back. We’ll adjust the blend. Or if you want to introduce yourself to Fig properly. He’s still undecided about you.”

As if on cue, Fig flapped his wings slightly and let out a single unimpressed chirp.

Bucky smiled, giving the bird a mock salute with his vibranium fingers. “Tough crowd.”

“Don’t worry,” you said. “He warms up. Eventually.”

The door jingled again as he left, disappearing into the curtain of rain outside.

You turned back to your shelf and sighed. Fig nuzzled into your cheek like he agreed.

“Yeah,” you whispered to him, smiling. “He’ll be back.”

—

After the last customer left and the bell over the tea shop door gave its tired little jingle, you flipped the sign to CLOSED, turned off the lights, and let out a deep breath.

It had been a long day — stormy weather always brought in the insomniacs, the anxious, and the romantics. You didn’t mind. You liked helping people who let tea cool in their hands before sipping it. People who didn’t ask questions about the strange, overgrown rosemary plant in the window that occasionally moved on its own as if readjusting their posture. People who didn’t ask questions when vines curled around your wrist as you asked permission to pluck her delicate leaves.

But tonight… you were tired.

Fig settled on your shoulder with a chirp and nuzzled into your neck.

“You really shouldn’t judge customers,” you scolded him. “Even the one who asked if we had matcha Red Bull.”

Fig screeched, offended.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, locking the back door. 

You walked home in the drizzle, jacket wrapped tight around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your fingertips itched with energy.

You had a feeling something was waiting for you at home.

And sure enough — when you pushed open the creaky door of your little apartment across the street, you felt the presence of… magic. 

You dropped your keys into the wooden bowl by the door and looked around.

There, on your kitchen table, was a scroll, the mystical equivalent of a fax machine.

You sniffed the air, smelling sandalwood, ash, and a touch of cosmic ozone.

“Wong,” you muttered, stepping closer as Fig flew up to his perch in the corner of the room.

The scroll unrolled the moment you touched it.

To the Esteemed Herbalist of Fig & co The Sanctum Sanctorum requests your assistance once again. We are in need of a Class IV Lucidity Draught (stable, shelf-safe, dream-filtered, and no substitutions). Preferably before next quarter moon. Strange has broken another Mirror of Insight and refuses to admit it. Discretion appreciated. Your potions are still the most reliable in this dimension, no matter what the New Orleans apothecaries claim. Payment enclosed, as always. - Wong P.S. Fig is due for his magical familiar certification renewal. Please see attached.

You sighed, a mix of fondness and exhaustion tugging at your lips. “Of course he broke another mirror.”

Fig puffed up proudly at the mention of his name and squawked. You held up the attached pouch — sure enough, a handful of glittering stardust coins nestled inside, along with a single enchanted pearl. Payment, plus a bonus. Wong never forgot to tip.

You carefully rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into the hollow panel behind your spice cabinet — the one no one ever noticed because you’d warded it with three layers of disinterest. 

You lit a few candles, cast a quick circle, and whispered the potion recipe into the air, watching the herbs rearrange themselves on your shelf. 

The Lucidity Draught would take three nights to finish. The rarest ingredients you needed were water from the last rainfall (you always kept a bucket on your roof), rosemary that had bloomed under starlight, and a vial of sleep-ink that could only be harvested from a page left unread for seven years.

Luckily… you had all of that. Fig helped. He always knew where you stashed things.

“I told you not to bring me the experimental saffron strain,” you sent him away to fetch another vial, “It messes with dimensional boundaries.”

As the potionwork began and the ingredients simmered in your teapot, you glanced out the window, down at the street. From here, you could just barely see the windows of your own shop below, the sign swaying slightly in the rain.

Fig hovered over your shoulder, preening like a supervisor.

“You know,” you muttered as you decanted a viscous blue liquid into a tiny vial to age over a couple of days, “I like the tea shop because it doesn’t ask anything magical of me.”

Fig whistled knowingly. You glanced at him.

None of your normal customers knew, and you’d like to keep it that way. You never used magic in the shop — not even the smallest charm. 

Everything you sold, everything you brewed, was just herbal blends. Because you loved tea in all its simplicity, its kindness, and its ritual.

As you sealed the last potion bottle, Fig let out a pleased trill and landed back on the candleholder.

You smiled, finally letting your shoulders relax.

Tomorrow, you'd go back to being the local tea seller who definitely wasn’t a real witch.

You’d refill your Nightangel Brew, maybe add a new jasmine blend to the shelf.

And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye on the door.

In case a certain former assassin with a metal arm came back.

Not that you were thinking about him.

Much.

—

Two days later, the shop had just opened for the morning, and you were doing what you always did first thing: steeping a pot of your current favorite (today: chamomile, cinnamon, and a drop of pear extract), restocking the honey jars, and politely telling Fig that no, he could not perch directly on the loose-leaf tins like a goblin king.

There were no customers yet. You put on classical cello music on the speakers, whispered a patience charm into your tea steam, and Fig flipped the “Open” sign in the window.

And then your phone buzzed.

Fig, perched on the hanging rack above you, looked down with narrowed eyes. He hated when technology interrupted your tea time. You ignored him.

The message was from a number you didn’t recognise.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Bucky. I think I burned it last night.

You blinked. A second message came in immediately after.

BUCKY : The tea. Not the tower.

You snorted in amusement, already typing.

YOU: I told you to steep it for five minutes in a covered mug. Not boiling water. I gave you the rules, Barnes. Did you microwave it?

Fig hissed. It sounded personal.

Your phone buzzed again.

BUCKY: I didn’t microwave it. I used a pot. Then I forgot about the pot.

You burst into laughter, startling Fig so badly he flapped his wings and knocked over your cinnamon jar. You sighed but didn’t stop smiling.

YOU: I'm not mad. Just disappointed.

BUCKY: Is this a customer service line or an ouija board for my dad?

YOU: sorry.

There was a longer pause before his next message.

BUCKY: Can I come by later? Try again, maybe supervised?

You stared at that message a moment longer than you meant to. Fig peered down at your screen, then made a throaty little hmm noise.

You didn’t look up. You just typed.

YOU: Sure. I think Fig wants to watch you try.

BUCKY: Of course he does. Is it weird I kind of want to impress a bird.

You smiled.

YOU: He is the true owner of the shop.

And as you set your phone down and turned to your blend-in-progress, you chuckled excitedly to yourself.

—

That afternoon, you were restocking the lemongrass jars when the door chimed.

Not the jingle-jangle of a casual browser or the clumsy shoulder-first push of a tourist trying to escape the rain.

You didn’t even turn around before speaking.

“Been waiting for you all day, Barnes.”

He paused before huffing out a small laugh. “I think I’ve earned ‘Bucky’ by now.”

You turned, and yep — there he was,standing just inside the shop like he wasn’t sure if he should touch anything, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside. He wore a dark sweater this time, sleeves rolled halfway up. 

And under his arm was… a mug.

You tried not to smile too obviously. “You brought your own?”

“I figured if I’m going to fail,” he said, “I should at least fail in my favourite one. And maybe Fig would be kinder to me because I’m not going to ruin one of your mugs.”

As if summoned by name, the parakeet popped up from the shelf behind you and gave a long chirp — somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered to the bird, pretending to understand him. “I’m not microwaving it this time.”

You took the mug from him, inspecting it. It was chipped near the rim, clearly well-loved, and had a faded print of a tree with roots stretching into a starry sky.

“This one’s seen things,” you said.

He gave a small smile. “Like its owner.”

You looked up. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between you, long enough to be noticeable. Just long enough for Fig to tilt his head like oh?

You cleared your throat. “Come on. To the bar.”

He followed you to the counter where you had already set out the tin of Nightangel Brew and a small linen pouch of fresh lemon.

You placed the kettle on its heating plate. “Step one. Know your water.”

“...Know it?”

You nodded. “Boiling water is murder on herbs, remember? You don’t want a rolling boil — you want a simmer with little bubbles.”

Bucky leaned in a little, his brow furrowed in focused concentration — or maybe just to smell. You pretended not to notice how close he was standing. Fig, however, absolutely noticed, and can’t decide if he was rooting for you or jealous of his proximity. 

Bucky watched as you spooned the herbs gently into a steeping sachet and placed it in his mug. You handed him the kettle.

“Go ahead. Don’t rush.”

He raised an eyebrow but followed your instructions. Carefully, he poured slow circles, then covered the mug with the little ceramic lid you passed him.

“Five minutes,” you said. “Exactly. ”

“Noted.”

You leaned against the bar, watching the steam rise from the gaps. “So what happened yesterday? Got distracted?”

He hesitated. You saw it in his jaw.

Then he said, “I didn’t need it to sleep at first, but… then I woke up from a nightmare. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d try the tea, but I didn’t time it right. Kinda… zoned out.”

Your shoulders dropped kindly, “Well, hopefully, brewing it right will help.”

Fig fluttered down and landed between you both on the bar, watching Bucky quietly, tilting his head like a therapist trying to decide how to phrase advice kindly.

“I don’t usually talk about that,” Bucky said.

“I don’t usually let people behind the bar,” you replied.

Fig chirped like an alarm.

“Five minutes is up,” you said.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how a bird was even trained to even have a perfect internal clock, “How—“

You ignored him and lifted the lid, gently removed the sachet, and handed the mug back to him. “Moment of truth.”

He cradled it in both hands and took a careful sip.

Then another.

He closed his eyes.

“…Okay,” he said, eyes opening again. “That’s… nice.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but this feels… good.”

Fig chirped proudly once, then flew back to his perch.

Bucky set the mug down, but didn’t back away from the counter.

“So… how do I know if it’s actually working?”

“It works differently for different people.” You shrugged. “But it usually calms people down enough to doze off.”

He nodded, “You ever drink it?”

You hesitated, patting the bench next to you as you sat. “Not lately.”

And as he sat down beside you, sipping tea while the shop filled with the smell of brewing herbs, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe you didn’t mind letting this one in.

—

Bucky came back a few days later and said the blend was “doing something,” which for him, apparently, meant actually falling asleep. He looked better. Still guarded, sure — but the edges were blunting.

He came alone at first. Always late morning or just before closing. He brought his mug. You helped brewed his tea.

He never asked for anything else.

But he lingered every time. And each time, it got a little longer.

By week two, Bucky was coming in more days than not. He was always watching you  in that not-trying-to-stare way that somehow made the staring worse.

You noticed he always sat at the same stool, second from the left, near the side table that housed your pothos. 

You didn’t tell him it was your favourite spot, but you started making tea for two without asking.

You sat down next to him and started talking about your day. 

Fig, meanwhile, hopped over to Bucky’s elbow and gave it a single approving peck. You paused mid-sip.

“Did he just…?”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “He’s warming up to me.”

“Must be the mug,” you said. “Or the absurd amount of honey you put in your tea.”

“I like sweet things.”

You glanced up and looked away. 

By week four, Fig had officially defected.

He no longer dive-bombed Bucky’s boots.

He started landing on his shoulder.

And once, he let Bucky feed him a dried goji berry by hand without biting him.

“You’re a traitor,” you said, crossing your arms.

Bucky grinned. “He likes me.”

Fig preened like a smug little demon and settled into Bucky’s scarf like it was his new throne.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered playfully, sweeping behind the counter.

Then came the day he walked in with Bob Reynolds.

Bob had been a customer before Bucky. He loved your rosehip tisanes. He said they calmed the void in his chest, whatever that meant. He said it also helped with his cravings.

He greeted you, his usual dandelion-yellow hoodie bunched at the elbows. Then glanced back toward Bucky with a half-smirk.

“This the one who keeps you smiling when you’re supposed to be restocking the chamomile?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been talking to Fig, haven’t you.”

“Bird’s got opinions,” Bob said, shrugging. 

Bucky, behind him, tried very hard not to react. You caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth anyway.

They sat, ordered. Bob teased. Bucky endured it with the long-suffering patience of someone who was painfully aware of the dynamic forming in plain sight.

And it wasn’t just Bob.

Next came Yelena— a regular customer who insisted your “spicy blend” was the only thing that ever helped her relax. She strolled in one rainy Tuesday, spotted Bucky already at the counter, and raised one finely shaped brow.

“Oh,” she said, flicking her hair back. “You’ve been domesticated.”

“I came for tea,” Bucky muttered.

“You came for her tea,” she corrected, greeting you with a wave and eyeing you both with curiosity and delight. 

“Leave,” he said flatly, but didn’t actually tell her to stop.

You served her with a smile, and she left with a wink — but not before whispering loud enough for Fig to hear, “She’s too smart to be pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on.”

The next day, Ava came in to try a new blend. 

Ava was more subtle, but no less perceptive. She came in between field assignments, ordered your anti-inflammation brew, and then paused when she saw Bucky sitting behind the counter with Fig perched on his shoulder.

She looked between you two. 

Then simply said, “So… how long have you been not-dating?”

You coughed into the tea towel. Bucky didn’t even look up. “We’re not—”

“Sure,” Ava replied, deadpan. “Fig won’t even look at me, but he likes Bucky? Something must be going on.”

Neither of you confirmed it, but you didn’t deny it either.

—

Over the next few weeks, it became routine.

Bucky would try new teas. He’d ask questions. He also learned to tell the difference between the citrus tang of lemon verbena and the grounding scent of ashwagandha.

He learned how you tapped the teapot twice before pouring — a little ritual, perhaps unconscious. You learned he stirred his tea clockwise, like muscle memory. 

He smiled more. Not always at you — but often because of you.

Once, Fig dropped a dried hibiscus petal into his cup by “accident.”

You knew it wasn’t— Fig knew that used correctly, only if you cast a spell on it— it could induce an infatuation spell.

Not that Bucky needed it. The parakeet knew Bucky was already infatuated. 

You, seemed hopelessly oblivious to it, though. 

Bucky simply lifted the mug to Fig like a toast. “Thanks.”

And Fig preened.

—

One evening, just after closing, Bucky lingered while you wiped down the counter.

“I’ve been sleeping better,” he said, quietly.

You nodded. “I can tell.”

He looked at you the way someone examines a door they want to open, but aren’t sure they should. “You put something else in it?”

You just smiled. “Just plants, Barnes.”

“That’s enough,” He nodded, but didn’t look away. he said. “You got any of that cinnamon-pear blend left?”

You turned to the jar, hand already reaching. “Always.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Because I think I’ll keep coming back.”

You didn’t turn around. “I know.”

—

Bucky came in mid-morning two months later. He hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks, and that was not unusual— Bob said he had gone on a stealth mission. 

His hoodie was drawn up over his head. He didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his usual mug on the counter, and sat in silence. Fig came over to greet his friend, but he got no reaction from Bucky. 

You tilted your head in confusion, but put on the kettle anyway. This time, you brewed Jasmine with a touch of lemon balm, a whisper of skullcap. 

“I didn’t sleep,” he said after a long silence. “Not… since I got back from the mission two nights ago.”

You glanced up. “What’s up?” you asked gently.

He shook his head once. Not embarrassed — just exhausted.

“This… this mission just reminded me of the worst fucking part of humanity. I did what was necessary,” he added. “I… tried the tea. I tried all the steps. I took a deep breath like you said. It helped for a bit. But once I fell asleep…”

His voice faded.

You didn’t need him to finish his thoughts. If whatever he saw in that mission was enough to shatter his mind all over again, you could only imagine how bad it got. 

You poured him the tea and started making him a different blend to go. 

You prepared a bit of Nightangel brew but added added a pinch of mugwort. Then a little blue lotus, for clarity. Then hawthorn, for flavour. 

Bucky noticed. “That’s not the usual.”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

He didn’t ask questions, just watched your hands move.

You looked up once the sachet was full.

“This is… stronger,” you said. 

He nodded gently and murmured, “Alright. Let’s try.”

—

He came back the next morning, hunched deeper in his jacket.

You didn’t even greet him with a joke this time. Just took his mug and went straight to the blend. “Did it help?”

“No,” he admitted, partially scared of offending you. “Not at all.”

You frowned, wondering how much more herbal remedies you could add without it being redundant.

“Woke up sweating,” he explained, “I… Couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”

He stopped. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

You didn’t push. Instead, you leaned on your elbows, “Okay. Then we go gentler.”

“Gentler?”

You nodded, already pulling down a different tin. “No mugwort. No lotus. Just chamomile to remind your body it’s not in a cage.”

He blinked.

“Holy basil. Rose. Passionflower. A little oatstraw.”

Bucky watched you. “Will it work?”

“For some people,” you said. “But we have to… try.”

He sat back and looked at you like he wanted to ask a hundred things. 

Fig fluttered down from his perch and didn’t land on the counter this time, but directly on Bucky’s knee. 

Bucky blinked, and for the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed. “Hey, buddy.”

You pushed the mug toward him, hands brushing again.

“I’ll keep adjusting the blend,” you promised with an encouraging sigh. “As long as you keep showing up.”

He nodded. 

—

A month later, the bell chimed softly as the door eased open.

It was a sound that now felt like a sixth sense waking. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. 

The second Bucky stepped inside, Fig perked up, puffing his feathers and letting out a trill of affection.

You smiled faintly. Fig loves him. You thought. He only sings like that for me… and Bucky.

“Hey,” you said gently, eyes lifting from the tea counter where you were measuring out dried verbena. “You’re early today.”

He nodded, and walked over to his usual still. You wanted to ask if he was okay, though you never did.

That wasn’t how Bucky worked. He wasn’t made for direct questions.

“Same as last time?” you asked.

He looked up at you, then away.

You didn’t wait for an answer. You knew it anyway.

You turned to the wall of shelves, fingers ghosting over jars. Skullcap. Passionflower. Fennel. Chamomile. You’d changed the recipe multiple times since last month. Each blend tailored to soothe, to calm, to untangle knots that Nightangel couldn’t reach.

None of it worked.

Still, you went through the motions. You always did. You wouldn’t stop trying, not for him. Not when he kept dragging himself through your door like he was searching for something solid to hold onto.

You set the tea to steep and moved to lean on the counter across from him.

“Is it not working?” you asked gently.

Bucky huffed a humorless sound— a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve changed it four times. You’d think I’d be out cold for a week by now.”

Your lips turned into a frowned.

“You’re perfect,” he added suddenly, urgently. “You… you’re good at this—at what you do. But that mission… I…”

He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw the wreckage behind his eyes. “I think I’m the one that’s broken.”

You swallowed hard, the words lodging in your throat like a stone. All of your vows, all of your promises to never intervene with magic in the shop, they started to fray at the edges. He wasn’t just tired, he was unraveling.

And you were standing here with shelves full of herbs and nothing that could hold him together.

That’s when you felt it: the  ache in your chest shifting into guilt, like glass under skin.

You turned away.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, going to the back room, where you store all your stock and closing the door. 

Fuck, today, he looked broken.

You froze, hands trembling slightly over the apothecary jars, and your mind went to your apartment that was just across the street. Upstairs. Your real workbench was there. The hidden shelf with dried mystic root. The moon water. The preserved glass vials with hope tinctures and dream oil and truth dust.

“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, no, no.”

But then you remembered at Bucky again—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers twitching ever so slightly—and your resolve shattered.

“…Just this once.”

You leaned down toward Fig, who had hopped closer on his perch and was watching you with keen eyes.

“I need to go home for a second,” you said, pulling off your apron. “Keep him company, okay? Chirp a little. He likes it.”

Fig flapped once and gave a peep of approval. 

You slipped out the back door and jogged across the street to your apartment above the bakery. 

Inside, you didn’t light a single lamp. 

You moved directly to the old armoire that served as your private altar, opening the false panel and pulling out the worn wooden box. Inside: the forbidden things. The ones you kept under lock and key. Your grandmother’s spoon, etched with runes. The jar of dried starblossom petals. A tiny, sealed vial of liquid desire.

You were going to infuse his latest tea blend with… magic.

It wasn’t that it was dark magic. It wasn’t evil. It was just… potent. And dangerous if used carelessly. You had vowed never to use your craft in the shop. 

Never to enchant something as intimate as tea.

But you remembered the first time Bucky came in, Since then, he’d been a constant.

And now he was in trouble, and this was the only way you could help. 

You whispered the spell as your fingers worked fast, blending more herbs with practiced care: blue lotus for dreams, rosehips for warmth, passionfruit for clarity, and just a bit of the liquid desire. 

The spell would draw from his desire, not yours, showing him not what he feared… but what he wanted most— perhaps peace. Or comfort. Perhaps he wanted to be back in the forties. Maybe he just wanted a life on the farm. 

You closed your eyes and sealed it with breath, steadying the tremble in your hands.

“Just this once,” you whispered aloud.

And you were going to tell him, right?

—

When you stepped back into the shop, it felt warmer. Or maybe that was your guilt heating up your skin.

Bucky looked up from where he sat, with Fig perched on his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. You paused, surprised—and not surprised at all. Fig never did that to anyone but you.

“I told him not to get too attached,” you said softly, setting the new cup on his table.

“Well,” Bucky replied, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “I’m getting attached, too.”

To you or the bird, you weren’t sure. 

You watched him look down at his hands as you handed him the pouch. 

It was darker than your usual blend, its surface flecked with starlight-like shimmer. You hoped he wouldn’t ask.

But Bucky just leaned forward, hands clutching the bag. 

You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the entire I’m actually a witch confession, but then he said… 

“I don’t even wanna know what’s in it,” he muttered. “I just want peace.”

Your fingers brushed his as you sat beside him. “Are you sure?”

Bucky nodded.

You hesitated. Then, said. “It’s on the house today.”

He looked up.

“…Thanks,” he said. “Really. You—”

His gulped like he wanted to say something else, but the words got stuck.. “You always know what to do.”

You watched him slip the tea into his coat pocket, rising slowly.

The bell above the door gave that same gentle chime as he left.

—

That night, in the new Avengers Tower, on the other side of town from your tea shop, Bucky sat on his bed and drank the tea.

The first time in weeks, his body eased against the sheets instead of bracing for war.

And when he dreamed, it wasn’t of screams or steel or blood.

He dreamed of a cosy shop with a parakeet singing in the corner. 

—

You were still tying your apron when the door burst open the next morning.

The bell above the tea shop was a frantic, startled chime — not the usual gentle ring. Before you even looked up, you knew it must  be him.

Fuck. Did he know? Could he tell something was… different?

You turned just in time to see Bucky push through the doorway like he’d run the entire way here. He was breathless and flushed. His hair was messy, jacket unzipped, like he hadn’t even thought to fix himself before coming straight here.

“Bucky—?” you began, eyebrows lifted as Fig flapped his wings in greeting.

He didn’t stop walking until he was at the counter.

“It worked.”

You froze, one hand still on the apron’s tie. “What?”

“The tea,” he said. “It… worked. Last night. I—I actually slept for the first time in… weeks.

There was relief in his voice.

Your heart clenched behind your ribs.

He let out a shaky breath, glancing toward the floor like he didn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Usually I either have nightmares or… nothing. But last night, I… I dreamed.”

He looked up at you, and your throat went dry.

“I dreamed of here,” he said softly. “Of you.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. What?

You nodded slowly. “I’m… glad it helped.”

But you knew exactly what that meant.

The spell you used hadn’t just offered comfort. It hadn’t simply calmed his nerves or quieted his thoughts. It had shown him his deepest desire to get rid of the terrors.

And he dreamed of you.

“I-I don’t mean to be weird,” he said suddenly. “I just…,” he added, so softly you almost missed it. “Didn’t want to wake up.”

You should have told him then. You should have told him what you’d done. That you’d bent your own rules for him. That you’d taken a tiny vial of liquid desire and dropped it into his cup.

That his dream wasn't a coincidence.

But your words wouldn’t come out past your throat.

Because a part of you was afraid that if he knew, he’d doubt the dream. That he’d think it was a trick. That he wouldn’t believe that what he saw was already true.

So instead, you forced your lips into a tight smile and said, “That’s good.”

“You were behind the counter in the dream. Laughing,” he said. “You were wearing that pink cardigan you always say you’re gonna throw out.”

You blinked, unaware he remembered your little neither-here-nor-there conversations. “I… still have it.”

He smiled faintly. “Fig was there, too. He kept trying to eat my scone.”

Fig gave a soft chirp and fluttered down to land on Bucky’s shoulder again, completely unbothered.

Bucky huffed a surprised breath, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Traitor,” you muttered fondly toward Fig.

Bucky shifted on his feet.

“Can I come back tonight?” he asked.

You smiled, but hesitated. “Of course.”

—

That night, just after closing the shop and wiping down the counters, you stared at your phone.

Bucky had said he’d be back. He wanted to come back.

And you—being you—had gone and messed everything up with your damn heart and your emergency vial of dream-altering magic.

So instead of texting what you wanted (which was: come back, sit with me, let me explain the dream wasn’t real but also definitely was)...

…you typed: Not feeling great. Raincheck?

You hit send before immediately grabbing the emergency sling ring from under your floorboard, called to Fig with a sharp whistle, and opened a portal to Kamar-Taj.

The sky through the portal was blazing orange at dusk. Fig fluttered through first with a defiant chirp.

You stepped into the cool stone corridor just as a familiar voice groaned from around the corner.

“Speak of the devil.”

Stephen Strange rounded the archway, Wong at his side with a tray of your tea.

You blinked. “Why were you talking about me?”

“We need to place an order.” Wong held up a scroll and payment. “Three jars of moonstilled chrysanthemum, two of dreamroot, and that thing with the dried violets that makes people cry for two hours.”

“Oh, right. Cryleaf blend. Yeah, I’m low, too. Bad harvest year.”

“Well double the payment if you can get it done,” Strange promised, already walking away.

You didn’t follow him immediately. You were still trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.

“I need a hypothetical ethics consult,” you said suddenly.

Wong stopped and raised a brow. “Oh.”

You followed them both into the dim library room they used for absolutely everything, where Fig landed atop a shelf and immediately started pecking at a crystal ball.

You dropped into a floor cushion, rubbed your eyes, and began.

“Let’s say… hypothetically… someone who runs a completely magic-free tea shop made a promise to never use enchantments on the drinks they serve.”

Wong was already frowning. Strange narrowed his eyes.

“But let’s say—still hypothetically—that someone they care about is clearly not okay. We’re talking not sleeping for weeks, barely holding it together, that type of stuff.”

“I already know where this is going,” Wong muttered.

“And so the hypothetical tea shop owner makes a completely irrational, heart-dumb, reckless decision and enchants one tea blend with dream magic. The kind that reveals the drinker’s deepest desire and blocks out trauma-based nightmares.”

Strange folded his arms. “Uh huh.”

“And,” you went on, your voice getting smaller, “let’s say the person drinks it, sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, wakes up saying they dreamed of… the person who gave him the blend.”

“Still sounds hypothetical,” Wong said sarcastically.

You stared at your hands. “Is that unethical?”

Strange stared at you. “That’s it? That’s the ethical dilemma?”

“I enchanted his tea, Stephen. I interfered with his subconscious.”

“You gave a traumatized super-soldier a warm nap and a vision board,” he deadpanned. “You didn’t scramble his brain or bind his will to a blood pact.”

“How did you—?” You furrowed your eyebrows, unaware your personal life was their business. 

“You are one of the best potions witch in the northern hemisphere,” Wong deadpanned, “do you really think we don’t keep tabs on your more… influential customers?”?l

“Fine,” you snapped, “but back to the question—“

“He’ll be fine,” Strange dismissed.

You frowned. “But he didn’t—“

“Did you cast an obedience charm?”

“No!”

“Corruption sigil?”

“No!”

“Memory trap?”

“NO!”

“Then,” he said, leaning back with an insufferably casual smile, “it sounds like you did what every good magic-user has done at least once: you broke your own rule to save someone you care about.”

You stared at him. “So… it’s fine?”

“No. It’s weird.”

Wong agreed. “You witches are odd sometimes.”

You scowled. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to stop Dormammu and make sure no one drops reality into a blender.” He waved his hand. “This? Not even in the top fifty ethical dilemmas I’ve heard this week.”

“It feels icky!” you said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to influence him!”

Wong raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man like James Barnes is so fragile he’d fall in love because of a dream?“

You opened your mouth. “But—”

Strange held up a hand. “Let me guess. You’ve read three books on ethical divination, one essay by an excommunicated greenwitch, and now you’re spiraling.”

You blinked. “…Yes.”

Wong shoved extra currency for the order it into your hands.

“Tell him the truth if you feel bad, but don’t act like you’ve done dark magic just because you caught feelings.”

You stared. “I knew I should’ve joined a coven. At least they’d have a Code.”

Strange rolled his eyes. “Please. Most covens barely agree on how to bless water. One time I watched three hedge witches almost fistfight over which moon phase was best for making lavender oil.”

From your shoulder, Fig gave a loud, scolding chirp.

You glanced at him.

“What?” you muttered. “It was just a passing thought—”

He chirped again, this time louder. His little clawed feet gripped your shoulder tighter.

Wong chuckled. “Sounds like your familiar’s insulted.”

“M’sorry,” you muttered, giving Fig a sideways look. “I didn’t mean to imply I needed anyone else but you, bud.”

Fig gave a dignified huff and fluffed his feathers.

“I wasn’t actually going to join one!” you hissed.

Fig preened pointedly.

“I just panicked.”

He chirped again as you said your goodbyes opened the portal back to your shop.

—

Later that night, you returned to your apartment.

You half expected Bucky to be waiting outside, but was disappointed when there was only the empty street and the patter of rain on cobblestone. 

Inside, the tea ingredients sat untouched on your back shelf, tucked away again.

You made yourself a cup of tea and sat with Fig in the dim shop light, wondering if he was still dreaming of you, or if the magic had already faded.

But still a thought whispered. If you were his greatest desire… what would yours be?

You hadn't asked that question before.

Not seriously.

Because you didn't want the answer.

But now you stood, and walked to the back shelf where the last vial of desire sat sealed under moonlit paper, humming faintly with dormant power.

No.

Nope. 

Maybe?

Fuck.

Just this once.

You quickly dropped the same dose into your tea and casted the spell.

You carried the cup back to your seat, Fig watching you from the counter with glassy eyes.

“This is dumb,” you whispered aloud. “This is so dumb.”

Fig let out a chirp. Not scolding, but more like, Then don’t do it. But if you’re gonna, stop whining and sip.

You sughed before raising the cup and drinking.

—

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when you opened your eyes… the world was a warm amber, flickering like candle glow.

You were standing behind the tea shop counter, apron tied snugly around your waist, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Fig was perched beside the cash box.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Sitting in his usual spot, back slightly hunched, cradling a steaming cup in both hands. He was in a navy sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his metal hand glinting faintly in the light. He was looking at you like… you were the best part of his day.

And in the dream, you weren’t hiding.

You smiled. And he smiled back.

—

You woke up on your bed with a gasp.

Fig flapped in surprise, his wings fluttering.

You sat forward on the couch, pressing a trembling hand to your chest, breathing coming fast.

Fig chirped, and he knew… you had your answer.

—

The next morning, you had an early customer who ringed the bell in five minutes before opening. 

Even before you turned around… you knew it was him. 

Here goes nothing.

You expected Bucky to slink in, like he usually did. 

Instead, he stood just inside the door with a bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

They were… wild flowers — your favourite — wrapped in recycled newspaper like he’d tried to make it not a big deal.

Oh. 

He looked… terrified.

His hair was still a little damp from the morning drizzle, jacket open over a plain black henley, boots tracking faint footprints on your floor.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey.”

“Can I…” he started, “can I talk to you?”

You nodded once. “Of course.”

He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to break a fragile thing. Maybe himself.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Did a bit of thinking and… I was scared I freaked you out.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “You didn’t, I promise.”

He looked at you with that wide-open gaze that always undid you.

“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About why I dreamed of you.”

Your fingers curled against the counter. Fig, on his perch behind you, let out the softest warning trill.

Bucky went on, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I thought maybe you… I don’t know. I… I thought maybe I’ve been seeing too much of you.”

You opened your mouth—but Fig flapped a hard THWIP of wings.

“But then I realised,” he admitted sheepishly. “I could never have too much of you.”

You met his eyes. “You… what?”

He hesitated. “I think… I’ve felt like this for a while now.” He lifted the flowers slightly. It was awkward, sweet, almost bashful.

“I don’t want it to just be a dream,” he said. “I want it to be real. I want us to be real. So…”

He took a deep breath.

“Would you maybe go out with me?”

For a good five seconds, you only stared at him.

You should tell him.

You almost did.

But then Fig let out a pointed chirp from behind you.

Not yet, he seemed to say. 

So, you smiled—nervous, but sincere.

“Sure,” you said, trying to play it off as casual. 

His brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t believed you’d say it. “Yeah?”

You stepped around the counter, closing the space between you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And for the first time since you met him, you saw the weight on his chest loosening.

He held out the flowers, finally, with a shy smile. “I’m not great at this… anymore.”

“You’re doing just fine.” You chuckled, taking the bouquet from his hands. It was wild and imperfect and beautiful, just like your magic.

—

The day say he took you out, it was raining again.

Thankfully, it was the good kind, the kind that gave the streets that shimmer like everything’s been kissed by silver. You’d always loved nights like this, when the world felt like a mystic secret.

Bucky had offered to pick you up at your place. 

You told him to meet you at the shop instead. It felt right. It felt like you now had gone full circle.

When he arrived, you were already waiting in the doorway with a tiny umbrella, saying goodbye to Fig, who was tucked into his little cosy corner. He wouldn’t shut up, not until Bucky knocked on the door, and you were convinced he sensed what kind of night this would be.

Bucky looked unfairly good. He adorned simp clothes — a dark sweater and stormy-blue jacket he’d worn a few times — and that nervous smile you had come to crave.

He held out a hand.

“You ready?”

You nodded. 

—

The place you chose for your first date wasn’t fancy.

It was a tucked-away little bistro down the block, with candles flickering in mismatched holders and tables close enough to each other to hear laughter, but not close enough to interrupt it. You were seated by a window, and Bucky was across from you. 

Going on a date with Bucky felt daunting at first. But now… that you were actually in it… it felt natural.

You had both eaten, talked, laughed a little — but it wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and your dessert had arrived that the room shifted.

Bucky had been watching you all night.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing every little expression, every gesture.

Like he wanted to know you.

Your fingers curled around the ceramic mug in your hands.

“Can I tell you something?” you said, voice quiet.

He leaned in slightly. “Of course.”

You hesitated, before looked him straight in the eyes.

“You said you dreamed of me. Of… us.”

His mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, not quite not. “Yeah.”

“It was… because of tea I gave you.”

“Worked like magic,” he confirmed, almost wry.

“Bucky, I’m trying to tell you…” You swallowed hard. Fuck, here goes nothing. “That it wasn’t a normal blend.”

The silence that followed was short enough, but it made your heartbeat pick up. His brow ticked, and he set his desert spoon down carefully. “Okay…”

“I don’t normally do this,” you started, sighing. “I never do this. I have rules. You know I make regular blends—“

“Regular?” Bucky chimed in, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“—for sleep, anxiety, energy,” you continued anyway, “but that night, you said that you hadn’t slept in weeks. and I—” your voice caught, “—I panicked. I didn’t have anything in the shop that would worked that I didn’t try already.”

The night flashed before your eyes — the hollow look in his eyes, the way his voice had been almost brittle.

“So I… ran across the street to my apartment. And I used a spell.”

Bucky blinked, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “…A spell. Like actual magic.”

“Yes.”

You could see him process it, in the way a faint crease formed between his brows, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

His voice came quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”

You felt the blood rush to your ears. “You… didn’t want to know.” You explained, looking down in guilt. “Remember? That night, you said you didn’t want to know what was in it.”

“It sounds like you put something in my head,” he said, not unkind, but blunt.

Your stomach turned. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“It’s a spell meant to ease nightmares. It doesn’t control, doesn’t twist. It just… reveals.”

He sat back slightly, studying you. You could see the flicker of wariness in his eyes, and it made your chest ache.

“Reveals what?”

Fuck.

“Their… their greatest desire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Oh.

He leaned back, his expression warping. It wasn’t anger. But you couldn’t quite place where it fit. 

“And what I saw in the dream… was you.”

“Yes.”

The candlelight flickered between you, catching the edge of his metal knuckles where his hand rested on the table.

He ran a hand over his face. “You’re an actual witch,” he said finally, looping back to the fact.

“…Yes.”

“Like, sorcery?”

“No. Sorcery’s learned. I was born with it. I work with potions.”

He shook his head, staring down at the table. “I should’ve guessed. Wong’s walked out of your shop before. And Fig… I swear he talks sometimes.”

Your nodded. “He does.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You know I’ve had my mind messed with before. That dream… it didn’t feel wrong. But it was still… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking someone else had a hand in it.”

You stared at him. “You think I made you see me?”

“I think you gave me something that made me see something I didn’t know I wanted,” he said quietly. 

Your chest tightened. “It can’t create anything that isn’t already there.”

He looked at you like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know if he should.

“And you?” he asked. “If you drank it, what would you see?”

You hesitated. “…I did.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“And?”

“I saw you.”

That landed between you like a dropped stone disturbing a waveless ocean.

Bucky’s eyes darted away. His shoulders shifted restlessly. “I… I gotta go.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bucky—”

“It’s not—” He stood abruptly, fumbling for his jacket. “It’s not that I’m... I just… I need to think.”

The chair legs scraped so against the worn wood floor as he moved back.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

He hesitated a moment longer, looking at you. Then he nodded once, like he was answering a question only he’d asked himself, and turned toward the door.

You just sat there in the glow of candlelight, your hands curled around the cold desert spoon.

—

Bucky didn’t knock as he reached the 177A Bleecker Street. 

He figured if Strange really didn’t want visitors, the Sanctum Sanctorum would’ve swallowed him whole the second he stepped on the stoop.

Instead, the door creaked open on its own, and there was the sorcerer himself, one brow arched in that perpetual look of annoyed judgment.

“Barnes,” Strange said dryly. “You’re a long way from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Needed to… talk to someone who’d get it.”

“‘It’ being…?”

Bucky hesitated. “…Magic.”

That actually earned him a flicker of genuine curiosity from Strange. “Alright.”

The Sanctum smelled faintly of incense and something older, like paper and storms. Strange led him down a long hall and into a high-ceilinged library, gesturing to a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a low table.

Strange said, flicked his wrist to summon a cup. “You like Earl Grey?”

Bucky followed him inside, glancing around the vast space. “Not much of a tea guy lately.”

“Oh, right,” Strange said lightly, leading him toward the library while sipping the brew. “You’ve already been drinking something far more potent.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks. “…You know?”

Strange turned with the faintest smirk on his mouth. “Barnes, I know exactly who runs that little shop you’ve been visiting. I also know exactly what kind of magic she works with, who’s been there. She’s supplied Kamar-Taj for years. Her blends are high-quality, magical or not. Wong swears by her migraine remedy. I’d trust her brewing over most trained potion masters I’ve met.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “So you know she—”

“Gave you a desire spell?” Strange cut in. “Yes. And judging by the fact that you’re here, I’d say it worked.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “I saw her. In the dream.”

“You’re afraid it was compulsion.” Strange said, like he’d been expecting this. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah. After what I’ve been through—”

“I know,” Strange cut in gently. “But no. It wasn’t compulsion.”

Bucky looked up. “How can you be so sure?”

Strange leaned back in his chair, watching him with that unsettling kind of stillness. “Because she came to Kamar-Taj the day after she found out you saw her. She was rattled. Wouldn’t stop apologizing. Wanted to know if it was unethical. Told me she never, ever uses magic in her shop. That she only did it because you looked like you looked like shit. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Bucky froze. “…She said that?”

Strange nodded. “She didn’t want to change you. She didn’t even want to risk revealing herself to you. She just—” He gestured loosely, as if the right word was somewhere in the air. “—couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that.”

Bucky swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the tea cup.

“What she used,” Strange continued, “wasn’t suggestion. It wasn’t manipulation. It’s a mirror. It brings forward what’s already there — a truth you’ve either ignored or haven’t admitted to yourself. It reveals. And revelation, in this case, is a gift.”

Bucky’s brows drew together. “So it was me.”

“It was always you,” Strange said simply. “She just cleared the fog.”

Bucky stared at the steam curling from his tea. The memory of that dream — the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes — burned fresh in his mind. He’d told himself it was too vivid, too convenient. But if Strange was right…

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.

“Barnes,” Strange said, faintly exasperated, “I’ve seen enough true desire reflections to know one when I hear about it. You think I’d be this calm if she’d tampered with your mind? I’d have half the Masters here dismantling every floorboard in her shop, and she’d lose both her shop licenses and the potion license.”

That startled a small, reluctant smirk out of Bucky. “…Guess you would.”

Strange’s expression softened just slightly. “You trust her, don’t you?”

Bucky looked down at his hands and nodded.

Strange sipped his tea, watching him. “I assume she didn’t tell you because she knows your history. And, if I may, she’s probably terrified of hurting you.”

Bucky’s voice was quiet. “She was.”

Strange tilted his head. “So… are you going to let this stop you from being honest with her now?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, then stood up abruptly. “…I gotta go.”

Strange didn’t stop him. He just smiled faintly, as if this had been the plan all along. “Send Fig my regards.”

Bucky paused. “You know about Fig?”

“Of course,” Strange said with a wave of his hand. “That bird glares at me every time I visit. He thinks I’m trouble.”

Bucky huffed, almost laughing as he pushed the door open.

—

Bucky didn’t go back to the shop immediately, even if his body wanted to.

He told himself it was because he was busy with mission reports, training schedules, and repairs to his gear but really, he was avoiding you. 

He walked the length of Manhattan twice the next day with his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. The streets were loud, crowded, and full of people brushing past without a second glance. It should have been easy to get lost in it, but no matter where he went, his mind kept circling back to the same thing: why you hadn’t texted or called. 

You probably wanted to give him some space. 

So on the first night, he didn’t dream at all. Just tossed and turned until dawn, chasing sleep that wouldn’t stick.

—

The second day, he tried distracting himself.

He hit the gym, hard. He ran on the treadmill for a run until his lungs burned and the machine short-circuited from overuse. He did all his laundry. He cooked for the first time in weeks. It was a simple scrambled eggs and toast, but still ended up not touching most of it away.

When Yelena and Bob brew their teas, their custom blends that you sold them, and wondered if they knew you were magical. 

Probably not. 

The truth was, he wasn’t mad at you the way he thought he’d be.

It was the memory of the look on your face when you’d confessed. You were not defensive, not smug — guilty. And perhaps, he realised after a bit of thinking, that what hurt most of all was how you thought you had to hide your identity from him. 

By nightfall, he’d found himself outside your shop without meaning to. The lights were off, the CLOSED sign swaying gently in the summer breeze. 

He didn’t knock, knowing you’d be in bed by now. So he just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the faint reflection of his own tired face in the glass, before walking away.

—

The third day, he gave in.

The tin of tea you’d given him, the one from that night, was still in his cupboard. He’d been avoiding it like the plague, but now he set it on the counter, staring at the label you’d written in a looping script.

It felt strange, making it again. He’d seen you brew tea so many times, the careful measure of leaves, the way you swirled the water just right, but he never really brewed it like you. 

It was never… just right. 

Still, when the steam rose, it smelled like your shop. 

It smelled like… safety.

Bucky wrapped his hands around the mug, sipped, and sat at the shared kitchen table in the new avengers tower.

Within a few minutes of finishing the tea, he walked back to his room. He didn’t fight the warmth creeping in.

—

In the dream, he was standing in your shop again, the light golden through the windows, Fig chattering softly from his perch. 

You were behind the counter, head bent over a notebook, and when you looked up, your whole face lit up like you’d been waiting for him.

You were brewing a potion for Strange, completely in your element, while Fig greeted him. 

—

When he woke, he sighed in content before he could stop himself. 

Fuck.

The dream hadn’t been a trick. He knew that now.

Magical or not, he’d missed you. He missed that feeling of being wanted without needing to earn it, that place felt safe just because you were there.

By the time he set the mug in the sink that morning he’d already decided that he wasn’t going to let four days stretch into five.

—

Bucky couldn’t stop thinking about you throughout the day.

And if you were really his own greatest desire, then… hell.

It took him the entire day, though, to actually go through with meeting you. 

—

When he did decide it was time, your shop was already closed. 

So he walked across the street where he vaguely knew where you lived.

He didn’t know your exact apartment number. You’d never given it to him, and he’d never asked. But he remembered you saying once that you lived “across the street, in the building with the green awning.”

The lobby was quiet. Bucky found the elevator, pressed the button, and stared at the rows of doors when it dinged open.

Second floor. 

No names on the mail slots. Just numbers.

Great.

He started with the first one on the left.

He knocked once, waited and got no answer.

Second door — same thing.

Third door, he heard footsteps, but it was an elderly man with a newspaper, blinking at him in confusion before Bucky apologised.

By the fourth door, Bucky was starting to think maybe he’d have to knock on every single one in the building. 

He lifted his hand…

…and something small and peach streaked past his ear.

Bucky looked, catching sight of a familiar flash of feathers before it landed on the hallway railing.

“Fig?”

The parakeet chirped impatiently before taking off again, fluttering halfway down the hall before stopping to glance over its shoulder at him.

Bucky frowned. “You want me to follow you?”

Fig chirped and waited just long enough for Bucky to catch up before darting toward the far end of the hallway, and up a couple flights of stairs before finally settling on a specific door and tapping his beak against it like he was in on the plan.

Bucky stared. “You… showed me the way.”

Fig seemed to say, duh.

He raised his hand and knocked.

You opened the door in an oversized sweater, hair messy, blinking like you’d just changed into cosy home clothes.

“Bucky?”

He had a whole speech planned — something about thinking things through, about needing to talk, about not wanting to leave things hanging between you — but it all died in his throat the moment you looked at him like that.

“I… uh,” he started, then glanced down the hall toward Fig, who was still perched like a tiny feathered soldier. “Your bird sold you out.”

You blinked, then looked past him. “Really?”

The parakeet chirped triumphantly.

“Traitor,” you muttered at him, but when you looked back at Bucky, your voice was gentler. “Why… are you here?”

He shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I drank the tea again.”

Your brow furrowed. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And I still saw you. And… I missed you.”

For a second, you didn’t say anything.

“I had to knock on four doors before Fig found me,” he said with the faintest trace of a smile. “Was ready to go through the whole building.”

Your brows lifted. “You were going to knock on all thirty four apartments?”

“Would’ve found you eventually.” His voice was certain, and you had the feeling he meant more than just your apartment.

“I… didn’t want to think I needed magic to want you.” His jaw tightened briefly before he shook his head. “Turns out, I didn’t. I already did.”

You didn’t realise you’d been holding your breath until it left you in a rush. “…Bucky—”

“I’m glad you told me,” he said. 

For a moment, neither of you moved. 

Fig chirped once, as if in approval. Then, as if even he understood, took off into the night without a backward glance.

Then Bucky smiled, knowing Fig had given the two of you privacy, and stepped closer. “So… can I come in? Maybe stay awhile?”

Of course he did. 

—

Five months later…

At first, Bucky thought it was part of a dream — a faint tug at his hair, an insistent pressure at his shoulder. Then came a high-pitched noise he thought his brain had conjured up.

Then it happened again.

He cracked one eye open. The dawn light was shining through the curtains, and sitting on the pillow two inches from his face was Fig with his feathers puffed, letting out the same shrill little chirp again and again, like an alarm clock with wings.

“…No,” Bucky muttered, rolling over and dragging the blanket higher. “Go away.”

But Fig wasn’t having it. He hopped onto Bucky’s shoulder, gave him a surprisingly firm nip, then chirped louder.

Bucky groaned. “Kid, it’s not even nine.”

From beside him, came a muffled laugh. 

You were half-buried in pillows when your head just enough to see your parakeet perched proudly atop the former Winter Soldier, who looked far more beleaguered by a six-inch bird than by any mission briefing.

“Morning,” you said sleepily.

That got Bucky moving. 

He turned immediately, pressed a slow, unhurried kiss to your lips, then mumbled against your skin, “Much better alarm clock.”

You smiled, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’re supposed to be up.”

“Not if I don’t wanna be.” He tucked himself against your side, burying his face in your shoulder like he could hide from the world. “Why’s Fig got it out for me this time?”

Fig chirped something emphatic.

You stretched, still smiling. “He says John Walker sent him.”

That made Bucky sit up, blinking. “…What?”

“Mmhm.” You yawned, brushing your nose against his. “Fig’s just doing his job. The one you said he should do.”

Bucky cracked an eye at the bird. “He’s been doin’ it a little too well. I can’t get away with anything these days.”

Fig puffed up, chirping smugly, and hopped off the bed. You stretched, rolling onto your back.

To be fair, Fig knows the route to the Tower better than any GPS by now.

Because before Fig became Bucky’s wake-up call, he’d been your little courier. After that night, you’d send love letters, and Fig would ferry the between the tea shop and the Tower. 

You could’ve just texted, of course, but it was different with physical notes. It was tangible, permanent, and Bucky loved it because he could tuck in a pocket and reread on long nights.

The others at the Tower teased him relentlessly for it. Alexei once caught him tucking one of your notes into the chest pocket of his jacket before a briefing, and the cutesy-laughter didn’t stop for weeks. 

Not that he cared.

Still, that’s how the team had learned what you were, too. Somewhere between the delicate wax seals, the faint scent of herbs clinging to the envelopes, and Fig swooping in and out like he owned the place, they figured you were a witch. 

Oh that, and Strange barged in while Ava and Bob was in one day with a little dragon-like creature, begging for a magical anaesthetic mix that could knock it out enough for Strange to surgically remove a magical thorn from its spine. 

And oddly, once the word was out, it wasn’t a scandal. Everyone just sorta accepted it. You supposed that had seen weirder things. 

From the bedpost, Fig let out another bossy chirp.

“Living room, Fig,” you called gently. “We’ll be out in a bit.”

The little bird gave a final huff (or as close as a bird could manage) and fluttered off, leaving your bedroom.

Bucky shifted closer again, wrapping you in his arms and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Y’know,” he started. “We could use a witch on missions.”

You snorted, swatting his chest. “Oh sure. What am I gonna do, force-feed an evil secret agent truth potion?”

“Could work,” he said, deadpan.

You gave him a playful look. “I have a shop to open in an hour.”

“Mean,” he whispered, but he didn’t let go of you.

You brushed your hand through his hair fondly. “Clingy.”

“Yeah, well,” he admitted, not a single filter between his mind and his mouth as his metal arm rubbed gentled circles on your hip, “I love you.”

The words landed between you so naturally that you almost missed it. 

This was the first time he ever said it.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He blinked back, suddenly aware of what he’d said. But then he nodded. “I… I do love you.”

Oh. 

Wow.

“I love you too.” You smiled

And a grin emerged across his face. It was boyish and almost shy, and it was worth every bit of the waiting.

He kissed you again, nothing rushed, before Fig’s chirp echoed from the living room.

“Your alarm clock is impatient,” you muttered against his lips.

Bucky groaned into your mouth. “Can’t even enjoy sayin’ it for the first time without him chirping in.”

Fig chirped again but this time he flew out of the window, as if saying, I’ll tell Walker you’re going to be late again. 

As his hands found your hips, you realised, boy, was he going to be very late. 

—end.

Request Guidelines

Masterlist

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault @average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @boy--wonder--187 @scariusaquarius

@reckless007 @hextech-bros @daydreamgoddess14 @96jnie @pono-pura-vida

@buckyslove1917 @notsostrangerthing @flow33didontsmoke @qvynrand @blackbirdwitch22

@torntaltos @seventeen-x @ren-ni @iilsenewman @slayerofthevampire

@hiphip-horray @jbbucketlist @melotyy @ethereal-witch24 @samfunko

@lilteef @hi172826 @pklol @average-vibe @shanksstrawhat

@shower-me-with-roses @athenabarnes @scarwidow @thriving-n-jiving @dilfsaresohot

@helloxgoodbi @undf-stuff @sapphirebarnes @hzdhrtss @softhornymess

@samfunko @wh1sp @anonymousreader4d7 @mathcat345 @escapefromrealitylol

@imjusthere1161 @sleepysongbirdsings @fuckybarnes @rlphunter @yn-stories-are-my-life 

@cjand10 @nerdreader @am-3-thyst @wingstoyourdreams @lori19

@goldengubs @maryevm @helen-2003 @maryssong23 @fan4astic

@yesshewrites1 @thewiselionessss @sangsterizada @jaderabbitt @softpia 

@hopeofwinter @nevereclipse @tellybearryyyy @buckybarneswife125

@imaginecrushes @phoenixes-and-wizards @rowanthomasknapp @daystarpoet @thefandomplace

@biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @herejustforbuckybarnes @kitasownworld @shortandb1tchy @roxyym

@badl4nder @natalia42069 @silverdoragon @juliet-is-the-sun12 @nightlight486

Three housedresses, folded with military precision. Your mother's hairbrush, silver backing tarnished but bristles still good. Undergarments that made heat crawl up your neck at the thought of Bucky Barnes handling your worn cotton slips and mended stockings. Your good shoes, the ones you'd saved six months to buy, wrapped carefully in yesterday's newspaper. A bar of Ivory soap. Your father's shaving kit, though why he'd grabbed that, you couldn't fathom.

Each item pulled from the box felt like archaeology. Excavating the remains of a life that already felt ancient. A little over two weeks since your father's death. It might as well have been two years.

At the bottom, half-hidden beneath a winter slip, your fingers found worn leather.

The prayer book was small enough to fit in a coat pocket, edges soft from years of handling. The binding had started to separate from the spine, held together now by habit more than glue. Your father's prayer book, though calling it that felt like a lie. He'd attended church exactly twice a year: Easter and Christmas, and only then because your mother had insisted while she was alive.

But he'd written in this book nearly every day.

You opened it with careful fingers, throat already tight. His handwriting sprawled across the margins. Cramped, slanted, sometimes in pencil when ink ran out. Not prayers but observations. Thoughts. Sometimes just lists: Eggs, milk, thread for her coat. Other times, fragments of memory, small pieces of your mother: She wore yellow on our wedding day. Not white. Said white was for rich girls with nothing to hide.

Halfway through, the entries shifted. Became letters addressed to you, though he'd never mentioned them while alive.

My girl—Watched you at the factory gates today. Proud of you. Scared for you too. This world eats soft things.

You look like her when you sleep. Same way of curling up, like you're protecting something precious in your chest.

I'm sorry for the debt. Sorry for the mess. Sorry I couldn't be the father you deserved.

The last entry was dated three days before he died:

If you're reading this, I'm gone. The men I owe won't forget. But you're stronger than you know. Your mother always said you had steel in your spine. Don't let them break it.

"Planning to pray for your soul?"

Your head snapped up. Bucky leaned in the doorway, shoulder pressed to the frame, watching you with an expression smooth as still water. He'd appeared silently, a skill that made your skin crawl. He was already dressed for the day: charcoal trousers, white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his hips. His hair was damp from a bath, slicked back but not yet locked into place with pomade.

You tucked the prayer book behind you, pointless though it was. You swallowed thickly. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough." He pushed off from the doorframe, movements liquid. Everything about him was like that: controlled, economical. Even his violence had precision to it. "I'm heading out. Business."

"What kind of business?" The question came out before you could stop it.

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "The kind that pays your debt, dollface. You want details? Want to know whose legs I'm breaking, whose thumbs get crushed? Would that make you feel better about your situation?"

You looked away, stomach turning. Through the window, you could see the street coming to life. Milk trucks rattling past, women in housedresses sweeping stoops, normal people living normal lives. "What am I supposed to do all day?"

"Whatever you want." He shrugged, the gesture too casual. "Read a book. Take a bath. Count the flowers on the wallpaper. I don't give a shit."

"Can I leave?"

"No." The word came out flat, final. He moved toward the door, then paused. "There's food in the icebox. Don't answer the door. Don't go into the basement. Don't touch anything in my room."

The list of prohibitions made something hot and defiant rise in your throat. "So I'm a prisoner."

"You're collateral." He glanced back, and for a moment something flickered across his face, gone too fast to read. "There's a difference."

"What's the difference?"

"Prisoners know their sentence."

The front door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed through the empty house. You sat there, still clutching the prayer book, listening to the brownstone settle around you. Somewhere, pipes groaned. The radiator hissed. The sounds of a building breathing, alive in its own way.

You thought about crying. About screaming. About throwing yourself against the door until your fists bled. Instead, you stood on unsteady legs and got dressed in one of your retrieved housedresses. Gray with small blue flowers, mended at the hem where you'd caught it on a factory nail. The fabric smelled wrong. Like his house. Like leather and tobacco instead of the lavender sachet you kept in your drawer at home.

Home. As if that place existed anymore.

The first three days passed in a haze of careful routine.

You woke when you heard him moving around, usually before dawn. The floorboards above your head would creak in a specific pattern: bathroom, bedroom, stairs. By the time you dressed and made your way down, he'd have coffee brewing, the smell sharp enough to cut through morning fog.

He'd acknowledge you with a nod, nothing more. You'd sit across from him at the kitchen table, nursing your cup while he read the paper, the silence between you thick as wet wool.

He never looked at you directly. His gaze would skip over you like you were furniture, something to navigate around but not worth focusing on. It should have been a relief after that first night, after the things he'd said against your door. Instead, it made your skin prickle with awareness.

You caught yourself cataloguing details: how he held his cup with his left hand while turning pages with his right. The way his jaw worked when he read something that displeased him. How those hands that had broken Marcus's thumb could be so careful with newsprint.

After breakfast, he'd leave. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for the entire day. You'd drift to the window and watch him go, noting how the street seemed to part for him. Even in daylight, even doing something as mundane as buying cigarettes from the corner store, he moved like a man expecting violence.

Alone, you mapped the boundaries of your cage.

The brownstone revealed itself in layers. Surface first: dark wood, leather furniture worn soft in specific places, minimal decoration. But underneath, if you looked, there were tells.

A photograph tucked behind books on a shelf showed two young men in Army uniforms, one clearly Bucky before whatever happened to carve those lines around his mouth. The other unfamiliar but grinning wide, arm slung around Bucky's shoulders.

Sheet music on the piano bench in the parlor, Chopin nocturnes with fingering marked in careful pencil. A woman's handkerchief forgotten in a kitchen drawer, lipstick stain on the corner faded but visible.

You shouldn't have been building a picture of him from these fragments. But boredom was its own kind of torture, and your mind needed something to chew on besides the weight of your situation.

By the fourth day, you'd started cleaning.

Not because he'd asked. He hadn't asked anything of you since that first night. But idle hands made your thoughts spiral, made you feel like your skin might split from the pressure building inside.

So you organized his books by author, then by subject when that wasn't satisfying enough. You scrubbed the kitchen until surfaces reflected light. You even stood outside his bedroom door for five full minutes, hand on the knob, before remembering his warning. The flatness in his voice when he'd marked it off limits.

He never commented on your tidying, but you noticed things. How his fingers would pause on the newly polished table. The way he'd stand in front of the reorganized shelves, head tilted like he was reading something written in the spines. Once, you'd left his mail stacked neatly by the door, and his mouth had twitched. Almost a smile before his expression shuttered like a slammed door.

The fifth night, he didn't come home at all.

You lay in the narrow bed, counting heartbeats. Every sound became footsteps. Every distant door became his. By three AM, the pillow was damp with sweat and something else you wouldn't name. He could be dead somewhere, bullet in his brain or knife between his ribs. Could have finally pushed the wrong person, taken one risk too many.

The thought should have brought relief. Freedom from this limbo, from the weight of his presence and absence both.

Instead, your chest went tight. Breathing became work.

When grey dawn finally crept through the window, you gave up pretending to sleep. Made your way downstairs on unsteady legs, started coffee with hands that shook only slightly. You set out two cups without thinking. Only realized what you'd done when you saw them side by side on the counter: one poured, one waiting.

He found you like that, staring at the empty cup like it held answers.

"Expecting someone?"

You jerked, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He stood in the doorway, looking like he'd fought his way through hell and lost. Shirt untucked, jacket torn at the shoulder. A bruise bloomed along his jaw, purple-green like rotting fruit.

Heat crawled up your neck. You wrapped your fingers tighter around your mug, ceramic warm against palms gone suddenly cold. "Wasn't sure you'd be back."

The words came out carefully neutral, but something must have shown on your face. His eyes sharpened, fatigue momentarily forgotten.

"Worried about me, dollface?"

The suggestion made your stomach flip with indignation and something softer you refused to examine. Your spine straightened, clicking into place like armor.

"Worried about my debt. If you die, what happens to me?"

"Smart question." He moved to pour coffee, movements slightly unsteady. Exhaustion or injury, impossible to tell. "The old man would collect. Probably put you to work in one of his establishments. You know what kind of work that would be?"

The words conjured images you didn't want: perfumed rooms and strange hands and your mother's voice warning about girls who fell too far. Your silence was answer enough.

"So yeah," he continued, dropping into his chair with less grace than usual. "You should probably hope I stay alive."

The bruise drew your attention like a magnet. In the morning light, you could see the individual fingerprints where someone had gripped his face. Violence made intimate. Without thinking, you reached across the table, fingers hovering near but not quite touching the discoloration.

"You should put ice on that."

The air between you went electric. His eyes tracked your extended hand like it was a weapon.

"Should I?" His voice had dropped, gone soft in the way that meant danger.

You pulled back, face burning. Busied yourself with your coffee to avoid seeing whatever was in his eyes. "It'll heal faster."

"Concerned about my pretty face?"

The teasing edge made something defensive rise in your throat. You pressed your lips together, tasting bitter coffee and bitterer words.

"Concerned about you looking disreputable. Doesn't that reflect badly on me? As your..." The word wouldn't come. Prisoner felt dramatic. Guest was laughable. Property was too close to truth. "...whatever I am?"

"My whatever." His laugh was hollow as old bones. "That's one way to put it."

He stood abruptly, chair scraping against floor loud enough to make you flinch. "I need a bath. Try not to reorganize the entire house while I'm gone."

So he had noticed.

The admission hung in the air after he left, settling over you like dust. You sat at the table, studying the empty cup you'd set out for him.

Upstairs, pipes groaned as water started. You imagined him peeling off clothes stiff with dried blood, cataloguing new damages. Did he think about the violence while he washed it away? Or was it just another morning routine, like reading the paper?

You poured the waiting coffee down the sink and tried not to think about why you'd expected him to come home at all.

By the end of the first week, you'd developed a routine that felt almost like living.

Wake, breakfast, watch him leave. Clean something that didn't need cleaning. Read from his extensive library (mostly history, some philosophy, a surprising amount of poetry tucked behind other books like he was hiding it). Lunch alone. Afternoon spent at the window, watching the neighborhood rhythm. Dinner, sometimes with him, sometimes alone.

Sleep, eventually, though it came harder here than it ever had at home.

You were going slightly mad with it.

"I could work," you tested one morning, apropos of nothing. He was reading the paper, you were pushing eggs around your plate. "At the factory. I could keep working, pay you back faster."

"No."

The word landed flat between you. Your fork scraped against ceramic, a sound that made your teeth ache.

"Why not?"

He lowered the paper enough to look at you directly. Rare these days. His eyes were the color of winter mornings, cold and clear. "Because I said no."

Heat prickled along your spine, indignation rising like mercury in a thermometer. Your fingers tightened on the fork until your knuckles went white.

"That's not a reason."

"It's the only fuckin' reason you need."

The casualness of his authority made something snap inside you, sharp and sudden as breaking bone.

"So I'm just supposed to sit here? For how long? Months? Years?"

"For as long as I say."

You stood so fast your chair tipped backward, caught it before it could fall. The sudden movement made your head swim, pulse hammering in your throat like a trapped bird. You felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. "You can just kill me, you know. Instead of wasting both our times."

He studied you for a long moment, and you saw something shift in his expression. A crack in that careful blankness. The corner of his mouth lifted, revealing teeth. He smiled then, all sharp edges, the predator showing through.

"What a fucking waste that would be."

The words hit low in your belly, made heat pool there despite yourself. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking pressure, seeking relief from the sudden ache.

Some days you could forget what he'd said that first night, the promises he'd made against your door.

Then he'd look at you like this—like he was remembering exactly how you'd sounded, breathless and confused—and your body would betray you all over again.

"I need something to do." Your voice came out steadier than you felt, though your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the back of the chair. "I'm going crazy in this house."

"Join the club." He went back to his paper, but you caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw worked like he was chewing on words. The muscle there jumped once, twice. A tell you'd learned meant he was holding something back. After a moment, he spoke again, not looking up. "There's a bookshelf in the basement. More poetry, if you're interested. Since you seem to like going through my things."

It was the closest thing to kindness he'd offered in days. You took it for what it was: a bone thrown to a restless dog.

The second week passed faster.

You started cooking elaborate meals just for something to do. He'd come home to find pot roast with vegetables carved into perfect spheres, or a cake decorated with careful precision. He never commented, but he ate everything you put in front of him.

Sometimes he'd stay in after dinner, reading in his study while you did dishes. The domesticity of it sat strange on your shoulders, like wearing someone else's coat. You'd catch yourself humming while you worked, then stop, guilty at finding even a moment's contentment in this situation.

One night, you found him asleep in his chair, book open on his chest. In sleep, the hard lines of his face softened. He looked younger, less like a weapon and more like a man. You'd stood there too long, studying the vulnerable curve of his mouth, the way his lashes fanned against his cheeks.

He'd woken suddenly, hand going to the gun you hadn't even known he carried. The metal caught lamplight as his fingers found the grip, body coiled and ready before his eyes had fully opened. For a moment, you'd stared at each other, both caught in something you couldn't name. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths that seemed too measured for someone just waking.

"Go to bed," he'd said roughly, voice still thick with sleep.

You'd fled on unsteady legs, feeling his gaze follow you all the way to the stairs.

Two weeks to the day since you'd moved in, he came home earlier than usual. You were in the kitchen, making a simple dinner, when you heard his key in the lock. But instead of his usual path—straight to his study or upstairs to change—he came to find you.

"Here." He tossed something at you. Fabric, dark blue, expensive by the feel. "Put it on. We're going out tonight."

Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it. A dress, nothing like the conservative things he'd retrieved from your apartment. This had clean lines, a neckline that would show your collarbones, fabric that would cling rather than hide.

"Where are we going?"

"Does it matter?" He was already heading upstairs. "Be ready in an hour."

You stood there holding the dress, heart hammering. Two weeks of careful routine, of pretending this was something survivable, and now what? What did he need you for that required a dress like this?

The fabric was soft against your fingers, whispering against itself when you moved it. It probably cost more than you made in a month at the factory. More than your father had owed, maybe.

You climbed the stairs to your room, each step feeling like a decision you weren't ready to make. The dress lay across your bed like a question, like a test, like a door you weren't sure you wanted to open.

Outside your window, Brooklyn was settling into evening. Golden light going purple at the edges, the sound of families calling children inside for dinner. Normal life happening just beyond these walls, close enough to see but too far to touch.

You had an hour to decide who you were going to be tonight. The girl who cowered and hoped to survive? Or something else, something harder, something that might actually endure what was coming?

Your reflection in the mirror had no answers. Just a woman in a shabby housedress, holding something that might transform her or might just be another kind of cage.

Somewhere in the house, you could hear Bucky moving around, getting ready. The sound of water running, a door closing, footsteps that had become familiar in their rhythm. He was humming something. Low, almost inaudible, but there.

It was the first time you'd heard him make any sound that wasn't words or violence.

You touched the prayer book on your nightstand, your father's handwriting a talisman against whatever came next. Then you started getting ready, fingers steady despite the tremor in your chest.

The dress slithered over your skin like water made fabric, each inch of navy silk a confession against flesh that had never known anything finer than cotton.

Your fingers trembled as they smoothed the material over your hips, feeling how it clung to curves you'd spent years hiding under shapeless work dresses. The neckline exposed the delicate architecture of your collarbones, that vulnerable hollow where your pulse fluttered like something caged and desperate to escape. Without your usual slip—it would have shown through the delicate fabric, creating lines where there should be only smooth flesh)—you felt naked despite being clothed. Each breath made the silk whisper against your skin, a constant reminder of how exposed you were.

The mirror threw back a stranger. Someone who belonged in those moving pictures at the Rialto, not standing in a borrowed room with fear sitting like stones in her stomach. Your mother's pearls lay cold against your throat, each bead a small weight that made swallowing difficult. The clasps fumbled under your shaking fingers, metal warming slowly against your nape where baby hairs already escaped the careful pins.

Your hands moved without conscious thought. Each pin slid home with mechanical precision while your mind spun like a penny on edge. The exposed curve of your neck made you feel peeled, vulnerable, like something soft-bellied turned over to show its weakest parts. Wisps of hair immediately rebelled, framing your face in a way that looked almost intentional if you didn't think about it too hard.

No lipstick. It felt like a small defiance. But you caught your bottom lip between your teeth, bit down until blood rushed to the surface.

The small pain grounded you, pulled you back from the edge of panic that threatened to spill over. In the mirror, your mouth looked bee-stung, flushed. Like you'd been thoroughly kissed, though no one had touched you in...

"Two minutes."

His voice carried through the door like smoke, seeping into every corner. Your stomach clenched, a fist of anxiety and something else, something that made heat pool low and insistent between your thighs. You pressed them together, feeling the silk of your last good stockings catch and release against skin that felt too sensitive, like you'd been flayed open and rebuilt wrong.

The shoes—your good ones, the ones you'd saved six months to buy—slipped on like armor that wasn't enough. The single inch of heel changed your posture, made you aware of the length of your legs, how much of them showed beneath the dress's hem. Everything about this costume made you hyperaware of your body as a body, as something that could be looked at, wanted, taken.

Your fingers found the prayer book one last time, pads barely grazing worn leather. Your father's words inside, his cramped handwriting that got worse as his eyes failed. You're stronger than you know.

But standing there, dressed like something you weren't, about to walk into God knew what? You felt about as strong as wet paper.

The doorknob was cold under your palm. You turned it slow, like maybe if you took long enough, the night would pass without you having to live through it.

Bucky waited at the bottom of the stairs.

The sight of him hit you like a physical blow, making your diaphragm spasm and forget its job.

He'd transformed himself into something from those gangster pictures, except this was real, close enough to smell, to touch if you were stupid enough to try. The black suit had been cut by someone who understood that clothes could be weapons, every line designed to emphasize the controlled violence of his body. His hair, slicked back with pomade that caught the light, exposed the brutal architecture of his face. Sharp enough to cut yourself on if you weren't careful.

He looked up at your approach, and his eyes...

"Stop." The command froze you three steps from the bottom. His gaze traveled down your body with deliberate slowness, lingering on the exposed curve of your throat, the way silk clung to your breasts, the nervous flutter of your hands against your thighs. "Turn around."

Your face burned, but something in his tone made refusal impossible. You turned slowly, hyperaware of his eyes on you, of how the dress moved against your skin with each small movement. The back was cut lower than you'd realized when you'd put it on, exposing the delicate ladder of your spine.

"Again. Slower."

The words sent heat pooling between your thighs, shameful and immediate. You turned again, even slower this time, feeling like a prize horse being evaluated. Or prey being circled. When you faced him again, his expression was unreadable, but there was something dark in his eyes that made your breath catch.

"Come here."

You descended the remaining steps on unsteady legs. The second to last step caught your heel, and you stumbled.

His hand shot out, catching your elbow before you could fall, fingers wrapping around bare skin. The contact was electric, sending sparks racing up your arm and down your spine, pooling hot and liquid in your belly. He steadied you, but didn't let go immediately. Instead, he pulled you closer, until you stood on the bottom step, eye level with him for once.

"Careful." The word rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Can't have you damaging the merchandise before I show you off."

The casual cruelty of it made you flinch, but his thumb was pressing against the sensitive inside of your elbow, feeling your pulse hammer against thin skin, and the contrast made your head spin.

This close, you could see the fresh shave that revealed the cleft in his chin, could count individual lashes that threw shadows on his cheekbones. Could smell his cologne: bergamot and cedar and something darker, muskier, that made your hindbrain recognize predator and male in equal measure. Your body's reaction was confused, caught between flee and something else, something that made you want to tilt your head and offer your throat.

"You clean up better than expected." His voice had gone rough, gravel over velvet. "Almost look like you belong in that dress."

The backhanded compliment might have stun, if his eyes were cruel. Instead, they tracked over you with weight, with intent, cataloging every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing it for later. They lingered on the curve where your neck met shoulder, the delicate wings of your collarbones, the way the dress clung to your breasts, your waist, the flare of your hips.

You felt that gaze like hands, possessive and appraising.

"The dress is beautiful." Your voice came out breathier than intended, like you'd been running.

"The dress is expensive." He released your elbow only to trail his fingers down your arm, barely touching, raising goosebumps in his wake. "You're what makes it worth looking at."

The honesty of it hung between you like a blade. His jaw worked, muscle jumping beneath skin, and you watched him rebuild his walls in real time. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted to something harder.

"Let's go. We're already late because you took forever getting ready."

You hadn't—he'd only given you an hour—but protesting would mean admitting you'd been ready early, been waiting for him. He offered his arm, but when you reached for it, he pulled back slightly.

"Ask nicely."

Heat flooded your face. "I... what?"

"You want my arm? Ask for it." His eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement or cruelty. "Say 'please, Bucky, may I take your arm?'"

Your throat felt like sandpaper. Around you, the house felt too quiet, like even the walls were waiting to see what you'd do. Pride warred with pragmatism. You needed his protection tonight, needed to play whatever game this was.

"Please, Bucky." The words came out barely above a whisper. "May I take your arm?"

"Better." He finally let you take it, and your fingers curled around his bicep, feeling the coiled strength through expensive wool. "But next time, look me in the eyes when you beg."

His words sent liquid heat straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. The heat of him soaked through fabric, making you aware of every point of contact, every breath that brought you infinitesimally closer.

The car waited outside, engine purring. The night had turned cold while you'd been dressing, October showing its teeth. Wind cut through the silk dress like it wasn't there, raising goosebumps along every exposed inch. Your nipples tightened painfully against the delicate fabric, clearly visible through the thin silk, and you crossed your arms, trying to hide your body's betrayal.

"Don't." He caught your wrists, pulling your arms back down. "You're dressed like that for a reason. Let them look."

"Bucky..."

"Did I ask for your opinion?" He helped you into the car, his hand at the small of your back, but the touch was anything but gentlemanly. His palm pressed flat against silk, fingers splaying wide, thumb stroking one deliberate line up your spine that made you arch involuntarily. "No? Then keep quiet."

You expected him to take the front seat, to put distance between you.

Instead, he slid in beside you, crowding you against the door.

The bench seat shrank to nothing. His thigh pressed against yours from hip to knee, solid muscle that radiated heat like a furnace. When you tried to shift away, to put even an inch between your bodies, his hand landed on your thigh, keeping you in place.

"Sit still." The command was quiet but absolute. "You move every time I touch you. Makes you look skittish. Weak."

You clenched your teeth. "I'm not."

"You are." His hand slid higher, fingers curving around the inside of your thigh, tips pressing into soft flesh through silk. "You're soft. Sheltered. Everything about you screams victim."

A burning sensation pricked at your eyes, but beneath the hurt, something else stirred. Something dark that liked the weight of his hand, the cruel truth in his words.

"Where are we going?" You kept your eyes fixed on the driver's headrest, afraid of what your face might reveal if you looked at him.

"The Stork Club."

Your stomach dropped through the floor of the car.

Everyone knew about the Stork Club. It was in the society pages your coworkers read aloud during lunch breaks. Where celebrities went to be seen, where deals that shaped the city were made over champagne that cost more than you made in a month.

"I'm not... I don't know how to..." The words tangled on your tongue, panic making you frustrated and inarticulate.

"You don't need to know anything."

His hand was still on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles that made thinking impossible. The heat of his skin seared through silk stocking, making every nerve ending from knee to hip spark to life.

"Just smile pretty and keep your mouth shut unless someone asks you a direct question. Can you do that?"

There should have been rebellion in you. Some spark of pride that railed against being ordered around like a child. Instead, his thumb pressed harder, finding the sensitive inner thigh, and your thoughts scattered like startled birds. You pressed your thighs together instinctively, trying to ease the sudden ache, but that only trapped his hand more firmly between them.

"I asked you a question." His fingers tightened, not quite painful but close. "Can you do that?"

"Yes." The word came out steady. Too steady.

"Yes, what?" His voice had dropped an octave, velvet over gravel.

Your throat clicked as you swallowed. "Yes, I can do that."

"Good girl." The praise was mocking, but your body didn't care. It hit you like a shot of bourbon, warm and dizzying. Your nipples tightened further, visible through the silk, and you knew he could see it, could see exactly what his words did to you. "At least you can follow simple instructions. More than most can manage, these days."

The city blurred past in streams of light. His cigarette smoke filled the car, mixing with cologne and leather into something that made you dizzy. His hand stayed on your thigh, possession and threat in equal measure, fingers occasionally flexing like he was testing how much pressure you could take.

"There'll be other families there." His fingers walked higher, stopping just before indecency. "The Lombardis, definitely. Maybe the Rileys. Some legitimate businessmen who like to play at being dangerous."

You nodded, not trusting your voice. The heat between your legs had become an ache, insistent and shameful.

"They're going to look at you and know exactly what you are. A factory girl playing dress up. Debt payment dressed in silk." His hand slid back down to your knee, the loss of contact making you bite your lip to keep from whimpering. "Let them think that."

"Why?" The question slipped out despite your better judgment.

"Because the truth would be worse." He turned to look at you then, and his eyes in the passing streetlights were dark as the river. "The truth is you're starting to like this. The danger. The way I touch you. The way your body responds even when your mind says no."

You open your mouth to protest, but he interrupts.

"Don't lie." His hand lifted from your knee entirely, leaving cold silk in its wake. "I can see it all over you. The way you're pressing your thighs together. The way your breath catches every time I move my hand. How badly you want me to put it back on your thigh. Higher this time."

You turned your face to the window, cheeks burning with shame at your own thoughts, at how accurately he'd read you. In the reflection, you could see him watching you, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry, dollface." His voice was mockingly gentle. "Your secret's safe with me. Though by the end of tonight, everyone's going to know anyway. The way you look at me gives it all away."

The Stork Club materialized from the Manhattan night like something from a fever dream. Art deco and neon, beautiful people in beautiful clothes, doormen who looked like they could kill you with their white gloves still on. The crowd parted for Bucky's car without question, velvet ropes might as well have not existed.

"Mr. Barnes, welcome back."

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Barnes."

"Your usual table, Mr. Barnes?"

They spoke to him with careful deference, the kind reserved for people who could end you with a phone call. Bucky emerged from the car first, then turned back for you. His hand engulfed yours, calluses rough against your palm—working hands despite the expensive suit. You tried to exit gracefully, hyperaware of the dress riding up, of all the eyes tracking your movement.

Someone in the crowd whistled, low and appreciative.

Bucky's hand moved to your waist faster than your eyes could track, fingers splaying possessively across silk. He pulled you against his side, hard enough that you stumbled, catching yourself against his chest. His other hand came up to steady you, but it was deliberate—palm flat against your lower back, pressing you flush against him from hip to sternum. You could feel every line of his body through the thin dress, the barely contained violence radiating from him like heat from a forge.

He held you there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, letting everyone see. Letting them understand. His jaw muscle ticked, eyes scanning the crowd with predatory focus until whoever had whistled melted back into anonymity.

The crowd went silent.

When he finally let you step back—just an inch, his hand still iron on your waist—the message had been received. The doormen looked anywhere but at you. The crowd found other things infinitely more interesting than the woman on Bucky Barnes's arm.

Inside was all golden light and cigarette smoke, jazz that seemed to come from the walls themselves. Crystal and velvet and perfume so thick it made your eyes water. Beautiful people arranged themselves artfully at tables, each one performing for everyone else in an elaborate dance you didn't know the steps to.

Heads turned as Bucky guided you through the room. You caught fragments of whispers, each one landing like a small cut:

"Barnes's new girl—"

"—won't last the month—"

"—pretty enough, but did you see those shoes? Department store—"

"—must be somethin' special in bed if he's bringing her here—"

Your face burned, but Bucky's hand on your waist kept you moving forward. His thumb stroked one small circle against your ribs, and somehow that tiny gesture gave you enough strength to keep your chin up.

The corner booth held court like a throne. George Barnes sat at its center, those flat eyes tracking your approach with measured interest. The other men around him deferred without seeming to, letting him hold the center of gravity.

"James." He didn't rise, didn't smile. Just watched with that calculating stare that made your spine straighten involuntarily. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Change of plans." Bucky's tone was carefully casual.

George's gaze shifted to you, taking in the dress, the pearls, the careful positioning of Bucky's hand. "The girl from dinner. Interesting choice, bringing her here."

The words were neutral but the undertone wasn't. Your hands clenched at your sides, nails biting into palms.

"She's with me," Bucky said simply.

"So I see." George lit a cigarette with deliberate movements. "Sit. Both of you."

Bucky guided you into the booth, the horseshoe shape trapping you between him and the wall.

"Business has been good this week," George said, eyes still on you. "Though I heard there was some trouble at Marcus's table earlier."

This was news to you. You recall the first warning to Bucky's brother-in-law. The broken thumb at dinner, the threat of something worse.

Bucky's hand squeezes your thigh.

"Misunderstanding," Bucky replied. "It's handled."

"It better be. Can't have people thinking we've gone soft." George's attention shifted to his son. "Or distracted."

The implication was clear. Your presence was a distraction, a liability.

"I know what I'm doing, Pop."

"Do you?" An older man across the table leaned forward—Italian, well-dressed, with the kind of quiet authority that didn't need to announce itself. "Because from where I sit, looks like you're making statements. Statements have consequences."

"Everything has consequences, Lombardi." Bucky's thigh pressed against yours under the table, a silent message to stay quiet. "Question is whether they're worth it."

Lombardi smiled, thin and knowing. "That's always the question, isn't it? What something's worth. What someone's willing to pay."

A waiter appeared with champagne. The crystal flute was pressed into your hand before you could refuse.

"To business," George said, raising his glass. "And knowing the price of things."

"Drink." Bucky's voice was low, meant only for you. "Slowly. Don't drain it, but don't ignore it either."

You took a small sip, letting the champagne fizz on your tongue. It tasted like wealth: complicated and golden and nothing like the beer your father sometimes brought home. The crystal felt foreign in your grip, too delicate, like it might shatter if you held it wrong.

Conversation flowed around you in currents you couldn't follow. Talk of shipments and territories, percentages and protection, all in code that barely masked the violence underneath. Bucky's hand found your thigh under the table, just resting there, weight and warmth through silk. Not moving, but impossible to ignore.

You tried to make yourself invisible, to become part of the booth's velvet backdrop. But you could feel eyes on you: assessing, calculating, determining exactly what you were worth. Some looked at you with desire, some with contempt, some with the kind of interest that made your skin crawl.

"Your boy hit our numbers hard last week," Lombardi said to George, tone deceptively casual. "Three of our runners taken out."

"Your runners were skimming." George sounded bored. "We did you a favor."

"Some favor. Cost me two grand in lost product."

Under the table, Bucky's hand shifted slightly on your thigh. His pinky finger pressed harder, a silent signal to stay still, stay quiet. You pressed back into the booth, trying to become smaller.

"Cost you nothing. We delivered the full take to your people, minus our handling fee."

"Handling fee." Lombardi's voice went cold as winter stone. "That what we're calling theft now?"

The tension ratcheted up so fast you could taste it, metallic on your tongue. Every muscle in Bucky's body coiled tight, ready for violence. His hand on your thigh became a brand, holding you in place when every instinct screamed run.

They stared at each other across the table. Two apex predators deciding if territory was worth bloodshed. The silence stretched like taffy, sticky and suffocating.

Finally, Lombardi laughed. The sound was like glass breaking in reverse, sharp pieces coming together wrong.

"You always were a ballsy fuck, George." He raised his glass. "To Brooklyn."

They toasted, crystal chiming like funeral bells. The tension eased but didn't disappear. It never fully disappeared here, you realized. Just waited, coiled and ready, for the next provocation.

A hand touched your shoulder.

Not Bucky's.

You flinched so hard champagne sloshed in your glass. A young man leaned over the booth, all slicked hair and hungry eyes that traveled down your body like he was unwrapping a present.

"Wanna dance, sweetheart?"

Bucky's hand tightened on your thigh hard enough to bruise. The pain made you gasp, quiet enough that only he heard. "No, she doesn't."

"I wasn't asking you, Barnes." The man's smile was all teeth, no warmth. "Lady looks bored. Thought I'd show her a good time."

"Tommy." Lombardi's voice carried warning. "Don't be stupid."

But Tommy was drunk on youth and bravado and whatever else was coursing through his bloodstream. His hand slid down your bare arm, fingers trailing over skin like he had every right to touch. The contact made bile rise in your throat, made your skin try to crawl away from your bones.

"Come on, doll. One dance. What's the har—"

The world exploded into motion.

Bucky moved faster than your eyes could track. One moment he was beside you, the next Tommy was pinned against a marble pillar with Bucky's forearm across his throat. The entire club stopped. Conversations died mid-word, the band faltered into scattered notes, even the cigarette smoke seemed to freeze in the air.

"Touch her again," Bucky said very quietly, voice carrying despite its softness, "and I'll mail pieces of you to your mother over the course of a year. A finger here, an ear there. Let her collect you like trading cards."

Tommy's face was turning purple, eyes bulging as he clawed at Bucky's arm. The muscles in Bucky's forearm stood out like iron cables, not giving an inch.

"Bucky." Your voice came out as barely a whisper, throat tight with fear.

His head turned slightly. Not enough to look at you, just enough to acknowledge he'd heard.

"Ask nicely." The command was soft but absolute.

Your face burned with humiliation.

Everyone was watching, waiting, eager to see you perform. You could feel their eyes like hands, grabbing, assessing, determining exactly how much degradation you'd accept.

"Please." The word tasted like copper pennies.

"Please what?" He pressed harder against Tommy's throat, making him wheeze.

The power dynamic was so clear it might as well have been written in neon above your heads. You swallowed your pride like broken glass, feeling it tear all the way down.

"Please let him go."

For a moment, you thought he wouldn't. His arm tensed further, and Tommy made a sound like air leaving a punctured tire. Then Bucky stepped back, letting him drop to the floor in a gasping heap.

"Apologize to the lady."

Tommy massaged his throat, eyes watering, face still purple-red. "S-sorry," he wheezed.

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry for touching you." The words came out strangled. "Won't happen again."

"No," Bucky agreed, straightening his cuffs with deliberate calm. "It fucking won't."

He turned back to the booth, offering you his hand. You took it without thinking, letting him pull you to your feet. Your legs felt like water, knees threatening to buckle.

"We're leaving." He announced it to the table at large.

George watched with those flat eyes, expression unreadable. "Night's young."

"Not for us."

Bucky's arm went around your waist, and this time the possession in it was blatant, a clear warning to anyone thinking of approaching. He guided you through the club, past the staring faces and whispered speculations. You could feel the weight of their judgment (whore, property, thing, toy) but underneath it, something else.

Fear. They looked at you and saw Bucky Barnes's willingness to commit violence, and they were afraid.

The night air hit like a slap, cold and sharp after the club's smoky warmth. You gulped it gratefully, trying to steady your racing heart. Your skin still crawled where Tommy had touched you, phantom fingers leaving invisible stains.

"That was—"

"Get in the fucking car."

The order was flat, emotionless, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched like he was imagining them around someone's throat. You slid into the backseat, expecting him to give the driver an address.

Instead, he got in beside you and pulled you roughly against him.

His hands moved over your arms, checking for damage with clinical efficiency. When he found none, his touch gentled but didn't stop. Fingers traced the path Tommy had taken, as if trying to erase the unwanted contact with his own.

"Did he hurt you?" The question came out rough.

The question stopped you in your tracks. "No, I'm—"

"Don't lie to me." His hand came up to cup your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. In the dim light, they looked almost black.

"I'm not hurt." You caught his wrist, feeling his pulse race under your fingers. "I'm fine."

He stared at you for a long moment, something raw flickering across his face. Possession, maybe, or something deeper, more dangerous. His thumb traced your cheekbone, the touch so gentle it made your chest ache.

"You should be terrified right now." His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I am."

"No." His thumb moved to your bottom lip, pressing slightly. "Not of the right thing."

You swallowed audibly. "What should I be afraid of?"

"Me." The word came out like a confession. "What I wanted to do to him. What I want to..."

He cut himself off, jaw clenching hard enough that you could hear his teeth grind. This close, you could smell him: cigarettes and violence and that cologne that made your head swim. Could feel the barely leashed control in every line of his body.

"Driver," he called out, never looking away from your face. "2847 Fulton Street."

Your father's address. He was taking you home. Relief flooded through you so fast it made you dizzy.

His hand moved from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Feeling your pulse flutter against his palm like a trapped moth. "You did well tonight," he said, voice strange. Almost surprised. "Didn't rise to the bait. Didn't make a scene."

"I'm getting good at being degraded in public." The words came out sharper than intended.

His thumb pressed against your pulse point, and you felt him smile more than saw it. "That mouth is going to get you in trouble."

The car slowed. Too soon. You looked out the window to see an unfamiliar street, industrial buildings looming like broken teeth. The driver was turned around, speaking urgently to Bucky in Italian. Your stomach clenched.

"What's happening?"

"Shut up." But his hand tightened on your throat, protective rather than threatening. He leaned forward, listening to the driver, and his entire body went rigid. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Bucky—"

"Someone's at your place. Three cars." His jaw worked, mind calculating. "They knew I'd take you home. They're waiting."

Your blood turned to slush, cold and thick in your veins. "Who?"

"Does it matter?" He was already redirecting the driver, barking an address. "Pier 47. Now."

"The docks?" Panic crawled up your throat. "Why—"

His hand moved from your throat to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in the hair at your nape. He pulled, firm enough to make you look at him. "Listen to me very carefully. We're about to walk into something bad. You stay behind me. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions, no hesitation. Understood?"

Your mouth had gone dry as sand. "What kind of bad?"

"The kind where people die." His grip tightened, and you felt the tremor in his hand that he was trying to hide. "I didn't plan this. Didn't want you anywhere near this. But we're out of options."

The drive took forever and no time at all. Manhattan dissolved into industrial wasteland, all rust and shadow and the smell of the Hudson creeping through the windows. Bucky's hand had moved to your thigh, higher than before, fingers pressed into the soft inner flesh hard enough to bruise. Every time the car hit a bump, his grip tightened, and heat shot straight to your core despite the terror.

"You're shaking," he murmured, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh through silk.

"I'm scared," you croaked. It felt like the understatement of the century.

"Good. Terror keeps you alive." His hand slid higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your underwear. "When we get there, you stay close enough that I can feel you breathing. Someone approaches you, you scream. Someone touches you..." His fingers flexed, and you bit back a whimper. "You fight like your life depends on it. Because it will."

The warehouse materialized from the darkness like something from a fever dream. No lights except weak moonlight filtering through broken windows. Your heels sounded like gunshots against the concrete as Bucky pulled you from the car, his hand immediately going to your waist, fingers splaying wide enough to span from ribs to hip.

"I don't like this," you whispered.

"Neither do I." He pulled you tighter against his side, and you could feel the gun tucked into his waistband pressing against your hip. "But Gallo's here. Has to be dealt with tonight."

"Who's Gallo?"

"Someone who should've stayed in fucking Chicago."

The inside was a cavern of shadows and echoes. Your eyes couldn't adjust fast enough, dark shapes moving in peripheral vision that might have been men or machinery or nothing at all. Bucky's hand on your waist was the only solid thing in a world suddenly made of smoke.

Then lights blazed on, harsh and blinding.

"Barnes!" The voice boomed from somewhere above. "Right on time."

You blinked repeatedly, vision swimming back into focus. Five men stood in a loose semicircle, all armed, all staring.

At you. Only at you.

"Gallo." Bucky's voice was perfectly neutral, but his fingers dug into your waist hard enough that you knew there'd be marks tomorrow. "Thought we were meeting alone."

"Plans change." Gallo stepped into better light. Scarred face like a topographical map of violence, dead eyes that reminded you of Bucky's father, smile that didn't reach past his teeth. "Well, well. Didn't know you were bringin' party favors."

His gaze traveled down your body, slow and deliberate. You could feel it like hands, like a violation. Your skin tried to crawl off your bones. Bucky shifted, putting himself partially in front of you, but Gallo just laughed.

"What's the matter, Barnes? Worried we'll damage your toy?" He took a step closer. "Pretty thing like that, all dolled up... Lombardi sends his regards, by the way. Says you owe him for the disrespect tonight. Says maybe the girl could be part of the payment."

The trap snapped into focus. You'd been bait without knowing it. The dress, the club, all of it leading here. Your knees went liquid.

"Lombardi can—"

The first gunshot was impossibly loud, sound that felt like a physical blow.

Bucky moved faster than thought, his body slamming into yours, driving you behind a concrete pillar. Your knees hit concrete with a crack that sent lightning up your thighs. Your palms skidded across rough ground, skin peeling away like tissue paper. Wetness bloomed across your knees, hot and immediate.

More gunshots, so many they became one continuous roar. Concrete exploded inches from your face, sharp fragments cutting across your cheek like tiny razors. You pressed yourself against the pillar, trying to become part of it, trying to disappear.

Then, sudden silence that was somehow worse.

"You okay?" Bucky's voice, close and rough.

You opened eyes you didn't remember closing. He was crouched in front of you, gun in hand, his other hand running over your body, checking for holes. A cut on his cheek leaked steadily, blood running down his jaw to drip on your silk dress.

"I—" Your voice wouldn't work properly. "I think—"

"Office. Now."

He hauled you up, and your legs barely held. The room spun. You could hear shouting, footsteps running, getting closer. Bucky half-dragged you toward a door, your heels catching on debris, ankles turning. The office door slammed behind you, and immediately Bucky was shoving furniture against it. Desk, filing cabinet, another desk.

"Barnes!" Gallo's voice, muffled but too close. "Send out the girl and we'll call it even."

"Fuck you," Bucky snarled, checking his ammunition. You watched his hands move, efficient and steady despite the blood now soaking his sleeve.

"Come on, be smart. She's nobody. Just some factory cunt you're slumming with. Worth what, a few nights of fun? I'll give you five grand for her."

Your stomach heaved.

Being sold. Priced. Reduced to meat.

"Ten," another voice called out. "Ten grand and we all walk away. You can find another piece of ass tomorrow."

Bucky looked at you then, and for one horrible second, you saw him calculating. Saw him weighing your life against whatever this was. Then he crossed to you in two strides, caging you against the wall with his body.

"Stay down," he said against your ear, his breath hot on your neck. "No matter what happens, you don't move. You don't make a sound." His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb pressing against your lips. "If I die, you play dead. Understood?"

You nodded, unable to speak past the pressure of his thumb.

"Good girl." The praise was grim. "Such a good girl."

He started toward the door—

The window exploded in a shower of glass.

A man swung through, young and wild-eyed, gun already tracking toward you. Your body moved without permission, hand finding the letter opener on the desk, driving it into his calf before conscious thought caught up. The blade slid in with horrifying ease, catching on something that might have been bone.

His scream was high, animal. The gun swung toward your face, and you could see your death in the black eye of the barrel—

Bucky's fist connected with the man's jaw with a sound like wet concrete breaking. The man crumpled, but more were coming. Two, three, climbing through the shattered window.

Something silver flashed in Bucky's hand. When had he pulled a knife? He moved like liquid mercury, the blade becoming part of him. An artery opened in a graceful arc, blood hitting the wall, hitting you. Hot drops across your face, in your mouth. The taste of copper and salt.

You should have screamed. Should have vomited. Instead, your hand found the dropped gun, fingers curling around the grip like you'd done this before.

"Safety's on the side," Bucky barked out without looking, currently using someone's tie to strangle them. "Red means dead."

Your thumb found the safety. The gun was heavier than expected, cold and solid.

The door exploded inward despite the barricade. More men, too many—

"Down!"

You flattened yourself as Bucky spun, firing over your head. The sound was deafening, made your ears ring. Bodies fell, but one shot caught Bucky in the shoulder, spinning him back. Blood sprayed across your dress, across your face, hot and thick.

"No!" The word ripped from your throat.

He grimaced, switched the gun to his left hand, kept firing. But you could see him slowing, could see the blood soaking his shirt, could see death walking into the room wearing familiar faces—

The man in the doorway was different. Calm in the chaos, suit somehow clean despite stepping over corpses. Dark skin, easy gait, professional eyes that catalogued the scene in an instant.

"Barnes," he said conversationally. "You look like shit."

"Wilson." Bucky's smile was all teeth and blood. "Took your fucking time."

Wilson raised his gun and shot two men trying to flank Bucky without looking at them. "Traffic was a bitch. That her?"

"Yeah."

Wilson's gaze found you: huddled against overturned furniture, gun clutched in shaking hands, blood that wasn't yours painting you red.

"Huh. Thought she'd be taller."

They moved together then with practiced synchronization. You stayed frozen, watching them work with terrible efficiency. When Gallo tried to run, Wilson caught him at the door like it was choreographed.

"Leaving so soon?"

"This wasn't the deal," Gallo gasped. "Lombardi said—"

"Lombardi says a lot of things." Bucky approached slowly, favoring his wounded shoulder. The blood had soaked through his jacket now, dripping steadily onto concrete. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to deliver a message for me."

The knife appeared again. Then it was in Gallo's shoulder, buried to the hilt. The scream echoed off the walls, off the ceiling, seeming to go on forever.

"The message," Bucky continued, twisting the blade slowly, "is that my girl is under my protection. Anyone who touches her, looks at her wrong, even thinks about her too hard—" Another twist, and Gallo sobbed. "—they'll end up like your friends here. But it'll take days. We clear?"

"Y-yes! Clear!"

Bucky yanked the knife free. Gallo crumpled, clutching his shoulder.

"Run," Bucky said softly. "Before I change my mind."

Gallo scrambled out, leaving blood smeared across the floor like a child's finger painting.

Wilson surveyed the carnage. Six bodies. Walls painted with arterial spray. You, still frozen, gun still clutched in white-knuckled hands.

"Jesus," he muttered. "You really know how to show a girl a good time."

"Shut up, Sam."

"I'm just saying, most people do dinner and a movie."

"Most people aren't me."

"Thank Christ for that." Sam approached you slowly, hands visible. "Hey there. You can put the gun down now."

You looked at the weapon like it was foreign. Your fingers had locked around it, knuckles gone white. They wouldn't let go.

"It's okay," Sam said gently. "You're safe. It's over."

Bucky crossed to you, gently prying the gun from your grip. His fingers were so warm against yours, steady despite everything. You could feel his pulse through his palm, too fast but strong.

"That's it, sweetheart" he said quietly, just for you. "You did good. The letter opener was smart. Quick thinking."

"There's blood on my dress." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears, distant.

"Shame, that. I'll buy you a new one."

"It's your blood."

Something shifted in his expression. "Yeah. Some of it is."

"You're hurt." Your hands reached for his shoulder without permission.

He caught your wrists, gentle but firm. "I've had worse."

"That's not reassuring."

Sam snorted. "Tell her about Budapest."

"Shut up, Wilson."

"Or Prague. Prague was a shitshow."

"I said shut up."

The banter washed over you, surreal after the violence. Bodies on the floor. Blood pooling black in moonlight. They'd been alive five minutes ago. Now they were nothing.

"We need to clean this up," Sam said, already pulling out a lighter. "You got accelerant in here?"

"Storage closet." Bucky hadn't looked away from your face, studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. "Give us five minutes."

"Make it three. Cops have been paid to be scarce, but fire department's harder to buy."

Bucky guided you out, past the bodies, through blood that made your shoes stick to the floor with each step. Outside, the night air hit like cold water. You gasped, gulping it down, but couldn't get the taste of copper out of your mouth.

"Your car's fucked," Sam called out. "Gallo's boys shot it to hell."

"Fucking hell. Fine, we'll take the sedan around back," Bucky replied, already steering you toward it. "Red Hook safehouse?"

"You've got it, boss."

The drive to Red Hook passed in a blur of streetlights and silence. You sat between them, trying to stop shaking. Every breath tasted like copper. Every blink brought back the image of that man's throat opening, the surprised look on his face like he couldn't believe his body had betrayed him. Your dress was starting to stiffen where the blood had soaked through, silk turning to cardboard against your skin.

"She's in shock," Sam said, clinical but not unkind.

"I know."

"She needs—"

"I know what she needs, Wilson."

Bucky's hand found yours on the seat between you. Not holding, just covering it with his own. The weight of it was grounding, something solid in a world that had gone liquid at the edges.

The safehouse materialized from the darkness: a narrow brownstone that looked abandoned from the outside. Peeling paint, dark windows, the kind of place the city forgot on purpose. Sam helped you both inside, Bucky's good arm heavy around your waist.

"Three hours," Sam said from the doorway. "Then I'm checking in."

"Four."

"Three." Sam's eyes found yours in the dim light. "You did good tonight. Most people freeze their first time. You didn't freeze."

First time.

The words followed you up the narrow stairs, Bucky's hand at your back, guiding you through the darkness. The safehouse smelled like dust and old smoke, like a place where people came to hide from their mistakes.

He pushed open a door to reveal a bedroom that had seen better decades. A bed with military corners, a dresser missing half its handles, streetlight filtering through yellowed curtains.

"Sit," he said, guiding you to the edge of the bed.

You sat, hands still trembling in your lap. He knelt in front of you, started unlacing your shoes with careful fingers. The domesticity of it made your chest tight. When he looked up at you, his eyes were dark in the half-light.

"We need to get you cleaned up," he said softly. "Get the blood off."

"I can still taste it." The words came out small, broken.

Something shifted in his expression. He rose, cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, and you realized he was wiping away tears you hadn't known were falling.

"Listen to me," he said, voice low and steady. "What happened tonight changes things. Changes you. And we're going to deal with that. But right now, you need to let me take care of you. Can you do that?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"Good girl." The praise was gentle this time, lacking its usual edge. "That's my good girl."

He helped you stand, turned you toward the bathroom. "Shower. Hot as you can stand it. I'll find you something clean to wear."

At the bathroom door, you paused. "Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"After. Will you..." You couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't articulate what you needed.

But he understood. He always understood.

"I'll be right here," he said. "Not going anywhere."

You closed the door behind you, started peeling off the blood-stiffened dress with shaking fingers. Through the thin walls, you could hear him moving around. The creak of drawers opening. The soft curse when his shoulder caught wrong. These ordinary sounds in extraordinary circumstances.

As hot water finally hit your skin, washing pink spirals down the drain, you thought about what he'd said. Changes you.

You could feel it already—something fundamental shifted, some innocence you'd never get back. You'd stabbed a man tonight. Watched others die. Felt relief instead of horror when they stopped moving.

But underneath the shock and trauma, something else stirred. Something that recognized the predator in Bucky Barnes and wanted to learn how to show teeth too. Something that had picked up that letter opener not in panic, but with intent.

Tomorrow, you'd have to reckon with what you'd become.

Tonight, you just had to wash the blood off and trust that the man in the next room—dangerous, complicated, morally gray Bucky Barnes—would keep you from falling apart completely.

Through the wall, you heard him pour bourbon. Heard the soft hiss of pain as he tried to deal with his shoulder one-handed.

"I'll be right here," he'd said.

For tonight, that had to be enough.

You hadn’t missed the way his eyes flicked toward you after that.

Because… you were a girl. A princess, yes, but not the male heir he wanted— not the warrior he’d dreamed of. So no matter how many languages you spoke or how well you danced, you were never enough.

So when your father summoned you one morning, with his signature stern eyes and stiff voice — “Dress properly. We’ll be riding to Viscount Reynolds’ estate this afternoon” — you obeyed without asking why.

—

The Reynolds estate was vast, but bleak.

The Viscount was a tall man with a voice like gravel and a handshake that left bruises. His wife barely spoke as she flinched at sudden movements and never met your eyes. 

And you met his son that day. 

He was two years older, pale and with bleached-blond hair and brown roots, standing rigid at his father’s side.

The Viscount’s hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder like a brand.

“This is Robert,” he said. “You’ll be seeing more of him.”

You glanced at your father, who nodded approvingly.

You were a child— you didn’t understand politics. You just knew the boy in front of you looked like he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

—

Over that summer, you saw more of Robert than anyone else.

The adults had their meetings and their wine-filled dinners. You and Robert would wander in the royal gardens and stables. You showed him how to sneak down through the servants’ path to the cliffside chapel. He brought you a book on war magic you weren’t allowed to read and took turns pretending to cast spells.

Over time, you became friends. And you noticed things.

You noticed how Robert always flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never looked his father in the eye. How, sometimes, he would disappear for a week and come for a visit into the palace with bruises under his sleeves and say nothing at all.

One day, when your father took you to Viscount's estate for another visit, you found him hiding in the wine cellar, his hands shaking.

“He hit you again,” you said. It was a statement, and not a question.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him on the stone floor, hugging your knees.

“My father gets angry too,” you whispered. “Mostly at me. Sometimes at my mother.”

Robert looked at you sideways. “He hits you?”

“No.” You shrugged looking down. “He just… looks at me like I’m a mistake.”

Robert didn’t know what to say, so you took his hand.

From that day on, you were his best friend.

He taught you how to throw knives, and you taught him how to braid hair (because you said, one day you’ll need to if you fall in love with a wonderful lady, and he had blinked and whispered something about never falling in love ever, ever, ever, especially not with a lady).

You cried into his shoulder the first time your governess slapped you across the knuckles and called you willful. He sat beside you until your hiccups stopped.

He came to the palace, bloodied and shivering the night his father beat him for refusing to spar with full force against a servant’s son. You cleaned his wounds with trembling hands. "I’ll be queen one day," You promised. "I could change everything."

He believed you.

—

When you were nine, the Viscount and King summoned you both to a formal supper.

For the first time in your life, The King — your father —  looked at you with a look eerily close to approval.

The Viscount smiled and said, “They’ll make a fine pair one day.”

You didn’t know what he meant then, mostly because you were too amazed to see your father proud of you.

You were ten when your mother told you they had begun properly discussing a union between the Reynolds and royal bloodlines.

You were eleven when she said, “It may not be romantic, but it will be useful.”

By then, you were too smart not to realise, and too loyal to Robert to protest.

Through the years, you and Robert stayed close. He snuck into your rooms during visits and left books under your pillow. You covered for him when he started sneaking wine from the cellars at fifteen. He held your hand when your mother collapsed from exhaustion at the spring festival, and you held him when his father broke two ribs and told him to “walk it off like a man.”

Over the years, you knew him better than anyone, but you didn’t love him like the storybooks said you should. But you did love him like a brother, like a shadow, like a tether.

—

You were a teenager when Robert told you his biggest secret.

That day, you found Robert on the balcony of the southern library during a ball.

He was leaning on the railing, half-drunk— and unhealthily so. Perhaps this was when he developed his drinking problem— but you didn't know better then.

He wasn’t wearing his court clothes. Just a loose shirt, half-open at the throat.

And when he turned and saw you standing at the doorway, he didn’t smile.

“Thought you’d be with the other ladies,” he said quietly.

“I’m never with the others.” You stepped closer, folding your arms. “They’re boring and I don’t like them.”

That earned a breath of a smile from Robert.

You tilted your head. “Why are you up here when you could be dancing downstairs?”

Robert exhaled slowly, taking another swig of his drink. “I… needed air.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s wrong, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Robert?”

He gripped the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You stepped beside him, leaned against the railing with your shoulder just brushing his.

“I…” he started, looking down. “I’m gay.”

There was a long silence.

He stared out at the horizon like it might collapse under the weight of it, like the word was taboo enough all by itself, it might cause lightning to strike.

And then, you snorted a very unprincess-like snort. “Duh.”

His eyes snapped to you. “What?”

You turned and grinned. “Robert, I’ve known since you were thirteen and said Prince Ramires from the southern isles had ‘remarkably sculpted calves.’”

His mouth opened in disbelief. You… knew?

“Also,” you added, ticking off on your fingers, “you’ve never once looked interested in the ladies they parade around at court. And you cried over that squire from Delphia when he got reassigned. And you almost fainted the first time John Walker walked by with his shirt off last summer.”

Robert groaned, covering his face. “Gods, I hate you.”

You laughed and tugged his hand down gently. “No, you don’t.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “You’re… not angry?”

“Angry?” You blinked. “Bob, I’m relieved.”

He frowned. “What?”

You leaned back on the balcony, sighing up at the sky. “This marriage thing… We… we knew we were never going to work.”

He stared at you in stunned silence. You smiled, a little sad. “Not in the way mother and father wanted.”

“My…” He swallowed hard. “My father would kill me.”

You reached out and took his hand in yours and squeezed it tight. “He won’t. Not while I’m alive.”

He looked like he might cry, so you bumped your shoulder against his.

“Look,” you said. “You’re my best friend. I love you. If the only way to keep you safe is to pretend to be your loving future wife, then so be it.”

“You’d… do that?”

You gave him a smile that had more steel in it than warmth. “I’d lie to a kingdom to keep you safe, my friend.”

—

The court had been waiting for the royal wedding for years.

By the time you were seventeen, it was no longer a rumour but a certainty — The Princess and the Viscount’s Son. It sounded good on paper. It was, after all, strategic. The Reynolds line was loyal, wealthy, and popular with the merchant class. 

So the court waited. And waited. But the wedding never came.

Every year, you would find another excuse to postpone it. Every year, another season that just wasn’t quite right.

When you turned eighteen, the Queen’s secretary suggested spring nuptials.

But Robert had started disappearing into books and wine. He stood before the King and claimed he needed a year to properly study the kingdom’s laws before assuming such a duty.

Your father frowned. You shrugged and folded your hands, “That seems wise.”

At twenty, there was a grain crisis in the northern provinces — shipments delayed by corruption and an early frost that devastated the harvest. You took command of the response personally, traveling with advisors and outmaneuvering five noble houses trying to profit off the shortages.

You stood in court and said, “I cannot, in good faith, wear white while my people are starving.”

Your father clenched his fists. Your mother sighed.

Robert smirked, already halfway into a goblet of wine.

—

By the time you were in your early twenties, you had already postponed your wedding so many times the court stopped asking for dates.

This time you did not postpone it for harvest shortages, nor for diplomacy. This time, it was because the province of Eastmoor had fallen under siege. Foreign banners you didn’t recognise waved over cliffs that had once been the first line of defense to your kingdom. Mercenaries, warships, and whispers of colonisers taking up the coast echoed in the palace.

The court had plans, of course. 

Your father chose to wait. He wanted to negotiate. He wanted to let Eastmoor fall, then write strongly worded letters.

Your mother said it would pass. Your advisors said it was “too dangerous” for a princess to be involved in military strategy.

You stood in the council hall in full armour.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said, “I am riding out there, now, because I cannot let my people — our people — die.”

—

You rode with the army before dawn, hair braided like a crown, and your royal seal tucked beneath your breastplate.

When you arrived in the fortress, no one expected you to last the night. After all, a princess in the first line of defense was unheard of. You weren’t supposed to lead, let alone fight. Generals twice your age scoffed at your orders and whispered behind your back—until you led two successful supply raids and personally pulled an injured soldier from the wreckage of a burning cart.

General Thaddeus Ross nearly had a stroke when he found you shouting orders in the trenches beside his lieutenants.

“What the hell is a royal doing here?” he roared, face red.

You didn’t even look up. “Winning your battle, General.”

—

That night, with blood under your nails, you ducked into the command barracks to meet the new reinforcements from the western provinces. You were expecting another tired unit, maybe another cluster of half-starved recruits.

You talked to some of them, and sent them to eat and rest.

That’s when you met… him.

He was leaning against the support beam, helmet tucked under one arm. He had broad shoulders, long brown hair tied in a bun, stormy blue eyes that tracked your every step like a puzzle worth solving.

He straightened as you approached. He bowed like a gentleman ought to, but his devilish smirk was absolutely insolent.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, cocking his head. “The princess. General Ross said you chewed out a colonel this morning.”

“Colonel Phillips tried to reroute medical supplies for his personal guard,” you said. “I chewed accordingly.”

He laughed. It was pretty. 

You paused, looking at the colours to discern his rank. “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“James Barnes,” he said smoothly. “Reporting for duty, though I wasn’t told duty came with quite such… royal company.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you promoted.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for a pay raise,” he reassured. 

There was a charm to him, old-school and effortless. You didn’t trust it, but your heart raced anyway.

“I’ve heard of you, Barnes,” you said. “You did the mission at Redwater Pass?”

His mouth ticked upward. “Word travels, huh?”

“They said you pulled eight survivors from a collapsed garrison under fire.”

“Well.” He looked away, like it embarrassed him. “Only seven made it out. But I’ll take the compliment.”

You studied him. “And they also said you flirt with anything that breathes.”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who outrank me and could order me executed."

“Be careful, Sergeant,” You tried not to smile, but failed. “That sounds dangerously like sedition.”

“Then I hope the punishment is merciful,” He took a step closer, voice dropping just enough to be felt. “Or at least memorable.”

You stared at him. Shifting against the sword across your back and your heart suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

And then — like the gentleman he truly was — he stepped back.

“Permission to accompany you at tomorrow’s briefing, Commander?” he asked, properly now.

“Granted,” you said, clearing your throat. “But only if you behave.”

—

Three months later, you were still in battle

Eastmoor was still under siege. 

You were still in your armour, still in a fortress whose stone walls trembled at night with the echo of cannon fire.

Your sword arm ached in the mornings. You’d stopped flinching at screams weeks ago. The nights were colder now, so soldiers whispered of frostbite and horses died of exhaustion. The kitchens served hard biscuits and salt-dried meat. You lost five men last week to sickness and two more to grief.

But you endured.

Because you were the Princess. Because you promised your best friend you would protect this kingdom as long as he was in it.

And in the middle Eastmoor’s endless siege — James Barnes became your companion.

He was not a court ally. He was not a polished nobleman dancing around a title. He was not a childhood bond forged in trauma. Just… James.

He brought you food when you forgot to eat. He stood guard at your tent when the generals whispered seeds of doubt in your mind. He made you laugh on days when you thought you'd forgotten how.

And he introduced you to his two closest friends — Sergeant Samuel Wilson and Sergeant Steven Rogers. Sam had a quick mouth and a quicker wit. Steve was wise through and through, so when he spoke, it felt like stone tablets from a mountaintop.

They called him Bucky.

You didn’t.

You still called him James — because you liked the way it sounded in your mouth, and he never corrected you anyway. Because he always straightened his posture when you said it. Because it felt like something just between the two of you.

You and James became inseparable. You started sharing rations and maps. You shared stories late into the night when neither of you could sleep. 

You were close. But not like you were with Robert.

With Robert, it had always been a familial bond.

But James…

With James, it felt different. It didn’t feel… platonic.

He brought you extra rations when he could. He taught you how to dice potatoes with your knife when the cooks refused to make anything decent. He told you stories about the western border, about bar fights and river races and the time he got kicked by a duke’s prized racing goat.

He always flirted — always — but he never crossed the line. Not even when you leaned in a little too close, or let your hand brush his while passing a map, or looked at him too long, like he was a question you were too scared to ask.

Because James Barnes was a gentleman. And he, like everyone else in the kingdom, knew the Princess was betrothed to the Viscount’s son.

He never said it, or asked, or pried.

Even when he climbed into your cot one night, after you woke up screaming from a nightmare.

That night, he didn’t say a word. He just held you, chest to your back, both of you tucked beneath the coarse wool of your blanket. 

His hand was over yours, his breath was steady against your hair.

He didn’t kiss you.

But you felt him having to restrain himself. He wanted to, but wouldn’t.

Because you were promised to another.

And you couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t tell him that your betrothal was a lie — a necessary fiction to keep your best friend safe. You couldn’t out Robert like that. Not even for James. 

So you said nothing.

And James — Bucky — in his own tent, alone, never said a word.

He just curled his fingers around himself in the dark, thinking of you — and hated himself for wanting a woman he could never have.

—

One night, when you couldn’t sleep and the enemy was just beyond the ridge, you sat alone outside the tent with your knees tucked up and your nerves rattling in your bones.

James appeared beside you with two cups of hot tea in wooden cups, and said, “Didn’t think royalty drank with common soldiers. Thought you lot were made of marble.”

You whispered, “Marble cracks.”

He took a seat beside you in the dirt, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“Didn’t seem like you were cracking earlier today,” he said. “You had three soldiers shaking in their boots.”

You let out a short laugh. “That was a performance. This…” You exhaled. “This is real.”

He looked sideways at you, but didn’t push.

“Truth is,” you said after a pause, “these last six months…. they’ve been my first real taste of combat.”

His brow rose in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “I was trained in tactics since I was nine. Combat, too. Every royal child has to do it—it’s part of some ancient rite of passage. My father hated it and said it was unbecoming of a girl.” You glanced at him. “But I… I did it anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re doing really well,” he finally said. “I’ve fought with generals twice your size who couldn’t hold a line like you can.”

“Thanks.” You gave him a grateful smile. “I think my parents assumed I’d break down the first time I saw blood.”

“The king and queen don’t know you very well, then.”

You looked at him, a little startled by how certain he sounded.

He drank his tea and leaned back, his eyes distant. “I’ve been in and out of the field since I was seventeen. My first real command came just a couple of years ago. Too many of my men were older than me.”

You tilted your head. “That’s… You… I— I always thought you’re young for a sergeant.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “But when most of the older men die and you’re the one dragging the wounded out, someone puts stripes on your armour and tells you it’s yours now.”

You were quiet, and he went on.

“One of the worst was near here, at Dry Lake,” he pointed to the horizon, deep into enemy territory. “It was dead land. No real trees, just white stone and thorn bushes that hurt like shit.” His voice dropped. “We were outnumbered two to one. The palace sent no reinforcements. We fought in the dark for four days.”

“I…” you filtered in your mind for the battle of Dry Lake, and remembered one where your father refused to send help because they needed the money to redecorate the throne room instead. You had been mad, but had no real power to do anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, “We… I— survived.”

You looked at the horizon again, remembering the significance of Dry Lake when you realised…. “That’s where their supply lines are coming from now. Eastmoor intel just confirmed it.”

“Makes sense," He nodded. “It’s hard as hell to reach. But I know it.”

You leaned forward. “You know it?”

He nodded again, casually. “Like the back of my hand,” He confirmed. “I spent a month mapping it before that mission. There’s a blind spot on the southern rise— over the second hill. If you go quick, you can get in and out without being spotted.”

You turned fully toward him. “There’s a blind spot?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah? Didn’t your scouts report—?”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sparking into a flame. “They said it was impenetrable. But if there’s a weak spot—”

“We’d need a small unit,” he said, catching the shift in your tone. “Stealthy. No banners, no formal lines.”

You were already moving, setting your cup aside and crawling toward a patch of mud under the tent’s edge. You pulled a stick from the firewood pile and began sketching fast—outlines of the cliffs, the supply routes, the reinforcement paths, the pass to the south.

He leaned beside you, eyes flicking over the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sharp dip in the ridgeline. “This is the blind spot. Wind direction covers most of the sound. No direct line of sight from the southern watchtower.”

“And from here,” you said, drawing a curving line toward it, “we could reach the inner depot. Cut them off before they reach Eastmoor.”

James looked up at you with his brow raised. You looked back at him, eyes alight.

“This could turn the war,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’re going for a walk.”

And that night, the princess and the sergeant stayed crouched over a patch of earth and ash, building a revolution from dirt and memory.

—

The next morning, the war room smelled of ink, sweat, and desperation. Maps cluttered the center table, weighted down with daggers and metal pins. The commanders were already gathered when you entered, the scorched royal sigil stitched into the collar of your cloak.

James followed half a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Your Highness,” General Thaddeus Ross said with a strained nod, lips tight like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I trust you slept well. We have urgent matters.”

You moved toward the table. “Indeed we do.”

He pointed to a cluster of red markers near the front lines. “The enemy reinforced at the river bend. I propose we hit them at dawn with another wave of heavy infantry to scare them back. We press their flank and bleed them out.”

You heard James’s teeth clench beside you.

You inhaled slowly. “General Ross, with all due respect… we don’t need to send more people out to die.”

The room turned silent.

Ross scoffed. “This is war, Princess. Not a diplomatic summit.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But we don’t win wars by throwing barely-trained boys into another wall of blades. We win by cutting off the enemy’s legs so they can’t stand at all.”

Ross straightened, his voice rising. “You’re not a general—”

“But I am your princess.” You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. “We need to take Dry Lake.”

James glanced at you with the faintest trace of a grin.

You reached down, plucked a quill from the board, and moved it with deliberate calm across the map’s surface.

“Dry Lake is the root of their supply chain. Everything—food, weapons, sanitation—flows from there. Our scouts have confirmed it. Sergeant Barnes fought there. He knows the terrain like the back of his hand.”

Ross’s brow furrowed. “You’re trusting a field rat over command?”

“He’s a field rat with more frontline experience than anyone in this tent,” you said, locking eyes with him. “And unlike half the men you’ve knighted for their performative tactics, he’s survived hell and brought others back with him.”

Ross scowled. “Even if what he says is true, the route is suicide.”

“There’s a blind spot,” you said. “We’ll move quiet and fast. In and out before they know we’re there.”

“And who do you suggest we send?” Ross sneered. “Another wave of children?”

“No,” you said simply. “I’m going.”

Ross barked a laugh that died the second he realised you weren’t joking. “You—?”

“I,” you repeated, “will go with a specialised unit. Sergeant Barnes will lead the team.”

James finally spoke. “I’ll take her royal highness, Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Rogers.”

Ross opened his mouth, as a murmur spread across the room.

Stephen Strange, the head mage who had been summoned to the camp a week ago to provide shielding spells to the troops, nodded approvingly. “It could work.”

Ross started again, louder this time. “This is highly unorthodox—!”

You held up a hand.

He fell silent.

You… shushed a general?

Then you turned back to the table, marking the Dry Lake pass with a line of soft red ink.

—

Hours later, you stood outside the supply tent, finishing your letter by the light of a setting sun. Your words were carefully inked, but you hastily added the last line.

‘I met a soldier. He’s charming.’

You paused, read it again, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the royal crest.

Peeking from behind you, you heard heavy boots crunched against gravel. 

James.

He stepped beside you. “You always write letters before near-suicide missions?”

You slid the sealed message into the courier pouch. “Only when I think someone deserves to know I’m still breathing.”

He nodded, then glanced at the wax seal. His sharp eyes flicked up. “Who’s it to?”

You hesitated. Then, said plainly: “Robert Reynolds.”

James went still.

You saw the flicker of recognition. Of course he knew it.  

And his eyebrows shifted—tightened—not angry, not jealous exactly… but you could tell he was… sad. Disappointed, maybe, not that he had any right to be.

“Oh,” he said in a low voice. “Your… betrothed.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed under his breath, without humor. “Could’ve fooled me. You called him charming.”

You turned to him, and clearly, he only caught a glimpse of the last word. “I was not talking about him.”

“Who, then?” His brows furrowed.

“I said…” you bit your lip, “I said I met a charming soldier.”

That made him pause.

“Is that…” He blinked, brow furrowed. “Is that about me?”

“I didn’t name you,” you muttered, crossing your arms, but you couldn't bring yourself to deny it. 

“But it is,” he pressed, “And you’re writing that to the man you’re going to marry. So… forgive me if I’m trying to understand what exactly that means.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t have the words. Because gods, it wouldn’t change anything, but you hated the thought of him getting the wrong idea.

Your voice softened. “It’s not a love match, James. Robert’s family. He’s… safe. That’s all.”

His lips twitched. “Safe. Right.” He nodded, looking away toward the horizon. “That’s a hell of a thing to be.”

You stepped toward him, just a little— but before you could speak, before you could answer—footsteps crunched behind you.

“Commander!” Sam Wilson’s voice broke through the moment, light and teasing. 

Behind him, Steve Rogers followed, far more buttoned-up. “All packed and ready.”

You stepped away from James and straightened your cloak. “Good. We ride in ten.”

Sam clapped James on the back. “Ready to be miserable together?”

“Always,” James said, though his eyes never left you.

—

The sun had barely begun its descent when you arrived at Dry Lake.

Once, it may have held water. But now, it was little more than a cracked bowl of dust and scattered fish bones, the perfect hiding place for the enemy’s supply cache. If you cut their supplies, they’d choke before they even reached the frontlines.

You, James, Steve, and Sam had come here to cripple their colonisation effort, to set fire to their grains and cloths and weapons. And you had succeeded. 

The flames had taken root fast, licking greedily up the wooden scaffolding, devouring sacks of food and rows of arrows. Their stores were gone. The next battle would be waged with hunger in their bellies.

The enemy noticed and came running. You four fought well enough as you made your escape until…

James fell to his side, his hand clutching the torn leather at his bicep, blood pouring fast. 

An arrow had pierced his arm, perhaps a vital artery. 

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered as he slumped to the ground.

You were at his side in an instant, your hands already working, pulling free the satchel at your hip. You pressed your body close, shielding him from the wind. “Don’t talk,” you said, more command than comfort. You tore through the cloth. The arrow was deep. If it hadn’t splintered on the bone, it would’ve gone straight through.

James met your eyes. “Is it bad?”

You bit back panic as your fingers pressed cloth against the wound, your other hand tightening a leather strap around his upper arm. 

“It’s not,” you said, even though you didn't believe it.

His breath hitched. “You’re a bad liar, your highness.” 

Behind you, Steve’s war cry echoed over the ridge, and Sam’s call followed after. They were buying time. 

You had to move.

You hauled James onto your shoulder, refusing to let him die. The ridge wasn’t far, and the horse waited beyond.

As you moved, James leaned against you. His head dropped near your ear. “I owe you a drink,” he whispered.

“You owe me your life,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That too.”

The enemy reached the blaze too late. Their supply cache was nothing but smoke and smoldering ruin, and the four of you were gone before they knew it.

—

You returned to camp just as the sun broke over the horizon. Cheers erupted as soldiers recognised your figures trudging through the haze—they saw the smoke of the supplies burning, after all. But the three of you— Sam, Steve, and you— barely looked up. James was still unconscious, slumped across your horse, fever bleeding into his skin. The arrow was gone, you had done what you could, but the wound had festered, spreading like angry red vines like fire beneath the bandages.

You didn’t care for the applause. You cared for the dying man in your arms.

You didn’t slow down until you reached the infirmary tent. 

Stephen Strange was already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spellwork coiling around his fingers.

“He’s burning up,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Strange looked once at James and nodded. “He won’t make it with the arm. The infection's already gone too deep. We have to take it.”

You didn’t hesitate as you helped strip James down, held his shoulders as Strange muttered the sedative spell. Magic laced through the air like incense, orange light brushing over James’s temple. He stopped writhing, his breathing steadying even as sweat drenched his hairline. He whispered your name just before the spell took him under.

You didn’t look away as Strange prepared the blade. If he had to lose a part of himself to survive, you’d be there for him.

The moment a small incision was made, a messenger burst through the infirmary tent, panting with rolled parchment clutched in his hand.

“Urgent dispatch for the Princess,” he gasped.

You didn’t turn around. “Not now.”

He stepped closer urgently. “It’s your mother. She says come home at once. The palace—”

“I said not now!” You snapped, never releasing James’s hand. You could feel the magic pulsing in his body.

The messenger tried again. “Your majesty, please.”

Majesty? You thought to yourself. You were princess. The appropriate title was your highness. 

“Go,” you gritted under your teeth.

“Please,” the messenger almost begged, “It’s your father. The king— he had fallen ill last week. Your mother begs for your return.”

Still, you didn’t move. Your voice was tight. “James will wake up disoriented,” you whispered, not caring about your father one bit. “If I’m not here when he wakes up—he’ll think I left him.”

“Your majesty,” the man said, emphasising your title now. “Your father is dead. He passed three days ago, just after nightfall. You are queen now.”

What?

You staggered, hand slipping from James’s for the first time. Everything inside you pulled apart at the seams. 

Queen. 

You were Queen. 

Steve stepped beside you. You didn’t realise you were trembling until he steadied your arm. “Go,” he said softly. 

“No,” you breathed. “No, I can’t—he needs—”

“We’ll tell him,” Steve promised. “We’ll tell him you were here.”

“We’ll find you,” Sam added, “But now, the kingdom needs its queen.”

Your throat tightened around a sob you didn’t allow to escape. You turned to Strange, wild, desperate. “Will he live?”

Strange didn’t look up from his work, but his voice was firm. “You have my word.”

Only then did you let go.

You kissed James’s brow, whispered an apology against his fevered skin, and turned toward the exit of the tent, where the world was already waiting for you to wear a crown.

As you mounted the horse that would take you away from him, you looked back once — not at the camp, not at the soldiers — but at the tent.

Where your heart still lay.

—

Two weeks had passed, yet it felt like years.

The first day back at the palace, you were crowned queen. Last week, you buried your father. 

You buried him in silence. He had not been a good man. He had been stern, proud, and cruel when it suited him. But he had also been your father, and that wound had no clean edges. 

Yesterday, you heard news that the siege of Eastmoor has ended. Steve, Sam, and the others had won. Dry Lake’s victory had turned the tide. The supply line was gone, the coloniser routed. 

Robert stayed beside you through it all. He drank every night, though, and did whatever drugs were available to him on the day. He offered, but you didn’t drink, you didn’t take anything that could inhibit your senses. The kingdom needed a leader, after all. 

The two of you sat in your chambers that evening. 

“We have to get married soon,” you said quietly, as if the words hurt your throat. “After Eastmoor, after my father’s death. The people will want stability. Perhaps a reassurance we can provide an heir.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He only stared into his cup, swirling the wine before sipping. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing— that he was not capable of falling in love with you no matter what. This was a marriage of convenience. A lavender marriage. 

There were worse things to be in this world.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “And… I know it’s early, but when I’m royal, could I… Could I be assigned John Walker from your father’s old guard? I trust him.”

You turned to him, finally chuckling for the first time in days. You always found his crush on the blonde royal guard amusing. 

Then, you took the cup gently from his hand and set it on the table.

“You’ve been drinking too much, Bob,” you said with a warning. “If you keep drinking, you’ll out yourself in public.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“And yes,” you added more gently. “John Walker can be arranged.”

Robert looked at you with a half-smile, the one he used when trying to be kind without overstepping.

“And you?” he asked. “What about that soldier you mentioned—the charming one? You haven’t said his name once since the coronation.”

Your heart flinched like a wound recoiling from salt. You looked out the window, where the clouds were bleeding pink into dusk.

“He’s recovering,” you said. “His arm is gone. But Strange kept his heart beating. I asked for a raven every morning. If one doesn’t come, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

Robert didn’t press. 

—

One morning, the raven did not come.

You waited and waited longer than you should have, but it still did not come.

Strange had said James was healing—recovering well, even—but now, there was only silence.

Your mother, the Dowager Queen now, entered your chambers quietly. She still moved like royalty, even when the crown no longer sat on her head, and she seemed all the better for it. 

Your mother can be cruel at times, but she was more bearable without your father hovering over her. Over the last week, you had started wondering if she was as much of a victim as you had been.

“There are three soldiers in the throne room,” she stated. “General Ross insists you grant them their promotions yourself.”

You stood stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

She frowned. “No. He’s being insufferable about it.” She looked at you then, head tilted slightly. “I told him it was your decision. You are queen, after all.”

You sighed and rose, your steps growing slower the closer you came to the throne room—until the guards pushed open the great oak doors.

And then you saw them.

Steve. Sam.

And… James

Standing tall in worn uniforms, backs straight, shoulders proud.

Steve bowed first, followed by Sam. And then James— James, with his left sleeve rolled back, revealing… a metal arm? 

Etched into the steel were faint runes, still glowing with residual enchantment. It must be imbued with Strange’s magic— as the metal arm moved with fluidity, like it belonged to him, like it was him. 

He addressed in a bow, voice calm and clear. “Your Majesty.”

You stood frozen, unable to speak. The court watched silently as you stepped down the dais.

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, you pulled all three of them into your arms.

Sam laughed first, surprised. Steve chuckled under his breath. And James— James didn’t say a word, but you felt his human hand pressing lightly against your back.

Behind you, gasps rippled through the nobles, but you didn’t care.

You let the hug linger longer than was proper. “Come,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

And with a flick of your hand, you dismissed the court. Your mother raised an eyebrow from her perch beside the throne, but said nothing. Without awaiting approval, you turned on your heel and led them through the gilded doors, down the familiar halls, past tapestries of dead kings.

When you walked into the drawing room, the hearth was already lit. 

You gestured to the table and welcomed them to your couch.

As they sat, your guards posted themselves outside. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud.

When James smiled, and your lungs finally remembered how to work again.

“You didn’t think I’d let a little arrow stop me, did you?” he said.

You didn’t laugh. You reached across the table, wrapped your fingers around his metal ones. The Sorcerer’s guild sigil was branded on his palm— further confirmation that this was Strange’s work.

“Stephen didn’t send a raven,” you whispered, eyes misted.

He tilted his head, sheepish. “He wanted me to tell you myself.”

Steve poured the tea, Sam passed the cups.

And in that room, you allowed yourself—for the first time since you wore the crown—to breathe like a girl again, not just a queen.

You had survived the siege, and the best parts of it had survived with you.

—

The tea had long gone lukewarm, the cakes untouched.

The four of you talked about nothing and everything for hours. Sam had made some offhanded remark about the last skirmish near the Black Coast, and Steve had chimed in with a clever observation. The sun filtered through the tall drawing room windows, catching in James's hair, now streaked faintly with gray at the temples, though he was no older than you remembered. The war had just… aged everyone. It changed everyone.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming. “You know,” you said, swirling your cup a little, “I heard Ross recommended I promote all three of you to Captain and assign you to your own units.”

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I like the sound of Captain Wilson,” he tasted the title on his tongue, “Not bad, huh?”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled. “Though I have some notes on the uniform.”

“Of course you do,” you rolled your eyes.

You turned to James, waiting for a grin, a snarky comment, something, anything.

But he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said.

What?

“No?” you echoed, incredulous.

He set his cup down, “I’d like to decline the promotion,” he reiterated..

“I— What?” you asked.

He straightened his posture a little, his metal arm twitching. “If it’s alright with you, Your Majesty, I’d like to request transfer to the Royal Guard. Specifically—” he looked directly at you now, “—as your personal guard.”

You stared at him. “You want…I…?”

“You saved my life,” James’s voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. “Let me spend my life paying that back.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “James…”

His eyes flicked to Steve and Sam, then back to you. “I need to do this.”

You felt something shift inside you, perhaps a crack in the armour you’d built since the war ended, since you were crowned, since the weight of the kingdom had fallen onto your shoulders.

“You…” you took a deep breath, “You don’t owe me anything, James.”

He smiled— a little sad, a little stubborn. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

Steve, ever gentle, gave you a slight nod—no pressure, just support.

Sam leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Gotta admit, hard to top that kind of commitment.”

You stood, slowly, and walked over to where James sat. He rose with you, as a guard should. As he would.

You placed your hand over his heart, and felt it beating steady beneath your palm.

“You’re sure?” you asked him, one last time.

James nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”

The others must’ve noticed the shift in the air. Or maybe they’d just known Bucky too long.

Steve stood, handing his teacup to a servant with a quiet “thank you.”

“Well,” he said with a stretch, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Sam followed, giving you a knowing glance as he passed. “Try not to promote him to Head of the Guard just yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

They laughed, and were gone.

You smiled, easing yourself into the seat next to him. 

The conversation resumed. It was so easy with him. The banter, the side glances, the way he leaned just a bit too close and you didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you teased at one point, resting your elbow on the armrest, chin in hand.

He looked at you as though you were the moon itself. “Every day.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “More than I can say.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe them.”

You didn’t answer. You sighed instead. Of course. Of course this was going nowhere. James Barnes was nothing if not a gentleman, and as long as he thought you were Robert’s, he would not touch you.

“Why didn’t you come to the palace sooner?” you said weakly.

“Stange took a while perfecting the magic on my prosthetic,” His eyes flicked to the fire. “I didn’t want to come back half a man.”

“You’re not,” you said fiercely. “You’re more than any man I’ve ever known.”

Your hand reached out and grazed his metal shoulder. His breath hitched.

You leaned in, too close to be proper, too close to pretend. His hand hovered near your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same.

And then….. It was almost.

He pulled away right before your lips touched his, like it burned him to be close to you. “No,” James whispered, almost to himself. “No. You’re promised to another.”

“James—”

He shook his head, rising to his feet now, his voice barely controlled. “Let me protect you,” he said, as though offering the only thing he had left. “Even if I can never have you.”

Your voice trembled. “But—this. You can’t deny this. Do you—” You hesitated, heart pounding. “Do you love me?”

His eyes closed, like the truth hurt to hold. “It doesn’t matter if I do.”

You wanted—so desperately—to tell him that Robert was your dearest friend and nothing more. That Robert could never love you the way James did.

But it wasn’t your secret to tell. So you swallowed it and watched him go.

As he reached the door, you spoke up, just loud enough for him to hear, “Welcome to the Royal Guard, James Buchanan Barnes.”

—

James’ first day as your Royal Guard was your wedding day.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He stood at your right, just behind the dais, dressed in newly tailored armor etched with the sigil of the Crown and a silver sash denoting his new position. The metal of his arm shimmered with runes. His hair was pulled back, neatly tied, but his jaw was clenched. He didn’t smile— he hadn’t since you’d told him the date.

Across the hall, John Walker stood at Robert’s side. His uniform was immaculate. John was loyal, just like Robert needed him to be.

The musicians began tuning, and the chapel buzzed.

Robert entered quietly through the back, his ceremonial jacket half-buttoned and hair slightly mussed. You found him in one of the side chambers, pacing, a flask of liquid clutched loosely in his hand.

You raised an eyebrow as he turned, clearly buzzing with whatever powder he'd just snorted— his eyes were dilated, mouth was twitching. “Bob.”

He didn’t look at you, as he tipped the small vial back into his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he whispered. “It’s my wedding too.”

You reached out and yanked the vial from his pocket, ignoring the startled glance from a passing attendant. You didn’t care.

“Be sober, Bob,” you snapped under your breath. “Just today. Please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you glared. Not as a queen, but his best friend.

He swallowed instead.

Your brows softened, reaching up to straighten the collar of his jacket. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t understand.”

He flinched at that, letting out a half laugh, half wounded bark. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you’d seen the Viscountess Reynolds, his mother. She had arrived in velvet and pearls, beautiful as ever, but when she leaned in to kiss your cheek in greeting, the neckline of her gown shifted just enough to reveal fresh scars across her collarbone— the kind you only got from being dragged by the hair or shoved down stairs by his father.

Now, his hands trembled as he tried to do up the final clasp of his jacket.

“I can’t stand up to him,” Robert said quietly. “I never could.”

“You will be king soon,” You finished the clasp, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We will fix things.”

Robert only scoffed, looking down to his feet. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Robert glanced toward the door leading to the main hall and whispered, “Is that your James?”

You didn’t look. “He’s not mine,” you said flatly, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you.

“Sure,” Robert snorted. “And I’m straight.”

That finally earned a weak laugh from you, brittle around the edges.

“He asked to be my guard,” you finally said, eyes drifting at last toward the man in silver. James was standing unnervingly still, eyes tracing the exits, the crowd, your path. “First thing he did when he returned. He rejected a promotion. He didn’t even want gold. He just asked for… proximity.”

“Romantic,” Robert whispered, adjusting his cufflinks. “Dangerously so.”

“He thinks I’m yours,” you said, your fingers tightening around the silk in your hands.

“He thinks wrong,” Robert said under his breath.

You turned to face him fully, seeing through the crimson and gold and inherited guilt to the boy beneath it all. “What do you suggest we do to fix that, then?”

He froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the answer was simple but impossible to speak aloud.

And then— he said nothing.

Because if you both told James the truth—that he wasn’t yours, that he’d never been yours,—and James let that slip to anyone…

Not that he would— James was loyal to a fault. But accidents happen, and the court whispers. 

And if his father found out, he would take it out on his mother.

Again.

So Robert could never come out. Not to James. Not to anyone but you. Not while his father was still alive.

And you… you would be breaking protocol if you married a commoner. So no, you had no choice either.

“I’ll let him believe what he wants,” you said quietly, reassuring that his safety was still your priority. “For now.”

—

Half an hour later, you were alone in the small antechamber just off the chapel, when James stepped inside. James knocked once—barely a courtesy—then shut the door behind him.

“I will escort you to the aisle,” he said. His voice was even, but his eyes never quite met yours. “It’s my ceremonial duty.”

You turned from the mirror with a small smile. “You just wanted to see me before everyone else did.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I’m told I make quite the vision in white.” You tilted your head, stepping closer, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor. “Though I assume you might prefer me in nothing.”

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes darkening.

You only smiled wider. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t move as his muscle twitched, the magic plates of his metal arm rippling. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he said eventually, “You’re marrying another man.”

You winked. “I act as I please.”

“Even now?” His voice was hoarse. “Even here?”

You reached out, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “Especially here.”

He caught your wrist— gently, firmly.

“I signed up to protect you, to pay my debt,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours. “Not to want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence wrap around the two of you like smoke.

“So,” you whispered, “what now?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he looked at you like you were a blade he’d willingly fall on. “I will escort you down the aisle,” he said at last. “And I stand behind your husband while he vows to love you.”

—

During the wedding, James stood at the edge of the ballroom like a statue carved in restraint.

He had watched it all.

The vows. The way your fingers had lingered on Robert’s jaw.

You danced with your new husband like you loved him. And one way or another, you did, James could tell. Your fingers were on Robert’s collar, your lips brushed close when you whispered in his ears.

But then… you threw a smile over your shoulder when you noticed James watching.

He didn’t know when it had stopped being simple. He only knew he hated the way his stomach flipped when you looked at him too long.

And then, when Robert turned to talk to some merchants— you slipped away to a different room, and James followed.

You were waiting in an empty room, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the lace curtains. Your crown had been left behind, your heels discarded. You were barefoot on the marble, still breathless from the crowd.

“Dance with me, James,” you said when you closed the door. 

He stiffened where he stood, admiring your beauty, but objected. “Your husband—”

“Is busy,” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “And besides—” You smiled, half-mischief, half-command. “I am your queen. I demand you dance with me.”

He flinched. He hated the game of it. Hated how quickly he folded when you pouted, like after months in the fortress together, you knew exactly how to gut him.

“Just this once, Your Majesty,” he caved.

Your smile deepened like you’d won a prize at a fair. You pulled him to you, hands on his shoulders, and began to sway to the muffled sound of a distant waltz leaking through the walls. 

Your bodies fit too well, your palms too warm on him. You rested your head just beneath his chin, your perfume threading into his nostrils like smoke.

“You hate this,” you whispered.

“Yes,” James said hoarsely.

“And yet…” You lifted your eyes to his. “You’re holding me like I’m yours.”

He said nothing. Just tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

And then his lips brushed your temple. “If I close my eyes,” he choked out, “I could almost believe…” EVen after all this, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t ask what. You knew.

So for that one dance, that one stolen moment in a room no one would remember—James pretended he was your bride.

What he didn’t know was that, just beyond the carved stone walls, out in the rose-wrapped garden, your new husband was secretly dancing, too— his hand in John Walker’s.

Everyone was pretending tonight.

—

You danced for far too long.

By the third song, your breaths matched. James held you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. You let your cheek rest against his chest, while his hand was on your waist, almost possessive.

The fourth was your undoing.

You looked up at him. Your lips parted as he looked down at your mouth.

Without thinking, you both leaned in. Not fast or sudden, but like magnets pulled across a field—like gravity finally had its say. Your noses brushed. His eyes flicked shut. His mouth was right there—

And then, “Oh. There you are.”

James tensed like a blade unsheathed.

Robert stood in the doorway, composed as ever. He held one glove in his hand and adjusted the cuff of his ceremonial coat like he’d just stepped out of a perfectly uneventful conversation.

“Our carriage is here,” he said casually. “Whenever you’re ready.”

James stepped back like he expected to be burned at the stake. His hands instantly dropped from your waist to his side. He didn't dare meet Robert’s —his king’s— eyes. 

You, on the other hand, tilted your head with that maddening calmness. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Robert nodded, gaze flicking to James only once. Instead of anger… The new king smiled at him before turning and leaving.

James didn’t breathe.

“What the fuck?" He said finally, confused that the king was not mad that his queen almost kissed another man on their wedding night. 

You looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You—” His hand gestured toward the door. “Your husband just walked in on us—nearly kissing—and he just… said the carriage is ready?”

You shrugged. “It is.”

James took a step toward you, something like desperation leaking through his restraint. “Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice satin-smooth. “Go on, James. Return to your post.”

—

James followed at a respectful distance as the royal carriage rolled into the castle gates.

He wasn’t sure what he expected— perhaps he had to wait outside your door as you consummated your marriage to your new king-consort. Instead, he found silence. 

He and John Walker stood outside the great hall as the royal couple disembarked and strolled up the staircase—not hand in hand, not arm in arm, but side by side.

Robert was the first to speak. “I'm exhausted. Tell them to delay any council until after ten.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said, already unpinning the heavy jewels from your hair as you walked through the halls of the castle.

John gave James a look that said this is normal. James didn’t know whether to be relieved or more deeply disturbed.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. Your hand rested lightly on Robert’s arm— not intimate, but affectionate.

“Good night, Bob,” you said.

He gave a lazy, but genuine smile. “Don’t stay up plotting.”

“Don’t stay up snorting your vials.”

Robert gave a short laugh. “Yeah yeah. See you tomorrow.” And then he vanished down the east corridor.

You turned and disappeared down the west.

James stood frozen halfway up the stairs.

John Walker just raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

James blinked. “They’re not even sharing a room?”

“Never have,” John shrugged. “Probably never will.”

“But… it’s their wedding night.”

John gave a chuckle and patted his chest, almost condescendingly. “Thought you’d have caught on by now.”

James stared after both vanished figures. His chest felt tight, but not from anger— Hope, maybe.

“You’re telling me there’s nothing between them?” he asked.

John leaned against the bannister. “There is love. But no—not like you think. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is?”

John said nothing.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, James watched from the shadows more than he dared speak.

At first, jealousy churned in his gut every time he saw you and Robert together. Every time you leaned toward him at dinner, every time you whispered in his ear, every time his hand sometimes rested on the small of your back — it all grated at James like sand under a gauntlet.

But the more he watched… the more your relationship fell apart.

There were no heated glances or lingering touches. The castle’s rumor mill spoke not of affairs, but of arguments. Of debates in the library, scoldings in the garden. You were often seen chastising Robert like a wayward brother, not a husband.

You and Robert read together most nights in the stone-walled library, the hearth crackling beside you. Robert preferred fantasy books, but you would much rather read books of battle, strategy, and old world histories. When Robert drank too much of the wine, or vanished for hours and returned glassy-eyed from powders he should never have touched, you gave him a long-winded speech about how he should confront his father instead of running. 

Then, James saw what you did when Robert stumbled through the courtyard one morning after a long night, barely able to walk straight. You didn’t run to him. You crossed your arms, nostrils flared, and you scolded him in front of his men.

“You smell like horse piss and ruin,” you hissed. “If John hadn’t dragged you back from whatever ditch you fell into, the court would lose their king.”

And Robert had winced, not at the words, but like a boy ashamed before a sister.

John Walker stood nearby, as he always did. If Robert was wildfire, John was the iron cage that kept it from spreading. Ever since he was assigned to the king, he was ever far from his side.

—

Eventually, you and James got close again, relearning how to find conversation without the siege echoing in the background.

It began with quiet moments in the library, when James stood silently behind you while you read, pretending to check the exits. 

You’d gesture to a passage you liked. He’d nod.

You offered him tea one night. He took it without a word.

And that was how it began again.

Then came the late-night walks on the outer walls, when neither of you could sleep. He'd fall into step beside you, boots echoing across the stone, the runes on that kept his metal arm going catching the moonlight.

One night, you vented to him. "I’m getting tired of cleaning up Bob’s messes," you said. “He drinks before the council meetings now. Half the court knows and he doesn’t even care. I can’t keep covering for him, and John can’t even pull him out of it anymore.”

James said nothing, but his human clenched.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbing your eyes. “He used to just... disappear sometimes. And that was fine. But now, he stays. He stays and implodes. And I don’t know what to do. And John doesn’t know what to do”

You glanced at him — the man who had followed you through fire, siege, and now, into the palace, and waited for an answer that never came.

—

That night, a nightmare caught up with you

You were back in the fortress, seven months into the siege of Eastmoor— a battle that had taken a toll on your psyche.

In your dreams, your hands were red again. The sky was falling, and the enemy was inching closer to victory—

You woke up with a gasp. A scream, really. And then the door opened.

James stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a threat had breached it— as the royal guard ought to.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I, um—” You could barely breathe. “I– it was a nightmare.”

He took a few steps toward you but didn’t touch you, yet. “Should I get your husband?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t thinking, not clearly. As far as your mind was concerned, you were still in the fortress in Eastmoor.

“No,” you said. “You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, James,” You patted the empty space in your bed meant for your husband, “Please.”

James didn’t ask questions, though he should have. Laying in the queen’s bed must be wrong, it must be unlawful. 

But he did not see the queen now. He saw the same princess he comforted during the siege.

So for you, he climbed into the massive bed like it was your tiny cot all over again. He pulled you close like no time had passed at all.

Your head found his chest, your arm wrapped around his waist. His metal arm curled protectively around you.

It felt like breathing again.

Eventually, in a whisper you probably shouldn’t have let slip, you murmured, “Your arm… it’s colder now against my skin. I like it.”

You felt him go still.

Then, slowly, his grip around you tightened just slightly. “It’s different now,” he said.

“I know,” you said, “back in the siege, you held me with human arms.”

“Back in the siege,” he murmured, “you weren’t married.”

Your chest ached. “Back in the siege— I was engaged,” in an act of defiance, you kissed his jaw, “Perhaps nothing had changed, James.”

Perhaps.

—

The night after that, you found yourself… lonely.

The ball had long ended. The music had faded into silence, and the castle’s golden corridors were empty, save for flickering candles and the occasional guard shifting on duty.

You stood in your chambers, half-undressed, your gown draped across the chaise and your corset still tight around your ribs. The ladies-in-waiting were gone — two bottles of plum wine between them and loud giggles all the way down the corridor to their quarters.

You didn’t need them. So you called for your personal guard.

James stepped inside with the same careful poise he always carried, metal fingers curled lightly at his side, eyes trained ahead.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

You were standing at the mirror, your back to him. The corset was laced tightly, and your arms were too tired to reach all the way back after dancing and standing in pointless celebration for hours.

“I need help,” you said.

His brow twitched. “Should I fetch your ladies?”

“They’re drunk,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’ll lace me in a knot or put me in bed face-down. You're the only sober one I trust.”

He stiffened, still half in the doorway. “Shall I fetch your husband?”

Your eyes met his in the mirror. “I do not want my husband, James.”

He didn't move, so you clarified. “You know this: we do not love each other that way.”

His eyes flicked away, fist tightening. You could almost hear his metal arm creak as he shifted.

You tilted your head, turning around and motioning for him to lock the door. “James,” you said quietly, “please. Just take it off. Just… help me breathe.”

There was a long pause before he said. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He moved closer. You felt him before you saw him — you felt the warmth of his breath just barely disturbing the curls at the nape of your neck. His metal hand ghosted up the edge of the laces, never quite touching his skin. You could hear the steady exhale through his nose, see the way his eyes stayed firmly locked on the ties, not the curve of your spine beneath them.

He was trembling, but one by one, he undid the laces.

Your breath eased with each loosened thread, your ribs finally expanding. The silk began to slacken, and the pressure lifted. When he reached the last tie, the corset slid down, and you let it fall to the floor.

James turned his head instantly, out of respect. He stared at the candlelit wall, his shoulders stiff. Because of course — of course looking at the queen’s bare skin was a punishable offense.

Even if he found you to be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Look at me, James,” you said.

He hesitated. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head. “As you wish… Your Majesty.”

His eyes found you.

You watched it happen — his breath catching, the lashes fluttering, the pupils dilate just slightly. His eyes roamed, reverent and restrained all at once. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he was meant to fall or fly. Like he was looking at both a dream and blasphemy.

“James,” you said, stepping closer. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, your fingers curling around the stubble there. “James, kiss me.”

He froze. And for a second, you thought he might flee, like he always did when the fire between you got too close to all-consuming.

But instead, he muttered the words again. “As you wish, you majesty.”

His lips met yours.

It was not a sweet kiss. It was not careful. It was earned. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in deeper, and you melted into him. You surrendered into the safety, the tension, the want. His mouth was rougher than you'd imagined, hungrier, but his hands, both human and metal, trembled as he touched your waist, as though afraid you’d disappear.

You didn’t.

You reached up and pulled him with you toward the bed.

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

You could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his breath— how hard he fought to stay in control. Because even now, even now, half undressed and trembling with need, you were still the queen.

And to touch you like this? To see your bare skin, to hunger for you the way he did? Punishable by hanging. Maybe worse.

But you didn’t care.

Not when your body buzzed with the ghost of his hands. Not when your lips still ached from the heat of his kiss.

You stepped up to him again, bare and unashamed, and ran your fingers down the seam where his leather jerkin met his collar.

"James,” you murmured. “Am I so terrifying?”

His answer was hoarse. “It’s not you I fear.”

You smiled, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Is it fear of what we’d do?”

He turned then, finally, eyes locking with yours—and your knees nearly gave way.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. The line of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath. His hands flexed at his sides— like a man desperate to touch bound by chains of his own making.

You took his hand—the metal one—and placed it on your bare waist. His eyes widened. The muscles in his throat worked like he was swallowing back a cry.

“You won’t be hanged for worshipping my body, James.”

He tensed.

You leaned in, whispering against his lips, playful and wicked, “Trust me. My husband would be thrilled someone is taking proper care of his queen.”

That did it.

A choked sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

His mouth was on yours again, and this time it was feral.

There was no more hesitation. His hands roamed palming your hips, dragging you closer like he needed to fuse your flesh to his. He kissed you like a starving man, tongue sweeping your mouth, devouring every gasp you gave him.

He kissed you until you were moaning into him, pressing yourself shamelessly against his body, feeling his arousal beneath his ceremonial uniform. When you ground against him, he gasped and grabbed your thighs, lifting you off the ground.

You wrapped around him like instinct.

Your back hit the nearest wall, and his mouth was on your neck, then your chest, worshipping like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

"James," you whispered, dazed and drunk on him, "Lay me down."

He paused, but this time, it was only for a heartbeat.

You could feel it again— duty. The guilt trying to claw its way back in. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving.

“If someone finds me here—”

You cut him off with a wicked smile and a roll of your hips that had him groaning into your throat.

“Then let them,” you whispered. “Let them see what it looks like when a queen is loved. Not paraded. Loved.”

Fuck.

So he carried you to the bed— careful and quick, like he couldn’t bear the space between you for another moment. He laid you down gently.

His gloves came off first, then the buckles, the straps. You helped, trembling fingers undoing each layer of leather until he was bare before you, all skin and battle-worn scars.

Your hands ran over his chest, his ribs, the scar near his hip.

“You’ve nearly died serving your country,” you whispered. “Let me serve you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. But fuller.

And then he was on you.

Mouth on your throat, your breasts, your stomach. He trailed kisses down your belly like he was marking a path— one only he was allowed to take. 

When he settled between them, you gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your heat.

You laughed breathlessly and fisted his hair.

“Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

And then you were gone.

It didn’t end with one moment. Or two. It kept going— like time had broken and collapsed in over itself. The night stretched out like a rubber band. When he finally was in you, you gasped his name like a benediction.

That night, he made love to you like it was a promise.

And when your fingers gripped his back and your thighs wrapped around him, he whispered it again against your throat, your ear, your lips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

By the time the candlelight faded and the moon began to dip, your bodies were tangled in sweat and silk. His arms held you tight, his lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he never wanted to move ever again.

—

The room was lit by dawn when you stirred.

Your body ached, but not unpleasantly. It was the ache of being wanted. Your limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess. James lay beside you, face buried in your neck, human arm tucked tightly around your waist. His metal hand rested just beneath your breast, cold even in sleep, and your fingers laced through his hair, gently brushing the sweat-damp strands from his brow.

He looked younger in sleep. Not the decorated soldier, not the sworn royal guard. Just James. 

But then— Knock knock knock.

You heard a panicked voice behind the heavy door, “Your Majesty! Forgive me—there’s something wrong with the king!”

You were upright in a heartbeat, the sheets falling from your chest. James jolted awake, instantly alert, reaching for the dagger on the floor out of sheer instinct.

“What?” you called, voice tight.

The maid’s voice trembled. “He’s… he’s not making sense, your majesty. He asked for his love. Please—he won’t speak to the physicians.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’ll be there shortly,” you managed to say, voice barely queen-like.

The footsteps retreated down the corridor.

James turned to you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other brushing your arm.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded. 

He helped you up, his hands sliding over your hips as you stood. He retrieved your underdress first — the pale silk one — and held it out for you. You stepped in. His hands pulled it up, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left on your thighs. 

You reached for your corset, and he laced it swiftly. 

The gown was next. Then the jewels. 

But just before he fastened your capelet, you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to him. “What the hell is wrong with my best friend?”

—

The doors to the King’s chambers slammed open.

The scent hit you first — bile, sweat, and something acrid underneath. Robert, once stately in the way statues were stately, was now hunched over a basin, retching. His skin was pale and waxy, the collar of his sleeping robe soaked in sweat. His fingers trembled as he gripped the carved edges of the bowl.

You ran to him, heedless of protocol, kneeling at his side.

“Robert—Bob! —what the hell happened?”

He groaned, barely able to lift his head. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Gods, it hurts. My skin’s crawling—fuck, my bones—I can’t—I can’t—”

You caught him as he nearly collapsed sideways.That’s when he realised,  He asked for his love, not for you. “Where is John?!” You demanded. 

A maid jumped back, eyes wide. “H-he’s in the barracks, Your Majesty—”

“Then why in all the saints’ names did you fetch me?”

You held Robert in your arms, his body wracked with tremors, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “He doesn’t need the crown right now. He needs John.”

Just like that, the maid fled in a hurry, skirts flying, tripping over her shoes in her haste.

Robert whimpered into your shoulder, fists tightening in the silk of your sleeve. “I stopped,” he said, voice raw and cracked. “Stopped the tonic. The powder. The drops. All of it. I stopped and I—” He broke off, gasping. “It hurts. It’s withdrawal, isn’t it?”

Your heart shattered.

“Oh, Robert…” you whispered. “Yes. It is.”

You stroked his hair. No royal physician had dared to question what he'd been taking nightly. The concoctions disguised as “meditative supplements.” It dulled the grief, and he was addicted to it. 

“You idiot,” a new voice drawled from the door.

John Walker stepped into the room, shirt half-buttoned, belt slung over one shoulder, hair wild from sleep.

And Robert—broken and barely conscious—lifted his head just enough to see him.

A smile broke through his tears.

“My love…” he breathed, slurring. “You came…”

My love? James, who had been watching, thought. 

You rose slowly, letting John take your place, letting him gather Robert into his arms like he’d done a hundred times before in the dark. Robert clung to him immediately, sobbing against his chest.

James watched it all— Robert unraveling in another man’s arms— and he understood everything.

This marriage… had never been about love.

It had been a shield.

And last night… last night, when you begged him to undress you, when you said you didn’t want your husband—he hadn’t truly believed it. But now?

Now he saw it.

You stood there in full regalia — crown still glinting in the sunlight, hands stained with bile,  — and James Barnes finally understood just how much of yourself you had sacrificed for your best friend.

You didn’t turn to him. Your eyes stayed on Robert and John, whispering to each other on the bed, the king sobbing quietly as his lover held him tight.

“Tell the royal apothecary to prepare valerian, black thistle, and willow bark,” you said quietly, “Nothing stronger. I want him monitored, but not sedated.”

James gave a short nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the medical chamber was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. It smelled faintly of chamomile, sweat, and burnt sage. The healer had finally left an hour ago, and John had gone to rest in the adjoining room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Robert’s side.

You had offered to keep watch. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, crown replaced by a simple braid, your gown less ceremonial now. You watched Robert stir beneath the linen sheets, pale but no longer trembling. His lips were cracked, his cheeks hollow, but when his eyes blinked open and found yours, he looked… better.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his damp forehead.

He managed a small smile. “Hey.”

You offered a small smile. “You lived.”

He winced. “Barely.”

You nodded. “I…” you started “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m proud of you for being sober last night.”

Robert swallowed hard. “I… I had to be,” he looked down in shame. “The void inside me was eating me alive.”

You didn’t speak. You let him say it — let him dig up his demons.

“Every time John looked at me, I could see— he worried. I’m afraid he'd realise that I wasn’t the man he—” His voice cracked, and he turned his face to the pillow. “I did it for him.”

You sat with that. Let it settle like dust in the silence between you. You only reached into the stack of papers on the bedside table. You handed him one sheet — rolled and ribboned — and waited.

He took and unrolled it slowly.

His brows furrowed. “This is… an arrest warrant?”

You nodded. He blinked. 

Then paled when he read the details. “It says… my father.”

“He will stand trial for domestic abuse and assault.” You nodded. “For what he did to you when you were a boy, and for what he did to your mother.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but no words came. His body seemed to freeze 

“I—how?” he finally whispered. “How could you…? Your father made sure he was untouchable.”

You leaned back slightly, lacing your fingers together. “Not anymore.”

He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

You smiled again before reaching into the pile again and handed him the second parchment. This one was thicker.

“A new constitution,” you said. “I’ve been working on it since the day I became queen. I’ve been rewriting the laws he built to protect himself — with loopholes and titles and bloodlines. ”

Robert stared at it. Then at you.

“This,” you said, quiet now, “was always the plan, remember? I was going to be queen and change everything.”

—

You found John in the garden that afternoon.

He was seated on the stone bench beneath the myrtle trees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. The air smelled like rosemary and smoke, and the world was quiet save for the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant coo of doves on the chapel roof.

He looked up when you approached.

You sat beside him, leaving space in between. You watched the birds for a moment. “He loves you so much it’s practically carved into his bones.”

John let out a breath, mouth twitching. 

“He better,” he muttered. “I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep dragging his ass back from the edge.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s lucky.”

John was quiet again. Then, without looking at you. He said, “You’re a good queen.” He glanced sideways — really looking at you for the first time in weeks. 

That surprised you more than anything.

“John,” you mentioned, scooting a bit closer. “I promise we’ll figure something out. For the four of us.”

John nodded, because he knew a queen like you would keep her promises.

—

That night, you had a bath that had long gone tepid, but you remained sunk in it anyway, head resting against the marble edge, too exhausted to move. 

The guards had taken Viscount Reynolds into custody before sunset. You hadn’t even changed from your court robes before collapsing into the water. Robert was resting, John sleeping on the seat beside him.

You’d thought you were alone.

So when the door creaked open, you barely stirred. Perhaps you would have protested, but you knew who it was without needing to look.

“Your Majesty?” James’ voice was low.

He was supposed to be on patrol, but then again, after last night, you supposed James Barnes had started making his own rules when it came to you. 

“The maid let me in,” he said, stepping into the bath chamber, steam curling around his shoulders like fog on a battlefield. “She thought I was just... doing my rounds.”

You tilted your head toward him, wet hair clinging to your cheek. “You are.”

“I should’ve known,” he said finally. “God, I should’ve known.”

You blinked up at him, weary but curious.

He knelt beside the tub, close enough for you to see the flicker of guilt and realization behind those glacier-blue eyes. 

“All this time I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought this marriage of convenience was for your sake.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “But you did it for him.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He reached for the towel and extended it to you without a word. When you rose from the bath, bare and dripping, he didn’t ogle or avert his eyes. He looked at you like a man seeing sunlight after years underground.

He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, hands brushing your collarbones. His fingers grazing your throat. Then, his finger wandered lower, trailing the towel down your arms, over your sides, your hips.

“I should’ve seen it.” He whispered. “A lavender marriage. Of course. Of course.”

You turned toward him, now wrapped loosely in the towel, water still beading on your skin.  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “And through all of it, you were alone.”

You nodded, just once. 

“I understood— why you could not tell me,” he said. “But I should have known.”

You choked on a breath. His lips brushed your temple, then your neck — where he kissed you slowly, his mouth dragging like an apology over your skin. 

You leaned into him, the towel slipping slightly as your body pressed against his. You didn’t care about propriety or adultery or the crown or the hundreds of walls you had built to survive.

Only him.

—

Nine months later, Audrey was born.

The storm had broken that night. The midwives whispered that thunder called powerful souls into the world. 

Robert was there. Sober, as he has been for nine months now. He was silent and respectful. You caught his eye once, mid-contraction, and he nodded. He knew his role.

But it was James, who never left your side.

James, who kissed your sweat-drenched forehead between each scream.

James, who whispered, "You’re doing so well.”

James, who wept the moment Audrey cried, like her first breath was drawn from his lungs.

And Audrey — little Audrey — was the most breathtaking creature the kingdom had ever seen.

The royal painters fumbled with their brushes. The nursemaids tittered behind gloved hands. Even the court astrologer dropped her polished stones when she saw the child’s eyes.

Because… no one could deny it.

Audrey’s eyes were not King Robert’s eyes. 

Audrey’s eyes were James Barnes’ eyes.

That piercing, impossible shade of sky blue. Not Robert’s deep-sea navy.

Her nose had that subtle tilt, just like James’. And when she furrowed her brow in sleep, it was unmistakable. She looked just like her father.

No one dared say it aloud, not even your mother, who was too blinded by the joy of the new heir to care whose it was.

After all, did it matter?

You were still queen. Robert was still king. And Audrey — Audrey was born of both your legacies, whether the blood aligned or not. 

But it was you and James who rocked her on the balcony. You and James who walked the palace halls at night with her bundled to your chest. You and James whispered lullabies while Robert and John, from a respectable distance, drank their tea and watched from afar, wondering if they would ever have the freedom to adopt one of their own. 

—

Captain Sam Wilson arrived three weeks after her birth, his hands gentle when he held her. He looked into Audrey’s eyes and smiled — not with surprise, but certainty.

Captain Steve Rogers came a day later. He took one look at the child nestled against James’s chest and clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” Steve said.

James, uncharacteristically quiet, only nodded.

“Looks like someone I know, Buck.” Steve added, and then winked. 

Still, no one said the obvious. Not the Council. Not the court. Not the papers — who tiptoed around it with all the delicacy of men walking barefoot through a field of glass. They never once printed a whisper, though the resemblance was plain as sunlight.

Because Robert was fine with it.

And because Audrey — future Queen Audrey — would never know the coldness of being born of duty.

Only of love.

—

And three years later, no one questioned it when the court awoke to solemn news: His Majesty King Robert and His Guard, John Walker, had perished in a tragic carriage accident— down a treacherous cliff along the coast road.

No bodies were ever recovered. There were no state funerals.

Just an announcement and a wreath laid. Enough of a ceremony to satisfy the historians.

No one questioned the gaps in the story. Not the missing witnesses. Not the absence of grief in your eyes.

Because by then, no one dared question your rule.

You were the Queen who ended wars, who fed her people during famine, and who still found time to kneel beside her daughter’s cradle, plait her hair each morning, kiss her scraped knees, and hum old lullabies before bedtime.

No one questioned why you never remarried, because everyone already knew who your heart belonged to.

And though no one ever dared say it aloud, it became courtly knowledge— that when Little Princess Audrey climbed into the Queen’s Guard’s lap and called him Daddy, the Queen only smiled.

—

Audrey was eight now.

She stood on the cushioned bench beside the window, small hands pressed to the glass as the carriage jostled gently down the hidden woodland road. Her nose wrinkled at the fog on the pane, and she wiped it clean with her sleeve, eyes wide as the first trees of Eastmoor forest came into view.

“They’re gonna be waiting, Mama,” she whispered excitedly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Uncle Bob always waits by the gate.”

You smiled softly from your place across from her. “Yes, sweetheart,” you said. “He’ll be right where he always is.”

James sat beside her, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger — always the soldier, even now. But when Audrey turned toward him and leaned her head on his shoulder, his posture relaxed instantly.

“You think they’ll have apple tarts again, daddy?” Audrey asked, muffled against the leather of his jacket.

“I think,” James replied, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, “that Uncle Johnny’s probably already burned the first batch and made Uncle Bob swear not to tell anyone.”

Audrey giggled. The carriage bumped over the hidden trail, veering off from any official road — the route known only to you, James, and a handful of trusted men who owed their lives to the crown.

You had managed to keep this trip off the books. No guards followed. No scrolls recorded it, nor was ever spoken of aloud in court.

But every year, when the leaves turned gold, you made this journey.

—

The house wasn’t grand — in fact, it was plain by royal standards. It was a weathered stone cottage with ivy crawling over its eaves, surrounded by a canopy of trees. Smoke curled from the chimney as chickens wandered freely through the grass and a horse whinnied lazily from the back stable.

And standing just beyond the crooked gate was Robert.

He looked different now — leaner, a little older, his once regal hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple tunic and boots caked in mud. When he saw the carriage, his face broke into a smile that could’ve lit the kingdom.

Behind him, John emerged from the doorway, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, laughing as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

Audrey burst out the moment the carriage stopped, launching herself into Robert’s arms.

“Uncle Bob!”

He caught her, lifting her easily into the air and spinning her once before hugging her tight. “There’s my little rascal,” he exclaimed. “Eight years old already, huh?”

She beamed, clinging to his shoulders. “And I brought my history scroll so you can help me cheat on my essay!”

“Oh, bless the saints,” John groaned, laughing as he took her next, peppering kisses to her cheeks. “Don’t tell your governess I’m a bad influence.”

Audrey knew better than to tell the governess anything. After all, they were both, as far as the official documents were concerned, dead.

You stepped down from the carriage with grace, gown gathered in your gloved hands. James was at your side, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

Robert met your eyes over Audrey’s shoulder.

“Still queen?” he chuckled.

“And you,” you replied, voice warm.

“Come in,” John interrupted, ushering you all toward the door. “I burned the first tart but the second one’s edible.”

—

That night, after Audrey had fallen asleep upstairs in the little loft she’d claimed as her own, you and James sat on the porch beside Robert and John. 

James was leaning against the railing, Audrey’s toy rabbit tucked under his arm. You were curled beside him, boots unlaced, your head resting on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” John said, sipping his sparkling water. “You faked our deaths. Got us out of the palace.”

“I said I would figure something out,” you replied.

Robert looked at you with the same grateful look he’d given you the day you’d handed him the arrest warrant and said, “I’ll never be able to repay you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you said, reaching across to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you, ever since we were kids.”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

You looked up at James, who kissed your temple without needing to be asked.

“Of course,” you said simply.

John raised his glass. “To promises kept,” he said.

“To peace hard-won,” Robert added.

James lifted his own. “And to love everlasting.”

You clinked glasses. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the weight of the kingdom laid on your shoulders. 

You were just four souls on a porch— while upstairs, the future of the throne slept soundly in her bed.

pairing: Bucky x ex-girlfriend/ex-widow!Reader tags: pre-established break-up, flashbacks, idiots still in love, idiots still in lust, angst, hurt+comfort, canon-level comedy, curvy!reader*, grownasswoman!reader, slightly bratty but funny reader

*I specifically wrote reader as having curves/meat on her bones because she's supposed to be around 30-35 by thunderbolts*. MILF era reader but subtract the child is upon us. I also generally head canon that Bucky would prefer a curvier woman bc she's soft and can take more iykwim warnings: suggestive content, dirty talking, mentions of death, mentions of hopelessness, slightly toxic relationship (will get fixed later also reader is kinda the toxic one), mentions of domestic abuse*, self-deprecation, reader is explicitly a woman, slight physical descriptors for reader but nothing drastic like hair skin or eyes, playing fast and loose with timelines

*reader was trained by the Winter Soldier in the Red Room, like in the comics. obv, he has laid hands on her bc he had to. reader also comments in a flashback that she expects Bucky to get mad and hit her, but he would never post!WS.

summary: after being separated for three years, you and Bucky finally see each other once more. lots of things have changed - but, have you?

word count: around 2.2k

note: see end of fic for footnotes!

It was a wonder that they let six-year-olds as small as Yelena play a sport.  Most likely, it had something to do with the fact that you lived in a small town in Ohio—there probably weren't many six-year-olds around to sign up. The soccer team was interspersed with girls her age and a year above.

You and Natasha sat next to Melina on the field’s bleachers, watching Alexei coach what had to be the worst children’s soccer team in existence. There were a couple girls who just plain looked confused, as if they didn’t know how to play soccer—despite this being the team’s fourth game.

The sun beat down onto the field, making you squint and hold a hand over your eyes to see past the reflections off metal bleachers. You watched as your youngest sister crouched to catch the ball with her comically large goalie gloves on, ending up missing the ball by the tips of her fingers. The parents on the other team cheered and clapped, while Alexei had to try and damage control the disappointed parents and young kids on your side of the field.

You and Natasha fooled around, cracking jokes about the girl who had a mishap on the field last game. Melina had pinched your arm in condemnation when she overheard you two snickering about it.

It was days like these that you’d end up missing the most. You had many pains in your life, ones that you’d remember during witching hours of restless nights.

You could still feel Dreykov’s nasty hands gripping you to separate you from your sisters. 

You could still remember how it felt to snap a neck for the first time.

You could still remember the betrayal you felt when Natasha defected, and left you and Yelena behind.

You could still remember the salted taste of your tears as you stood at her grave.

But the one that hurt most of all?

You could still remember the glisten of Bucky’s grey-blue eyes when you glanced back at him that last night in your shared apartment. He made no move to stop you from leaving, and there was a finality to that.

He had given up. On you, and on your relationship together. 

—————————

“If you do not succeed, then you have no purpose. The Red Room does not keep things without purpose.” ¹

Madame B’s voice rang through your mind like a scourge—an affliction, threaded deep through the hollows of your soul.

Purpose.

A simple word, but one which haunted your waking moments.

What purpose did you have in this life? An assassin, reared from birth, was all you’d ever be.

You had been given a short taste of what it would’ve been like, had you been birthed by a womb which cared. One where your purpose was to be a loving daughter and sister, who could do whatever she wanted with her life. Maybe, one day, you would’ve even been a wife.

Maybe, just maybe–

Your sister would still be alive. And, maybe, you wouldn’t have this cavernous, yearning hole within your being, swallowing everything you are. 

“And where does that leave me, James?” You had finally broken. Your voice raised, a finger pointed accusingly at his chest. “I’m not like you. I’m not like Natasha was. I can’t pretend to be anything other than a killer wearing a hero’s face.” ²

You immediately regretted your choice in words when Bucky’s face fell. There was no anger, no frustration. 

It was nauseating. You wanted him to yell back at you, to get furious. Hit you, even. 

Instead, he looked at you as if you had just shattered his fragile heart– broken it into tiny shards that pierced from within his chest cavity.

“Is that how you see me?” 

You escaped your subconscious in the backseat of a car service, digging your nails into the meat of your exposed thigh and leaving white scratch marks behind, soon to be raised welts. The dress you wore had a slit, cut high enough to show skin when you walked, but low enough to not be considered indecent. Your garter held an inconspicuous dagger on the inside of your thigh; you weren’t going to be caught without any sort of weapon, but even you weren’t bold enough to attempt bringing a firearm within reach of several government officials. The brush of the blade’s handle against the skin of the opposite thigh when you walked brought a consistent comfort, a subtle reminder it was there.

A figure, curved and matured with age, filled out the dress’ silhouette like a second skin. The ripples of fabric followed your body’s command as a stilettoed foot hit the pavement of the sidewalk. Adjusting the void of black wrapped around your skin and gripping your clutch tightly to your side, you let out an exhale that you didn’t realize you were holding. The car that had dropped you off had pulled away the minute you shut the door, and the nearest subway entrance was at least a ten block walk that you weren’t going to attempt in four inch pumps.

Alas, all arrows pointed to you being unable to escape what was sure to be an exhausting night.

The black-tie event had since been underway by the time you arrived. Though, you figured that may work better in your favor; not many people would be looking for a late entry to the party. Your stilettos clicked against polished marble, eyes scanning the room with a practiced gaze. Your glasses were set low on the curve of your nose, letting the false lashes you wore flutter against skin uninterrupted. The makeup you had applied suddenly felt heavy on your pores as you spotted the reason for your attendance.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine–what a mouthful–stood at the opposite balcony, seeming to be having a heated discussion with her assistant. Over what? That wasn’t your business. Your business with the Contessa began whenever she opened her mouth to give you your assignment, and ended whenever you completed the contract. You refused to associate with the avaricious woman more than was necessary. 

And, so, you began to work your way over.

You barely made it halfway before an arm had shot out and pulled you into a side hall. Either your reflexes have dulled in your time away from the field, or the arm that gripped yours was inhumanly fast. You were hoping it was the latter–you aren’t sure you could translate your skills to other fields if you were losing your touch.

You struggled against the arm around your waist, which only furthered the strength of the grip. Your backside collided with the soft, lean muscle of a man’s front. You were truthfully attempting not to make a scene–there were a very many violent options that you had been trained in to break a hold like this, but you had been trying not to bring attention to yourself.

“Again,” you panted out, your ribcage surely bruised from being thrown around with ease likened to a child throwing a toy. The man in front of you didn’t care, however. Neither would an opponent in the real world. So, you once again assumed your position. The mechanical whirr of his silver arm echoed within the walls of the old Belarusian training room as he readied his stance.

You darted towards him, using your smaller stature to your advantage–he may have more advanced reflexes than a normal human, but his bulky mass and metal arm weighed him down. He had anticipated you to jump him head on again, so you knew you had to find a way to break his focus. As he reached out to grab you with his metal hand, you slid in between his spread legs. His arm instinctively went to grip your waist behind him once he felt your arms on his shoulders, so you used that to boost your momentum and twist your body up and around to his front. Your thighs closed around his head and squeezed, blocking his sight and hearing. As you brought an elbow up to slam down on his–quite frankly–hard head, you felt his hands reach up and grasp the curves of your backside. The boldness of the touch had shocked your system frozen. ³

A grunt left his lips, muffled by your crotch, and that was the only warning you received before the tingle of your spine communicated that gravity was approaching, and fast. You could only gasp for air as your back hit the training mat, stealing what breath you still had away.

The impact had loosened the vice grip of your thighs, but the Soldier’s body stayed in what you could only describe as a compromising position. His gaze locked onto yours, lips parted and breathing hot puffs of air into your intimate area, knees buckled underneath him, and palms still flat against your bottom. The black of his pupils nearly engulfed the blue of his irises–he looked ready to devour you.

“Hey, hey!,” a low rasp grumbled in your ear, the sound of your name breaking you out of your stupor, “It’s me!”

You almost fought his grip even harder, now knowing who it was that held you. “Bucky, what the fuck!” You hissed, his grip finally loosening enough for you to break out and spin around to face your unwanted captor. His arms raised and his shoulders hunched in, he tried to make himself look smaller–or innocent, rather–in a placating manner.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “force of habit.”

You couldn’t help but sigh, using the hand not clenched around your clutch to rub at your temple; you knew you would have to have this moment eventually tonight, you just hadn’t thought it would happen immediately.

“You look…good,” were the words that came out of his mouth. He winced immediately after, as if kicking himself for saying it.

One brow quirked up, you couldn’t help the quip from leaving your mouth.

“You look…older. Is that grey I see in your beard?” You pretended to squint and pushed your glasses up your nose, as if you were trying to get a closer look. ⁴

He let out a huff–the closest you’d get to a laugh–and the side of his lips curled up a bit. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re not put on ice for years at a time.”

His brow furrowed suddenly, pointing at the glasses on your face. “What’s with the…?”

You let out a chuckle at that, the back and forth between you feeling natural. Like old times.

“Creature comfort,” you shrugged. ⁵

Your eyes roved up and down Bucky’s body, inspecting the changes. The way he clearly had been less rigorous with strength training, but his body clung to muscle mass naturally. “It’s a good look on you. I’d say you age like fine wine, but considering you’re probably older than most aged wines being sold currently, I think I might insult some vineyards.”

Bucky’s eyebrow raised at that, a smug smirk slowly lifting on his lips–

“That right?”

You could’ve sworn your heart skipped a beat as he leaned in closer, the notes of bergamot and cedar in his cologne suddenly becoming clear to your olfactory senses. You tried swallowing down the nerves growing in your throat, his eyes glancing down to the motion before slowly inspecting down your full figure and back up.

“You have no idea just how much you’re testing my restraint right now,” he murmured lowly, eyes hooded over as he looked down at you as if you were his prey for the night. Despite the added four inches from your stilettos, the bastard super soldier still towered over you.

“Bucky, I–”

“Ah, ah. You’re gonna turn that ass around, go do what you came here to do, and when you’re done, you’re gonna come back to my apartment with me and we’re gonna have a little chat.”

The commanding tone of his voice left no room for argument, but you found yourself testifying anyway.

“James, it’s been almost three years–”

You found yourself being manhandled, again, by your ex-boyfriend. He spun you around so that your back pressed against his chest again, his vibranium hand groping the swell of your ass. You had to bite down on your lower lip to prevent an embarrassing moan from escaping, watching people mingle around the hall without a notice or care in the world of what was happening just across the hall from them.

“And whose fault is that, hm?” He growled into your ear, “I haven’t seen my girl in three years. Not one call, text, or even a fucking email.”

“I’m not your girl anymore, remember?” You hissed out, rolling your eyes, despite knowing he couldn’t see it. “I haven’t been your girl since you let me walk out that door.”

“I didn’t let you do anything. You’re a grown fuckin’ woman and I respected your decision. If I were in the business of letting you do things, you’d be bent over that railing right now.”

“And become a scandalized Congressman? Is that truly worth it?”

“If it meant that I’d finally get a message through that thick fuckin’ skull of yours, then yes. I assassinated a U.S. President and still got voted in. A sex scandal could hardly scrape the bottom of the shit I’ve done.” ⁶

“Oh, please. You could’ve assassinated Hitler himself and there would still be a population of the American people who would try to get on your ass for having premarital sex.”

“Interesting foreplay this has been, I must admit–but you’re avoiding consequence by talking around the point.”

Well, shit. You were kinda hoping he hadn’t noticed.

¹ This is a line from “Sucker Punch” ! Dr. Gorsky fits the Red Room characterization so well imo.

² This was internal monologue from Bucky in Winter Soldier: Devil’s Reign. 

³ This is my poor attempt at describing the move Black Widow does on Bucky after he gets activated by Zemo in CA:CW. I always thought it’d be fun to make it more heated, seeing as how intimate of a position it looks without the context of a fight.

⁴ In my headcanon (bc truthfully I don’t know if they’ve ever confirmed this?), Bucky’s body ages with Sebastian Stan’s. So he’d be physically around his early 40s by the time Thunderbolts* happens. He’d be physically in his late 20s in Winter Soldier flashbacks, mid 30s in FATWS ones.

⁵ Can be implied that Reader doesn’t actually need glasses; this is relevant for later. If you do need glasses, this will also still work; it would just imply that Bucky was used to seeing her with contacts in. Could also just be read as a “Clark Kent Effect” where people don’t recognize a spy with glasses lmaoo.