fia !

The arm around your waist shifted, tightening as if sensing your restlessness even in slumber. His body pressed closer, the heat of him chasing away any chill, and a low groan, muffled against your shoulder, rippled softly through your skin. You held your breath, hoping you hadn’t disturbed him, but when his hand slipped beneath the hem of your worn sleep shirt, fingers warm and thumb drawing slow, absentminded circles over your stomach, you exhaled a quiet, content sigh you couldn’t hold back.

“You okay?” His voice was low and rough, still thick with sleep, his lips brushing the words against your shoulder.

You carefully turned in his hold until you faced him. Even in the darkness, you could make out the lines of his face, the faint furrow in his brow. Jimmy looked tired, concerned, and guilt pricked at you for waking him.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, your voice as drowsy as his. “I just… Can’t sleep. I’m sorry for waking you.”

He hummed softly, “Don’t be sorry,” His fingertips traced the curve of your spine in an unhurried path. “Anything I can do to help?”

You shook your head gently, your hand lifting to smooth his messy hair, taming strands that had fallen in every direction during his sleep. “Mm, I don’t know…” Your hand drifted down, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing along the soft rise of it. “I don’t want to keep you up.”

That made him give you one of those small, sleep-drunk grins, the kind that pulled at one corner of his mouth first, “I don’t mind, baby,” He murmured, shifting even closer. His other arm slipped under your neck from underneath his neck, settling there like a pillow as his hand raised and his fingers threaded through your hair, lifting strands only to let them fall in slow, featherlight sweeps. “I’m all ears.”

You sighed deeply, the sound looping out of you like a record on repeat at this point. You didn’t really know what to say. You were so tired, but your mind was restless, thoughts moving too quickly to catch, too loud to ignore. You worried on your bottom lip, unsure if anything could even help settle it.

At your hesitation, Jimmy’s hand slipped from your back to cup your cheek, warm and steady. “Talking might help,” He said gently, “But I won’t force you.” His thumb brushed across the space beneath your bottom lip, freeing it from your teeth with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

Your eyes dropped to your own hand resting against his cheek, your fingertips idly brushing along the dotted pattern of his freckles. “Do you think Perry will ever let me headline?” You asked quietly. Before he could answer, you continued, your voice low and tired but threaded with frustration. “I’ve been working at the Planet for months now, and I thought I was doing good work, but-”

“You do do good work,” Jimmy cut in, his tone firm but soft, like he was reminding you of something he’d always known. “Great work, actually. I don’t know why Perry hasn’t headlined you already… But you know how he is- He’s very specific about what runs on the front page and who writes it.” His thumb stroked over your cheek once more, reassuring. “I believe you’ll headline.”

You hummed softly, the sound tinged with relief, and a small smile grew at his words. Your eyes followed the path as your fingertips drifted down to trace the curve of his lips, feeling the pull of his smile beneath them.

Jimmy caught your hand gently, his warm breath brushing your skin before he pressed a soft kiss to your fingertips. “You’ll headline,” He murmured, his voice certain in that way that made it impossible not to believe him. “Your writing’s better than mine… Even better than Clark’s.”

A startled laugh bubbled out of you, amused. “Better than Clark’s? Impossible. That man interviews Superman.”

Jimmy’s grin grew a little, his thumb still brushing over the back of your hand in slow, absent circles. “Yeah, but you make people feel connected to what’s going on. You make them feel something. I think that’s even better.”

You tilted your head, a teasing glint in your tired eyes. “Careful, Olsen… You keep talking like that and I’m going to start thinking you’re my biggest fan.”

He smirked, leaning in just enough that his nose nearly brushed yours. “Start thinking? Pretty sure it’s a well-documented fact at this point.”

You let out another soft chuckle, your hand slipping from his cheek to toy with the edge of his shirt collar. “Oh, really?”

Jimmy’s eyes softened, though the smile stayed. “Yep. Just me. Lifelong fan, full-time supporter, and occasional bringer of late-night snacks.”

“You’d be the president of my fan club for sure.”

He let out a low chuckle, leaning in until his forehead rested lightly against yours. “Only member, too. I’m not sharing.”

Your eyes dropped to his face again, tracing the familiar lines you’d memorized a hundred times over. “Do you… Believe in soulmates?” You asked softly.

One eyebrow rose, “Soulmates? That’s a bit random.”

“I know,” You muttered, “I’m just… Curious what you think about them.”

Jimmy’s hand in your hair stilled for a moment before moving again, the motion slow, soothing. His leg slid to tangle with yours, his knee slotting perfectly between your legs. “Well,” He said after a moment, voice thoughtful, “I don’t really know. I think anything’s possible. I mean, there are such things as aliens and alternate dimensions that we know of…”

“So you believe in them?” You asked softly, and he gave a little shrug.

“I think it might be possible, yeah. Why?” His mouth curved into something more teasing, another spark of playfulness cutting through the sleepiness in his voice. “You think we’re soulmates or something?”

You didn’t reply, instead, you let your chest warm at the thought, a slow, tender heat curling under your ribs. “I heard once,” You began softly, your voice barely louder than the fan’s hum, “That freckles are believed to be marks left by a soulmate in past lives… Usually left by kisses.” Your hand found its way back to his face, your fingertips ghosting over the curve of his cheekbone, before tracing down the line of his jaw in a slow, delicate path. “You must have been kissed a lot in your past life.”

Your eyes flickered over his face, taking in every familiar curve and angle; the sweep of his lashes, the slope of his nose, but lingering most on the freckles scattered like clusters of constellations across his skin. They covered almost every inch you could see, hundreds of them, each one a tiny, perfect mark you’d memorized long ago. There was something so undeniably cute about them, something that made your chest ache in the gentlest way. You loved them. You loved him.

Jimmy’s smile brightened at your words. “I think there’s still room for more,” He teased softly, “And if past lives and soulmates are real, I’m counting on you to keep adding to the collection.”

You couldn’t help the light giggle that bubbled up, your chest warming even further. Leaning in, you pressed a trail of gentle kisses along his face, along his forehead, the bridge of his nose, both cheeks. Jimmy sighed contently, his hand slipping from yours to rewrap back around your back. His eyes fluttered shut as you continued peppering kiss after kiss across his skin, until finally you stilled and let your lips linger against his. You could feel the faint curve of his smile against your mouth before you pulled back, the space between you filled with the warmth of his breath.

Jimmy looked at you through half-lidded eyes, giving you a sleepy, almost dopey smile. He then leaned forward to press a lingering kiss right in between your brows, his lips soft against your skin.

“I think,” He slowly pulled away, “I believe in soulmates now.”

You hummed softly, the sound barely above a breath, before you melted into his arms. Your face pressed into the solid warmth of his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thrumming against your cheek. He dipped his head, nuzzling into your hair and breathing you in deeply, his arms wrapping securely around you, holding you as if you might slip away in the night, while your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him just as much as he was to you. In the quiet, wrapped in his warmth, sleep finally found you again.

~~~

“Yeah,” he says, a more genuine smile forming as he watches you. “We met when she came in for orientation last week. She— she’s great.” 

“You think so?” 

Jimmy nods. “I’m surprised you took her on, honestly. She’s a lot nicer than you.” Lois tries to swat his shoulder but he rolls back in his chair with a laugh. “Point proven!” 

“Oh, whatever,” she huffs. She calls your name and your head shoots up, and she gestures for you to come over. You say some kind of apology to Perry, who looks relieved once you walk off. 

“Miss Lane!” you say brightly. “What can I do for you?” 

“I told you to call me Lois,” she says. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “All of you are so nice here. I’m still getting used to it.”

Jimmy frowns. “Were the people at your last job mean?”

“My last internship kind of sucked,” you say. “I mean, I did some great reporting, don’t get me wrong! But everyone there was way more cutthroat than I thought they would be. And,” you tip your head, “I didn’t get paid. So this is already way better.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Lois says. “What was Perry talking to you about?”

“Oh, I was just asking him a lot of questions,” you say with a slight laugh. “This is the biggest paper I’ve ever worked at, so I’m trying to get to know all the editors. My college paper has like… fifteen people total, and it feels like I’m at least half of them some days.”

“What a coincidence,” Lois says, and she pats Jimmy on the shoulder. “My friend Jimmy here was just talking about how he’d love to show you the ropes.” 

“You would?” you ask, your eyes brightening as you break out that perfect smile once again. It’s deadly, he swears—blinding, if nothing else. 

“I would?” he stumbles, and then he blinks. Jimmy’s been wanting to spend time with you since the second you walked through the doors, and Lois is just handing it to him on a silver platter. He can show someone the ropes, can’t he? “I— I would, yeah! Definitely!” 

“Great.” Lois stands up and looks between both of you. “Senator Cia Strong is running for reelection, and she’s having a press conference today in Byrd Park for her stop in Metropolis. I think it would be a good, quick story for you to cover together.” 

“Oh, I heard about that!” you exclaim. “Her opponent’s Bill Macron, and he looks surprisingly strong for a newcomer— do you think she’ll win?” 

Lois smiles. “That’s for the two of you to find out.” 

“When is it?” Jimmy asks. 

She looks down at her watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.” 

“Twenty-sev—?” he blurts out, and he jumps up from his seat. “Lois, that’s a twenty minute subway ride on its own!” 

“You can make it if you hurry,” she says nonchalantly, but he barely hears her as he starts gathering his things at top speed. You’re moving at a similar pace, already booking it back to the intern desk they keep shoved in the corner of the office to get your stuff. 

You make it back ten seconds later—your backpack hangs off one shoulder, your camera is looped around your neck, and you’ve got your press pass and water bottle and jacket and probably five other things in your arms.

“Are you good?” he asks. 

“Yeah!” you nod, “I’ll meet you outside!” And then you’re already jogging out the door. 

Jimmy shoots Lois a dirty look as he grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and starts backpedaling. “You’re the worst!” he calls. 

She smiles. “Have fun!” 

Jimmy runs after you, narrowly avoiding a direct collision with Cat, and Lois walks back over to her desk and sits down. 

“I saw that, Miss Lane,” Clark says. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says airily. 

“Don’t you have work to do?”

“This is work!” she defends. “She’s my intern—I’m helping her get situated.”

“Uh-huh,” he nods. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that Jimmy’s been making eyes at her since her first day, would it?” 

Lois shrugs as she opens her inbox. “I told you, I don’t know what you mean.” 

“It’s sweet,” Clark says. “I didn’t think you of all people would be a matchmaker.” 

She frowns and looks over at him. “What does that mean?” 

This time, he shrugs with a wry smile. “I don’t know.” 

Lois scoffs and clicks on an unread press release. She gets two lines in before she deletes it. PR folks love sending her releases for things that, one, aren’t newsworthy, and two, aren’t on her beat. 

“They’re both good kids,” she finally says. “Cub reporters usually stick together anyway. I’m just giving them a headstart on it.” 

“Of course,” Clark nods. “And if sparks happen to fly, you can’t really be blamed, can you?” 

“You’ve got a one track mind,” she remarks, but she can’t fully bite back her smile, especially as she meets his warm eyes. 

The Daily Planet has a way of bringing people together, after all. 

-

You and Jimmy end up barely making it to the subway, the doors closing mere seconds after you get into the car. You collapse onto the bench beside each other, both very much out of breath from your multi-block sprint. 

“Do all of your stories start off like this?” you gasp out. 

“No.” Jimmy shakes his head, but it takes him another few seconds to respond as he tries to catch his breath. He hasn’t had to run that many blocks in… forever, he thinks. “But the reporters here like to go ‘trial by fire’ for their interns. Especially Lois.” 

“I’ve always admired her work,” you say. “Now I think she might be a little crazy.” 

A laugh tumbles out of him as he leans his head against the back of the seat. “To make it in this field, you’ve gotta be.” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I’ve gathered that.” 

The two of you sit there for another stop in silence, still gathering your thoughts and breath. Jimmy can’t help but pass a few glances at you, glowing from exertion. You shrug your backpack onto the floor and start organizing everything you grabbed off your desk in your haste.

He’s only been in your presence for a collective five minutes, between your orientation last week and your real first day today, but he doesn’t want to leave it. He feels like a meteor stuck in your orbit, especially when you give him that superstar smile. 

“So,” he starts, now that his heart has finally returned to a normal rate, “how’d you get this gig?” 

“Some networking and a lot of luck,” you admit. “My favorite professor went to college with Mis— with Lois. She told me to apply, so I did, and she put in a good word for me. Two interviews and a few on-the-spot articles later, and voila! I’m here.” 

Jimmy nods. “Nothing wrong with a bit of networking. Kinda feels like it’s the only way to get anything done these days.” 

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. “I swear, half my friends are going on dates, and I’m over here with a contact list full of small-town bureaucrats.” 

He laughs some. He kinda feels bad for wondering if that means you’re single. “If it makes you feel better, you’re probably getting left on read about the same amount.” 

You laugh too, and it makes him smile. Something about you draws him in and he can’t even help it. Could Lois tell, or did she just throw him into this without even knowing? 

Who is he kidding? Lois notices everything. This is probably her version of paying him back for handling her dailies last week so she could chase a Superman scoop. 

(He will never admit it to her, but it does kinda make up for it.)

“How long have you worked at the Daily Planet?” you ask, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

“Only about a year and a half,” he says. “I got hired in the mailroom originally, but Perry brought me up to staff after a couple months. I had a ‘Humans of Metropolis’ photoblog that really impressed him.” He laughs. “And the Superman action shots that ended up front page, above the fold."

Your eyes widen. “You’ve met Superman?” 

“Yeah!” Jimmy nods after a moment of hesitation. “Yeah, so many times. We’re basically best buds.” 

“Oh my god.” You grab his arm and lean in and he stares at you with equally-wide eyes. “That— that is so cool! I— I’ve read a bunch of Superman stuff, but I never thought I might get to meet him!” 

He grins. “Reporting in Metropolis isn’t like any other city. I think you’ll realize that pretty quickly.” 

“I can’t imagine getting pictures like that, of a superhero.” You sigh and pick up the camera around your neck.  “I’ve also never been the best photographer. Not very MMJ of me.” 

“That’s what I’m here for,” he assures. “One nice thing about working at such a big paper is that you usually don’t have to go out as a one man band.” 

“God, yes,” you mumble. “I struggled through all of my media production classes. I’m definitely meant to be behind a laptop, not in front of a camera.” 

“I don’t know,” Jimmy says, tilting his head, “I think you’d make a killing on broadcast.” 

You smile at him, more genuine than anything he’s ever received before, and he feels better just at the sight. It doesn’t make sense. He barely knows you—he can’t be thinking like this. He can’t be this obvious. You don’t make it easy.  

“Thanks,” you say. “But I’m happy where I am.” 

You and Jimmy continue to chat until you get to your stop—mostly idle conversation to pass the time, but he does learn a few things. You’re from a small town in Vermont, your preferred beat is politics, and if you could bring three things to a deserted island you’d bring a notebook, a knife, and your reusable water bottle.  

Oh, yeah—he also learns that he’s a complete goner. Jimmy falls deeper into your orbit during a twenty minute subway ride, pulling out every joke he can think of to try and make you laugh and see that smile again. How is he going to work with you every day and still stay a normal, self-respecting person? 

You’re magnetic. It’s no wonder you’re going into journalism, because he thinks you can get anyone to tell you anything if you just ask nicely and give them that smile. 

It’s certainly worked on him.

But Jimmy doesn’t have to think too much about that right now, because the two of you have another five minute sprint to make it to Byrd Park on time. You show your press passes to get to the front, then you separate as Jimmy finds a spot. 

You take out a pen, notepad, and a mini recorder while Jimmy rushes to fix his white balance. He always forgets to reset it. You give him a smile and a little wave from your front row seat. He smiles back and feels dizzy. 

The press conference goes a lot smoother than the rush over did. The senator delivers pretty much exactly what Jimmy expects—improved education, protected healthcare, lowered crime, the same old. Strong isn’t the worst senator, but Jimmy thinks half the state doesn’t know anything about her policies. She’s average, and most politicians seem to be that or worse these days. 

It’s just like any other press conference—with exceptionally good lighting, Jimmy might add—until the explosions start. 

He barely even registers it. One moment he’s on one knee zooming in for a better view of Strong, the next he’s been thrown against a tree so hard he thinks it breaks in half. He hopes, at least, because otherwise that crack came from his ribs. 

It takes Jimmy a second to come back into himself. He’s protected his camera above all else, wrapped in his jacket and his arms, and he snaps a round of quick photos of all the chaos before he struggles to his feet. 

Everything has devolved into hysteria—screaming and running and batting out flames. Jimmy has to find you. You’re a small town girl and now you’re caught up in a bombing in one of the biggest cities in the world. What a great first day. 

He’s trying to search for you, but it’s hard when half the park is enveloped in smoke and flames and he can’t stop hacking up a lung. How is he meant to find you or get any good pictures in this?

“Help!” 

A voice pierces through the disorder and Jimmy knows it’s you. His heart speeds up and he starts shoving his way through the crowd. He yells out your name and you call his in response—you keep Marco Poloing until Jimmy finds you, and his eyes widen. 

You’re face down in the dirt, your leg pinned down by a fallen tree. You spot Jimmy and yell for him again, and he runs up to you.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, dropping to his knees beside you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you say, and you grunt as you push at the tree trunk. “I just can’t— get this— off!

“Just stay calm!” Jimmy says. “It— it’s gonna be okay!” 

Jimmy tries to push the tree off you and quickly realizes he is not anywhere near strong enough.

“Does this happen on everyone’s first day?” you ask. 

“Not everyone’s,” he grunts. “But welcome to your crash course on reporting in Metropolis. Metahumans can throw a superpowered wrench in your plans for the day.” 

“How do you know this is a metahuman?” you ask breathlessly. 

Jimmy thinks about the car he no longer has because of some villain of the week that tried to bash Superman over the head with it. If only he had been able to afford the next level up of metahuman insurance. 

“Because it usually is,” he decides on. “You, uh, kinda get used to it.” 

You huff an incredulous laugh. Jimmy attempts to lift it up even an inch, just enough for you to get your leg out, but no dice. He tries one more time—he has to save you, of course, but come on how cool would it be for him to do this in front of you?—and to his shock, the tree lifts up. 

You crawl out from under it and shift to your back, your chest heaving with effort. The crushed remains of your camera are scattered all around you. Your eyes only widen, but you’re not looking at Jimmy. 

“Superman!” you marvel, your voice a mixture of shock and awe. 

He looks over and sees that Superman is, in fact, beside him holding up the tree.

“Are you okay, miss?” he asks as he sets it back down. Jimmy glances down at his hands, a little disappointed. “Your leg isn’t injured?” 

“You’re Superman,” you repeat. Jimmy thinks you’re starstruck. 

“I am,” he smiles. His gaze goes down to the press pass still hanging around your neck, and his eyes light up. “You’re from the Daily Planet?” 

You nod, once, twice, three times. Definitely starstruck. “I’m one of their summer interns.” 

Superman grins. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you, then. Welcome to Metropolis.” He looks over at Jimmy and nods. “Good to see you again, Jimmy.” 

He nods as well. “Yeah, uh— good to see you too, Supes. Thanks for the assist.” 

Superman flies off to help more people before Jimmy manages to say anything else stupid—Supes?—and you look like you’re about to pass out. 

Jimmy says your name as he moves closer to you, his eyes still wide. He puts his hands on your shoulders to bring you back to the real world. “Are you still with me?” 

“We just met Superman!” you exclaim, grinning at Jimmy. It might just be all the smoke he’s inhaled, but he feels a little lightheaded. “My first day on the job and we met Superman—” 

There’s a sudden buzzing in the air, and you pull your phone out of your pocket. “It’s Lois,” you tell him, and then you answer it. “Lois, hey!” 

Jimmy can hear her frantically saying your name even from here. She’s not exactly quiet. You move the phone away from your ear some and he chuckles. “Are you and Jimmy okay? I saw the news— the bombs—” 

“We’re fine!” you assure, and you motion for Jimmy to come over. “Jimmy too, here—”

“Hey, Lois,” he says, loud enough to be heard through the receiver. “We’re good.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “If I had known this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have—” 

“Are you kidding?” you interrupt. “This was incredible, Lois! We’ve got a way bigger story to uncover— no one just bombs normal senators. There’s gotta be dirt we can uncover. And— oh my god, we met Superman!” 

“...You did?” she asks, and she sounds less than enthused. 

“Yes!” you exclaim. “Oh my god, it was amazing. He saved my life!” 

“Sounds like him,” she says. 

“This is incredible,” you say. “Jimmy and I are gonna get a bunch of man on the street interviews from people that are here— can you call the Strong campaign PR person and see if you can get a statement?” 

“Don’t you think you should go to the hospital?” Lois asks. “You were just in a bombing, you have no idea who could be behind it—” 

“This is my chance to get my first Metropolis-sized scoop!” you insist. “Would you go to the hospital right now?” 

“...I’ll give them a call,” she says. “The two of you, stay safe. Jimmy has Clark’s number, call him if anything happens!” 

“Make sure you ask about her donors!” you insist.  

You hang up and you look over at Jimmy. Your clothes are singed and covered in tree bark and ashes, and you have a bleeding cut on your forehead, but you look happier than any normal person should be right now. 

“Did you get any pictures of all that?” 

“Uh, not of that,” he says. “I was kind of busy trying to save you.” 

“What about the explosion?” 

He nods and starts clicking through his photos. “I took what I could. I think I might have a concussion?” 

“That one!” you exclaim, and he stops. “That is perfect, Jimmy!” 

He got one right as the explosion went off, with Senator Strong speaking on a backdrop of blinding light. He goes to the next photo and it’s nothing but that light. He goes back to the photo that is definitely a front pager and shakes his head. He can’t believe his lens didn’t crack, but he’s very thankful. 

“Geez,” he mutters. “How lucky am I?” 

“Do you still have your laptop?” 

“As long as it’s not broken in my backpack, yeah.” 

“Change of plans, then. You get those photos uploaded to your drive so we’re ready once we get back to the office.” You take your mini recorder out, somehow not crushed like your camera, and smile. “I’m gonna interview anyone that’s stuck around. We’ll meet up in thirty minutes by the fountain, okay?” 

Jimmy nods. He looks down at your leg and sees that you’ve lost a third of your pant leg—not to mention the swelling and killer bruises starting to form. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” 

“I don’t even feel it,” you assure. “Which means we’ve gotta get this done before my adrenaline fades.” 

“You’re a little crazy,” Jimmy says. “I think you’ll fit in perfectly here.” 

You grin and Jimmy smiles. “Fountain in thirty,” you repeat. 

“Aye, aye, captain.” 

You laugh, and then you run off to get your interviews. Jimmy watches you for a good, long second before he goes off to find a still-intact park bench. Police officers and EMTs are already starting to show up—he makes a mental note to get a quote from an officer before the two of you leave. 

He might be a little crazy, too. Because Jimmy is pretty sure he would go through a couple more bombings just to spend more time with you. 

-

You and Jimmy stumble through the doors of the Daily Planet. You limped your way back from the subway station, Jimmy is now sure he has a concussion, and you both look like you’ve been through Hell and back together. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been happier. 

“We need to start making phone calls right now,” you say to Jimmy as he speeds to keep up with you. “Like, search through Strong’s donor list and bother every single one of them.” 

“I’m already on it.” Jimmy’s been scrolling through his phone for half your scramble over here, sending texts to sources and answering ones from friends who saw he was at the bombing. “The news editor at the Metropolis Examiner has been looking into her shifty financial history since her first term—she just shared her master doc with me.” 

“Great!” you exclaim. “We can bust this wide open, Jimmy!” 

You pull up a chair at Jimmy’s desk and take your laptop out of your bag. You’re already typing at the speed of light. “I’ll start a write-up on the press conference so we can get it out as soon as possible. Do you edit your photos yourself or does someone else do it?” 

“I do my own,” he says. “No one else understands my vision.” 

“Then start editing your best shots, ones you think will make us a shoe-in for the front page,” you say, and you almost squeal in excitement. “This has got to get us above the fold, right?” 

“I think so,” Jimmy says. “Perry would definitely give it to us if we got an interview with Superman. That’s why Clark is always on the front page.” 

“Well, it sounds like you two really are best friends,” you tease. “You’re on a nickname basis with him?” 

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “It’s no big deal. We’re cool with each other.” 

“Maybe you can get us that interview with him next time,” you say. “Then I’ll really have something to brag about to my roommates.” 

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. 

You grin. “Great. Now, get on those photos.” 

Jimmy nods. Technically, he’s higher up on the totem pole than you, but technically, he doesn’t think he’d get anywhere trying to pull rank when he’s only a step above you. You’re in the zone—he respects it, and he’s a little scared of it. 

“Once you’re done, you can keep looking into the Strong angle,” you say. “We move fast enough, we’ll have two articles to pitch to Perry before lunch!” 

“Yes ma’am,” Jimmy jokes. Lightroom has finally booted up, so he starts to transfer his favorite shots over. He passes a glance over at you while they’re loading. “You move fast, don’t you?” 

You laugh, high on life, journalism, and the adrenaline that comes with surviving a bombing. “Trial by fire, right?” 

“Are you two okay?” a voice asks, and you turn your head to see it’s Clark Kent with slightly wide eyes. He has a mug of coffee in each hand and he places them down in front of you both. “It’s all over every station; you even ended up in some shots.”

“We were on TV?” Jimmy asks. He might be working at one of the most acclaimed newspapers in the world, but it is still so cool to him every time he makes it onto the news for something other than his photos. 

“More than,” you assure. Your fingers are still flying over the keys, and you laugh again. “What a way to get my first byline here!” 

“I’m glad,” Clark says, and he looks at you. “Lois is off chasing that lead you gave her. I think you might be the perfect intern for her.” 

“I’m glad,” you echo. “If this is what the whole summer’s gonna be like, I cannot wait!” 

“Woah, new girl!” Steve is walking past them but he stops and backpedals, eyes wide as he looks you and Jimmy up and down. You do both kind of look like complete messes—him, at least. Somehow, you still look good. “Rough first day?” 

You and Jimmy share glances at each other and you grin. He thinks he might pass out. 

"how's that new article going?" he asks, and you nearly jump out of your skin. "shit- sorry, i didn't mean to scare you."

"no, no, you didn't." the coffee maker clicks and whirs as it spits out a fresh pot. "it's, um, fine."

"right, yeah." jimmy rocks back on his heels. "clark mentioned that you might need some pictures of the justice gang fight downtown. i have a few that just need editing." he actually overheard you and clark talking about it earlier, but he's not willing to admit to eavesdropping, honestly.

he can't admit that he's that obsessed.

then the coffee maker beeps, and you're racing to pour out two cups. "oh, sure. that'd be great." you're gone before he can get a word in edgewise.

"i'll just email those to you, then!" he calls after you.

despite all the sugar he puts in his own coffee, it still goes bitter on his tongue when he walks back to his desk to see you and clark giggling like schoolgirls. your eyes meet jimmy's for just a moment, and his heart stutters.

clark looks over his shoulder at him and then back to you and prods your shoulder playfully. you swat his hand away and mutter something to him with a roll of your eyes.

moment officially ruined.

god, this whole "crushing on his coworker" thing is getting old fast, and you've only been here for a month.

he spends the rest of his day editing those photos for you, making sure that they look as good as possible. he picks out the clearest ones he has of the fight and the aftermath—he got one with that mr. terrific guy and all his tech that he's particularly proud of.

"man, how do you do it?" jimmy asks, after you head out for the day.

"do what?" clark spins around in his chair and furrows his brow.

"seriously?" and clark has the gall to shrug. "it's like every girl here fawns over you."

"they aren't fawning over me, jimmy." clark gestures to two of the interns who are very much staring at jimmy. he waves awkwardly back, and they giggle.

"yeah, but the new girl is."

"is not."

"is too!"

"i promise you, she is not." clark spins around in his chair to face his desk again with a roll of his eyes.

"then explain all of the giggling and the lingering looks and the coffee!" jimmy gestures exasperatedly at the mug on clark's desk. "she doesn't get me coffee."

"maybe she's just quieter than the interns," clark says with a shrug.

"yeah, quieter with me, not you."

clark looks at him like he's said something ridiculous and sighs. "maybe it's for the best that you're a photographer and not an investigative journalist."

"what's that supposed to mean?" jimmy crosses his arms defensively.

"c'mon, i didn't mean it like that. just-" clark pauses, like he's trying to find the right words. "you're not asking the right questions, is all."

"not the right-" then it dawns on him with all the subtlety of a brick being flung against his skull. "oh."

"yeah, oh." clark laughs then, and shuts his laptop. he makes quick work of packing his things up while jimmy stands by his desk, visibly buffering.

-

okay, so maybe jimmy is awkward the next morning. maybe he fumbles around the coffee maker for a little longer than strictly necessary in the hopes that you'll walk into the break room. maybe he looks at you for a little longer than strictly necessary, waiting for his shot.

clark is very obviously trying to hold back his laughter when he catches jimmy doing it, and lois does the same—betrayal of the century. he seriously told her, too?

you, on the other hand, seem entirely unaware. you wave politely to jimmy, thank him for the pictures, and continue on your day, business as usual.

this might just be worse than believing you were into clark.

because now he's caught off guard, has had the rug pulled from under him, and he figures it's best not to ask you out in front of the entire office.

but he wants to, dammit. he's itching to talk to you, to make you laugh, to take you out for dinner—or lunch, or to the movies. he'll take anything, really.

he finally gets his shot during clark's lunch break, he rolls his chair over to your desk. the office is mostly empty, except for you, jimmy, and a handful of interns—most people are out getting lunch, really. so, it seems like a great time.

he takes great pride in the small smile you shoot him as he approaches.

"hypothetically, if you were going on a date, where would you go?" he prompts with a grin.

your smile is gone in an instant, replaced by a confused furrow of your brow. "what?"

"y'know, hypothetically."

"uh, i guess the park downtown. why?" in his own head, jimmy cheers. he loves that park.

"okay, so, you want to go there this weekend with me?"

"sorry- me?" you point to yourself like you're not sure he's actually talking to the right person, and jimmy, frankly, has never been more confused.

"yeah...?" why wouldn't it be you?

"this isn't some kind of joke, right? like, clark didn't put you up to this or anything?" he watches with a furrowed brow as you look over your shoulder for any sign of clark.

"um, no?" jimmy is lost, totally and utterly lost. why would clark put him up to this?

"this isn't, like, practice for them?" you point to the interns who have been watching the entire interaction with rapt attention.

"no, i'm pretty sure i'm asking you out."

your confusion melts back into a small, embarrassed smile. he grins back at you. "oh, then, yeah, i'd like that."

"great, i'll pick you up on saturday?"

"sounds great, jimmy." you mirror his wide grin.

he drums his hands on his legs and spins his chair back to his own desk. his heart his racing in his chest, and he can't tamp down his own smile—even when perry calls jimmy into his office to interrogate him about deadlines and photo ops.

Bucky had come home very late last night.

The mission he was leading had run longer than the expected forty eight hours in and out , he and the team ended up tangled in red tape and last-minute evac complications. 

By the time he finally got to go home , the world and house was already a steady quiet. The house had been dark-turned off , the soft breathing of sleep echoing faintly from the smaller bedroom down the hall. 

He barely remembered the quick shower he managed and then slowly crawled into bed. The only thing that he remembered was his pillow had never felt so welcoming and the blankets were so warm as he lifted them over the two of you, placing a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder and finally closing his heavy eyes.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The following morning into the late morning hours , Bucky was still asleep out cold , face half-buried in the soft pillow and his brown wavy hair a tousled sprawled out mess across his face. 

The ivory curtains were still drawn tight , muting all brightness from the semi cloudy summer morning.

Downstairs , you moved quietly but swiftly around your kitchen , your daughter rested on her place on your hip , her tiny arms around your neck and curly brown hair still an uncombed nest atop her small head from deep sleep.

"What do we need next , baby girl?" you whispered , wiping your hands on the nearest tea towel.

Maisy squinted at the wooden tray sitting on the granite counter , her little face scrunched up in concentration as her tiny finger tapped her chin.

"Orange juice!,  aaaand berries."

"Good call , chef Barnes."

You placed the very final touches on the tray that contained: cheesy scrambled eggs with a slice of toast shaped like a star (thank you , cookie cutters), a little bowl of strawberries and blueberries with a dollop of whipped cream on them and , the orange juice in Bucky's favorite red mug , with a small folded paper with Maisy's bold , crayon-scrawled handwriting that said "Hap y Fath er Day! !!" complete with a red heart and what looked like a drawing of him , metal arm and all.

With your empty arm , you balanced the tray ; with the other , you carried Maisy right up padding along the stairs.

The door softly creaked open just enough for the two of you to slip quietly inside. The bedroom was still dim , peaceful. 

Bucky snoring softly inside.

You nudged the door with your foot. "Ready , Moo?"

Maisy nodded seriously , then leaned toward her dad on the bed and whispered a squeaky , hushed excitement "Hafpy Fadder's Day, Daddy."

He blinked slow and dazed. Then came a frown. A mumble and a sharp inhale.

He turned and squinted up at you both. 

And then as quickly as it frowned his face softened into that lopsided , boyish grin that he never showed anyone else but your little family.

You and your daughter were wearing matching smiles and sparkling eyes. 

Bucky stared at the pair , still foggy, and tired.

"What... day is it?" he croaked

You sat the tray on his lap gently , beaming. "Father's Day. You forgot, didn't you?"

"I..."

Maisy wriggled free and launched herself into his side , nestling against his ribs. "I made da card! I drawed us! That one's you and me and Mama and the raccoon is my stuffy!"

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, dragging it on his face , laughing under his breath.

 "God, I really did forget."

You sat beside him on th4 edge of the bed , and kissed his temple. 

"We didn’t. So eat up, soldier. You’ve got a full day ahead of you."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The morning bleeding into the afternoon was slow and sweet. After breakfast and a hot waking shower, the three of you changed into your day outfits: Maisy and Bucky in matching dark green rain jackets , tiny pink rubber boots for her and well-worn black combat ones for him. She even had a little patch on her jacket with a red star that matched the one he had.

The rain had started as you left the house , a lazy light drizzle falling from the gray blooming sky. 

Instead of deterring you , it added a certain charm to the walk you took. The three of you headed toward the green neighborhood park , hand in hand.

Maisy skipped between you both humming a song you couldn't make out, occasionally stopping to jump in puddles , splash falling leaves , or pointing out every puppy that passed by squealing with delight. 

Bucky kept pulling out his phone to snap photos of his daughter ,  her plush cheeks puffed out in a laugh as she got water on her button nose , her arms wide pretending to fly when she saw an airplane in the sky and , the way the rain speckled on her mop of chestnut curls. All very blurry but all his.

As she tried to cross the next puddle , she stopped mid skip , pouting.

"Too big," she declared like the water itself caused her harm.

She held her arms up spinning to her dad and  Bucky didn’t hesitate , he scooped her up with ease , cradling her as if she weighed nothing at all.

"There you go ,  baby safe and dry."

"I'm not a baby , you're a baby ," she giggled , echoing his words.

"Uh oh ," you laughed, and he flashed you a grin rolling his eyes playfully.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Back home , you decided to make a simple grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch. The comfort food warming all three of you guys both up after the dreary walk.

 Maisy nodded off halfway through her bowl , her chin dipping into her chest as she fought sleep.

With the house briefly quiet , you cleaned up the post lunch kitchen mess , wiped the muddy footprints off the floor, and smiled to yourself at the sound of Bucky in the living room , wrestling around with blankets.

When you peeked in a few minutes later , the entire living room had transformed into a kingdom of pillows and blankets. 

A flashlight flicked on under the sheets then emitting loud giggles from within.

"...and then the dragon said, 'I’m not scary! I just wanted to make friends and share my cupcakes!'"

"Daddy , that’s silly! Dragons don’t eat cupcakes!"

"This one does. Chocolate is his favorite."

You shook your head , laughing to yourself , and left them to their story.

While you were finishing up the last of the cleaning , you heard a soft huff and a thud.

Curiously you walked back into the living room and found Maisy shoving gently at Bucky’s shoulder with a tiny grunt.

"He felled asleep right on me," she said with a yawn , curling into your arms as you picked her up from the blanket fortress. "In the middle of the dragon story."

You kissed her forehead moving away hair that fell in her face. "He's a silly daddy."

She mumbled something sleepy ,  inaudible ,  tucking her head under your chin. 

You walked to her room , tucked her in and , whispered a quiet “sweet dreams Maisy moo”

You padded barefoot back in the living room where Bucky still hadn’t moved. His large frame half in the blanket fort half out , snoring softly.

You kicked off your fluffy house slippers and crawled carefully next to him.

He shifted slightly in his sleep , arm sliding instinctively around you tight , his lips brushing your hairline.

"Mmm...love you."

AFter all these years together you still blushed at his words and whispered into his chest, "Happy Father’s Day , my love. You’re the best daddy to your daughter."

He cracked a small sleepy smile , eyes still closed.

And together , in your little makeshift shelter , you let the rainy day carry you both off to sleep.

-end

my other dad bucky fics found here!

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

“Hi, doll,” Bucky said, voice low and warm with something close to reverence.

His hair was slightly damp from the spring rain, curling around his ears in a way that always made your fingers twitch to brush it back. His hoodie was soft and old, the sleeves bunched around his forearms—one solid and familiar, the other sleeve empty, folded and pinned neatly at the elbow. He looked tired—not in the physical sense, but in the bone-deep way someone looks after wading through ghosts every day. But he smiled for you. A small, worn smile that still made something in your chest ache with love.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in, and he walked in with the quiet of someone who knew exactly where he was going. The apartment hadn’t changed. Same lamp with the crooked shade. Same couch where you both had fallen asleep watching movies at 2AM. Same coffee table with the scratch he’d accidentally left with the blunt corner of his missing arm that first night you kissed.

He dropped his overnight bag beside the door, exhaled slowly, then turned to you.

“Still like chamomile?” he asked softly.

“Still need it to sleep,” you replied.

And just like that, like every visit before this, he melted into the space like he belonged. Because he did.

—

He never stayed long.

A few days at most—just long enough to fold himself back into the quiet corners of your life, like he’d never left. Just long enough to remind you what peace felt like in the shape of his hands.

Wakanda was still healing him—carefully, gently, methodically. Shuri had done the impossible, reworking HYDRA’s programming strand by strand. But even she said: healing isn’t a machine you can fix. It’s something you relearn, every day.

So he came back to New York when the shadows got too loud. When he needed something no vibranium tech could replicate. You.

He told you once, on one of those nights when he curled into your sheets like a man too big for peace, that he didn’t remember what love felt like before you. Only that with you, it was quiet. Safe.

“You don’t pull me out of the dark,” he said. “You just sit with me in it.”

You had no idea how much that would come to mean.

—

The night he proposed, there was fear in the sky.

You tasted it in the wind, felt it in his kiss—like the world was holding its breath, and he was holding you in case it collapsed.

He held you longer that night. Kissed you slower. Touched you like he was tracing every line of a goodbye letter he hadn’t written yet. You were half-asleep on the couch, your leg draped over his, one of his hands resting gently on your thigh while the city pulsed beyond the window. Everything felt like static—like something just out of reach was about to break.

Then he pulled a small velvet box from the pocket of his hoodie.

“I know this isn’t perfect,” he said. “It’s not candlelight or champagne. But I’ve spent so much of my life losing time—and I won’t risk losing this moment.”

He slid down to one knee, right there in the living room, ring in one hand, his other hand cupping your cheek.

“If I go… and I don’t make it back… I need to know I at least asked.”

“Marry me,” he said. “Let me go into whatever’s coming knowing I finally did something for me. For us.”

Your tears soaked his collar as you nodded yes and whispered, “Come back to me. I’ll be here. For you—always.”

—

You stood on the fire escape with your back to his chest, the city humming below.

It felt like a goodbye disguised as a promise. And you let yourself believe there’d be another hello.

He didn’t say much that morning. Just pressed his lips against your shoulder. Just held your hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

Before he left, he turned to you one last time, eyes impossibly soft.

“After this… if there’s still a world left—let’s get out of here,” he murmured, his voice low, steady. “Seoul, maybe. You always said you wanted to see the Han River.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “You remember that?”

He nodded, smiling softly. “You used to watch those Korean dramas in bed. Said you loved the way it looked—couples walking under cherry blossoms by the river, taking the KTX cross-country like it was something sacred. You said the peace there felt… quiet. Not empty.”

Your heart clenched. “I was learning the language. Thought if I really wanted to understand it all—the place, the people—I’d have to go live it. Not just dream it.”

“Then let’s live it,” he whispered. “I want peace. But more than that… I want you in peace.”

You kissed him once more.

You didn’t know it would be the last.

—

You didn’t see him disappear.

You weren’t even awake when it happened. The sun had barely risen over New York when your phone buzzed—once. Then again. Then relentlessly. The group chat with Sam. News alerts. A voicemail from Nat with no words, just labored breathing and distant shouting.

You sat up slowly, still in his hoodie, the ring box on your nightstand untouched from the night before.

Then came the knock.

Three times. Firm, deliberate.

You already knew.

You opened the door and found Steve standing there. Still in his suit. Mud on his boots. A small tear in the shoulder of his uniform. His shield wasn’t with him. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so hard it ticked like a clock.

“Can I come in?” he asked softly.

You stepped back.

He moved like someone walking through wet cement—slow, deliberate, as though every step hurt. He looked around your apartment like it was sacred ground, his gaze falling on the framed photo of you and Bucky laughing in Central Park. He swallowed hard and finally sat on the edge of the armchair.

And then he said it.

“He’s gone.”

The words hit you like a blunt object. Not a stab—there was no blood. Just the absence of breath. Like your lungs forgot how to work.

“It was fast. Dust,” Steve said. “Just… dust.”

You didn’t respond. You just stared. Not at him. Not at anything.

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Before the battle… he pulled me aside. Gave me this.”

From his pocket, Steve pulled out a small, worn notebook. You recognized it immediately. Bucky’s.

“He told me… if anything happened to him, if he didn’t come back… I was to find you. He wrote your name on the first page. Your number. Said, ‘She’s the only thing that ever made me feel like a man again. Please tell her I didn’t walk away.’”

Your knees buckled.

Steve caught you, arms strong and shaking all at once, pulling you gently to the floor.

“I’m so sorry.”

You weren’t crying. Not yet. You were too numb. The room spun in tight, slow circles.

“I need to see it,” you whispered.

Steve hesitated—then nodded.

He opened the notebook to the first page.

There, scrawled in Bucky’s neat, all-caps handwriting:

IF I DON’T MAKE IT BACK—CALL HER. TELL HER I WAS THINKING OF HER. TELL HER I DIDN’T RUN. TELL HER I LOVE HER.

Beneath it—your name. Your number. A little drawing. A tiny heart.

That’s when the screaming started.

—

You didn’t remember hitting the floor, but you remembered the sound of your scream.

Not human. Not you. Something primal, something that ripped through your throat and shattered into the walls around you. Your voice cracked. Broke. The notebook hit the floor. The ring box fell from the nightstand and landed with a hollow, damning thud.

You barely heard Steve calling your name. Felt his hands on your shoulders, grounding you, holding you like Bucky once did. You clawed at the couch cushions, the carpet, your own skin.

You begged. Pleaded. Not for God. Not for mercy. Just for one more second.

But there was no body.

No goodbye.

No grave.

Just dust on the wind and the weight of a love that had no ending.

You didn’t dream for weeks after that.

You couldn’t.

Because in every dream, he came back.

And in every one, he left again.

—

The first three days, you didn’t move from the couch.

The world around you buzzed in static—television left on, reports playing on loop. People screaming in airports. Planes crashing. Children disappearing from classrooms mid-laugh. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You watched the news like a zombie. Not for information—you already knew the only part that mattered. But some stubborn part of you hoped someone, somewhere, would say his name. Would tell you they made a mistake. That he wasn’t among the dead.

But the screen stayed silent. And you did too.

—

By the fourth day, the calls started.

Steve again. Sam. Natasha. Even Bruce. You didn’t answer any of them. Not because you were angry—because the thought of speaking felt unbearable. Like it would make it real.

You didn’t want reality.

You wanted Bucky’s half-finished mug on the counter. You wanted the hoodie he left draped on the kitchen chair to still smell like him. You wanted his voice—gruff and low and quiet when he called you doll—to echo in the hallway again.

You slept on the floor.

It was cold there, under the window, but you didn’t care. The bed still had the dent where he last lay. The sheets still smelled like the skin between his neck and collarbone. You couldn’t touch it. You couldn’t bear to lie there and know you’d wake up alone.

You left the lights off. You didn’t eat. You stopped checking the time.

—

Your body broke before your mind did.

On Day Six, you collapsed in the hallway—halfway between the kitchen and the bathroom. Hunger, dehydration, grief. You woke up with the side of your face pressed to the tile and vomit dried in your hair.

You didn’t bother showering.

—

The ring box sat on the coffee table like a tombstone.

You couldn’t look at it.

Sometimes you swore it moved. That the air around it bent a little—like the force of your grief made it magnetic. But maybe that was just the fever setting in.

By Day Ten, the plants in the apartment had all died. You hadn’t watered them. Hadn’t opened the windows. You couldn’t stand the idea of fresh air. What was the point of anything growing if he wasn’t around to see it?

—

The fridge smelled like something rotting. You ignored it.

Instead, you sat on the kitchen floor in the same clothes from the week before. A loose shirt that smelled like Bucky and a pair of sweats with a hole in the knee. You held his dog tags in your fist so tightly, they left deep red grooves in your palm.

You thought about drinking.

The bottle of whiskey in the cabinet had dust on it—he’d been the one to stop you from spiraling back in those first months together. Always said he didn’t want to erase pain anymore. Just learn how to hold it.

You opened the cap. Brought it to your lips.

And stopped.

Not because you had willpower.

Because you knew it wouldn’t work.

There was no numbness strong enough to kill what was eating you.

—

The world outside moved on.

People rioted. Protested. Some fell into religion. Some into madness.

You fell into silence.

Your voice, when you finally spoke again, was raw. Dry. You tested it in the mirror one night like it was a broken instrument.

“Bucky.”

It cracked in half.

—

You didn’t leave the apartment for three weeks.

When you finally did—just to get milk, just to do something normal—you ended up on your knees in the middle of the sidewalk three blocks away. Some man passed you and smiled the way Bucky used to. And that was all it took.

You screamed. Sobbed. Clutched the concrete like it would split open and deliver him back to you.

A woman called 911. You told the paramedic you didn’t need a hospital.

You just needed him.

—

You stopped wearing your engagement ring. But you didn’t take it off either.

Instead, you threaded it through your necklace and wore it under your shirt. It dug into your chest when you lay down. Bruised your skin. But you kept it there.

Because pain, at least, reminded you that you hadn’t died with him.

Not completely.

—

You weren’t even sure how you got there.

One moment, you were standing in your kitchen, clutching a mug you hadn’t touched in days. The next, you were staring at a blank clipboard in a community center basement that smelled like old coffee and damp carpet.

Someone must have signed you up.

Sam, maybe. Steve.

You didn’t ask.

You just sat in a plastic chair at the far end of the circle, your hoodie drawn up, sleeves long enough to hide your shaking hands. The metal folding chair felt cold through your clothes. You hadn’t spoken to anyone in almost a week.

The room was too bright. Too quiet. You hated it.

—

A woman with kind eyes and a voice like a lullaby welcomed the group. She said her name was Jess. She offered tissues before anyone even spoke. As if she already knew.

Around you, strangers began to talk.

A man with graying temples spoke first. He lost his husband. Just vanished while brushing his teeth.

A mother next. Her little boy turned to ash in a park sandbox.

A teenager. His twin sister. Gone mid-laugh.

You couldn’t listen.

Because everything sounded like static.

Because all you could hear—all your brain let you hear—was him.

—

“You chew your pen when you’re anxious.”

Your lips curled slightly. Not in a smile—just recognition. You looked down.

You were chewing your pen. The same way Bucky used to tease you about.

Your hands trembled. You slid the pen across the floor, out of reach.

“Let me do the dishes. You cooked.”

You closed your eyes. Your throat ached.

You could still hear him humming while he cleaned. That stupid 1940s jazz that you pretended to hate.

You remembered standing in the kitchen doorway watching him wash the plates—one-armed, stubborn, slow—until you came up behind him, wrapped your arms around his waist and kissed the center of his back.

He always laughed when you did that. Said it tickled.

“I like this one on you,” he murmured once, thumbing the hem of your sweater.

It was the sweater you were wearing now.

You curled your fists into it. Pulled the sleeves over your palms like armor.

—

You hadn’t realized tears were spilling down your cheeks until someone passed you a tissue.

You didn’t look at them. You just nodded, quietly, and held the tissue in your lap like it was glass.

—

You still hadn’t spoken.

And you wouldn’t. Not that day.

But someone sat beside you.

Not close enough to crowd you. Not far enough to feel like pity.

A man. Taller than most in the room. Wide shoulders. He said nothing. He didn’t stare. He didn’t fidget.

He just… sat.

His presence felt like a dim light in a locked room. Not enough to see by. But enough to remind you the dark wouldn’t last forever.

You caught his name once—said soft during introductions, almost like he hated saying it aloud.

You didn’t remember the name.

But you remembered his eyes.

They didn’t flinch when he saw your pain.

And for the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel invisible.

—

You didn’t plan to come back.

After that first session, you walked out into the gray drizzle of early fall and told yourself, That was it. Enough pretending. Enough people watching me fall apart.

But the next Thursday, you were there again.

Same plastic chair. Same empty hands. Same hollow ache under your ribs.

And so was he.

He never spoke first. Never leaned in. He was just… there.

Somehow, that was enough.

His name, you learned slowly, was Dean. He used to be a museum archivist. Lost his wife in the Snap—said it casually, like someone talking about bad weather. But you noticed the way his voice dipped when he said her name. Like he was still trying to hold onto it without cracking.

He never asked about Bucky. Not even once.

But when the others spoke of their losses, he never looked away from you. Like he knew yours ran deeper than words could reach.

—

Week three, he brought two mugs of chamomile tea into the session.

One slid toward you on the table without a word.

You stared at it for almost five minutes before lifting it with trembling hands.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

Your first words in the group.

His only reply was a soft nod, like your voice was a fragile thing he didn’t want to scare away.

—

Your flashbacks to Bucky changed, slowly.

They used to come all at once—bright, vivid, crushing. The way his stubble felt against your neck. The way he’d lean his head against your shoulder without speaking, just breathing you in. The little notes he used to leave on post-its: Got groceries. Love you. Don’t forget your umbrella.

Now, the memories drifted in more quietly.

Softer.

You still heard his voice sometimes. Still caught the scent of his cologne on strangers in passing. Still reached for your phone on bad nights, forgetting—for just a second—that he couldn’t answer anymore.

But it hurt less.

And the guilt of that hurt in a whole new way.

—

One Thursday, weeks later, the group had to shift to a smaller room.

You ended up sitting closer to Dean than usual. Shoulder to shoulder.

You could feel the warmth of his arm through your sleeve. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

That night, walking home, your brain played a memory of Bucky helping you carry groceries—laughing as a bag ripped and apples rolled down the sidewalk.

You smiled, faintly.

Then you realized you hadn’t cried that day.

And you sat on the edge of your bathtub later that night, shaking.

Not because you missed Bucky.

But because you were starting to feel okay again—and that felt like betrayal.

—

A month passed. Then two.

Dean started walking you to the Metro. You didn’t ask him to.

One day, it rained.

You stopped under a shared umbrella, both of you damp and breathless from laughing—the first real laugh you’d had in months.

You looked up and caught Dean watching you, his expression unreadable.

Not romantic.

Not pitying.

Just… present.

Present in a way you hadn’t let yourself be for a very long time.

—

One night, after a particularly raw session, he spoke first.

“You know… when she vanished, I didn’t want to survive it.”

You turned to him, startled by the honesty.

He shrugged. “But then I realized… she’d kill me if I didn’t try.”

Your throat clenched. You looked at your lap.

“He used to say the same thing,” you whispered. “About me.”

Dean didn’t press.

Just walked a little closer that night.

—

By the time winter came, you could walk through your apartment without flinching.

You still had Bucky’s things.

You still wore his ring on a necklace.

But you didn’t collapse every time you looked at the spot where he used to sit.

Sometimes, you even caught yourself humming in the kitchen again.

You found yourself craving chamomile tea.

Not because it reminded you of him—but because it reminded you of you.

—

It wasn’t dramatic. There were no rose petals, no hidden photographers, no gasping onlookers.

It was quiet. Barely even romantic.

It happened on a Sunday.

You were walking back from the flower stall near the corner café—the one that had slowly become “yours.” Dean had picked up your favorite blend from the tiny tea shop on 12th. You had daisies in one hand, his in the other, and the sky had that late-spring haze that made everything feel softer than it really was.

It wasn’t a special day.

But it was a peaceful one.

And that was rare enough to feel sacred.

—

He stopped walking.

You turned when you noticed the gentle tug on your fingers.

Dean’s expression was unreadable—not nervous, not trembling. Just… full. Full of something warm and earnest.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Can I ask you something?”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“Not because I expect anything. Not because I need an answer right now. But just because I’ve been thinking about it.”

Your heart started to flutter. You knew. You knew what this was.

He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out a box—small, worn, simple.

But you didn’t open it.

You stepped back.

Just an inch.

The shift in your eyes told him everything.

“Dean,” you said, voice tight, “there are still memories of him. Bucky. They’re everywhere. In my apartment. In my closet. In my head.”

You looked down, fidgeting with the necklace around your neck. The one with the first ring. His ring.

“Some days I still hear his voice. Some mornings I wake up reaching for him before I remember he’s not there.”

Your throat caught. You didn’t even notice the tears starting to gather.

“I don’t know if I can give you… a clean slate.”

Dean didn’t flinch.

He nodded, slowly, with something like relief in his eyes.

“I know,” he said. “I never expected you to.”

He stepped closer, took your hands again, and gently turned them over in his.

“You’re not letting him go. Just like I haven’t let her go, either.”

You looked up sharply.

Dean gave a soft smile. Not sad. Just real.

“She’s still here sometimes. When I make coffee in the French press. When I take the long way home past the bookstore she loved.”

“Grief doesn’t end,” he said. “It just… softens. Changes shape. We don’t bury them. We carry them. That’s what love does.”

You stood in silence for a long moment.

You thought about Bucky. The first time he’d told you he loved you. The way his laugh shook his shoulders. The promise of Seoul.

You thought about Dean, sitting beside you in silence every Thursday. Making space for your pain. Never trying to fix you. Just being there.

“You’re not a replacement,” you whispered.

“And you’re not broken,” he replied.

Then he held the box up.

“No pressure. No timeline. Just… maybe this could be our next chapter. One that we write slowly. With room for everything that came before.”

You opened the box.

Inside—a ring of pale gold, delicate, nothing flashy.

But there was a tiny engraving inside.

“Still here.”

Your lip trembled.

You nodded.

He didn’t slip the ring on your finger yet. He let you take it.

You slid it on, next to the weight of the one around your neck.

Two loves. Two lives.

And somehow, still, yours.

—

It happened in a blink.

One second, Bucky was in Wakanda—the dirt thick under his boots, the scent of fire and blood hanging in the air. He’d just raised his rifle. Just started to call out to Steve.

And then—the wind shifted.

The trees looked different. Taller. Lusher. Greener. The sky above was brighter, fuller. The battlefield was… gone.

There were birds singing.

Not screams. Not gunfire.

Just birdsong.

He spun around.

The spear Okoye had thrown was rusting in the grass. The ship that hovered above had long since vanished. There was no dust on his fingers. No ash on his coat. He checked his arm—the new vibranium still intact, just like it had been before he vanished.

But the world had changed.

He felt it.

Like walking into a memory too old to trust.

“Steve?” he called, breath shaky. “Sam?”

No one answered.

He didn’t waste time.

He got back to New York the fastest way he could—everything was a blur of panic and fire beneath his ribs. There was no time to understand. Not yet.

He had to find you.

He had to come home.

—

The sun had already begun to set when he reached your building.

That familiar stoop. The cracked step on the left. The faded welcome mat with the crooked “O.” It was all the same.

He climbed the stairs two at a time. His boots felt too loud. His heartbeat louder.

Then he stood at your door.

His hand trembled.

He knocked—twice. Just like always.

—

Inside, you were plating the steak.

The pan still sizzled on the stove. Garlic, rosemary, butter—the smell rich and comforting, spreading through the apartment like a warm blanket. Dean was rinsing the salad in the kitchen sink, humming softly under his breath.

It had been a good day.

You wore his hoodie. Your hair was up in that casual way Bucky used to love—but now Dean did, too. It was domestic. It was safe. It was… yours.

The knock made your head lift.

Two knocks.

You froze.

It couldn’t be. That rhythm—it was etched into your bones.

You stepped toward the door.

Dean looked over, still smiling. “Expecting someone?”

“No,” you said softly. “I… I don’t know.”

You opened the door.

—

And there he stood.

Bucky Barnes.

Same shoulders. Same eyes. Same hair—curling at the ends, messy from the wind.

He was breathing like he’d run the whole way.

Your mouth parted but no words came out. The hallway felt too narrow. Too real.

“Doll,” he whispered, voice rough and broken. “It’s you. It’s really—”

Then he stopped.

Because Dean appeared behind you.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, kissed your shoulder casually, unaware of the hurricane that stood outside.

“Hey, babe—who’s—?”

His voice trailed off as he looked up.

Saw the man in the doorway.

Saw your face.

“Bucky,” you said.

A whisper. A gasp. A prayer.

—

The world tilted.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to Dean’s hands around your waist. To the ring on your finger. To your body, five years older.

He stumbled back a step.

You reached out instinctively—and stopped yourself.

He looked like he’d been gutted.

“You’re… older,” he said quietly. “How long—?”

“Five years,” you said, voice trembling. “It’s been five years.”

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“It was five seconds for me.”

His voice cracked down the middle.

Dean slowly, gently let go of your waist. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The pain on Bucky’s face said everything.

“I came back for you,” Bucky said. “I came home.”

Then he shook his head.

“But someone already did.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your hands were shaking.

Bucky took another step back.

“I thought… I thought I’d walk in, and you’d be waiting.”

A faint, broken laugh escaped his throat. It wasn’t humor. It was disbelief. It was the kind of laugh you make when the world plays its cruelest card.

“I was just a few seconds too late,” he whispered.

And then he turned.

Bucky looks at you, then looks at your neck, then looks back at you. He at least has the decency to pretend to look guilty as he says, “That’s kind of the point, doll.”

Your eyes blow wide. “What?” You demand.

Bucky just winces at you. Appalled, you wiggle out of his grip and step around him, storming your way to the bathroom. You peer in the mirror to find Bucky’s left a deep purplish-red mark at the base of your neck, not large enough to be disgraceful, but noticeable enough that anyone standing near enough will definitely see it.

You’re staring at it in horror when Bucky comes up behind you. You glare at his reflection.

“Bucky,” you bemoan. “I’ve got no time to cover it up. What’s the matter with you?”

Bucky wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your shoulder in what you think is an apology, his stubble scratching your skin.

“M’sorry, doll,” he says. “You just look so beautiful. And I thought, I get to tell everyone that you’re mine. You. So why not show them as well?”

You’re half mad at him, and half sort of flattered. You twist in his hold with a huff.

“Terrible logic,” you mutter, annoyed and in love at once.

Bucky chuckles softly. You both know you’re not as mad as you’re letting on. Still, his hand roves up the length of your back soothingly.

“Sorry,” he says. “If you want, I’ll stand close to you all night so no one sees it?”

He didn’t glance your way, or even bother to give it a second thought before he replied.

"No."

You opened your mouth offended, and straightened up in your seat.

"John! You didn't even think about it" You whined, a soft laugh followed.

"Please tell me I didn’t hear you right, did you say a worm?" He asked, not even trying to hide the most bewildered expression you'd ever seen on him.

"You heard me, John" You squint your eyes at him, and insist, “would you still love me if I turned into a little worm?"

He sighed this time, taking his hand off the dashboard to rub his face like he just lost multiple brain cells.

"Honey, why would you ever be a worm?" He said, softer now, like he needed to understand the root cause before proceeding.

You roll your eyes, here we go again. Of course he needed it to make sense, his brain didn’t function right if there wasn’t a logical reason behind everything.

"I really don't now, babe. Some sort of mutation?… maybe witchcraft? … a gone wrong experiment Val does on me?”

“I would never let Val experiment on you” He denied, shrugging like why would you ever consider that as a possibility.

You pause for a second and tilt your head to the side, feeling a sudden warmth in your chest from his comment.

No, no, focus. You can kiss him breathless later, after he answers the worm question.

“Alright Walker that’s fair, love that, nice move” You nodded, squinting playfully at him.

He just smirked and shrugged, smug bastard.

“Not the point, though. Do you really think it would be so crazy that I could be a worm when we have at least two superheroes named after bugs?”

He looked back to the sky, considering it for a second, but quickly turned to you again with his eyebrows raised.

“Well, actually, spiderman is technically an arachnid so ... not a bug honey" He corrected, not even trying to hide his maddening little mansplaining smirk.

"Oh shut up, John" You rolled your eyes, slapping his arm, he chuckled. "Uh huh, whatever smartass, you still have to answer. What if I was a worm, then?"

He groaned, placing his thumb and index fingers in the dent of his closed eyes, shaking his head in defeat.

He could at least try to make some sense of it.

“Okay, we’re doing this” He muttered, and you nodded enthusiastically. “Is it still you, but worm shaped? As in … do you still have consciousness? Can you communicate with me? Would you have powers, or is it just …”

He just went rambling on.

You leaned back in your seat, chuckling as you watched the gears turning behind those handsome, stressed out eyes. He was running through scenarios, possibilities, variables.

At least he looked cute while losing his mind over it.

But then, he stopped rambling, like an idea just popped in his head.

"Wait … what kind of worm?" He tilts his head to the side.

I’ll be dammed, you thought, this man didn’t know how to go halfway about anything in his life, ever.

He was fully invested by now.

"What? what do you mean?”

Now it was your turn to furrow your brows.

"What kind of worm, honey? an earthworm? marine? are you symbiotic? regenerative?… This is crucial information to know" He said, listing types like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

How did he even care this much about worm lore?

“You are the most intense person I know” You groaned, staring at him in disbelief.

“And you are the most unserious one I know, honey, don’t get me started”

You just huffed. How did your stupid question get this far?

"God I don't know John, just like a basic worm… in the dirt"

He thinks for moment, like he wasn’t exactly pleased with the answer.

"So then, biologically, you’d lose everything. You would have no brain, no higher reasoning or communication. Technically, you wouldn't even know I exist anymore"

You glared at him.

"But you would know it’s me" You quickly justified, but it didn’t seem to convince him much. "Oh my god John ... just answer the question babe. Would you still love me?"

He tapped his chin a few times, eyes darting around the jet’s cabin, still trying to find a somewhat logical answer in his head. Making you wait for it.

You knew that little asshole was just having fun mocking you.

"Uhm, I guess I could keep you safe … yeah” He nodded. “Build you a little enclosure with some nice quality dirt. It would have to be temperature controlled, for sure. Maybe even ask Val to build you a reinforced travel case? something I can clip to my gear.”

You blinked a few times, before nodding. A win is a win.

"...Thanks?"

But he was quick to shake his head.

"Although honestly, sounds like a lot of emotional labor. Don’t you think our relationship is complicated enough already?" He protested, like it'd be too much fuss.

"Hey!" You laughed, smacking his shoulder.

You both fall into a chuckle. He shakes his head again, but there's a grin in his face now.

From the back of the jet, you heard the unmistakable sound of suppressed laughter.

"Even if she was a brainless worm, she’d still be more emotionally mature than Walker" Bucky whispered to the group.

Muffled laughter followed, like a group of schoolgirls gossiping.

"They are the weirdest, I swear to god" Ava muttered, watching the way you giggled at something John said like he was the most charming idiot on earth.

"Ah captain romance … don’t you see it? he’s worm nerd and she’s worm he takes care of" Alexei chimed in.

“Shh!” Yelena hushed him, snorting. “Honestly, it tracks guys. He gives off strong ‘I talk to my houseplants’ vibes”

“Yeah, watch him hang a ‘Worm Boyfriend of the Year’ plaque next to his service medals” Bucky sneered.

More giggles. At this point they weren’t even trying to be quiet.

John turned halfway in his seat. “You guys know I can hear you, right?”

“That’s the point” Ava said, flipping him off.

“Oh no” Yelena deadpanned. “What are you gonna do, worm boy?”

“Shh! He’s gonna clip us to his belt too.”

That set them off again.

John just rolled his eyes, turning back to the controls. But you noticed the faint hint of a smile on his face.

And then almost under his breath, only for you to hear.

“I’d still love you” He muttered.

You looked over at him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Eyes on the sky.”

You smirked.

The first thing you noticed about Wakanda as you landed wasn’t the silence—it was the stillness. A kind of sacred , unshaken calm that settled into your skin and made the tension you’d been carrying unwind from your shoulders like a soft breath.

It wasn’t the absence of sound. It was the presence of its peace.

You could hear birdsong echoing from the trees , layered with distant voices and the rhythmic rustle of wind through wild green.

 It felt ancient. Alive. And safe.

As the Quinjet touched down, you stood at the open ramp, taking a long breath before stepping into a new kind of quiet.

“Try not to be too impressed,” Shuri teased as she met you with a grin, her braids tied back and a pair of vibrant purple lenses clipped to her shirt. “We like to keep our visitors humble.”

You laughed, shifting your duffel bag higher on your shoulder. “Too late. I’m already in love with this place.”

“Good,” she said, gesturing for you to follow. “Then you won’t be in a rush to leave.”

You smiled following her , looking around in awe.

When Shuri had called you a few weeks back and asked if you would consider coming and filling in for her assistant that had to go on maternity leave, you didn't hesitate. 

You jumped at the offer and left everything in Seattle to come here.

Shuri and you met when a weapons trafficker led her and her brother to your lab you were working at , at the time.  

Where they were keeping stolen vibranium. 

After the interesting meeting and you being their key to getting justice for the man who stole their precious material. 

You and Shuri became good colleagues and later great friends.

After the incident you moved your work and studies to a college campus where you were at now. It was okay.

 But the overly touchy creepy professors made it not great. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The stone path wound through the edge of the science and research village, fragrant with moss and blossoms, until it led to a cluster of small, curved huts made of smooth stone and honey-golden wood. 

The sun hit the walls like a soft kiss, casting the area in a warm, golden glow.

Your new quarters were at the end, shaded beneath tall trees lining the land.

And directly across the path , set back just a little deeper into the green , across from a gorgeous pond , was his.

James Buchanan Barnes.

He stood barefoot in the grass, a small brown goat tugging at the cuff of his pants.

Around him, three kids from the village sat in a circle, giggling as they added beads  , flowers and tiny braids into his shoulder-length hair.

He didn’t move. 

Didn’t stop them. In fact , he smiled—soft and small, but unmistakably real.

When you met his gaze. 

You forgot how to breathe. 

You have heard of him for sure but , someone should have mentioned how beautiful he was.

“That’s Sergeant Barnes,” Shuri said casually. “Or Bucky, if he lets you call him that.”

Your eyes flicked to hers. “You didn’t tell me I’d be living next door to the Winter Soldier.”

“I told you the arm you’d be helping me with belonged to someone complicated , did I not?” she said, smirking. “I figured you’d put it together eventually.”

You turned back toward him, watching as he gently nudged the goat away with the toe of his boot. “He looks…”

“Better than he did six months ago,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But the healing is slow. You know how it is.”

You nod. 

“Alright alright let's go, I need to show you around.” Shuri said, clapping her hands.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

In the beginning, he hardly spoke.

You worked with Shuri in the lab beneath the hill, calibrating and refining the vibranium tech that made up Bucky’s new arm. 

It was a marvel lightweight, powerful, reactive—and needed delicate adjustments each week to sync with his nervous system.

He came in every Thursday. 

Usually in the late morning. Always quiet and simply did what was asked of him.

“Afternoon,” he’d murmur, eyes low, arm extended for you to examine.

He sat in silence while you worked, letting you rotate the shoulder mount, test reflexes, and calibrate the pressure. 

You never pushed him with conversation. 

Just offered soft reassurances when needed.

“This might feel a little cold,” you’d say, holding a scanner over his bicep.

Or: “I’m going to adjust the anchor at your clavicle. Let me know if there’s any pain or tingling.”

He would nod once. And quietly say , “Okay.”

And sometimes—just sometimes , you caught his eyes flick to your face, lingering for a beat too long as you worked.

You never did mind seeing him watch you. 

Watch the tip of your tongue poke out when concentrated or how your nose crinkles when you are unhappy with something.

If you did catch his eyes watching , you just would smile sweetly and he would look down quickly a light pink tint to his cheeks.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

One evening , after he’d left and you were cleaning up your supplies, Shuri spoke up. 

“He likes you,” she said, typing away at her tablet.

You blinked. “What? No, he doesn’t.”

“He lets you adjust the joint mount,” she replied, barely glancing up. 

“It took us a while to get there , he trusts you.”

You paused, thinking back to earlier that day—how he’d exhaled slowly when your fingers brushed just under the metal near his sternum. 

How his eyes closed, like he was letting himself be still.

Maybe she did see something but liking you was a little far fetched.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The first real conversation you had was after a storm.

The air still smelled like rain, thick and earthy. 

You were sitting on the step outside your hut, a warm bowl of rice and chicken in your lap, watching the sun try to burn through the mist as you scanned results from his recent nerve endings test.

You heard the sway of the cloth door open from his hut.

He stepped out, toweling his hair dry, the loose bun at his neck slightly askew. 

His feet were bare. His pants rolled at the ankles.

He paused when he saw you.

Then, slowly, he crossed the path.

“Is it any good?” he asked, nodding toward your bowl looking down as he spoke.

You smiled. “It's alright , want to try?”

He hesitated—just for a second , before lowering himself beside you. 

His vibranium arm rested between you, warm and shining brightly from the suns rays.

You handed him your spoon.

He took a bite. Chewed thoughtfully. “Better than when I make it.”

You tilted your head. “You cook?”

He shrugged. “Trying to. Taking care of the goats is easy. But cooking I’m still figuring out , things like seasoning and knowing which ones to use is the part I have a hard time with..”

You grinned. “I can help you if you want.”

He looked up in your eyes and smiled , “I would like that”

From then on, your relationship with the quiet soldier changed.

He brought you mangoes in the mornings—slightly bruised, clearly hand-picked. 

You left an old paperback book by his door at night. 

Sometimes, you caught him flipping through them in the garden, mouthing the words like they were new and precious.

He sat with you during breaks in the lab, asking shy, curious questions. 

You let him test your tea blend, adding sugar until he found his preferred ratio.

Once, you caught him letting a goat rest its chin on his knee while he carved small figures from spare wood. You never asked who or what they were for.

But then after coming home from work one appeared on your windowsill.

A little robin, wings spread mid-flight.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The next day midafternoon you finished your paperwork early and decided to go see your favorite neighbor. 

“Need a hand?” you called gently.

Bucky glanced up, squinting against the light.

 A smear of dirt marked his cheekbone, and a bead of sweat slid down his temple. But there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth , slight but nonetheless there.

“I’ve got it,” he replied, though the half-shrug he gave suggested otherwise. 

“But I wouldn’t say no to the company.”

You made your way over, crouching beside him in the warm grass as one of the goats you learned was named T’chiki, the little caramel-colored one—nuzzled your side.

“She likes you,” Bucky murmured, tightening the rope against the post with his metal hand. 

“Can’t say the same for me. She tried to headbutt me twice this morning because I wouldnt drop everything I was doing and scratch her ears.”

He said with a huff of a laugh , watching the two of you interact.

“Maybe she’s just trying to assert dominance.” You scratched behind her ears. “She doesn’t know she’s dealing with a supersoldier.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think that title means much out here.” He grunted softly as he stood, brushing off his hands. “They run the place.”

You stood with him, then frowned, noticing the way he winced as he straightened. 

His right shoulder , flesh , not metal—was slightly stiff. 

His top was damp with sweat along the collar and back, clinging to him more than usual.

“Bucky,” you said softly, tilting your head to catch his eyes. “When’s the last time you took a break?”

He looked at you, then at the goats, then away again.

“I’m fine.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Just step forward slowly, placing the back of your hand gently against his forehead. 

He didn’t flinch—just blinked watching you.

“You're burning up,” you said straight.

“I’ve been out here an hour at most.”

“You’ve been out here since before lunch. Shuri mentioned you skipped your last check-in.”

His jaw ticked. “Didn’t think it was urgent.”

“It’s not,” you said softly, “but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

He hesitated, then sighed, letting the fight and strain drain out of his shoulders.

You stepped behind him, your fingers brushing the edge of his shirt where it met his neck. “May I?”

At his nod, you tugged the damp fabric gently aside, inspecting the seam where flesh met vibranium. The skin there also slightly reddened, and irritated.

“You’ve been overusing it,” you murmured.

 “There’s tension here, inflammation. It’s pulling at the connection point.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. 

He just watched the goats scatter across the field, a soft bleating chorus of their “Baaas” ringing out.

“I just needed to feel useful,” he said finally, voice low. “Some days it’s the only thing that shuts it all up in my head.”

Your hands slowed. 

Gentle now, tracing the curve of his shoulder with clinical care , but something more tender beneath it.

“You are useful,” you whispered. 

“But not just because you’re working or fixing fences or hauling buckets.            You matter even when you’re resting. Even when you’re not doing anything.”

He turned his head slightly, just enough to see you from the corner of his eye. “That’s hard to believe.”

“I know.” You moved around to face him, pulling a small diagnostic scanner from your satchel. 

“Which is why I’ll keep reminding you. Sit?”

He obeyed this time, lowering himself onto a smooth stone near the fence as you knelt before him, scanning along the edge of his shoulder, watching the readings on the display flicker. 

Your other hand steadied him, fingers splayed gently against his ribs. He was solid and warm beneath your touch , human and whole and hurting, all at once.

“You’re running a low-grade fever,” you said quietly. “Probably from the strain and overwork. You need water, rest, and a cool cloth. Maybe a dose of anti-inflammatories.”

“I can do that.”

“You will do that,” you corrected, smirking.

He huffed a soft laugh.

You met his eyes again, quieter this time. “Next time… just tell me, okay? When it gets to be too much.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The moment stretched, easy and warm, like the late sun settling over the treetops. Then, after a beat:

“You gonna promise not to tell Shuri if I promise to listen?”

You grinned. “That depends. Are you going to let me put an ice pack on your shoulder without grumbling about it?”

He gave you a look, lips quirking. “I’ll think about it.”

You leaned in, brushing your fingers against his jaw.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’ll do both anyway.” you said both giving a small laugh.

Behind you, the goats let out a series of dramatic bleats—as if personally offended by the lack of attention.

Bucky chuckled, resting his metal arm on his knee. “They’re jealous of the attention you're giving me , doll.”

You rose to your feet and held out your hand. “Come on, Sergeant. Doctor’s orders.”

He took it. And let you pull him , leading.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Three days after that , after a long grueling day at the lab , you found him sitting outside his hut with his head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands over his face.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked across the path and sat beside him.

After a long stretch of silence, he exhaled.

“Sometimes I wake up and… I forget where I am. I forget this is real.”

Your chest ached.

You turned toward him slowly. “You’re safe here,” you whispered. “This is real. You are real.”

His hand twitched. He glanced at your fingers resting beside him on the step.

Then, carefully, he laced them with his. Grounding.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Today at 5 am , you heard a small knock on the doorframe of your hut. 

You threw on a robe over your sleep shirt and shorts , and lifted the cloth to see him 

He had dark circles and hair mused , was barefoot standing there with tea. 

Two cups.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said simply.

So you sat together as the sky turned pink and gold, , sipping the warm drink , your shoulders brushing, the world hushed around you. 

Watching the sun slowly awake across the horizon line.

Today was your rare day off so you asked if he wanted to spend it together. 

Perhaps doing nothing but rest ; you both needed it. 

He of course agreed and the two of you were now sat on the soft swaying grass by the pond as it glittered.

He began braiding your hair. You sat between his knees sprawled out on the hillside, his fingers gentle as they moved through your strands. Making sure not to tug harshly.

“I haven’t felt this… normal in a long time,” he said, his voice barely above the breeze. “It makes me nervous.”

You tilted your head. “What does?”

“This. You. The quiet. It scares me.” he said, finishing the braid with a tie.

You turned, shifting so you could face him. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lose it.”

You reached up and touched his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Bucky. Not unless you tell me to.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe it.

 Like hope was still foreign.

“You never flinch,” he said. “Not at my arm. Not at… me.”

You took a breath.

“Because you’re not the man they turned you into , you've proved that to me by seeing you here ,” you whispered. 

“You’re the one who braids all the village kids' hair , the one who saves the bruised mangoes because they still taste the same even after being a little banged up…” you laced his fingers in yours  “…and my favorite is the guy who brings tea to the girl next door.”

He blinked fast. Holding back tears. Trying to steady his heart.

So you kissed his temple. Soft. Certain.

And he leaned into it—into you , like he finally believed he was allowed to.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

After calling it a day and you both parted ways to your own huts.

You were ready to fall on your face and pass out ,  but as you got closer to the plush awaiting bed you saw something on your pillow.

It was a small carved goat. 

Its legs were a little crooked, but its ears were perfect.

You know for sure the smile you had on your face made you look all kinds of  silly. But you didn't care, you loved this.

And the next morning?Right at five in the morning.

He knocked on your door. Right as the birds began their songs.

Two cups of tea in hand but this time–

He also had a question:

“Stay a little longer this time?”

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

Bucky knows he shouldn’t be here.

Knows that his will not be a welcome face.

Knows that he’s around two years and a sincere apology too late.

The hour is late, the dials of his wristwatch already encroaching on midnight. The city’s starless sky is a darkness that pales in comparison to the heavy shadow he’d watched infect Manhattan earlier. A void of pain too many had vanished beneath, before he and his ragtag team of false heroes had no choice but to dive into it, one last ditched effort at bringing back the light. The madness truly began when the darkness spat them back out onto the chaos of the streets.

The relief of seeing the sun. The shamble of a press conference. The new Avengers. 

And all he could think about was making it to this street. This door. You.

Bucky wishes he could say that the last time he saw you was last week, struggling beneath the weight of grocery bags. But that’s no longer true, because the last time he saw you was merely a few hours ago, trapped inside a time loop of his own making, his own memories, his own pain.

The room was colder than he remembered as he stepped in through a balcony door, sheer curtains billowing around him as a storm gathered outside.

At first, he wasn’t sure what memory this was, what new room he’d stepped into. All Bucky knew was he had made his way through the hell of Hydra’s experimentations, picked himself up from those traintracks, let himself soak in the scene of fighting Steve. Whatever haunted him in this bedroom of silence and sin, he was sure he could move through it and make his way to the door on the opposite side. Until a figure stirred beneath the sheets and he found himself frozen at the end of the bed.

Because there you were, eyes closed and head buried in the warmth of his own chest, blissfully unaware of the waking nightmare that awaited you.

He’s not used to crossing this street.

Not anymore.

Nowadays, his place is somewhere just across from you, two steps behind and a head hung low in hopes that you don’t notice him. Because he knows that it’s wrong, and he knows there are boundaries that have been drawn, but he just can’t seem to fall asleep at night if he doesn’t hop off that train a few stops early just to watch you come home safe.

He hadn’t meant to make it a habit. At first, it was just routine, muscle memory. He spent months making his way home to you, he needed more than a few weeks to get used to his new commute. But then he got in his own head, found himself sat in a train cart, knee bouncing out his stress as his mind tortured him with all the what ifs and nonexistent threats you could encounter on your way home alone. Who else could he trust but his own eyes to watch over you? So he let himself indulge, wander out from the subway below just in time to watch you turn a corner. Told himself it was okay, so long as he kept his distance. So long as he only observed, even when it killed him. The days it would rain and he’d fight the urge to shelter you beneath his umbrella. The times he’d notice a smiling stranger getting too close for comfort and remind himself it was no longer his place to ward them off with an arm around your waist. The way he’d catch the polished shine of a necklace resting at the base of your neck and suddenly remember why he could no longer call you his.

He should have noticed sooner. How the room smelt of your delicate perfume. How remnants of your clothes lay strewn across carpeted floors. How the scene before him was plucked perfectly from that trip.

A getaway of his own doing, heart swollen with a little more pride than he’d care to admit over simply figuring out how to book a vacation online. There was no real rhyme or reason for it, no birthday to celebrate or anniversary to commemorate. Bucky had simply felt happy. Blissfully, wholly, perfectly happy, for the first time in too long. In retrospect, that should have been the first warning sign.

But those razor sharp senses of his seemed to go blunt with the brightness of your smile, the tenderness of your kiss, the warmth of your voice. He believed you made him good. Made him right. Made him whole. He’d never stopped to wonder what he made you.

Until he made you hurt.

He’s standing outside your door.

Time seems irrelevant when everything is the same as he remembers it.

The lopsided apartment number. The faded welcome mat outside the door. The chipping paint you insist you don’t mind, all in the hopes of stopping Bucky from chewing out your landlord about another thing that needs fixing. Suddenly, it’s like he can feel the weight of your key in his pocket, waiting for him to fish it out and welcome himself home to the smell of burning incense and the taste of your skin.

His heart’s beating a little faster now. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should start learning to leave well enough alone. Maybe he should be trying to move on. But how can he move on with a life you made him want to live?

He’s fought battles, drawn blood, turned to dust and come back again. Yet this is a bridge he cannot seem to cross: knocking on your door.

All Bucky had registered back then was the soul-crushing weight of waking up to find what he’d done. Standing at the edge of the bed, a voyeur to his own harm, The Void granted him a full perspective of the events.

It began with muttering, foreign words falling from his sleeping lips. Then his head tossed, his leg twitched, his voice raised. You, eyes blinking away sleep and limbs untangling from his, woken up suddenly to his heart racing beneath you. He watched you watch the other him, a few seconds of his nightmarish sleeping, before finally you did what you thought was best, what any caring person would do if their partner was being haunted in their sleep.

You whispered his name, soothed a palm over his cheek, coaxed him out of whatever hell he was trapped in. But when his eyelids snapped open, there was no summer sky or calming river living in the iris but a steely blue, winter cold.

Metal clutched at your throat.

“James?”

Echoes of a past life sing in his ears as he feels himself freeze. His gaze meets the ground, where he spots an open door and a familiar pair of fluffy slippers, looking a little worse for wear than he remembers them being on that Christmas morning, sitting across from you with a stiff jaw and nervous eyes, watching you pull apart layers of wrapping paper. Now time has left its mark on them and Bucky can’t help but wonder how much longer until you replace them with something newer, something softer, something that’ll bring more comfort to your aching feet as you slip into them after a long day at the firm.

The firm. Your workplace. Two blocks down from the building that once stood as a symbol for everything Steve and the rest of the Avengers — the real Avengers — had achieved, a home still haunted by its previous owners whose footsteps Valentina expected him to tread over. 

Bucky had stopped believing in God somewhere between the torture and the war against genocidal aliens but as that cloud of darkness rolled over the Manhattan skyline, vanishing people into shadows, he caught himself praying to someone, something, anything that you were okay. That you’d caught a stomach bug or the flu and had called in sick. That you’d been called out of state, sent to work elsewhere on a client’s case. That you’d been anywhere but trapped beneath the weight of The Void’s darkness; lonely, and scared, and reliving the cruelest memories your mind could conjure. 

But as he finally looks at you, your face says it all. The troubled eyes, the weary smile, the trembling hands. The Void may have spat you back out alongside the rest of the city — he may have been able to save you from the looping pain, at least — but it left its mark all over you, whispers of fear still clinging to your skin.

Like a wave meets the shore, he crashes over you.

At first, Bucky couldn’t watch.

Eyes squeezed shut, back turned on the scene taking place upon the bed, he tried to block it all out. But then a door slammed, his eyes reopened, and the memory had started all over again. Your head on his chest, his tossing and turning. You waking him up, his hand around your neck. With an ache in his bones, he forced himself to bear witness.

To the way he looked right at you like you were a stranger, a threat, a mission. To the way the metal twisted and screamed as he tightened his grip. To the way your hand found his face. Not to scratch, not to push, not to fight back. But to mollify, the warmth of your palm resting on his icy cheek, tender in your touch even as he robbed you of breath.

And then he snapped out of it. Came to his senses. Ripped himself away from you and stumbled out the bed, hands — metal and flesh — scrambling for the scattered pieces of the same clothes he’d let you peel off of him only hours before, your eyes alive with the buzz of too much wine and his cheeks burning from too much sun and you. Undressing like every layer was an offense, just one more obstacle getting in the way as you both tumbled back into the hotel bed.

You are hesitant.

Arms glued to your side, you stand frozen in the unexpected embrace. He can’t find it in himself to blame you, not when he thinks of how scared you must feel with a weapon wound around your body once more, holding you close to him. The action is not only protective but possessive, too. An antidote to an unwarranted need that took root in his chest the moment he returned to the mania of Manhattan, freshly haunted by a visceral unpresent presence, desperate to confirm with more than just a glance from across a street that you were home. That you were safe. That you were here, even if he shouldn’t be. 

Bucky just needs you to give him a moment. A second. To feel the slow rise of your chest against his, and to take in the fading scent of your perfume, and to caress his right hand over the back of your head. To hold you like he still has any right to your heart. Then he can go. Pull away, set you free, stagger back to his apartment. Collapse onto the familiar comforts of creaking floorboards, muster up the guts to return Sam’s fourteen missed calls and sink into a different layer of guilt to distract himself from the fact you’re not sleeping beside him, breathing beside him. That you haven’t been his for two years, no matter how much he’s still yours.

He pulls in a deep breath, tightens his arms around your frame, prepares himself for the inevitability of him pulling away and feeling the much deserved sting of your hand slapping his cheek and your voice spewing venomous words.

Any minute now, he’ll let go.

“Bucky…” it’s barely a whisper, but he hears it — feels it, as the ice in your bones thaws away and you melt into his embrace.

How could he possibly let go?

Bucky remembered struggling to breathe.

Ignoring your weak calls of his name, he dressed himself with so much haste half the buttons on his shirt remained undone. On the bed, you choked on heavy breaths of air, tears welling like the threat of an incoming downpour that was sure to drown him further beneath waves of guilt, shame, hatred. The vibranium virus attached to his left side seemed to mock him as he struggled to pull on his shoes, too blinded by panic to notice your approaching figure.

Bucky grabbed for the door and you grabbed for him, fingers almost curling around the wrist of his metal arm. He flinched out of your reach, head spinning round to take in the sight of you now at his side, shielded beneath bedsheets from the exposing light of the moon. His gaze flickered to your neck, replaying memories of where his mouth had laid claim over your skin and painted you in shades of his love. How many hours would it take for them to fade beneath the mold of his fingers, for the things Bucky hated most about himself to viscerally terrorise him as a bruise upon his most darling delicate?

You tried to reach for him, again. All he could manage was a quiet, “don’t.”

He never meant to slam the door as he left.

“Are you okay?”

He’s no stranger to late night fantasies, the inconsequential thoughts of an idealised life he’s free to play out when sleep eludes him, buds of anxious worry beginning to bloom within his chest. Before, all his what ifs and if onlys projected him back in time, where no draft came knocking at his door or any serum distorted his DNA. Then he met you and, gradually, his pining for the past morphed into dreaming of a future. All the possible firsts of your relationship: first date, first kiss, first holiday, first anniversary. He could relearn the world, reintroduce himself to the possibility of normality. He pondered moving, trading the city for a quieter life, where weekends would be reserved for exchanging body heat beneath the blankets of a bed he’d build for you, and Sunday gatherings with Sam and the rest of the Wilson’s.

Then, the dreams faded to grey, along with the rest of his world.

The past no longer enticed him, and a future seemed pointless without you. All that was left for him was to agonise, stare at his living room ceiling and watch the atrocities he’d committed play on repeat. The Starks’ car, Yori’s son, your neck. With therapy came amends, a booklet of names his conscience needed him to confront with an apology. Yours never made the cut. Because it wasn’t the Winter Soldier that had hurt you, it was him. No amount of therapised language intended to distance him from the harm would be a good enough excuse to lay at your feet, so he stayed away, kept his distance.

Not once had he fantasised he would be breaking no-contact like this.

“A little confused and contemplating why I’m still living in this city after years of it being a breeding ground for supernatural and extraterrestrial attacks, but I’m fine,” you reply at last, trailing off with a laugh that catches on your throat and breaks into a hiccup.

There’s a shake in your voice that nearly has him pulling back but your arms stop him, hold him closer. You shuffle your feet between his own and burrow your face away, out of sight, in the crook of his neck. A layer of ash still stains him, powder remnants of the rubble that had fallen during The Void's attack, but you don’t seem to care.

“I saw you on the news, Buck. Are you okay?”

The relationship was over in a matter of days.

You slept through the train ride home, leaving him with nothing but passing fields and troubled thoughts. Once back in the city, he carried your bags in his left hand while the fingers of his right one threaded with yours. You did most of the talking, comments of where you two could holiday next, if he’d spoken to Sam recently, and how your mother had mentioned in passing that you should bring Bucky with you next time you visit. The silence arrived as you both reached your front door, one glance at the bruise around your neck enough to let him know this was the end of the line.

An inbox of missed calls and unread texts later, he dropped your apartment key through the letterbox.

He blinked and suddenly the scene had reset, your lonesome frame crawling back onto the bed once more, fading away into two figures curled around one another beneath the sheets. Bucky watched it all unravel. And, when the door slammed and your tears fell, he watched it start again. Over and over, he watched himself poison the safe haven you made for him, pushing you away and rebuilding that wall around himself. Over and over, he watched you reach for him, a silent plea in your eyes begging him to stay.

He never did.

It was only when he joined you on the bed — after the other him had slammed the door — and pulled you into his longing embrace, mouth kissing apologies against your forehead as you drifted off to sleep, that the cycle came to a stop. One moment, he was holding some version of you for the first time in years, and, in the next, The Void sent him falling through the ceiling of an old Hydra lab.

He landed in the leather chair with a thud and, as a familiar device closed in around his head, he wished he was back in that hotel room, watching your heart break before his eyes, if only to see you a little longer.

With reluctance, he pulls back.

Not because he no longer needs to hold you, feel you breathing safely against him. But he needs to see you. Properly, as something more than a distant shape across the street. Inches apart now, the hole in his chest seems to scream it’s not close enough. When your eyes meet his and a tear slides down your face, not even Sentry could stop him from reaching up to catch it.

Comfort fills his soul as he feels your hand lay itself atop his own, holding it in place against your cheek. Your eyes slip shut and a sigh slips past your lips. Bucky can’t help but lean in, eyes shutting out the world around you. His forehead finds rest against yours, a gentle pressure against skin that feels more intimate than any kiss he could ever give. “Tell me you’re okay, Bucky,” a delicate whisper that possesses no threat to the quiet that surrounds you both.

For a moment, there is peace. Hope. Time has passed, his life has changed, and, while he’s no symbol of sanity, he saved people today — strangers. Bucky Barnes is officially a hero. An Avenger. So maybe things can be different. And maybe he can ask to take up space in your life again, to be part of your mornings and your evenings, your everyday. He can make amends and make you his.

Something meows and tears him out of his daydream.

A blur of white fur moves cautiously inside your apartment, weaving through a few house plants atop a shoe rack. But that isn’t what leaves him feeling foolish, feeling sick, feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the chest. It’s the pair of shoes carelessly discarded on the floor, shrugged off by someone too impatient to put them away if it means spending another moment away from you — Bucky would know, he used to do the same.

A pair of men’s shoes. “I should-” go, he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t want to leave. “Don’t wanna miss the train.”

“James,” his name is a plea on your tongue, a question he’s forgotten how to answer.

“I’m sorry,” for hurting you, for not moving on, for showing up at your door. “I just needed to see you.”

The first step is still the hardest.

As the thought passes through him, a sense of deja vu comes over him. This hallway, your doorway. Turning his back on you, telling himself that it’s better this way. No matter how much it kills him, he can live with the pain of knowing you’ll be safer with someone else. Someone who was born at the right time, and has done all the right things in life that lead them to being rewarded with you. It’s best he goes, before that someone comes looking for you.

He can’t stomach the thought of seeing you with somebody else.

“For someone so good at the fight, you sure do love to choose flight,” your voice is soft yet he hears a bite of anger, a sprinkle of resentment. “Or is walking away a special trick you only use when it comes to me?”

“Don’t do that,” he turns back around to face you, and regrets it the moment he notices more tears threatening to spill. His hand itches to wipe them all away. “Don’t make it seem like leaving you was something I chose to do.”

“But you did!”

“Only because I had to!” Bucky never means to raise his voice, not at you. Things clearly haven’t changed enough for him to stop hurting you when he swears he won’t.  “You know what I did to you.”

With a challenge on your face, your arms cross over your chest and you pop your hip out, leaning your body against the doorframe. “What exactly did you do, James?”

“I…” torture of the tongue, he needs to compose himself before he can say it. “I hurt you. With the same hand they gave me when they made me a weapon.”

“Except you didn’t. The Wakandans gave you that arm when they needed another hero on the battlefield.”

A pause, where anything but silence passes between you. “And I hurt you with it all the same.”

“You leaving me like I meant nothing hurt far more than whatever happened in that hotel room.”

“Meant nothing? Me leaving was because I lov-”

“I’ve just taken on a big case, they’ll be expecting me early in the office,” you’ve already got the door in your hand, half closed as your body retreats back into the safety of your apartment, away from the danger of Bucky’s confession. “You should go, James. Catch that train.”

Unlike him, you don’t slam doors.

He doesn’t bother returning to the subway, the time on his phone tells him all he needs to know. He’s missed that last train, and he’s not in the mood to figure out which line will get him closest to his apartment. He’ll just walk, and listen to the voicemail his phone claims Alexei has left in his inbox.

“Winter Soldier! Bucky! We all are drinking, to celebrate team’s first big win. You must join, we can talk more about being co-captains of The Thunderbolts-” “That is not our name, Alexei,” Yelena cuts him off faintly in the background.

Bucky shouldn’t have come home.

Back in the apartment, a sob is forced down.

The tears just keep coming, all you can do is surrender yourself to them, head leaned back against the door, some part of you hoping he’ll come back.

His hair is longer, new bruises mark his skin, yet the way he looks at you — like you are a sin he must atone for — is still the same.

“Was that Bucky I just heard? If yes, let me give him a piece of my mind and save ourselves a whole load of paperwork- Hey, you good?”

You pull in a breath and wipe both hands over your face before forcing a smile towards your guest.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you almost trip over his shoes in your haste to walk back into the living room. “Now come on, we have a lot of work to do if you’re serious about suing the Avengers.”

+ extra hyde !

· finished this instead of working on one of my final essays... priorities!

· idk if it anyone wants it but i'm working on a part 2, and trust i intend to not uphold the sambucky divorce from the post-credit scene

Bucky knows he shouldn’t be here.

Knows that his will not be a welcome face.

Knows that he’s around two years and a sincere apology too late.

The hour is late, the dials of his wristwatch already encroaching on midnight. The city’s starless sky is a darkness that pales in comparison to the heavy shadow he’d watched infect Manhattan earlier. A void of pain too many had vanished beneath, before he and his ragtag team of false heroes had no choice but to dive into it, one last ditched effort at bringing back the light. The madness truly began when the darkness spat them back out onto the chaos of the streets.

The relief of seeing the sun. The shamble of a press conference. The new Avengers. 

And all he could think about was making it to this street. This door. You.

Bucky wishes he could say that the last time he saw you was last week, struggling beneath the weight of grocery bags. But that’s no longer true, because the last time he saw you was merely a few hours ago, trapped inside a time loop of his own making, his own memories, his own pain.

The room was colder than he remembered as he stepped in through a balcony door, sheer curtains billowing around him as a storm gathered outside.

At first, he wasn’t sure what memory this was, what new room he’d stepped into. All Bucky knew was he had made his way through the hell of Hydra’s experimentations, picked himself up from those traintracks, let himself soak in the scene of fighting Steve. Whatever haunted him in this bedroom of silence and sin, he was sure he could move through it and make his way to the door on the opposite side. Until a figure stirred beneath the sheets and he found himself frozen at the end of the bed.

Because there you were, eyes closed and head buried in the warmth of his own chest, blissfully unaware of the waking nightmare that awaited you.

He’s not used to crossing this street.

Not anymore.

Nowadays, his place is somewhere just across from you, two steps behind and a head hung low in hopes that you don’t notice him. Because he knows that it’s wrong, and he knows there are boundaries that have been drawn, but he just can’t seem to fall asleep at night if he doesn’t hop off that train a few stops early just to watch you come home safe.

He hadn’t meant to make it a habit. At first, it was just routine, muscle memory. He spent months making his way home to you, he needed more than a few weeks to get used to his new commute. But then he got in his own head, found himself sat in a train cart, knee bouncing out his stress as his mind tortured him with all the what ifs and nonexistent threats you could encounter on your way home alone. Who else could he trust but his own eyes to watch over you? So he let himself indulge, wander out from the subway below just in time to watch you turn a corner. Told himself it was okay, so long as he kept his distance. So long as he only observed, even when it killed him. The days it would rain and he’d fight the urge to shelter you beneath his umbrella. The times he’d notice a smiling stranger getting too close for comfort and remind himself it was no longer his place to ward them off with an arm around your waist. The way he’d catch the polished shine of a necklace resting at the base of your neck and suddenly remember why he could no longer call you his.

He should have noticed sooner. How the room smelt of your delicate perfume. How remnants of your clothes lay strewn across carpeted floors. How the scene before him was plucked perfectly from that trip.

A getaway of his own doing, heart swollen with a little more pride than he’d care to admit over simply figuring out how to book a vacation online. There was no real rhyme or reason for it, no birthday to celebrate or anniversary to commemorate. Bucky had simply felt happy. Blissfully, wholly, perfectly happy, for the first time in too long. In retrospect, that should have been the first warning sign.

But those razor sharp senses of his seemed to go blunt with the brightness of your smile, the tenderness of your kiss, the warmth of your voice. He believed you made him good. Made him right. Made him whole. He’d never stopped to wonder what he made you.

Until he made you hurt.

He’s standing outside your door.

Time seems irrelevant when everything is the same as he remembers it.

The lopsided apartment number. The faded welcome mat outside the door. The chipping paint you insist you don’t mind, all in the hopes of stopping Bucky from chewing out your landlord about another thing that needs fixing. Suddenly, it’s like he can feel the weight of your key in his pocket, waiting for him to fish it out and welcome himself home to the smell of burning incense and the taste of your skin.

His heart’s beating a little faster now. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe he should start learning to leave well enough alone. Maybe he should be trying to move on. But how can he move on with a life you made him want to live?

He’s fought battles, drawn blood, turned to dust and come back again. Yet this is a bridge he cannot seem to cross: knocking on your door.

All Bucky had registered back then was the soul-crushing weight of waking up to find what he’d done. Standing at the edge of the bed, a voyeur to his own harm, The Void granted him a full perspective of the events.

It began with muttering, foreign words falling from his sleeping lips. Then his head tossed, his leg twitched, his voice raised. You, eyes blinking away sleep and limbs untangling from his, woken up suddenly to his heart racing beneath you. He watched you watch the other him, a few seconds of his nightmarish sleeping, before finally you did what you thought was best, what any caring person would do if their partner was being haunted in their sleep.

You whispered his name, soothed a palm over his cheek, coaxed him out of whatever hell he was trapped in. But when his eyelids snapped open, there was no summer sky or calming river living in the iris but a steely blue, winter cold.

Metal clutched at your throat.

“James?”

Echoes of a past life sing in his ears as he feels himself freeze. His gaze meets the ground, where he spots an open door and a familiar pair of fluffy slippers, looking a little worse for wear than he remembers them being on that Christmas morning, sitting across from you with a stiff jaw and nervous eyes, watching you pull apart layers of wrapping paper. Now time has left its mark on them and Bucky can’t help but wonder how much longer until you replace them with something newer, something softer, something that’ll bring more comfort to your aching feet as you slip into them after a long day at the firm.

The firm. Your workplace. Two blocks down from the building that once stood as a symbol for everything Steve and the rest of the Avengers — the real Avengers — had achieved, a home still haunted by its previous owners whose footsteps Valentina expected him to tread over. 

Bucky had stopped believing in God somewhere between the torture and the war against genocidal aliens but as that cloud of darkness rolled over the Manhattan skyline, vanishing people into shadows, he caught himself praying to someone, something, anything that you were okay. That you’d caught a stomach bug or the flu and had called in sick. That you’d been called out of state, sent to work elsewhere on a client’s case. That you’d been anywhere but trapped beneath the weight of The Void’s darkness; lonely, and scared, and reliving the cruelest memories your mind could conjure. 

But as he finally looks at you, your face says it all. The troubled eyes, the weary smile, the trembling hands. The Void may have spat you back out alongside the rest of the city — he may have been able to save you from the looping pain, at least — but it left its mark all over you, whispers of fear still clinging to your skin.

Like a wave meets the shore, he crashes over you.

At first, Bucky couldn’t watch.

Eyes squeezed shut, back turned on the scene taking place upon the bed, he tried to block it all out. But then a door slammed, his eyes reopened, and the memory had started all over again. Your head on his chest, his tossing and turning. You waking him up, his hand around your neck. With an ache in his bones, he forced himself to bear witness.

To the way he looked right at you like you were a stranger, a threat, a mission. To the way the metal twisted and screamed as he tightened his grip. To the way your hand found his face. Not to scratch, not to push, not to fight back. But to mollify, the warmth of your palm resting on his icy cheek, tender in your touch even as he robbed you of breath.

And then he snapped out of it. Came to his senses. Ripped himself away from you and stumbled out the bed, hands — metal and flesh — scrambling for the scattered pieces of the same clothes he’d let you peel off of him only hours before, your eyes alive with the buzz of too much wine and his cheeks burning from too much sun and you. Undressing like every layer was an offense, just one more obstacle getting in the way as you both tumbled back into the hotel bed.

You are hesitant.

Arms glued to your side, you stand frozen in the unexpected embrace. He can’t find it in himself to blame you, not when he thinks of how scared you must feel with a weapon wound around your body once more, holding you close to him. The action is not only protective but possessive, too. An antidote to an unwarranted need that took root in his chest the moment he returned to the mania of Manhattan, freshly haunted by a visceral unpresent presence, desperate to confirm with more than just a glance from across a street that you were home. That you were safe. That you were here, even if he shouldn’t be. 

Bucky just needs you to give him a moment. A second. To feel the slow rise of your chest against his, and to take in the fading scent of your perfume, and to caress his right hand over the back of your head. To hold you like he still has any right to your heart. Then he can go. Pull away, set you free, stagger back to his apartment. Collapse onto the familiar comforts of creaking floorboards, muster up the guts to return Sam’s fourteen missed calls and sink into a different layer of guilt to distract himself from the fact you’re not sleeping beside him, breathing beside him. That you haven’t been his for two years, no matter how much he’s still yours.

He pulls in a deep breath, tightens his arms around your frame, prepares himself for the inevitability of him pulling away and feeling the much deserved sting of your hand slapping his cheek and your voice spewing venomous words.

Any minute now, he’ll let go.

“Bucky…” it’s barely a whisper, but he hears it — feels it, as the ice in your bones thaws away and you melt into his embrace.

How could he possibly let go?

Bucky remembered struggling to breathe.

Ignoring your weak calls of his name, he dressed himself with so much haste half the buttons on his shirt remained undone. On the bed, you choked on heavy breaths of air, tears welling like the threat of an incoming downpour that was sure to drown him further beneath waves of guilt, shame, hatred. The vibranium virus attached to his left side seemed to mock him as he struggled to pull on his shoes, too blinded by panic to notice your approaching figure.

Bucky grabbed for the door and you grabbed for him, fingers almost curling around the wrist of his metal arm. He flinched out of your reach, head spinning round to take in the sight of you now at his side, shielded beneath bedsheets from the exposing light of the moon. His gaze flickered to your neck, replaying memories of where his mouth had laid claim over your skin and painted you in shades of his love. How many hours would it take for them to fade beneath the mold of his fingers, for the things Bucky hated most about himself to viscerally terrorise him as a bruise upon his most darling delicate?

You tried to reach for him, again. All he could manage was a quiet, “don’t.”

He never meant to slam the door as he left.

“Are you okay?”

He’s no stranger to late night fantasies, the inconsequential thoughts of an idealised life he’s free to play out when sleep eludes him, buds of anxious worry beginning to bloom within his chest. Before, all his what ifs and if onlys projected him back in time, where no draft came knocking at his door or any serum distorted his DNA. Then he met you and, gradually, his pining for the past morphed into dreaming of a future. All the possible firsts of your relationship: first date, first kiss, first holiday, first anniversary. He could relearn the world, reintroduce himself to the possibility of normality. He pondered moving, trading the city for a quieter life, where weekends would be reserved for exchanging body heat beneath the blankets of a bed he’d build for you, and Sunday gatherings with Sam and the rest of the Wilson’s.

Then, the dreams faded to grey, along with the rest of his world.

The past no longer enticed him, and a future seemed pointless without you. All that was left for him was to agonise, stare at his living room ceiling and watch the atrocities he’d committed play on repeat. The Starks’ car, Yori’s son, your neck. With therapy came amends, a booklet of names his conscience needed him to confront with an apology. Yours never made the cut. Because it wasn’t the Winter Soldier that had hurt you, it was him. No amount of therapised language intended to distance him from the harm would be a good enough excuse to lay at your feet, so he stayed away, kept his distance.

Not once had he fantasised he would be breaking no-contact like this.

“A little confused and contemplating why I’m still living in this city after years of it being a breeding ground for supernatural and extraterrestrial attacks, but I’m fine,” you reply at last, trailing off with a laugh that catches on your throat and breaks into a hiccup.

There’s a shake in your voice that nearly has him pulling back but your arms stop him, hold him closer. You shuffle your feet between his own and burrow your face away, out of sight, in the crook of his neck. A layer of ash still stains him, powder remnants of the rubble that had fallen during The Void's attack, but you don’t seem to care.

“I saw you on the news, Buck. Are you okay?”

The relationship was over in a matter of days.

You slept through the train ride home, leaving him with nothing but passing fields and troubled thoughts. Once back in the city, he carried your bags in his left hand while the fingers of his right one threaded with yours. You did most of the talking, comments of where you two could holiday next, if he’d spoken to Sam recently, and how your mother had mentioned in passing that you should bring Bucky with you next time you visit. The silence arrived as you both reached your front door, one glance at the bruise around your neck enough to let him know this was the end of the line.

An inbox of missed calls and unread texts later, he dropped your apartment key through the letterbox.

He blinked and suddenly the scene had reset, your lonesome frame crawling back onto the bed once more, fading away into two figures curled around one another beneath the sheets. Bucky watched it all unravel. And, when the door slammed and your tears fell, he watched it start again. Over and over, he watched himself poison the safe haven you made for him, pushing you away and rebuilding that wall around himself. Over and over, he watched you reach for him, a silent plea in your eyes begging him to stay.

He never did.

It was only when he joined you on the bed — after the other him had slammed the door — and pulled you into his longing embrace, mouth kissing apologies against your forehead as you drifted off to sleep, that the cycle came to a stop. One moment, he was holding some version of you for the first time in years, and, in the next, The Void sent him falling through the ceiling of an old Hydra lab.

He landed in the leather chair with a thud and, as a familiar device closed in around his head, he wished he was back in that hotel room, watching your heart break before his eyes, if only to see you a little longer.

With reluctance, he pulls back.

Not because he no longer needs to hold you, feel you breathing safely against him. But he needs to see you. Properly, as something more than a distant shape across the street. Inches apart now, the hole in his chest seems to scream it’s not close enough. When your eyes meet his and a tear slides down your face, not even Sentry could stop him from reaching up to catch it.

Comfort fills his soul as he feels your hand lay itself atop his own, holding it in place against your cheek. Your eyes slip shut and a sigh slips past your lips. Bucky can’t help but lean in, eyes shutting out the world around you. His forehead finds rest against yours, a gentle pressure against skin that feels more intimate than any kiss he could ever give. “Tell me you’re okay, Bucky,” a delicate whisper that possesses no threat to the quiet that surrounds you both.

For a moment, there is peace. Hope. Time has passed, his life has changed, and, while he’s no symbol of sanity, he saved people today — strangers. Bucky Barnes is officially a hero. An Avenger. So maybe things can be different. And maybe he can ask to take up space in your life again, to be part of your mornings and your evenings, your everyday. He can make amends and make you his.

Something meows and tears him out of his daydream.

A blur of white fur moves cautiously inside your apartment, weaving through a few house plants atop a shoe rack. But that isn’t what leaves him feeling foolish, feeling sick, feeling like he’s been sucker punched in the chest. It’s the pair of shoes carelessly discarded on the floor, shrugged off by someone too impatient to put them away if it means spending another moment away from you — Bucky would know, he used to do the same.

A pair of men’s shoes. “I should-” go, he can’t bring himself to say it. He doesn’t want to leave. “Don’t wanna miss the train.”

“James,” his name is a plea on your tongue, a question he’s forgotten how to answer.

“I’m sorry,” for hurting you, for not moving on, for showing up at your door. “I just needed to see you.”

The first step is still the hardest.

As the thought passes through him, a sense of deja vu comes over him. This hallway, your doorway. Turning his back on you, telling himself that it’s better this way. No matter how much it kills him, he can live with the pain of knowing you’ll be safer with someone else. Someone who was born at the right time, and has done all the right things in life that lead them to being rewarded with you. It’s best he goes, before that someone comes looking for you.

He can’t stomach the thought of seeing you with somebody else.

“For someone so good at the fight, you sure do love to choose flight,” your voice is soft yet he hears a bite of anger, a sprinkle of resentment. “Or is walking away a special trick you only use when it comes to me?”

“Don’t do that,” he turns back around to face you, and regrets it the moment he notices more tears threatening to spill. His hand itches to wipe them all away. “Don’t make it seem like leaving you was something I chose to do.”

“But you did!”

“Only because I had to!” Bucky never means to raise his voice, not at you. Things clearly haven’t changed enough for him to stop hurting you when he swears he won’t.  “You know what I did to you.”

With a challenge on your face, your arms cross over your chest and you pop your hip out, leaning your body against the doorframe. “What exactly did you do, James?”

“I…” torture of the tongue, he needs to compose himself before he can say it. “I hurt you. With the same hand they gave me when they made me a weapon.”

“Except you didn’t. The Wakandans gave you that arm when they needed another hero on the battlefield.”

A pause, where anything but silence passes between you. “And I hurt you with it all the same.”

“You leaving me like I meant nothing hurt far more than whatever happened in that hotel room.”

“Meant nothing? Me leaving was because I lov-”

“I’ve just taken on a big case, they’ll be expecting me early in the office,” you’ve already got the door in your hand, half closed as your body retreats back into the safety of your apartment, away from the danger of Bucky’s confession. “You should go, James. Catch that train.”

Unlike him, you don’t slam doors.

He doesn’t bother returning to the subway, the time on his phone tells him all he needs to know. He’s missed that last train, and he’s not in the mood to figure out which line will get him closest to his apartment. He’ll just walk, and listen to the voicemail his phone claims Alexei has left in his inbox.

“Winter Soldier! Bucky! We all are drinking, to celebrate team’s first big win. You must join, we can talk more about being co-captains of The Thunderbolts-” “That is not our name, Alexei,” Yelena cuts him off faintly in the background.

Bucky shouldn’t have come home.

Back in the apartment, a sob is forced down.

The tears just keep coming, all you can do is surrender yourself to them, head leaned back against the door, some part of you hoping he’ll come back.

His hair is longer, new bruises mark his skin, yet the way he looks at you — like you are a sin he must atone for — is still the same.

“Was that Bucky I just heard? If yes, let me give him a piece of my mind and save ourselves a whole load of paperwork- Hey, you good?”

You pull in a breath and wipe both hands over your face before forcing a smile towards your guest.

“I’m fine, Sam,” you almost trip over his shoes in your haste to walk back into the living room. “Now come on, we have a lot of work to do if you’re serious about suing the Avengers.”

+ extra hyde !

· finished this instead of working on one of my final essays... priorities!

· idk if it anyone wants it but i'm working on a part 2, and trust i intend to not uphold the sambucky divorce from the post-credit scene

You hum and nod sagely, as though the correction changes anything. You don’t want to admit that it looks good on him, or that it’s infinitely better than that stupid helmet which didn’t look good on him or Steve Rogers. You can imagine Val’s pitch for the change, droning on about how having his full face visible would be more appealing to the public, how a classic military look would win back the heart of patriots after his previous public disaster. 

She may not be good for much else, but she is irritatingly good at marketing you to the world. 

After a beat of silent contemplation in which you decide not to fuel his ego, you say, “It’s a French hat.”  

“Okay,” he sighs, dropping his arms as he deflates. He’s got that look on his face, the one he gets when someone has said something that’s got to him and he’s trying to pretend it hasn’t. He gets it a lot around Yelena, but you get the feeling Yelena enjoys seeing it more than you do. “You don’t like it.” 

You want to ask when your opinion started mattering to him so much, though you could probably pin-point it as some time two months ago - when in the middle of yet more petty infighting between the others you had turned to him and asked what he thought you should do. It hadn’t occurred to you until afterwards just how rarely anyone seemed to ask for his opinion. That’s why you’re here, you figure, and is most notably why the others aren’t. 

Thinking better of risking a heartfelt conversation, you instead try to save the moment. 

“I like it better than the helmet?” You try, reaching to adjust it slightly on his head. “Though, no more helmet hair.” 

“That’s a good thing.” 

You make a sound of disagreement in the back of your throat, already mourning the loss of the dishevelled look he gets whenever he takes his helmet off, but when he reaches up to pull the beret from his head you catch his wrists to stop him. The disheartened look on his face tugs at your heart more than you wish it did, and you force his hands back down. 

“Leave it, it’s fine. It’s good.” 

“But-”

“God, Walker, it’s fine.” You pinch between your brows. “Besides, I can’t stand your kicked puppy look.” 

He raises his head back up to turn an incredulous look on you. “I don’t have a kicked puppy look.” 

“Yeah, you do,” you poke him once in his chest, gently. “You’ve gotten real good at it, too. They teach you that in the military, while you’re all wearing your little hats together?” 

“Ha,” he deadpans. “For your information, I learned it from Bob.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, pushing away from him to return to fussing over your own suit. It’s flashier than you’d like - not colourful, but shiny. Val had said she wanted you to pop, spun some bullshit about how important it was for the others to be able to spot their healer in a crowd, and your teammates had thought it was too funny for them to step in and save you from it. 

John doesn’t move. You can feel his eyes on you as he waits, hesitates, muddles through what he wants to say next in his mind. It’s not often that John Walker is quiet, and it’s even rarer that he thinks before he speaks, so you busy yourself with packing your suit away and wait. 

Finally, turning to look at himself in the mirror, he settles on: “The hat’s really okay?”

It would be comical how important approval is to him - especially in contrast to how much he pretends not to need it - if the reality wasn’t that his government has done a real number on him. 

You look over your shoulder to watch him inspect himself at varying angles. “Yes, it’s okay. It’s nice. It suits you, brings out your eyes, et cetera,” you tease, waving your hand. “Makes you look handsome, all the rest.” 

“Have you seen the mission reports? She’s so precise it’s actually terrifying,” Joaquin had said on the way to Bucky’s apartment, telling every legendary story he had heard about you. “I heard they took down a whole warehouse of mercenaries with a pair of batons. Not even a gun! She sounds mean.”

Sam chuckled, adjusting the bag of soda in his hands. “No way anyone is meaner than Bucky, though.”

“We’ll see, man.” Joaquin grinned. “Maybe she makes him look nice.”

Sam snorted. If that were the case, he was dying to meet you.

But the thing was, as terrifying as you apparently were on the field, Bucky talked about you like you were… fragile.

It started six months ago, when you officially became a couple.

Sam started noticing the way Bucky’s face changed when he mentioned you. He’d have a slight smile that softened the hard lines of his forehead. His voice would lose that slightly gruff tone, growing softer the more he mentioned you. 

And fuck knows he talked about you all the damn time.

Not just about how skilled you were, though Sam had gotten enough secondhand mission briefings to wonder if Bucky was keeping a shrine somewhere. No, he often talked about the little things. Like how you stole the blankets in your sleep. Or how you tried (and failed) to teach Bucky how to use a bo staff. Or how you sent Bucky the stupidest memes at 3 AM, knowing full well you’d have to explain half of them in person. 

And God help them all if you did something impressive— Bucky would pretend to be all casual about it, but then five minutes later, he’d be bringing it up again saying how proud he was of his girlfriend capturing four cops illegally dealing rifles to civilians.

“You’re not subtle,” Sam had pointed out once, after Bucky spent a debrief clearly distracted.

Bucky shrugged, though he was mentally counting down the minutes to when he’d see you again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I’m thinking about my girlfriend’ look.” Sam smirked. “It’s gross, by the way.”

Bucky had just scoffed something under his breath and rolled his eyes. 

So yeah, Sam had never met you. Between your missions and his, the opportunity just never aligned.

But by now, he felt like he already knew you.

And tonight, after months of hearing Bucky talk about you like a hopelessly lovesick super soldier—he and Joaquin were finally going to meet the Winter Soldier’s girlfriend.

—

They had expected you to be brutal. Brash. Maybe even a little cold, given your reputation.

Instead, when Bucky opened the door, the first words out of his mouth were, “Hey, uh—just so you guys know, my girlfriend’s a little nervous about meeting you.”

Sam paused mid-step. What?

Bucky shifted, scratching the back of his neck. “She’s, uh… not really the social type.”

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, shooting Sam a look. Sam could tell he was just as confused. “Your girlfriend?”

“Yes, my girlfriend,” Bucky deadpanned, crossing his arms.

Before Sam could respond, a small blur of white streaked past Bucky’s feet making a beeline for Joaquin, weaving between his legs and rubbing against his boots. It took a second for his brain to catch up, but then— oh. It was the kitten. Alpine. Bucky adopted her a couple weeks ago. Sam had received no less than five photos a day from Bucky over the last two weeks, each one featuring the cat in a different pose, with captions like—

"Look at her lil’ paws." "She fell asleep on my chest." "She just sneezed."

Before Sam could make a funny remark, he heard a voice come from  inside the apartment.

“Alpine, no. Come here, baby,” you said gently.

Sam blinked. That was his girlfriend?

You appeared, peeking out from the kitchen doorway. You looked… normal. Cozy, even. Dressed in comfortable clothes, eyes wide, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

The gears in Sam’s felt like they needed oiling for a second.

This was you? The you?

The same person who had infiltrated high-security facilities without breaking a sweat? The same person who single-handedly takes down crime syndicates left and right? The same woman he read about in news articles and mission reports?

You gave them both a hesitant smile and a small wave. “Um. Hi.”

Joaquin, bless him, recovered from the initial shock first. “Hey!” he said, “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Your smile widened. Your shoulders started to relax. “All good things, I hope.”

Before Sam could even wrap his head around how soft-spoken you were, Bucky stepped closer to you. Gone was the battle-hardened soldier, and in his place was a man so ridiculously in love that it almost made Sam uncomfortable to witness. But no, he was just happy that his friend was happy. In shock, but happy nonetheless.

Bucky reached for you carefully, like you were made of the most fragile glass. His hand found the small of your back, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“Darlin’, you wanna come say hi properly?” he asked, his voice so different from the barks Sam was used to hearing in the field.

You nodded, stepping fully into view.

And then—because apparently, this wasn’t enough of a shock to Sam’s system—Bucky tucked you against his side protectively and pressed a kiss to your temple.

Oh?

Who the hell was this man, and what the hell had you done to Bucky Barnes?

—

Dinner was homemade.

More specifically, dinner was homemade by Bucky.

Sam had to find a place to sit down when you told him that. He blinked at the plate in front of him, wondering why the hell it looked so… appetising.

“Bucky can’t cook,” he whispered to himself, utterly baffled.

Joaquin shrugged.

“He can now,” you said in a small but proud voice, giving Bucky a playful nudge. “He wanted to impress me.”

Bucky huffed, but even as he rolled his eyes, his hand found your knee under the table, rubbing absentminded circles just because. “Did it work?”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think it over. “Mmmmm. Maybe.”

The usually grumpy super soldier actually grinned from ear to ear.

Sam had to rub his damn eyes.

This wasn’t real. This had to be an illusion. Maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch, and this was some bizarre fever dream where Bucky was, for lack of a better word, domesticated.

Meanwhile, Joaquin had already taken a bite. His eyes went wide. “Damn, Buck.” He shoveled another spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth and made a pleased noise. “You’ve been hiding this skill from us?”

Bucky shrugged, “Wasn’t for you.”

You turned to him. “It’s very good, my love.”

My love.

Since when was Bucky alright with pet names?

Instead of scowling or brushing it off, Bucky just squeezed your hand with his metal fingers, his thumb stroking over your knuckles.

This was Bucky Barnes. Bucky “I’m not exactly a people person” Barnes. Bucky “respect my personal space or I’ll kill you” Barnes.

And here he was, letting you call him ‘my love.’

Sam needed another minute. Maybe even a drink. Anything to help process whatever the hell was happening in front of him.

Joaquin, already on his third bite, didn’t seem as concerned. He waved his fork in the air, nodding approvingly. “I’m impressed. If this is what love does to you, maybe I need to find someone, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, “I’m sure someone, somewhere, is into birds.”

Joaquin groaned. 

You giggled, but nudged Bucky’s shoulder anyway. “Be nice.”

Bucky just grumbled under his breath as you leaned in and pressed gentle kisses to his metal knuckles.

And that was it. That was the moment Sam lost all grip on reality.

Because Bucky Barnes—the man who used to flinch at the idea of being touched—literally melted.

He let out a pleased hum as he leaned into you, eyes closing for just a second like he was soaking in the moment. And when he opened them again Sam could’ve sworn they were actual heart eyes.

—

Over dinner, Joaquin—ever the eager one—started asking about your fieldwork.

“So, that human trafficking bust you pulled off last month,” he said, buzzing with admiration. “That was insane. I mean, the level of planning—”

You flushed, ducking your head slightly. “Oh, um. It wasn’t that impressive.”

Joaquin shook his head. “Are you kidding? You dismantled their operation without any collateral damage!”

You let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh, “I just… I try my best.”

Sam set down his fork, “How many did you have to fight?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Seven,” you admitted, pulling down your sleeves as casually as you could manage. Your knuckles were still scarred, bruises blooming beneath. “It would’ve just been five, but the two younger ones—I told them to stand down but I guess they thought they could take me.”

Bet they underestimated you, Sam thought. 

“How old were they?” Sam asked.

“Probably barely out of their teens,” You shrugged. “They were involved, but… they were scared. Probably in too deep to see another way out. I had to put them down, but I pulled my punches. You know the drill.”

Sam tilted his head, knowing firsthand what it’s like. “That can’t be easy.”

You looked at him and shrugged. “It’s not.”

Joaquin, on the other hand, was still practically vibrating in his seat. “I just don’t get how you’re so effective without even being—” He gestured vaguely. “You know. Mean.”

You blinked. “Mean?”

“Yeah, like… I kinda thought you’d be scarier.”

Bucky snorted into his drink. “She is scary.”

Joaquin shot him a skeptical look. “Dude. She just apologised for taking the last bread roll.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “She’s polite. That doesn’t mean she won’t put you in the ground.”

Joaquin turned to you. “Would you?”

You tilted your head, considering. “If you threatened Bucky, maybe.”

Sam let out a laugh, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” He said, “How do you go from that”— he made a concerning stabby gesture— “to this?”

He wasn’t wrong. Sometimes, even Bucky had to admit that the contrast was ridiculous.

You sighed, picking at your food. “Because after all that I just wanna go home.”

Joaquin raised a brow. “And do what? Train?”

“No, I wanna be a gremlin,” you said, amused. “I wanna wear my pajamas, turn off my phone, and pretend I don’t know what daylight is.”

Bucky grinned, nudging your foot under the table. “Tell ‘em about the crafts, sweetheart.”

You shot him a look, but Bucky just smirked.

Joaquin looked up. “Crafts?”

You let out a deep breath, feeling your face heat up. “I, um. I like making things.”

Sam’s brows furrowed. “Like… what?”

Sam had no idea he was about to sit through a thirty-minute lecture on yarn selection.

Strangely, he kind of enjoyed it.

—

By the end of the night, you had warmed up to them both.

Sam had never seen anything like it—you were quiet, sure, but once you got comfortable, you were easy to talk to. It felt… so at odds with the stories he’d heard about you.

And when Joaquin offhandedly mentioned that he’d always wanted to learn how to crochet, your eyes lit up.

“Oh! I could teach you,” you said, eyes jumping to your feet. “It’s actually very relaxing after sending seven human traffickers to a hospital.”

Joaquin choked on his drink, but had a delighted grin on his face. “Yeah?”

“I’ll give you the basics now.” You turned, holding out a hand. “Jamie, can you pass me the yarn?”

Sam could’ve sworn he heard the record scratch in real-time.

Jamie?

The only two people who had ever called Bucky by any variety of his first name were his therapist and Zemo, and Bucky hated both.

But when you said it, Bucky just… melted.

No grumbling. No don’t call me thats.

Just a look of hopeless adoration as he grabbed the yarn and handed it over like a man under a spell.

And so, with Alpine curled up on Bucky’s lap, you spent the next twenty minutes patiently teaching Joaquin how to crochet.

“Okay, so start by making a slipknot,” you instructed.

Joaquin followed your movements, tongue out like it would help his concentration. “Like this?”

“Just tighten it a little.”

Bucky watched with his chin propped on his fist, looking so ridiculously in love that Sam actually had to look away for a second.

“Dude,” Joaquin said, still focused on his stitches. “Your girlfriend is my new best friend.”

Bucky shrugged. “Get in line.”

Joaquin grinned at you. “Hey, if I can’t do it myself, will you make me a glove or something’?”

Before you could answer, Bucky cut in, “No.”

You looked at your boyfriend. “No?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “I had to earn my sweater. Torres doesn’t get free stuff.”

Sam stared at him. “I can’t believe you own a handmade sweater.”

Bucky shrugged. “Several, actually.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I don’t know who you are anymore.”

Bucky just smiled, reaching for your hand, tracing slow circles against your palm.

“Yeah, you do.”

And Sam, watching the way Bucky looked at you, like you were the best thing to ever happen to him, had to admit—

Yeah.

He did.

-end.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @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

thee smoke was dense and thick, making it almost impossible to see within five feet. the smell of sulfur and concrete filled the nostrils of the ‘new avengers’.

new york has seen yet another attack, this time by another outer space alien thingy that bucky couldn’t remember.

there’s a dreadful silence between the group, all stuck in their own minds, trying to figure out just what went wrong. how they got defeated so quickly.

he stood with his hands on his hips, trying to regain his breath after being slammed into a plethora of floors from one of the skyscrapers.

ava hunched over holding her midsection while also trying to catch her breath. yelena, leaning against a fallen slab of a building while clenching her arm. walker, somewhere else, blowing off steam as his shield was snapped in half, and alexei going on some sort of rant.

“it’s fine, this fine” the broody older man speaks, his thick accent grating against buckys ears. “everybody get up!” the red guardian claps, trying to pump up the group. “we are the thunderbolts!!!”

yelena rolls her eyes, keeping a hand pressed on her arm, “dad, stop”. she looks at the man with sharp eyes. they say optimism is good to have on a team, but alexei had too much. it often got annoying.

turning a corner, walker, stuffing something in his suit pocket, looks to the others. “we’ve been compromised.”

ava stands, crossing her arms. “what?” she looks between bucky and yelena, who have the same look on their face. it isn’t dread, it isn’t worry, it’s something much worse.

alexei mutters some swear words in russian under his breath. and for a moment, no one knows what to do. they aren’t a team, they have no backup, and bucky knows that sam won’t help him.

yet again, he’s alone.

“well, what now?” ava asks, her attention trained on the white widow. “ah!” alexei holds up his fingers, then snaps, carrying a proud look on his face. “a safe house!”

everyone pauses, stealing glances at each other with a blank expression. clearly growing tired of the red guardians persona. “oh, you’ve got to be kidding me..” ava exasperates, before taking a few steps away from the group.

bucky contemplates for a moment, hes staring off at the gray rubble beneath his black boots. he only had a handful of options, one of those being sam. as he was not on the best terms with sam, he figured his last option would suffice. you.

“i know a place.”

the sun was just rising, its misty rays barely peeking through the thick fog. the air was cool and damp, the ground beneath covered with an early morning dew. a cabin tucked away amidst the trees stood silent and still, as if waiting to welcome the day.

the trees surrounding the cabin were barely visible through the dense fog, their leaves shimmering with dewdrops like tiny jewels on their green surfaces. the air was silent, save for the soft sound of the nearby river.

stepping off the quinjet, bucky stopped at the edge of the ramp, looking at his home he shared with you. he felt happy to be back home, but a part of him dreaded the following events.

bucky knew he was risking everything by bringing the others to his home, to you. someone who bucky made sure to keep hidden from everyone. he didn’t do it because he was ashamed or didn’t love you, but he did it because i loved you so much. it was better to keep you off file and off record, for your safety.

if anything happened to you, bucky would’ve surely lost his mind.

“why the hell are we at a cabin, bucky?” walker quips, following the other super soldier. “we can’t go on vacation now.”

“shut up, walker,” bucky snaps, shooting a glaring look over his shoulder as he waits for the rest of the others to fall in behind him. “what are we doing here? we clearly need a safe house,” yelena chimes in, ava and alexei adding something under their breaths.

bucky can already feel himself getting agitated with the anti-heroes. it’s hard enough working with people that collectively cannot get along, it was doomed from the veining. “it’s safe, just trust me.”

crossing the threshold of the dark oak cabin, the scent of fresh laundry mixed with mahogany, vanilla, and cashmere filled his nostrils, and in an instant, the tension in his shoulders dropped.

home. the living room was cleaned, and a few blankets on the leather sofa. you must've napped. a few records scattered around the record table, one still on the turntable, but the record had stopped playing long ago.

“baby? i’m home!” he calls out, not seeing any sign of your presence as he steps into the living room. it’s quiet, almost too quiet. bucky steps further in. “baby doll?”

the team steps in hesitantly, their hands hovering over whatever they have to defend themselves with. sharing puzzled glances with each other as bucky calls out to you.

you emerge from the stairway with a laundry basket on your hip. a quiet gasp gets caught in your throat as your eyes look past your boyfriend and see his co-workers. “what the..” you mutter, your eyes finally landing on bucky. “bucky?”

“we had nowhere else to go,” he explains, the wear and tear of fighting visible on his body. his eyes hold even more exhaustion than he let on.

you drop the laundry basket on the sofa and approach him, he hopes his arms and pulls you in, pressing a kiss on the top of your head.

yelena interrupts, “Im sorry..” the blonde holds out her hands, nose crunching with confusion. “what the hell is happening here?”

“yeah..what the hell is this?” walker stands behind yelena, his arms crossed now.

“guys, meet my girlfriend, y/n,” he introduced, holding you by his side. his thumb rubbing up and down your shoulders.

“hi..” you smile, holding up your hand to wave awkwardly. your freehand wrapping around buckys midsection.

the team is left speechless, all mouths are open, but no words are formed.

“girlfriend?!” yelena is flabbergasted, her eyes almost popping out of her head.

“oh! this is wonderful!! alexei is pushing past the other three, walking towards you with a big, dopey smile. “young love!” he cheered, clapping loudly.

you laugh awkwardly, again, because what do you do when the avengers are standing in your house?

“buck?” you look up at him, he had a less than amused look on his face.

“we just need some place to lay low, get patched up. i didn’t know what else to do.”

“ah, okay,” you pat his chest playfully, an amused laugh coming from you. “i can help with that.”

“girlfriend…” walker whispers as you begin leading the group downstairs to a makeshift med bay.

That was odd. No one would’ve guessed that Bucky Barnes even liked flowers.

What was even odder was that this infinitely grumpy, emotionally constipated, “I hate people” supersoldier — would be capable of flirting.

With the florist.

With you.

“Are we seeing this right?” Yelena whispered, elbowing Alexei as they peered through the shop window after Bucky made them wait outside. 

They watched as Bucky stood by the counter, leaning in ever so slightly, a charming grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you wrap a bouquet.

“He’s smiling,” Alexei muttered, horrified.

Inside, Bucky reached for the bouquet you were tying up, his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You playfully smacked his hand away, laughing. He laughed, too, and that was enough to send Yelena spiraling into an existential crisis.

Yelena squinted. “He’s flirting.”

Alexei frowned. “Bucky does not flirt.”

“I know. That’s why I’m freaking out.”

They watched as you handed him the bouquet, and in return, Bucky gave you a wink. And then he turned, walking out like he hadn’t just transformed into a different person.

That was when Yelena, utterly horrified Yelena, caught a flash of gold on your ring finger. She squinted her eyes. It was unmistakable. “Wait a second—”

As soon as he got back to them, Alexei folded his arms. “You were flirting.”

Bucky scoffed. “I was not.”

“She’s married!” Yelena accused, pointing dramatically. “She had a ring! You flirted with a married woman!”

Bucky didn’t even blink. He simply shrugged, tucking the bouquet carefully under his arm. “I didn’t see a ring.”

“She was literally wearing it—”

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky insisted, tugging absentmindedly at the chain around his neck— the one that held his dog tags, hidden under his shirt.

Yelena and Alexei exchanged a deeply disturbed look.

Bucky Barnes was flirting with a married florist.

What was the world coming to?

—

Bucky knew he’d fucked up the second he stepped back into Thunderbolts HQ. 

Alexie had just looked confused, while Yelena had been simmering the entire walk back, her arms crossed so tightly over her chest it was a miracle she hadn’t snapped a rib. 

She lasted exactly two seconds before she exploded. “You are jackass, Barnes!”

Bucky barely had time to sigh before she stomped closer.

“What’s so wrong with what I did?” he muttered, placing the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase

Yelena let out an incredulous laugh, pacing in front of him like a caged tiger ready to strike. “What’s wrong?” she echoed, her accent thickening with rage. “You flirted with a married woman! I should punch you in the face on principle!”

From the lounge, John Walker looked up from whatever government-issued nonsense he was pretending to read. His brows immediately furrowed, his eyes twisting into the signature disapproving dad look he’d perfected. “Wait, what?”

Ava, who had been drinking tea in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “This is scandalous,” she murmured, eyes brightening with intrigue.

Alexei, who was now plopped on the couch like some washed-up, Soviet-era king, said, “If a man had flirted with my wife like that, I would have hunt him down and mount his head on wall.” He crossed his arms, nodding to himself in approval. “As is tradition.”

Bucky scowled. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh?” Yelena snorted, “So you were just undressing her with your eyes for fun, then?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s just how I look at people.”

Alexie shook his head. “So you look at us like that?”

Bucky opened his mouth. Then immediately shut it.

Yelena’s hands curled into fists. “Yeah. Thought so.”

John’s arms crossed over his chest in that holier-than-thou stance that he was so famous for. “Look, man, I’m married. And if someone flirted with my wife, we’d have a problem.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Nothing?” Yelena threw up her hands. “She’s married, Bucky!”

“Okay, even if I was flirting,” Bucky turned to her, exasperated— “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her scalp like she was resisting the urge to rip out her own hair. “You probably chose to look away!”

John sighed like a disappointed youth pastor. “This is unbelievable.”

“No,” Bucky still insisted, “I didn’t see a ring.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped. “It was a thick gold band, Barnes. How could you not see it?”

Ava, who was clearly enjoying the drama more than anyone, sighed. “That is inappropriate behaviour, Barnes.”

Alexei shook his head again, “You should apologise.”

“I’m not apologising,” Bucky scoffed, “Because I did nothing wrong.”

His fingers toyed absentmindedly with the chain that led to his dog tags, and Yelena immediately locked onto the movement. Every person has a tell, a habit they did when they were nervous. And being a super spy, Yelena knew this was his.

She narrowed her eyes. “You are gaslighting us,” she muttered, pacing again like she was mentally weighing the pros and cons of strangling a super soldier.

“I didn’t see a ring,” Bucky repeated, his voice steady.

“You’re lying,” she snapped.

He shrugged, maddeningly casual in all of this chaos. “Guess we’ll never know.”

Ava laughed cynically. “I can’t tell if you’re a complete scumbag or if this is just really fun for you.”

Bucky just popped a beer from the fridge, flicking the cap off with his metal hand. “Why not both?”

He took a long sip of his beer, completely unbothered.

And maybe, he looked a little bit too smug.

—

Three weeks later, Bucky led Yelena and John on a mission to take down a high-scale arms dealer.

And, as always, the mission had gone sideways.

It was too late for any shops to be open, too late for anyone with a shred of common sense to be out on the streets. 

Yelena was bleeding, pressing a torn scrap of fabric against a deep gash on her arm. John had a busted lip and a slight limp. Bucky was sporting a few cuts and bruises himself, but nothing he hadn’t shaken off a thousand times before.

“Guys,” Yelena managed a grunt, shifting her grip on her makeshift bandage, “we need to get ourselves patched up before one of us drops dead.”

“We ran out of antiseptics back at HQ,” John reminded them.

Yelena groaned, throwing her head back in despair. “So what are we supposed to do?” She gritted out, “Just bleed out in the street like sad little orphans?”

John scowled. “That’s a little dramatic.”

Yelena turned and glared at him. “Your face is dramatic.”

Bucky let out a deep breath through his nose, running a hand along his damp hair. He glanced around the street, making sure they weren’t being followed before whispering to himself, “Guess we’re doing this now.”

Yelena tilted her head. “Doing what?”

Instead of answering, Bucky turned on his heel and started walking.

John and Yelena gave each other a wary look.

“I don’t like when he does that,” John said.

“No one does,” Yelena agreed, but they both followed anyway. 

It didn’t take long for them to recognise the route— ​​It was the neighbourhood where the team usually got coffee.

But Bucky wasn’t heading to the café.

They rounded the corner, and suddenly John stopped dead in his tracks.

It was a closed florist—the very one where Bucky had, allegedly, been trying to charm his way into a married woman’s bed.

To John’s absolute horror, Bucky walked right up to the door and knocked.

“Bucky.” He said, voice strangled. “What the hell is this?”

Yelena blinked. “I don’t think we need to seduce a married florist to get medical supplies.”

Bucky sighed, rubbing his temples like he was already regretting this decision. He turned to them, leveling them both with a look. “Alright, listen up,” he said through gritted teeth. "The secret’s out now, so you two gotta keep your mouths shut.”

John’s brows furrowed. “What secret?”

Before Bucky could answer, the door to the flower shop clicked open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway, wrapped in one of Bucky’s hoodies, looking exactly how he’d expected: exasperated but unsurprised. He knew you’d still be up, cataloguing the latest floral shipment for tomorrow’s arrangements.

The second your eyes landed on a bruised and bloodied Bucky, and flanked by two wounded Thunderbolts, no less—you let out a sigh.

“James,” you said knowingly, your voice laced with fond irritation. “What did you do?”

Yelena and John froze in their tracks.

James?

James?

No one called Bucky by his first name. No one. Not unless they had a death wish.

Bucky, unfazed, just stepped inside. “We ran out of antiseptics, honey.”

Yelena and John exchanged a wide-eyed look.

Honey?

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Again?”

Bucky shrugged like this was a perfectly normal Thursday night occurrence.

You muttered under your breath, “I should’ve known this would happen when I married an ex-assassin.”

Oh.

Yelena’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Married.” she repeated

John blinked rapidly. “This is why we can never go to your place?”

Bucky could only shrug. Of course it was— they would have seen the evidence of how much love in his home was carved out for just you.

John let out a wheeze.

Yelena pointed between you and Bucky, motioning erratically. “Wait. WAIT. So—so she’s your wife? She married you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yup.”

“Like—actually married?”

“Mhm.”

Yelena gasped, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. In a way, she had. “And no one knows?”

Bucky thought for a second. “Sam does.”

“And Joaquin,” you added, trying to be helpful.

Bucky nodded. “Right. Joaquin.”

“Oh, and Isaiah and Elijah Bradley.”

“Yeah, they were at the wedding.”

“A teenager knew about this,” John’s eye twitched, “—and we didn’t?”

Bucky could only nod again.

Yelena rubbed a hand down her face, “You gaslit us,” she accused, jabbing a finger at Bucky. “You let us believe you were a homewrecker for weeks—when you were married the whole time?!”

You snorted, glancing at Bucky, who had the audacity to look smug. “Yeah, that sounds like my husband.”

Yelena let out a string of very creative Russian curses.

John looked like he was about to have a stroke. 

“All secrets aside,” you said, welcoming the two disoriented Thunderbolts in and locking the door behind you, “It’s good to finally meet you both.”

John still looked like he was buffering. Yelena, on the other hand, was vibrating with adrenaline, looking like she was trying to solve a conspiracy theory in real time.

“This is—this is insane,” she muttered, pointing aggressively at Bucky, then at you, then back at Bucky. “You’re—you’re so normal.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’d like to think so.”

Bucky just hummed. “She’s perfect.”

Yelena actually sputtered like an old car engine.

John made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a strangled laugh. This was all too much.

But there wasn’t time to let them spiral further. Bucky, gently nudged you toward the others. “Take care of them first, darling. They’ve got worse injuries.”

You frowned, wanting to protest—because, really, Bucky should always be your first priority—but your husband was nothing if not stubborn. You knew better than to argue when he had that look in his eyes— you knew that fighting him on this would only drag things out longer, and right now, time was precious.

You turned your attention to Yelena and John, motioning for them to follow you deeper into the shop. The scent of lavender, roses, and freshly cut stems—clung to the air as you led them toward the back, where your little work table stood tucked in the corner.

Years of practice had made you quick. You moved with quiet efficiency, gathering supplies from neat shelves: you cut and split an aloe vera plant for burns, grabbed bandages, and a mix of balms you’d perfected over your time tending to Bucky. It wasn’t the kind of sterile, military-grade first aid they were used to, but it would have to do for now.

You started tending to Yelena’s arm, gently dabbing the wound with fresh aloe. She hissed through her teeth before narrowing her eyes at you.

“So how long has this been a thing?” she demanded. Bucky, now leaning lazily against the counter with his arms crossed, barely spared her a glance. “A while.”

John scoffed, “A while?”

You bit back a grin as you smoothed a bandage over Yelena’s arm, “Three years.”

Yelena’s jaw dropped.

“Three—” She turned to Bucky so fast it was a miracle she didn’t give herself whiplash. “You’ve been married for three years?!”

John let out a long, defeated groan,This was simply too much to process. “Fuck’s sake.”

Yelena shook her head. “I thought you were a loner who hated people."

Bucky only shrugged, unbothered. 

You chuckled as you pressed the last piece of medical tape into place on Yelena’s arm. “Alright, you’re done.” Then, glancing at John, you motioned for him to sit. “Your turn.”

John sighed but still plopped down. You took his hand gently, turning it over to examine his bruised knuckles before moving to his busted lip.

Meanwhile, they kept peppering you with questions, barely giving you room to breathe.

“How did you meet?”

“How do you put up with Bucky’s brooding?”

“Does he ever actually smile?”

At that last one, you paused, dabbing at John’s lip carefully. “He smiles all the time.”

John let out a scoff. “No, he doesn’t.”

You glanced over at Bucky, knowing he showed that part of him to you and no one else. “Oh, he does.”

And then, finally, it was Bucky’s turn.

You turned to him, your brows knitting together as you studied the little cuts on his cheek, the dried blood near his brows. He looked a little tired, a little worn around the edges. 

Your fingers found his chin, tilting his face toward you as you inspected the damage. Your touch was so featherlight, so incredibly careful. There was no missing the way your thumb brushed over his cheekbone— how incredibly gentle it was.

“You should’ve let me do you first,” you murmured, half-scolding, half-concerned.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, a flicker of mischief lighting his tired blue eyes. “That’s exactly what you said last night, sweetheart.”

John choked.

Yelena groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow from the nearest chair and hurling it at Bucky’s head. “You two are disgusting.”

Bucky caught the pillow effortlessly, giving her a smug grin before setting it aside. When his eyes found yours again, his shit-eating grin turned… lovely. The tension in his brows eased as you dabbed gently at his cut. 

For all the blood, for all the bruises, you handled him like he was glass.

And then, without thinking, you leaned in.

It was meant to be a brief kiss— a quick reassurance, a way of saying I’ve got you. But the moment your lips brushed his, you couldn’t help but linger.

Your fingers curled instinctively against his chin. His hand found your waist without hesitation, as if he needed you closer. As if the world shrank down to just the two of you. 

John and Yelena exchanged a look, the previous horror of their teammate hiding a secret wife momentarily forgotten because this was… weirdly cute.

You giggled as you pulled away, seeing Bucky looking at you like you hung the moon for him. 

“Anywhere else?” you asked, brushing your thumb over his lips.

Bucky hesitated just for a second. Then, a little sheepishly, he said, “Got a cut on my ribs.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. Of course he did. Before he could argue, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged.

“Off,” you said simply.

Bucky huffed but didn’t fight you. He lifted his arms, letting you strip the fabric from his skin, and goddamn.

Bucky, half-naked, was unfairly, ridiculously beautiful. Even now, even after all this time, seeing him like this still knocked the breath from your lungs. His body was a roadmap of battles fought and survived, scars carved into the expanse of his chest and ribs that told stories only he could say. 

John made a strangled sound, somewhere between “Jesus Christ” and “I need to leave the room,” but you ignored him completely. Yelena let out a dramatic sigh and whispered “they are one second away from sucking each other’s face off,” to herself.

You tuned them both out, fingers dragging carefully over Bucky’s ribs, searching for the wound. When you found a thin jagged cut just below his ribs— you sighed softer this time and reached for the aloe.

“You need to stop getting hurt, my love,” you said, smoothing the cool gel over his skin.

Bucky’s voice came quieter. “Lucky I have someone to take care of me, then.”

And that’s when Yelena finally noticed it.

The thin chain around Bucky’s neck—one she’d always assumed was just for his dog tags—held something else, too.

A ring.

A simple wedding band that matched yours, worn from years of resting against his skin.

She blinked, realisation hitting her like a freight train. Oh.

That’s why he always played with it.

Every time Bucky was nervous, every time he was uncertain, his fingers would move to that chain—not just to fiddle with his tags, but to remind himself of you.

Maybe he wasn’t a complete jackass after all.

-end.

Note: Hope this doesn't bite me in the ass when the movie comes out.

General Bucky taglist:

@hotlinepanda @snflwr-vol6 @ruexj283 @2honeybees @read-just-cant

 @shanksstrawhat @mystictf @globetrotter28 @thebuckybarnesvault@average-vibe

@winchestert101 @mystictf @globetrotter28 @shanksstrawhat @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

“This is for you.”

Twelve-year-old Bucky Barnes looked up from the wriggling worm on the ground and squinted his eyes against the blinding sun. The sky of Brooklyn was the color of his eyes today, bright and vast as if someone had splashed a painter's brush across the horizon. Under the stretch of blue, his gaze landed on you—the new girl at school, the one his classmates had been whispering about since Mr. Morris decided to take everyone out to the park for today's PE lesson. 

Johnny Hurst told Bucky that you were the prettiest dame he had ever seen.

And boy, if the punk weren't telling the truth.

Bucky's eyes flitted over you from head to toe—taking in the slight tilt of your head, the subtle curve of your lips, and the worn blouse that clung to you at least half a size too big—before they finally landed on the hand outstretched towards him.

“What's this?” he asked.

“It's a flower.”

“I can see that.”

Abandoning the worm, Bucky rose to his feet and brushed the dust off his slacks. You observed his movements with fervor, your hand still curling around the yellow daffodil as if its petals held the cosmic tethers that kept the entire universe from falling apart.

You extended your palm further, positioning the flower directly under his nose until he could smell the fragrance caressing his cheeks.

“It's for you,” you repeated.

Bucky's eyes flicked twice between your face and the daffodil. “Is this a trick?”

“No.”

“Someone put you up to this?”

“No.”

“Where'd you get the flower?”

“From there.”

Bucky's eyes followed the direction of your finger, spotting the daffodil bushes located just a few paces ahead. Not in full bloom yet, but nearly. A golden oasis in the midst of a playground of gray and trampled grass.

You turned towards him again, your expression remaining unchanged as you told him, “I picked it up from the ground.”

Bucky stared at the daffodil in silence. “You're giving me a wilted flower?”

“It's not wilted.”

There was a shadow appearing in the center of your forehead. Your fingertips twitched where they hovered attentively around the yellow petals, as though the accusation had offended you, as though Bucky had spoken blasphemy against the flower by calling it wilted.

“It's been on the ground,” Bucky pointed out.

“So? It simply fell off. Doesn't mean it's wilted.”

“Ain't that the same thing?”

“No.” You pouted, your forehead creasing deeper as your hand cradled the daffodil closer to your chest. “A wilted flower is dead. It doesn't have any love remaining inside it. This flower is not like that.”

And then, like some kind of switch had been flipped, you angled your head towards him—entwining his eyes with your steadfast gaze, rendering his legs motionless with the sight of a brilliant grin stretching across your beautiful face.

“This flower still has a lot of love to give to the world,” you proclaimed.

Bucky's heart stuttered.

It must have been a premonition from the heavens when Bucky's arm began lifting of its own accord, receiving the daffodil from your hand and relishing in the elated hum that the gesture elicited. The petals were delicate against the skin of his palm, and Bucky suddenly feared the possibility of crushing them due to his overt carelessness.

“She's yours now.” You beamed, swaying slightly on your feet as your hands clapped in infectious joy. “She'll give you all of her love if you promise to take care of her.”

His lips quirked. “It's a she?”

“Of course,” you replied, the sun glinting radiantly in your pupils. “All the beautiful things in life are a she.”

Bucky couldn't find it in himself to argue.

He watched you leave with heart on his sleeve, bewitched by the ribbon of your laughter dancing in the wind. His fingers curled protectively around the yellow daffodil, his heart singing in tandem with the rhythm of your skipping feet echoing through the earth.

“Hey!” Bucky called out. You stopped halfway in your tracks, smiling at him from the distance like his wildest daydreams made into flesh. “Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why'd you decide to give the flower to me?”

The grin on your face widened, and Bucky—bless his heart—thought for a moment that his entire limbs might collapse.

A breeze rustled the surrounding trees, cavorting around until it floated across your cheeks. You stumbled back a step upon its intrusion, your eyes peering shyly under the harsh judgment of the sun. And yet, your smile prevailed—still soft as a wisp, still managing to make Bucky's chest alight with something more precarious than a raging flame.

“Cause you're handsome,” you answered at last, the sound of your giggles resonating throughout the air and straight into Bucky's soul. “Take good care of her, James Buchanan Barnes.”

Blue eyes trailed along as you disappeared around the hedge, remnants of your melodic voice still dithering in the sky, a gentle lull against the wild thumping of his heart. As the world settled into its insipid normal, Bucky Barnes knew that there were two things of which he was absolutely certain.

One: the flower in his hand had now become the most prized possession in his otherwise monotone life.

And two: he had actually never told you his name.

Somehow, Bucky found that he didn't quite mind both.

“Say, handsome. Any chance you could tell a girl where to find a good time around here?”

Bucky hadn't even turned when the smile broke across his lips. 

His soul meandered towards your voice, his heart leaping out of its cage as he took in your entire figure for the first time that night—flowy dress and red lipstick, platform heels and a pair of lips that looked like they held whispers of a secret he would spend a lifetime trying to unravel. Your own smile blinded him as you approached closer, the cadence of your steps a harmonious symmetry with the surrounding ruckus of the carnival. 

“I'd show you a good time, doll.” He smirked once you stood in front of him, your chin tilting up in a way that made Bucky want to drop to his knees and worship the ground you had walked on. “All you gotta do is ask.”

“Really? Just ask?” You hummed, fluttering your lashes and sending a whole swing band loose in Bucky’s gut. “Shame. Here I thought I'd bargain a smooch for your company. Guess I'll just have to give it to someone else, then.”

You didn't have a chance to turn before Bucky yanked you back towards him, firm fingers curling around your wrist like a ship finally mooring to land. He swallowed your surprised yelp with a kiss, devouring your gasps as if the two of you weren't standing under caramel-slicked air and a parade of balloons and shrieks.

“Quit jokin’ about kissing someone else, sweetheart,” he rasped against your lips, fingers resolute where they squeezed around your hip. “Lest you're lookin’ to see me die of a heart attack.”

Your smile bloomed. “Then why don't you kiss me some more, Buck?”

He was more than happy to oblige.

His lips found yours again, slower this time, savoring every second as if he were living on borrowed time. The world around you faded away into an abstract background, centering you in the moment, where everything you yearned and cared for was the hint of sugar you could taste on your boyfriend's lips.

When the two of you parted for the second time, Bucky studied your face as though memorizing a miracle right before his very eyes. It made something stir in the depth of your chest.

“Got you something,” Bucky admitted, excitement and joy spilling out of his skin.

You waited patiently as he reached into his pocket, pulling out an eyeglass case that made your eyebrows pinch in wonder—since when did he wear glasses? But before you could ask, Bucky was already opening the lid, and the view of its content managed to coax a gasp of awe from somewhere within your ribs.

“Bucky, this is amazing.”

You picked up the tiny arrangement between your pointer and middle fingers, admiring the way the flowers were bound together into a miniscule bouquet. They were tethered to one another by a string of stem and twine, a thread of nature and mankind, existing side by side in an eternal waltz that fate had bestowed upon them.

Your chest tapered, bringing the tiny bouquet closer to your heart as you captured the giddy blue of Bucky’s eyes. “You made this yourself?”

“I did.” Bucky nodded, his chest inflating in a pale delight. “Well, Becca helped. Who could've guessed that tying a yarn around flower stems required nimble fingers, huh?”

You laughed along, concealing the way your insides were melting into a puddle as if this weren't the nicest gesture anyone had ever done for you.

“Ma gave me an earful when she saw me in the garden, dirt on my hands and knees, lookin’ for fallen blossoms. Said I'd better get some proper flowers for my girl if I didn't want her runnin’ off with another fella.” Bucky chuckled. “But I told her this was more special. After all, these buds ain't wilted yet, which means—”

“They still got love to give,” you whispered, void of air and yet brimming with boisterous affection. You kissed his chin and rewarded him a grin. “You know who else got love to give, Buck?” 

Bucky laughed, that rare, beautiful sound that always seemed too big for the world to hold. He cupped your cheek like he was holding a precious porcelain, leaning closer until your foreheads rested against one another.

"Yeah, sweetheart." He breathed, nudging his nose to yours. "I sure as hell do.”

“Mission report,” a voice commanded.

In the center of the room, the Soldat sat on a throne made of metal and terror. A cushion designed not for rest, but for bearing witness to the drips of blood pooling beneath restraint-bound limbs. Other soldiers stood all around the room, their cowardice louder than their breathing, their backs refusing to peel from the walls as if it could absolve them of their complicity.

The quiet stretched.

Out of the shadows, the tall, fiendish man emerged, carrying the kind of cruelty that even hell would cower from. He examined the Soldat and raised his eyebrows, noting down the asset's lack of response—an observation for later, an error to repair as if the Soldat had been a mere machine instead of a living soul.

The man stepped closer, repeating himself with a bellowing voice that would beckon the dead from their graves, “Mission report, Soldat.”

Still no answer.

The tension sweltered.

“What's wrong with him?” another man chimed in.

The first one shook his head, his mind already gearing, going through the motions on how he could pick apart and assemble the Soldat into something new, something better. But before he could jot down the evil plan on his notepad, his gaze slid downward, spotting the defensive curl of the Soldat's flesh fist hidden partly by his right thigh.

“There is something in his hand.”

The second man sprung into action, approaching the chair and demanding the frozen man on it to unclench his fingers, now. But the Soldat didn't move, not even a single indication to acknowledge the receival of the command. Even when the smack thundered across his cheek, the Soldat continued to stand his ground, a show of defiance through the very last thing he could still afford.

“Soldat.” The first man attempted again, a cold edge coursing through his words. “Give us what's in your hand before we put you back in the cryo.”

The Soldat didn't say anything, but his fingers flexed—just a tiny bit—though it was enough to help the second man pry the mysterious object out of the Soldat's hand.

“What is it?” the first man asked, a hint of impatience leaking through his practiced image.

“It's, uh… It's…” the second man stammered. 

He turned his palm around, confusion palpable in his eyes as he showed his colleague the mysterious object that the Soldat had guarded with more ferocity than any weapon they’d ever placed in his hands.

A slightly crumpled yellow daffodil.

“It's a flower?” the first man nearly roared. “It was just a fucking wilted flower?”

“It's not wilted.”

The room fell into an instantaneous hush. Every pair of eyes inside ambled towards the center of the room, towards the assassin who had just decided to break his silence over the trivial matter of flowers.

The first man turned towards the Soldat with a menacing stare, his eyes a pair of blades as he stepped closer towards the seat of torture, studying the Soldat who was still sitting stiffly as if awaiting the next round of nightmares. But beneath the blue eyes, usually steely and cold, something else had clawed its way through—something fiery and reckless, something akin to humanity.

The first man sneered, turning to the entire room to bark his orders, “Wipe him. And put him in the ice until further notice.”

People moved in a flurry of limbs as soon as the instruction had settled. Amidst the havoc, everybody failed to notice the silent tick of the Soldat's jaw, the scintillating shift of his pupils as unsolicited hands forced him back against the chair, strapping his entire body with restraints that felt more like burning coals against an expanse of skin.

The Soldat kept his eyes trained on the drab surface of the ceiling, bracing himself for the pain to come, for the same searing agony that had muddled his brain far too many times to count. He wouldn't remember much afterwards—wouldn't remember how desperately he kept wishing for death in those horrifying moments—but he would certainly remember the fear. Thrumming under his skin like lightning against a drowning man's ribs.

At the first descent of the machine upon each side of his head, the Soldat suddenly heard it—the voice. 

The one who wasn't his own but sounded like a missing piece of his soul.

The one who always appeared in times when he needed an anchor and something to hold.

The one who had told him to pick up the daffodil while he was on the field.

“Take it,” the voice had adjured. “Take the flower. It's not wilted yet, it has simply just fallen.”

So he did.

And right now, the voice was returning once more, only this time, it didn't come alone.

It came with flashes—images.

An image of laughter and smiles, of promises and dreams. An image of two bodies tangled beneath the sheets, spent breaths and a humming pleasure rushing through bloodstreams.

It came with an image of you.

“It's gonna be alright,” you told him, so gentle and kind that he almost believed it. “Everything's gonna be alright, honey. I'm right here with you.”

The machine awakened with an ominous snarl, triggering a low whine inside his skull, rising gradually until it split the edges of his mind apart. He tried to hold onto something, anything, but there was nothing left inside him except for scraps of bones and a heart mangled beyond any devastation the world could ever imagine.

He was no one. 

No name. No face. No soul. 

Just a body, wired and broken, as mechanical as the chair he sat upon.

As good as wilted.

“You're not wilted.”

The Soldat blinked.

“You've merely fallen, honey,” you assured, smiling so sweetly he could almost taste it on his tongue. “Fallen things aren't wilted. And fallen things—oh, sweetheart—they still have so much more love to give.”

“You dropped one, Sarah.”

Bucky bent down to pick up the flower on the floor, the one that had fatedly fallen from the bouquet of fragrance and colors that Sam's sister was currently moving to a clear vase. The petals fluttered like silk on the skin of Bucky's palm, and his knees nearly gave out from underneath him when he finally took a proper look at the blossom in his grasp.

A yellow daffodil.

“Just throw it away, Buck,” Sarah said from her place in the kitchen. She crumpled the parchment wrapper of the bouquet before throwing it into the bin, the arrangement of flowers now sitting proudly on the kitchen counter. “It's been on the ground, anyway.”

“Just ‘cause it's fallen, doesn't mean it's wilted yet.” Bucky sauntered towards the kitchen, stopping to position the bud amidst the array of petals and stems. “They still got a whole lot of love left to give, you know?”

Sarah's eyebrows rose.

Before she could comment on Bucky's surprising sentiment, Sam came striding into the house, his dark eyes immediately zeroing on the two people standing by the kitchen counter.

“What's this?” Sam asked, suspicion dripping from his voice. “Yo, man, I told you to stop flirting with my sis.”

“Nobody's flirting, Sam. We were just talking,” Bucky clarified. Then, just to ruffle Sam’s feathers, the super soldier flicked his gaze towards Sarah, tilting his lips in the way he used to do when he wanted to coax something out of you. “Right, Sarah?”

The woman giggled, and Bucky could almost beam in satisfaction at the imaginary smoke coming out of Sam's ears.

“He was just helping me, Sam,” Sarah told him. “One of the flowers fell, so he returned it to me.”

“Nuh uh. I don't believe that's all there is. That must be him tryna make a move. That was you making a move, isn't it?” Sam demanded, his gaze jerking aggressively between his sister and a smug Bucky. “What'd he tell you? Whatever it was, don't listen to it. Don't believe him. It's just a bunch of bullshit.”

“God, Sam, he didn't say anything.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “He just told me something about flowers. About how they aren't wilted if they fell, and… what was it again, Buck?”

The man tensed.

Bucky regained his composure in the blink of an eye, keeping the other two oblivious to the surge of turmoil that the simple question had sent. Keeping them in the dark about the way Bucky's heart had stumbled at the mere memory of your smile flaring across his mind and straight into his soul.

“It was nothing,” Bucky said. “Just a silly saying.”

“Oh, right!” Sarah snapped her fingers. “Fallen flowers still have lots of love to give.” She smiled proudly, eyes flickering towards Bucky with conspicuous excitement. “Was I right?”

Bucky's jaw clenched.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Sam questioned, his forehead knitting, vexation melting into incredulity. “That your game, Buck? Sounds lousy as hell.”

Bucky sighed. “Sam…”

“Did that kinda thing really work in the forties? ‘Cause damn, I could've been a real ladies man back then. Would've been so easy if all it took was one lame shit about flowers, and—hey, where you goin’?”

“Getting the hell away from you!”

Bucky heard Sam's laughter echoing from behind him, mocking and unaware of the wound in the former's chest that was beginning to crack and bleed all over the floor. The sound of your voice lingered in Bucky's mind, a ghost only he could hear, a cursed rapture that broke him apart at the seams before stitching him together all at once.

Before Bucky could exit the house, Sam's voice erupted again, “Hey! At least tell us how you got the idea for such a cheesy saying!”

You rolled your eyes but leaned forward anyway, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. He caught you halfway and turned it into a real kiss — slow, unhurried, the kind that made time feel irrelevant.

You sighed against his lips. “If you keep kissing me like that, we’re never gonna eat.”

“We can skip breakfast,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

“And deal with Sam’s ‘someone didn’t have their Wheaties’ speech again? No thanks.”

Bucky groaned and stepped back, reluctantly, while you hopped off the counter. You started prepping your coffee again, and he leaned close to watch.

“One scoop…” he counted aloud.

You snuck a glance at him and grinned. “Three.”

“Three?” he fake-gasped. “You planning to vibrate through walls?”

“Says the guy who had four yesterday.”

“Three and a half,” he corrected, deadpan.

You snorted. “Uh-huh. Keep lying to yourself, grandpa.”

He gave you a playful glare but said nothing, instead leaning over to steal one of your toast slices like a thief in the night.

And then — of course — the kitchen door swung open.

“Okay, what the hell is this domestic energy?” Sam’s voice boomed as he walked in. “Am I interrupting a rom-com or—?”

You and Bucky practically jumped apart like teenagers caught red-handed. You reached for the peanut butter like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Morning,” you both said, far too casually, far too in sync.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Weird. Anyway…”

He turned to Bucky, eyes narrowing as he opened the fridge. “You look grumpier than usual.”

“I always look like this.”

“That’s what worries me,” Sam said, pulling out the orange juice. “You need a little somethin’ in your life. A spark. Some romance.”

You snorted into your coffee. “Wow, subtle.”

Sam shot you a grin. “I’m serious, Bucky. You look miserable and I’m sick of it. Your need to get out there. Meet people. Real people. People who don’t, y’know, punch aliens for a living.”

“I’m not miserable,” Bucky muttered, taking a very aggressive bite of toast.

Sam ignored him. “You need someone to, like, hold your hand and remind you that the world isn’t complete garbage.”

“Y/N does that,” Bucky said before realizing. His eyes flicked to you. Yours widened slightly.

“Uh— I mean…” he coughed. “You could. You’re good at pep talks.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

But Sam was too busy with his phone to notice the weird energy. “Anyway, I’m gonna download Spark for you.”

“Oh no,” you whispered.

“Oh yes.” Sam grinned, typing furiously. “It’s like Tinder but for people who still believe in feelings.”

“Delete it,” Bucky said immediately.

“Too late. Already making your profile. Okay — full name?”

“Absolutely not.”

Sam looked up. “Fine, we’ll just put ‘Bucky B.’ You sound like a retired DJ. Age... one-oh-six... but we’ll round down to thirty-five. Close enough.”

You had to cover your mouth with your hand to stop from laughing. Bucky looked like he was actually malfunctioning.

“Give me your phone. I'm deleting it.”

“Nope.” Sam sidestepped him and kept typing. “Bio time. What do you want it to say? ‘Strong, silent, may or may not have trauma, will kill spiders for you’?”

“Sam.”

“Oh! And profile picture.” Sam’s grin went feral. “I’m gonna use the one from Clint’s barbecue.”

Bucky froze. “No. Not the one where—”

“Yup,” Sam said, turning the phone around dramatically. “The one where you’re smiling. A real smile. The people gotta see the goods, man.”

You wheezed. “That’s actually a really good picture.”

“It is,” Sam agreed, tapping to save the profile. “Now we wait. Trust me, you're gonna get matches faster than Tony blows money.”

Bucky looked physically pained.

And then… the phone buzzed.

“Oh snap — you already got a match! Girl named Olivia.” Sam said, scrolling like a man on a mission. “Look at this—she hikes, she volunteers at animal shelters. Honestly, Buck, she’s like a Hallmark movie in human form. You should totally message her.”

You blinked.

Something inside you twisted — that unwelcome, unmistakable burn of jealousy curling in your chest.

Bucky looked… surprised. And then cautious. “That was fast.”

“She’s cute,” Sam said, scrolling. “She said you have nice eyes. You should message her. Or better yet, go on a date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You forced a laugh. “Yeah, Buck. You should totally go.”

Bucky turned toward you slowly. His smile had faded into something softer. Thoughtful. He tilted his head, studying your face like it was a puzzle he was halfway through solving.

“…Maybe,” he said carefully, like he was testing the word.

You smiled a little too tightly. “Good for you.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, like he could see right through you.

You lasted approximately six hours before cracking. Not that you were counting.

You’d spent the day trying not to think about Olivia. Or her "kind eyes". Or the fact that Bucky had apparently matched with her in under a minute. Not that it mattered, obviously. You were cool. Chill. Entirely unaffected.

…Until Bucky found you in the hallway on your way back to your room, grabbed your hand, and wordlessly tugged you into his.

He shut the door behind you, arms crossed. He didn't look mad. Just… knowing.

You tried to play it cool. “If this is about the last cookie, I swear I thought it was mine.”

“It’s not about the cookie.”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “Then what?”

Bucky’s eyes didn’t waver. “You told me to go. Like it didn’t bother you.”

You scoffed lightly, trying to brush it off. “I was just being cool. Y’know, chill. Unbothered.”

“You were seething, doll.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “Okay, maybe a little. So what?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just watched you for a second, his silence pressing gently around your walls. Not demanding, not accusing — just waiting for you to be honest.

You exhaled and leaned back against the door. “I know I said it didn’t bother me, but the second Sam said you matched with someone, it was like—like my stomach dropped out.”

His brow furrowed, stepping closer.

You continued, voice softer. “I know you love me. I do. But the idea of someone else getting even a piece of you… I hated it. And that scared me. I didn’t want to be the clingy one or the insecure one or the girl who flips out over some dumb dating app.”

Bucky’s face softened completely. “Hey.”

He closed the gap and cupped your face in his hands, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“You are not insecure. You’re not clingy. You’re human. And you love me.” He kissed your forehead gently. “I want you to care.”

Your chest cracked wide open, and you let yourself lean into him.

“I don’t want to share you, Buck,” you whispered. “Not even a little.”

“You never have to,” he murmured. “You’ve got all of me. Always.”

“…So what about Olivia?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He shrugged. “I unmatched her hours ago. Right after you said good for you like you were trying not to cry.”

You gaped. “You what?”

Bucky smirked. “The only person I want… is you.”

Your heart stuttered, full and aching and impossibly light all at once. “Bucky—”

“You’ve had me from the moment you stole my henley and never gave it back.” His voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t have to be chill. You don’t have to play it cool. You already have all of me.”

Your laugh was shaky, but your smile was real. “Even if I get all weird over fictional matches on dating apps?”

He grinned. “Especially then.”

You leaned into him, your fingers curling around the hem of his shirt. “So you’re not going on a date with Olivia?”

“Nope,” he said, nuzzling your nose with his. “Unless you change your name and start volunteering at animal shelters.”

You snorted. “I would for you.”

Bucky kissed you then — sweet, slow, soft. The kind of kiss that made you forget all the awkward moments of the morning. The kind that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world.

You laughed into the kiss, your fingers curling around his shirt. “You absolute...”

“—Boyfriend material?” Bucky finished, hopeful.

You smiled, lighter than you had all day. “Absolutely.”

Somewhere down the hall, Sam shouted, “I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DELETED SPARK—!”

You broke apart, laughing breathlessly. “We should probably tell him.”

Bucky sighed into your neck. “Or we fake our deaths and disappear into the Alps.”

“Tempting.”