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Bucky padded towards you on socked feet, circling his arms around your waist. His chin met your shoulder, his lips met your ear.

"They're asleep, knocked out after one story this evening."

You could feel his smile on your neck.

"Well done, they were a handful today." You murmured, not wanting to break the almost silence made by the pattering of the rain on the patio tiles.

"They're cooped up, I'll take them to the park tomorrow." Bucky began to sway side to side, humming a tune only he could hear.

"Mr Moscovitz is in his shed again." He said, by way of explanation. Your neighbour often spent time in the evening in his shed, playing the Oldies station on the little radio his wife had bought him.

"What is it this time?"

"Our song." Bucky squeezed you tighter before twirling you slowly, guiding you into the slowest of waltzes.

"Which is?"

"Any song about love."

"Bucky," you tapped his chest playfully and smiled bashfully, he always seemed to know exactly what to say to have heat creeping up your spine.

He began singing quietly, humming where he couldn't quite remember the lyrics, for once his supersoldier hearing focused on something beautiful and not disastrous.

"I see the love light in your eyes, and the wonder of it all, hhmmm, you don't realize how much I love you."

You let your head rest against his chest, "what did I do to deserve you Mr Barnes?"

"Probably the same thing I did to deserve you?"

"I love you, and you do look wonderful tonight." Bucky dipped you down, your baggy sweatshirt hanging loose, your socks slipping on the kitchen tile.

You looked at him, his beard long, his t-shirt a little paint stained.

You found out by accident.

It was past midnight, and Bucky couldn’t sleep again.

He never asked, not with words. Just showed up at your apartment looking like a stormcloud—hood up, eyes dim, voice gravel in his throat. You let him in without question.

You were both halfway through a silent movie you didn’t care about, bundled on your tiny secondhand couch, when you caught him staring at the TV—but not really watching. His fingers were twitching in the blanket, like they were holding something that wasn’t there.

So you said it. Quiet, like if you were too loud it would break him:

“What do you miss the most?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just blinked, and for a minute, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, he shrugged. A beat. Another.

“…Ice cream.”

You blinked. “What?”

He shifted beside you. “I mean, sure, I miss my family. Dancing. Sunday dinners. But those are big things. Too big. I can’t even touch them without hurting.”

You listened.

He looked down at the blanket, eyes distant. “But ice cream? That’s small. Simple. When we were kids, me and Becca would save our pennies all week. Walk five blocks to this little corner place. Tin cups. Real scoops. I’d always get chocolate. No matter what.”

Your heart ached.

“I haven’t had it since.”

Not since… you didn’t ask.

Instead, you whispered, “That’s fixable.”

He huffed a half-smile. “Yeah?”

You reached for your keys.

The first tub was from the bodega down the block.

They only had two flavors: mint chip and vanilla.

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the green, but ate two entire bowls of the vanilla in a silence that was soft, not sad. He licked the spoon clean and leaned back into the cushions with a sigh that sounded almost like peace.

“Good?” you asked.

His eyes were closed.

“It’s not chocolate,” he muttered, and you thought that was the end of it—

But then he added, “It’s perfect.”

After that, it became a mission.

An actual mission.

Every week, you brought home a different pint.

Double fudge brownie. Peanut butter swirl. Something called “Moose Tracks” that made Bucky raise an eyebrow and mutter “Where the hell’s the moose?” before devouring the whole thing in two sittings.

You started keeping a little notebook.

Bucky’s Ice Cream Ratings:

Vanilla (first night): 9/10 — “Nothing fancy. I liked that.”

Rocky Road: 7/10 — “Marshmallows are weird. Would still eat.”

Pistachio: 2/10 — “Why would anyone do this.”

Cherry Garcia: 10/10 — “Didn’t expect to like it. Can we get more?”

Classic Chocolate: 11/10 — “That’s it. That’s the one.”

You tried gelato. Sorbet. Cones with chocolate-dipped edges.

Every tub was an offering, a soft little miracle.

And slowly, the man in your kitchen—the one with haunted eyes and metal nightmares—started smiling again.

You’d find him in the middle of the night, standing at the freezer with the door wide open, barefoot, spoon in mouth, like some sleepy raccoon.

He’d glance over his shoulder like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and mutter, “Didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you’d always say.

He always did.

But you never minded.

One night, months into your ritual, you sat side by side on your stoop with two bowls in your laps. The cicadas were loud. The summer air hung thick with heat and the sweet sting of pavement.

Bucky scooped a bite into his mouth and sighed.

“Best one yet,” he said, gesturing toward the carton between you.

It was some local creamery blend called Brooklyn Brownstone. Cinnamon, chocolate chunks, caramel ribbons.

You smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He was quiet for a while after that.

The street was still. An empty taxi rolled by. A cat darted across the curb and vanished into shadow.

Then he said, soft as dusk:

“I think this is the first time I’ve had something I missed... and it didn’t hurt.”

You looked over.

He was staring at his spoon like it held history.

“I thought remembering would break me,” he said. “But this… it’s just a good thing. From a good time. And it’s still good now.”

You didn’t say anything.

Just scooped a bite into your mouth, let it melt on your tongue, and leaned your shoulder into his.

He started helping with the search after that.

You’d find tabs open on his phone: Best ice cream shops NYC. How to make your own. Wartime frozen desserts.

Once, he showed up at your door holding a waffle cone wrapped in a napkin, grinning.

“Banana fudge,” he said, like it was sacred.

You took a bite. It dripped down your hand.

He licked it off, kissed your knuckle.

“Perfect,” he murmured.

You weren’t sure if he meant the ice cream or you.

Maybe both.

You made your own on your six-month anniversary.

No churn. Chocolate base. Topped with broken pretzels and chunks of dark truffle.

You wore his henley, stained your cheek with cocoa powder, and nearly dropped the whole tub taking it out of the freezer.

He caught you. Then kissed you, soft and slow, right there against the counter.

“Best dessert I ever had,” he murmured, before either of you had even tasted it.

It was never about the ice cream, not really.

It was about choosing joy. Choosing something sweet in a world that had only ever been sharp. About remembering without pain. About allowing softness, again and again.

It was about trust.

And one summer night, after an evening of blueberry cobbler swirl and lazy kisses on the porch swing, Bucky leaned into your neck and whispered:

“You brought me back.”

You laughed. “Pretty sure it was the Häagen-Dazs.”

He huffed a laugh against your skin.

“No,” he said. “It was you. But the ice cream helped.”

He kept a tub in the freezer labeled “In Case of Existential Crisis.”

It made you both laugh every time.

And sometimes, when the world spun too fast or the nightmares came too close, he’d sit beside you, spoon in hand, eating straight from that tub while you rubbed circles into his back and let him be quiet.

It was his favorite ritual.

Yours, too.

On your one-year anniversary, you gifted him a tiny silver pendant for his keychain.

Stamped into the metal: 🍦

He blinked, thumb brushing the charm. “Seriously?”

You shrugged. “Well. It brought you back, didn’t it?”

He looked at you, eyes soft and ocean-deep.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It did.”

Then he kissed you—sweet and slow and chocolate-smooth.

And later that night, he whispered into your neck:

“I love you more than ice cream.”

You didn’t believe him.

Bucky chuckles, deep and fond. “You say that like you don’t love when he pretends not to know what a hamper is.”

You grin. “He’s seventy going on seven. I expect nothing less.”

The moment passes like a breeze. You don’t press, and he doesn’t question it. But later that night, when you’re brushing your teeth side by side and he wraps his arms around you from behind, you know he heard you.

Really heard you.

Bucky doesn’t sleep much, but he’s gotten good at pretending. At the compound, sleep is a gift you steal in patches, in quiet hours when the world feels stable enough to let your guard down. So when he rolls out of bed at 4:12 a.m., you don’t stir. You’re used to his rhythms. You think he’s headed for a run or maybe a mission briefing.

You don’t know that he’s headed for the woods.

“Are you sure about this?” Sam asks, squinting at the stack of lumber like it personally insulted him. “Because I could be asleep right now. Or better—brunch. Do you know how long it’s been since I had brunch?”

Bucky grunts and slides a beam into place. “Nobody asked you to come.”

“Steve did,” Sam mutters. “And so did my own stupid sense of friendship. I should get it surgically removed.”

But he helps. Of course he helps. Because when Bucky Barnes—world’s grumpiest romantic—asks for help building a house for the woman he loves, you show up. No matter how early. No matter how many splinters.

Steve shows up too. He says it’s because he likes the smell of sawdust and pine, but they all know better. He swings a hammer like it’s part of his DNA and pretends not to catch Bucky staring down the blueprints with that faraway look in his eyes.

“She wants space,” Bucky mumbles one afternoon, scribbling out a second story on the draft with pencil smudges up his forearm. “Light. Big windows. She always stands in the sun when she talks on the phone.”

Steve hums. “We can give her that.”

They do.

The house comes together like magic—or maybe something better. Something hand-built and honest. The walls go up by mid-April, and the roof follows by the time the dogwoods bloom. There are mishaps, of course. Sam nearly falls off the scaffolding twice, and Steve breaks two hammers trying to “improvise.”

But the frame becomes a skeleton. Then the skeleton becomes a heartbeat. Then it becomes a home.

“She’s gonna cry,” Sam mutters as they paint the bedroom walls the color of honey. “You know that, right?”

“I hope she does,” Bucky says softly, and Sam doesn’t even make fun of him for it.

Back at the compound, things go on as usual. You help Peter with his physics homework. You and Wanda plan movie nights with themed snacks. The twins lose their favorite blanket for the third time and blame Clint. You and Bucky fall asleep with limbs tangled and quiet laughter in your chests.

You don’t notice the extra coffee he packs into thermoses. The way he’s always covered in sawdust. The band-aids on his fingers.

He’s always been a little rough around the edges. You love him that way.

Three months later, you find yourself standing in the compound kitchen, bare feet on tile and a hand on your hip.

“I think I’m serious,” you say.

Bucky doesn’t look up from slicing strawberries. “About what?”

“The house thing.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, eyes unreadable. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. I know this place is… safe. But it’s not really ours. I want something that feels like us. Just for us.”

There’s a pause, long enough to make your heart flutter with worry. But then Bucky sets the knife down and wipes his hands on a towel.

“Okay,” he says simply.

You blink. “Okay?”

He smiles, small and secretive. “Let’s go for a drive this weekend. Just us.”

You think he means to look at properties.

You have no idea what’s coming.

The drive takes two hours. Bucky insists on packing a picnic basket and insists even harder on you wearing a blindfold for the last fifteen minutes.

“I’m not gonna crash,” he tells you with a snort.

“Easy for you to say. You drive like a maniac.”

“Says the woman who thought parallel parking was a myth until last year.”

You squabble, bicker, laugh. It’s good. Easy. Familiar.

You don’t realize your life is about to change.

When the car stops, he helps you out gently. The ground is soft beneath your shoes—dirt and moss and pine needles. The air smells like sun-warmed earth and something faintly sweet.

“Okay,” he whispers. “You ready?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

He unties the blindfold.

The house stands before you like a dream.

It’s tucked beneath a canopy of trees, where sunlight slants through the branches in golden ribbons. The porch is wide, wrapped around the front like open arms. There’s a swing already hung on one side and a pair of rocking chairs with blue cushions on the other.

The paint is a soft, weathered gray with white trim, and the front door is a bold navy—the exact shade of Bucky’s favorite sweater.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

“Bucky…” you whisper.

He’s quiet beside you, thumb tracing your wrist. “This is ours. If you want it. If you love it.”

Your eyes fill so fast it feels like whiplash.

“You built this?”

He shrugs, almost bashful. “Started it a few months ago. Steve and Sam helped. Wanted it to be a surprise. Didn’t think you’d actually bring up the house thing again, but when you did…” He trails off, eyes soft. “I just want you to have everything. Everything I never thought I could give someone.”

You turn to him, blinking fast. “You gave me you. That’s already everything.”

His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to cry, and then he’s laughing, pulling you into his chest as you bury your face in his shirt.

“Come on,” he says, voice thick. “Let me show you around.”

The inside smells like fresh wood and lavender. It’s warm and bright, with big open rooms and more windows than you can count. There’s a reading nook already stuffed with cushions and a fireplace made of river stones. The kitchen has open shelves and a big farmhouse sink. The cabinets are painted a soft blue—the exact shade you once pointed out in a magazine and called “peace in a color.”

You trail your fingers along the countertop, everything touched by him. The details are you. A window above the sink so you can watch the trees. Hooks by the door for coats and backpacks. A built-in spice rack labeled in your handwriting—Bucky must’ve taken a photo of your recipe notebook.

“I memorized the page with your mom’s chili recipe,” he says sheepishly, watching your expression. “Figured if the kitchen felt like hers, you’d feel more at home.”

You throw your arms around him. He smells like cedar and sawdust and something faintly sweet—hope, maybe.

He shows you the master bedroom next, with high ceilings and light spilling in from the skylight above. There’s a bench at the foot of the bed, soft blankets already draped across it.

There’s a print on the wall you recognize—it used to hang in your childhood home.

“Wanda found it in a thrift shop,” he explains. “Said she saw it and thought of you.”

Down the hallway, he opens a door to a small sunlit room.

“We could make this an office,” you offer, voice light.

He nods. “Or a nursery. If—when—we want that.”

Your stomach flutters. He says it like it’s a promise.

The last room is smaller. Cozy. Built-in shelves already half-filled with your favorite novels and a fuzzy armchair in the corner. You step in and spin slowly, awe washing over you.

“I wanted a space just for you,” Bucky murmurs behind you. “To read. Or hide. Or breathe.”

You turn, overwhelmed and radiant. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve everything,” he says simply. “And I’m gonna spend my life proving that.”

Outside, the sun has shifted. Dappled light spills across the porch. Bucky leads you out, and you settle on the swing together, the basket between you filled with homemade sandwiches and strawberries.

“I packed your favorite,” he says, lifting the Tupperware. “Sam judged me the whole time.”

“Of course he did.”

You grin and take a bite, eyes sweeping over the view. The trees rustle softly, and birds chirp somewhere close. It’s quiet—not the kind of silence that weighs heavy, but the kind that settles in your chest like peace.

“You really built all of this?”

“Every nail.”

“And no one told me?”

“They all wanted to,” he chuckles. “But Steve made them pinky swear. And you don’t break a pinky swear with Steve Rogers.”

You laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“So,” Bucky says, brushing his thumb over your hand. “Can you picture it? Us here?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I can.”

“Maybe a garden in the back?”

“With raised beds,” you nod. “And sunflowers along the fence.”

He grins. “We could add a treehouse someday. For—y’know—future little rugrats.”

You laugh. “You planning a whole second life without telling me?”

“Just... daydreaming.”

You look at him—really look—and your chest aches with love.

“You wanna stay the night?” he asks. “I brought sheets. Blankets. Even remembered the fuzzy socks you can’t sleep without.”

Your eyes well up again. “You thought of everything.”

He pulls you closer, warm and real. “You are everything.”

That night, you fall asleep curled against him in the new bed, fairy lights strung above the headboard, fire crackling in the hearth.

The air smells like pine and vanilla, and Bucky hums quietly, fingers tracing lazy shapes along your back.

“Can’t believe this is real,” you murmur.

“Me neither,” he admits. “But I want it to be.”

And it is.

You officially move in a few weeks later.

Nat throws a sendoff barbecue and insists on bringing a blender big enough to make margaritas for a small army. Clint and Laura show up with a plant that promptly dies the next day, but you keep the pot. Wanda blesses the threshold.

Even Tony sends over a pizza oven drone—though you’re pretty sure it’s just to test his newest model.

Your twins squeal when they see their new room, and Bucky builds them bunk beds with their names carved into the sides. Every day, the house becomes more lived-in. Your toothbrush joins his. Your tea collection takes over two cabinets. There’s a sock always missing, a mystery stain on the hallway rug, and laughter echoing off the walls.

You get a dog—an old, sleepy rescue mutt you name Beans because Bucky insists every good dog needs a ridiculous name.

Some nights, Steve visits and stays too late playing cards. Sam shows up unannounced just to raid the fridge and complain about the drive. Peter and MJ spend summer weekends helping with the garden.

And somehow, this place—this patch of earth and lumber and soft blue cabinets—becomes a living, breathing thing.

Your forever.

One morning, you wake to find Bucky already in the backyard. He’s in sweatpants and bare feet, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and a tiny watering can in the other.

You watch him through the window, heart full.

When you step outside, he smiles like you’re the sunrise.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

You pad over, kiss his cheek, and wrap your arms around him from behind.

The garden is blooming. The porch swing creaks. A wind chime sings in the trees.

“You happy?” he asks softly.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’ve never been more.”

He turns in your arms, brushing his nose against yours.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because this? This is just the beginning.”

You shouldn't have worked. But somehow, you did.

The first time you met him, he was standing in front of the last almond croissant at the café. You had eyed it the moment you walked in. He’d snatched it with all the enthusiasm of someone filing taxes.

You blinked at him. “That’s the last one.”

He blinked back. “Yeah.”

“I was going to get that.”

“You can have it.” He handed it over, expression unreadable.

You should’ve said thank you and walked away. Instead, you grinned.

“You don’t like almonds, do you?”

His eyebrow twitched. “No.”

You motioned to the croissant in your hand. “Then why’d you reach for it?”

He shifted on his feet, then admitted, “It was at the front. Seemed efficient.”

That’s how it started—with you laughing at his logic and him grumbling into his Americano about inefficient pastry placement.

You sat next to each other that day by accident. The coffee shop was full. You offered him the seat across from yours, and he accepted with the kind of wariness usually reserved for interrogation rooms.

You liked to talk. He liked to listen. You liked the window. He preferred corners. You liked people. He tolerated you.

And yet—you met for coffee again the next morning.

“Your toaster’s pink,” he pointed out one afternoon, staring at it like it might explode.

“It brings me joy,” you said simply.

He hummed, skeptical.

“I could get you one.”

“Absolutely not.”

You got him one anyway. A matte black version. He never used it, but it sat on his counter like a quiet truce.

It wasn’t easy.

He never told you what he was feeling. Not really. He’d shut down after certain nightmares, disappear into his head when crowds got too loud, or pull away if your fingers brushed a scar he wasn’t ready for you to find.

You were light and motion, and sometimes that startled him. Your laughter was too bright, your words too many. Your walls were made of open doors and second chances, and his were barbed wire and old ghosts.

But then—

He learned to buy your favorite chocolate when he picked up groceries. You caught him once, staring at the rows of brands like they were puzzle pieces he couldn’t quite match.

“These are the ones,” you said, pointing. “The sea salt ones.”

He nodded like it was sacred knowledge.

You found a stray puppy outside your apartment. You named her Button. Bucky declared war.

“She peed in my boot.”

“She’s a baby.”

“She’s a terrorist.”

But Button liked to curl against his leg when you both watched movies, and you swore he once kissed her head when he thought you were asleep.

Bucky didn’t say “I love you” with words.

He said it when he memorized your coffee order. He said it when he showed up at your gallery opening, standing in the back in all black, a splash of yellow tulips awkward in his hand. He said it when he fixed your leaking sink even though you swore it was fine. He said it when he gave you the bigger half of the chocolate bar.

You said “I love you” out loud, every day. Loudly. Repeatedly. Sometimes with jazz hands.

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the ghost of a smile every time.

You fought. About laundry and dishes and which way the toilet paper should face. (You were right. He was wrong.)

You fought about Button chewing his shoelaces and about how long he could go without telling you where he disappeared to when he needed space.

He said you were too much. You said he wasn’t enough. He slammed the door. You kicked it. Then he came back. Every time. And you opened it. Every time.

Because despite everything, it worked.

He steadied you. You softened him. He showed you the quiet. You brought him the light. He was midnight and you were morning—but the space in between? That was where you met.

One snowy night, wrapped in mismatched blankets on your couch, he reached for your hand.

“You’re chaos,” he murmured.

You laughed, breath warm against his neck. “And you’re concrete.”

“You drive me crazy.”

“You make me calm.”

Button snored from the floor. The neon toaster blinked in the kitchen.

He squeezed your hand. “Don’t ever stop being color.”

You looked at him—gray shirt, black socks, a trace of vulnerability behind his steel-blue eyes.

“Only if you promise to keep being my grayscale.”

He kissed you then. Soft, uncertain, like he wasn’t used to being allowed to want. But you were. You let him. Every time.

You never convinced him to love chocolate. He never convinced you to adopt a cat. But Button got a brother—another stray, this one a gangly mutt Bucky insisted on naming Klaus.

You painted your bedroom in deep forest green. He called it “almost black” and tolerated it.

He still wore black. But sometimes? His socks had stripes.

You moved in together in spring.

You got married in fall.

And when people asked how it worked—how someone like you and someone like him didn’t drive each other mad—you smiled.

The woman in question—you—were currently sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor of the compound kitchen, animatedly retelling a story to three very energetic children who were clearly your clones. In voice, volume, chaos energy, and inability to sit still.

“—AND THEN the raccoon FELL in the cake and Grant SCREAMED like someone shot him and Ivy said ‘this is why we don’t trust rodents!’ and then Jacob put the whole thing in his mouth like a little goblin—”

Three children exploded with laughter. Ivy actually snorted. Loudly.

“She tricked the doctor so bad,” Clint muttered. “I don’t even know how she passed a psych eval.”

“Does anyone actually know how she and Bucky got together?” Sam asked.

“Not really,” Steve said. “They just… showed up one day, married. And then she never stopped talking.”

Natasha smirked. “And he never started.”

“Exactly.”

You weren’t just a yapper. You were the queen of the yappers. And the tiny clones you created? Just as loud. Just as quick. Just as ridiculous. And Bucky?

Bucky Barnes—silent assassin, brooding Winter Soldier, man with approximately 2.5 expressions and all of them weary—was head over heels in the middle of it.

“Baby,” you sing-songed, practically skipping into the living room where Bucky was trying to fix a broken toy robot Grant had lovingly smashed against the wall in an act of vengeance against “artificial overlords.”

“Mm?” he hummed without looking up.

“So, Ivy wants a snake.”

Bucky paused.

You bounced on your toes.

“She says it’s for emotional support but also she wants to name it ‘Hiss-teria’ and teach it to chase boys away.”

“She’s six.”

“She’s ambitious.”

Bucky looked up, smirking slightly. “What happened to wanting a hamster?”

“She said hamsters don’t strike fear into the hearts of enemies.”

“…Ivy said that?”

“She might’ve heard it from me,” you chirped, plopping down beside him. “Also, Jacob wants to be an opera singer but only if he can sing about cheese. Is that a career path we support?”

Bucky blinked at you slowly.

You batted your lashes.

He kissed your forehead and said, “We support chaos.”

“You’re so hot when you give in to the madness.”

He chuckled, low and warm.

The thing is—Bucky loved it. Every scattered second. Every story with twelve tangents and no real ending. Every child leaping from furniture and quoting your nonsense like gospel. Every shouted “DAAAAD!!!” from the other room followed by a “MOM SAID I COULD!!” and an explosion of glitter or suspicious silence.

He adored it.

The team learned quickly that peace at the compound was not an option. Not when the Barnes family arrived.

There was the time Ivy put googly eyes on all the bathroom items—including the toilet.

Or when Grant rigged Tony’s coffee machine to play Baby Shark every time it brewed.

Or when Jacob asked Thor if lightning could cook chicken nuggets, and then tried it.

You didn’t help. In fact, you encouraged the madness like a ringmaster at a circus.

“Babe, babe—look at this!” you called one morning, dragging Bucky into the hallway. “Look what Jacob did!”

The wall had… art. Crayon murals. Abstract interpretations of “that time mom sneezed and scared the neighbor’s cat.”

“Did you say he could do this?” Bucky asked.

“No, but it’s so bold,” you said proudly. “He’s pushing the boundaries of hallway expressionism.”

Bucky didn’t even blink. Just patted Jacob’s head. “Next time, we do it on paper, okay, buddy?”

Jacob saluted. “Yessir!”

You beamed. “See? You’re a natural at this.”

The best part, though, was bedtime. Somehow, in the whirlwind of insanity, Bucky had a system.

Three kids. One story. All snuggled on the couch. You curled beside him, often still talking—but softer now, winding down.

“—and then I told the lady at the store that no, I will not be buying frozen fish sticks because you, Grant, are a fishitarian—”

“Pescatarian, mom.”

“Don’t correct me while I’m monologuing.”

Bucky just wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed the top of your head.

When the kids were finally asleep—miraculously and always with limbs everywhere—he stayed up with you, grounding the chaos with calm.

“You really okay with all this?” you asked one night, eyes soft in the dim light.

Bucky smiled, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “I used to think silence meant peace. Now? I think peace is knowing I could lose my mind every five seconds… and still never want to be anywhere else.”

You grinned. “You married a yapper.”

“I married my yapper.”

The next morning, chaos resumed as usual.

“Ivy, get the snake out of the cereal box!”

“Jacob, stop singing about cheddar in your underwear!”

“Grant, I told you not to glue eyeballs to my knives!”

Through it all, Bucky sipped his coffee with serene acceptance.

Tony passed by and muttered, “How are you not in a padded cell yet?”

Bucky shrugged. “I like the noise.”

Sam leaned in. “You’re terrifying.”

Natasha, watching the kids reenact the plot of Avengers with sock puppets, shook her head. “They’re all her.”

“And he’s just happy to be here,” Clint whispered, bewildered.

Bucky looked over at you—hair a mess, shirt inside out, arms flailing as you narrated the sock puppet battle with full sound effects—and his heart thudded.

Yeah.

How were you going to tell him? Could you tell him? What if he didn't want anything to do with the baby? With you? Could you cope being his teammate and raise his child if he wanted nothing to do with either of you? Would it mean you'd have to resign from the Avengers? Would he?

The questions continued to swirl, producing the beginnings of a massive headache. Your temples had already started to throb.

Needing to get out of your room, you tossed the stick into your trash and strode from your room. You needed to find some air. Clear your mind so you could think properly. So many decisions to make, so little time to make them.

As your luck would have it, the first person you nearly slammed into was the very man you'd hoped to avoid for as long as possible.

His hands came up to steady you even as his features softening upon recognizing you. Because of course they did and had since that night.

"Hey, where's the fire?" Bucky asked.

"Nowhere. Just going for a walk."

"Want some company?"

It was on the tip of your tongue to say no, but his hopeful expression dissuaded you from hurting him. If it'd been anyone but him, then maybe you could've walked away without the guilt. But it was him.

So, you nodded and did your best to meet his smile with one of your own.

That was how you found yourself walking along the streets of Manhattan, making your way towards Central Park. You needed the spot you'd found during one of your earlier explorations of the city. It was always a place of peace, a place of clarity, when your mind was too loud.

Bucky kept pace at your side, making sure you always remained on the inside of the sidewalk. Watchful of those around you both. Never failed to keep you within a hand's reach though he never made complete contact with your skin. He wouldn't, either, until you invited him to.

Only when you two reached the place you needed most did he finally break the silence. "You okay?"

You could feel the hysteria building within you. A laugh escaped of its own volition. Meeting his concerned gaze, you finally shook your head.

"Anything I can do?"

So many things, you couldn't help thinking, but you didn't say any of them aloud. Instead, you opted to say, "Just stay with me. Please?"

He did.

He always did.

It wasn't often you asked, but he never failed to step up when it happened.

Time stood still as you watched the small ripples along the pond's surface. Little bugs dancing over the surface while fish occasionally peeked out, hoping for a meal. You could see the slight breeze as it tousled the grass near the pond's edge.

The words came out of you eventually.

"I'm pregnant."

Bucky inhaled, but he didn't back away. In fact, he crept a little closer, his warmth seeping into you. His hand brushed against yours.

"You keeping it?"

There wasn't any hesitation as you nodded.

"About the baby, Buck," you took a deep breath, bracing for his reaction to the next part you needed to confess, "it's yours."

"I know," he said softly. An even softer grin quirked the corners of his mouth. His eyes crinkled at the edges. "You haven't been with anyone else since our night together."

"How do you know that?"

He glanced at you then. "Because I know you."

That pulled you up short.

As much as you wanted to deny his words, you couldn't.

Because he did.

He knew how you liked your morning drink, your favorite author, and your favorite comfort show. He also knew how you spent your evenings after a tough day with your go-to comfort snack. There wasn't a favorite of yours that he didn't seem to know, having watched and taken note.

"I'm in it, too, as much as you want me to be. I wanna be a father to our kid. Full-time, part-time, whatever you think is best." His eyes didn't meet yours as he spoke, squinting instead at the pond you'd been studying not minutes ago.

The words didn't surprise you.

Bucky never shirked his duties, and you knew he'd be a good father.

But what if you wanted more? What if you wanted him to be part of your life, too? Would he want that as well? Did he want you, or was that night a one-time thing? Sure, you two hadn't slept together again since that night, but he hadn't kept his distance from you. In fact, he seemed to spend whatever free time he had seeking you out, wanting to be close to you.

As if sensing your thoughts, he finally met your gaze, his eyes boring deeply as though he could see into your heart, your soul. "Can I take you out tonight? We can go to your favorite place, eat as much as you want. Maybe talk about us."

"You want there to be an us?"

His expression softened, and a small smile formed. "Yeah, I really do."

"I do, too," you whispered, leaning into him and taking his hand for the first time. "I really do, too."