ruin the friendship
summary: The only thing Bucky can think about while captured in Azzano is that he should've kissed you before being shipped off. Now that he's back home he's not going to waste his second chance, that is until he finds out you're engaged. word count: 17.4k+ pairing: 40s!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: thank you to taylor swift for giving me the idea for this fic. i love 40s bucky and i haven't written for him much which is a crime because i want to squish his cheeks and kiss his face. anyways, here it is! also let's ignore the fact that i would not be legally allowed to marry bucky in the 40s since i am in fact a colored woman... this is fanfiction for a reason! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, 40s!bucky, bucky and steve survive, implied torture (but nothing graphic), reader is engaged, implied that bucky has ptsd/trauma from hydra, slow burn, yearning!bucky, soft!bucky, steve is kinda a third wheel (sorry steve), fluff, angst... like angst that hurts your heart, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, happy ending
Brooklyn, Winter 1943
The diner on the corner of 39th and Flatbush is nearly empty, save for the three of you crammed into a booth by the frosted window. The radiatorâs been clanking all morning, groaning like itâs got a personal grudge against the cold, but the coffeeâs hot, and the jukebox hums something slow and sweet in the background. Outside, the streetâs blanketed in slush, but inside, it smells like syrup and bacon greaseâthe kind of comfort that never quite leaves you, no matter how many things the world decides to take away.
Bucky sits across from you, one arm slung over the back of the booth, his uniform jacket half-unbuttoned despite the cold. Heâs been officially shipped out for months now, just home on a short break before heading back overseas. The dog tags around his neck clink every time he shifts, a tiny metallic reminder that youâre counting down borrowed time.
âYou gonna finish that?â he asks, nodding at the untouched half of your pancake stack. His grin is easy, practicedâthat same grin he used to use on every girl who batted her lashes at him on the boardwalk. Except with you, itâs softer somehow, the kind that makes your chest feel uncomfortably tight.
âYouâve already had three,â you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. âYou planning to eat the table too?â
âDonât tempt me,â he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.
Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. âOne day sheâs gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.â
âOne day,â Bucky agrees around a mouthful, âbut not today.â
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feelsâhow safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steveâs the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Buckyâs the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And youâyouâre the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.
âYou hear about that new Stark show next month?â Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. âSupposed to be even bigger than the last one.â
âYeah,â Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. âTheyâre doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.â
You raise an eyebrow. âMe?â
âWho else?â His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. Thereâs something behind itâsomething thatâs been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You donât let yourself name it.
âMaybe,â you say, pretending to think it over. âIf you ask nicely.â
Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. âCareful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.â
âI can manage that,â Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. âPlease, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.â
You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself itâs the coffeeâtoo hot, too strong. âYouâre impossible,â you say.
âYeah,â Steve mutters, âbut heâs charming, and he knows it.â
That makes Bucky grin wider. âExactly. Iâm a catch.â
You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying himâthe crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. Itâs subtle, but you see itâthe flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.
When he catches you looking, he smirks. âWhat? I got syrup on my face or something?â
âNo,â you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. âYou justânever mind.â
He tilts his head, amused. âJust what?â
âJust... look like youâve been through a lot lately,â you finish softly.
For a moment, he doesnât answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. âYeah, well. Guess we all have.â
Thereâs a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping inâthe draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. âYou know,â he says, pushing his cup aside, âwhen all this is over, weâre gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.â
Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. âYou promising that, punk?â
âYeah,â Steve says. âI am.â
âThen itâs a date,â Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.
Your stomach twists. He doesnât mean it like thatânot reallyâbut the words settle somewhere deep anyway. âAlright, soldier,â you say, trying for levity. âBut you better not step on my toes this time.â
He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. âI never do, doll. You just get nervous.â
You scoff, pretending you donât hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall againâsoft, fleeting, like the moments youâll soon lose.
---
The Stark Expo glows like itâs been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklynâs never felt so alive.
You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like theyâve stepped out of two different worldsâBucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.
Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. Itâs not subtleâit never has beenâbut tonight, thereâs something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; thereâs a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.
The announcerâs voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, âwelcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.â You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.
Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. âYou think Starkâs gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?â
âI think heâll pretend it does,â you reply, smiling. âAnd half the crowdâll believe him.â
âThatâs optimism,â he teases.
âThatâs experience,â you shoot back, and he laughsâthat easy, golden sound thatâs always been your undoing.
When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Buckyâs boyish excitement sparks. Heâs leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. âHoly cow,â he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.
You glance up at himâbecause of course heâd be more interested in the machinery than the spectacleâand for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. âGuess itâs not ready for takeoff.â
You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, heâs gone. âSteve?â you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.
Bucky curses softly. âOf course heââ He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. âIâll bet he went to the enlistment tent.â
You look at him. âAgain?â
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. âHeâs nothing if not stubborn.â
âSounds familiar,â you murmur.
That earns you a lookâhalf amused, half warningâand then heâs threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expectedâstanding in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.
You hang back a little, watching the two of them. Youâve seen this scene play out beforeâSteveâs fire meeting Buckyâs steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.
Except this time, youâre part of it.
When Bucky pulls away from Steve, youâre standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. âHey,â he says, stepping closer. âSorry about that. Heâll be alright.â
You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. âHe always is.â
You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isnât awkwardâitâs familiar, like a melody youâve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. âYou know,â he says quietly, âI thought about asking you to dance back there.â
You glance at him. âWhy didnât you?â
He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. âDidnât want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.â
You laugh, soft and a little sad. âOh, I think that reputationâs already in pieces.â
He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. âGuess so.â
The two of you reach the corner where youâll part waysâyour apartmentâs only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. âYouâll write?â you ask, your voice small.
He nods. âYou bet I will. And when I come back, you and meâweâre going dancing. For real this time.â
You smile, though your eyes sting. âYouâd better keep that promise.â
He steps a little closerâclose enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. âI always do.â For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesnât quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything youâve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. âYou know, doll⊠if things were differentââ
âDonât,â you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.
He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. âI justâI donât wanna go off thinkinâ you donât know how much you mean to me.â
Your heart stutters. âI know, Buck.â
But thatâs the lie you both settle for.
He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think heâs going to kiss you. But then he steps back. âIâll see you when I get back,â he says, his smile small, almost fragile.
You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. âBe careful.â
He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture thatâs always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.
You stand there under the streetlamp long after heâs gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.
---
The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facilityâsteady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Buckyâs palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.
Heâs been here long enough that time doesnât make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. Thereâs no sky, no windâjust the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.
âKeep your head down,â Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. âDonât give âem a reason.â
Bucky doesnât answer. Heâs too busy forcing his hands to keep workingâtightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesnât want to understand. He knows itâs a weapon. Everything here is.
Heâs lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. Theyâd run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And thenâcapture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, heâd known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.
Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.
Thereâs a guardâLohmerâwho seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The manâs boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmerâs fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.
Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.
When the shift ends, theyâre herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.
Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesnât catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.
âYou alright, Sergeant?â Dugan asks, voice quiet.
âYeah,â Bucky says automatically. âPeachy.â
Heâs not. He hasnât been for weeks.
When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. Thereâs a small window high up on the wallâjust a slit of glassâand through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.
Thatâs when he thinks of you.
The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.
He shouldâve kissed you.
God, he shouldâve kissed you.
He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfumeâthat soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.
Heâd laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now heâs not sure if heâll ever see you again.
He thinks about how youâd smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if youâve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.
Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screamsâshort, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. Heâs heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. âBarnes,â he says, pointing. âYou. Up.â
Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. Heâs learned thereâs no point in fighting unless you can winâand tonight, he canât. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, itâs in front of a steel table lined with restraints.
Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. âThe Sergeant has shown⊠resilience,â he says mildly. âLetâs see what makes him special.â
Buckyâs breath catches. âIâm notââ
Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, itâs all-consumingâwhite-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.
He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voiceâsoft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way youâd said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.
If he lives through this, he swears, heâll tell you. Heâll find you. Heâll ruin whateverâs left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he canât breathe, canât think, canât remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.
---
The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive againâshouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, thereâs warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.
Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from coldânot anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he canât quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They donât know the half of it.
Heâs alive. But it doesnât feel like it.
He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. Heâd stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadnât been erased and rebuilt into something else.
Outside the tent, he hears laughterâDuganâs booming voice, Steveâs steadier one, Peggyâs dry humor cutting through the rain. Itâs comforting and sharp all at once. Theyâre celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.
He hasnât slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, heâs back thereâthe flicker of the lab lights, Zolaâs voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that wonât leave him alone.
He remembers how you looked the night he shipped outâthe streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didnât make. The kiss he didnât take. Heâd thought about you every day since.
When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesnât need to look up to know who it is. Steveâs gait hasnât changedâmeasured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. âYou look like hell,â Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.
Bucky huffs a laugh. âYouâre one to talk, punk.â
âFair,â Steve admits. âPeggy says weâre supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?â
Bucky shrugs. âAs Iâll ever be.â
Steveâs quiet for a beat, watching him. âYou been sleeping?â
âDefine sleeping,â Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.
Steve doesnât push, just nods. Thatâs the thing about himâhe never pries, but he always knows. âWeâll be home soon,â he says. âBrooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.â
Buckyâs stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. âYeah,â he says softly. âIf she even remembers me.â
âShe will,â Steve says, firm but gentle. âYouâre hard to forget, Buck.â
He smiles at that, but it doesnât reach his eyes. He doesnât say what heâs really thinkingâthat the man who left Brooklyn isnât the one whoâll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who canât close his eyes without hearing screaming.
When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But thereâs also laughter again. Steveâs grin. Peggyâs dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.
And every night, when the noise fades, thereâs you.
He catches himself imagining itâwalking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him âidiotâ for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this timeâno almosts, no stopping himself.
But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see whatâs left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.
What if you flinch? What if you smile, but itâs pity? What if youâve moved on?
He thinks about writingâjust a letter, something to tell you heâs alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he canât find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you donât know if youâre still the man sheâs waiting for?
So he doesnât.
He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesnât deserve to have answered.
Itâs nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. âCouldnât sleep?â Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, âyou know⊠when we get back home, sheâs gonna be real glad to see you.â
Bucky doesnât look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. âYeah,â he says finally. âI just hope I donât scare her off first.â
Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in warâhalf-lived, half-lost.
---
The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowingâmothers, wives, siblings, childrenâall craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.
You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. Youâve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107thâthe Howling Commandosâwere finally returning home.
Youâd heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic bookâSteve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And BuckyâŠ
Bucky, whoâd been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.
The first time you saw his name in the paper, youâd gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. Youâd mourned him quietly, privatelyâbecause no one had told you to stop hoping.
And nowânow heâs on that train. Alive.
You spot them before anyone else doesâthe tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you donât recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see itâthe same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.
Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. âBucky!â
You donât remember moving. One second youâre frozen, the next youâre runningâpushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.
He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. Itâs not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like youâre something heâs dreamed of and never expected to touch again.
âJesus, doll,â he murmurs, his voice rough. âYouâre really here.â
You laugh through the tears you didnât realize were falling. âYouâreâyouâre alive.â
He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. âGuess I am.â
You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that werenât there before. He looks like a man whoâs seen too much and survived it anyway. âYou lookââ you start, then falter.
âTerrible?â he offers with a wry grin.
âDifferent,â you whisper. âOlder.â
His gaze softens. âSo do you.â
Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesnât quite match his broad new shoulders. âYou gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?â
You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. âYou did it,â you say against his shoulder. âBoth of you. You came home.â
âTold you we would,â he says. âDidnât I?â
âYou said a lot of things,â you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. âNot all of them true.â
Bucky chuckles. âSheâs got you there, pal.â
The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, itâs almost like beforeâthree kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.
When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at youâquick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.
Itâs like he canât quite believe youâre real.
You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. Itâs changed a littleânew paint, new jukeboxâbut the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.
When the coffee arrives, Buckyâs hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.
âSo,â you say, trying to fill the silence. âWhat happens now? You two back for good?â
Steve nods. âThatâs the plan. The SSRâs wrapping things up here in the States. Theyâll probably find something else for us to do, butââ
âHomeâs home,â Bucky finishes for him, voice low.
You smile. âGood. I missed this.â
Steve grins, leaning back. âWhat, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?â
âAmong other things.â
For a moment, it really does feel like nothingâs changed. You catch Buckyâs eye over the rim of your cup and he smilesâsmall, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.
Andrew steps insideâtall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. âThere you are,â he says, crossing the diner. âI stopped by your placeâthey said youâd come down here. I thought Iâd find you withââ He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. âCaptain Rogers,â he says, extending a hand. âAn honor.â
Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. âJust Steve, please.â
Then Andrew turns to Bucky. âAnd you must be Sergeant Barnes. Sheâs told me about you.â
Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrewâs hand, grip measured, voice smooth. âAll good things, I hope.â
âOf course,â Andrew says with a tight smile.
You can feel the tension rolling between themâtwo different kinds of manhood colliding. Buckyâs eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.
Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. âWe should get going,â he says softly. âDinner at my parentsâ tonight.â
You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. âIâll see you both soon, alright?â
Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. âYou better.â
Bucky doesnât say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.
When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrewâs talkingâsomething about promotions, a friendâs engagement partyâbut his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Buckyâs still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyesâthe same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now theyâre tired, sad, full of things youâll never be able to say.
Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.
You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk awayâthe ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Buckyâs still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself heâs happy just to see you again.
---
The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knewâfamiliar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like itâs waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.
For the three of youâyou, Steve, and Buckyâitâs as if the world has been rewound, though the edges donât quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffeeâs still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesnât joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differencesâor maybe you just pretend not to notice them.
It starts small. You thread your arm through Buckyâs as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers heâs supposed to. Sometimes youâll reach for him without thinkingâto tug him across a street or to steady him when heâs distractedâand the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.
He hides it well. He always did.
What gets him most isnât how youâve changed, but how you havenât. You still hum under your breath when youâre nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when heâd tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.
He doesnât know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklynâthis version of you.
Youâre engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Buckyâs hand and calls him âpal.â Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.
He tries to be happy for youâreally tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesnât make it hurt less.
Thereâs a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetimeâbefore uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The barâs crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.
Steveâs grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview heâs been roped into, Peggyâs name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.
Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper somethingâa joke, a memoryâyour hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. Itâs innocent. It always is. You donât see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. âYou always were the funny one,â he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.
âOnly because you two were hopeless,â you tease back, and he grinsâthat old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.
The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. âWill you walk me home?â you ask, same as you always did.
He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldnât. But he just nods. ââCourse.â
Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then itâs just the two of you.
You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around youâcar horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isnât. âYou seem quiet tonight,â you say finally, glancing up at him.
He shrugs. âGuess Iâm still getting used to being back. Feels strange.â
âI can imagine.â You hesitate, then smile. âBut itâs good. Having you home. I missed this.â
He swallows. âYeah. Me too.â
You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. Youâre looking up at him like you used toâthe same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.
And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. âYour fiancĂ© treating you right?â
You blink, surprised by the question. âOf course. Why?â
He shakes his head quickly. âNo reason. Justâyou deserve good things, is all.â
You smile faintly, a little shy. âHeâs kind. Steady. My family likes him.â
âYeah,â he says quietly. âSounds perfect.â
He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.
When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. âYouâll come by again soon, wonât you? For dinner maybe? Andrewâs been wanting to cook for everyone.â
He almost laughs. Andrewâs cooking? The thought alone feels wrongâsome man he doesnât know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. âSure, doll. Whatever you want.â
You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you donât know what youâre doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. âGoodnight, Buck.â
His breath catches. Itâs so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.
When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That thisâyour friendship, your laughter, the arm heâs still sure he can feel linked through hisâis enough.
But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isnât. Not anymore.
---
Thereâs another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasnât quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the dinerâyour dinerâsharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.
Youâve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Buckyâs every now and then. You donât even notice, but he does. Every time.
Steveâs talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and âcivilian roles.â Youâre listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Buckyâs jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.
He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his armâsmall, certain, unthinkingâstirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. âWhat?â
âNothing,â he says, voice rougher than he means. âJust⊠forgot how much you talk.â
You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. âThatâs a lie and you know it.â
Steve rolls his eyes. âYou two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.â
âMeans we havenât aged a day,â Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.
You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. âAndrewâs picking me up soon.â
Buckyâs smirk falters. âRight. Of course.â
âDonât sound so thrilled,â you tease, nudging his shoulder.
âJust jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while Iâm stuck on the trolley,â he says easily. But the joke doesnât land the way it used to.
A silence settlesânot awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. Heâs polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. âEvening, fellas.â
âAndrew,â Bucky says evenly. âHowâs work?â
âBusy. But I canât complain.â He smiles at you then, and the way you light upânot as bright as you used to, maybe, but still realâis enough to make Buckyâs chest ache. âReady to go, sweetheart?â Andrew asks.
âYeah,â you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.
Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. âSee you around, doll.â
You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. âYou will.â
When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. âYou alright, Buck?â
Bucky exhales through his nose. âNever better.â
After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because youâve changed anythingâyou still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you heâs got work, or errands, or that heâs tired.
The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrewâs hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like youâre waiting for him to say something that he never will.
He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesnât talk much to the other menâthey all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.
Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. Itâs masochism, maybe, but itâs the only thing that makes him feel real.
A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. âYouâre torturing yourself,â Steve says, sitting beside him.
Bucky doesnât look at him. âDonât know what youâre talking about.â
âYeah, you do.â
The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. âSheâs happy,â he says finally. âThatâs all that matters.â
Steveâs quiet for a moment. âYou sure about that?â Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. âI see the way she looks at you, Buck,â Steve says. âThe way she lights up when youâre around. You really think itâs just friendship?â
Buckyâs throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say itâs all in Steveâs head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. âIt doesnât matter,â he says at last. âShe made her choice.â
Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. âMaybe. But maybe sheâs waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.â
Bucky laughs softly, humorless. âYeah? And what then? I ruin whatâs left of the only good thing I got?â
âMaybe you fix it instead,â Steve says quietly.
They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesnât answer, but Steve doesnât press.
That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the painâjust you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.
He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever heâs been trying to bury all these monthsâall these yearsâisnât going anywhere. The war might be over, but heâs still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing heâs in danger of losing is you.
---
Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of whatâs left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieterâlike the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.
Youâve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.
Andrewâs handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodlesâvines, petals, tiny heartsâabsent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.
And when youâre not working on the wedding, youâre with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he canâmoving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers whoâd otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.
He doesnât say much these days, but you still feel himâthe weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when youâre walking down a busy street, like his bodyâs still wired to protect you even when thereâs nothing left to fight. You notice, though you donât let yourself linger on it. You canât.
Itâs one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. Youâre moving through the narrow aisles of a floristâs shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. âI donât know,â you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. âThese seem too stiff, donât they? I want something softer, more natural.â
Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like heâs inspecting troop formations. âLooks fine to me.â
You laugh. âYou said that about the last three, too.â
âWell, they all look fine,â he says, a little helplessly.
Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. âYouâre askinâ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I donât think weâve bought flowers that werenât apologies.â
You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humorâthe first real one youâve seen from him all day. âIs that right?â
He shrugs, but his smile lingers. âPretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellinâ me off.â
âThatâs because you deserved it,â Steve mutters.
Bucky grins. âYeah, maybe.â
The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, itâs like time folds back on itselfâthe three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.
But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.
Itâs the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. Youâd always do thatâchew your lip until it was rawâand heâd tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.
He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.
Later, after youâve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. âThanks for coming,â you say, glancing between them. âI know this stuff isnât exactly your idea of a good time.â
Steve smiles. âYou kidding? Beats punching Nazis.â
Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. âYou sure you donât mind helping with deliveries next week?â you ask. âThe catererâs sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.â
âCourse not,â Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. âJust tell me when and where.â
Something about his tone makes you pause. âYou donât have to, you know. I donât want to take up your time.â
He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. âDonât worry about it, doll. I got nothinâ but time.â
You try to return the smile, but it falters. Thereâs something behind his words you canât quite nameâa tiredness that doesnât belong to a man his age. You want to ask him whatâs wrong, but Steveâs already talking about dinner plans, and Buckyâs gaze has shifted back to the street.
That night, youâre sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quietâAndrewâs out late again, workingâand you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress⊠itâs all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like youâre building something in the wrong shape.
You think about Buckyâthe way heâd smiled today, the way heâd looked at you when you laughed. The way heâd gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.
You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself itâs habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something moreâsomething fragile, dangerous, and alive.
Across town, Buckyâs sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. Heâs got an envelope in his lapâan invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.
He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything youâve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.
But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him âlike heâs watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself heâll keep helping. Heâll keep smiling. Heâll be your friend. Heâll do all the right things.
Even if it kills him.
---
The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietlyâhorns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.
Youâve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small âplanning dinner.â Nothing formalâjust a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrewâs parents join for the final tastings next weekend.
The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. Youâve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. Thereâs a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.
Buckyâs the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the doorâthat light, hurried tone heâs heard a thousand timesâand he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.
You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. âBuck!â you say, smiling. âYou made it.â
He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. âWouldnât miss it, doll.â
You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrewâs. The apartment feels cozyâtoo small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steveâs sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrewâs standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. âGlad you could join us,â Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. âWe were just about to talk food.â
âDangerous subject,â Bucky says, pulling out a chair. âYou sure you want my opinion?â
âOnly if itâs good,â Andrew jokes.
You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.
He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when youâre thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mindâs cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.
Then Andrew says, âOhâspeaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.â
You glance up, smiling. âOh? What did she say?â
âSheâd love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought itâd be a nice personal touch,â Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. âYou know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressingâyour favorite.â
Buckyâs fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesnât say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickersânot enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. âRight,â you say gently. âThatâs lovely.â
Andrew beams. âI told her youâd be thrilled. Sheâll start prepping this week.â
Steve nods approvingly. âSounds fancy. Iâve never had cucumber sandwiches before.â
âOh, theyâre very refreshing,â Andrew says cheerfully. âPerfect with tea.â
âSure they are,â Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.
You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say donât. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves onâtable linens, music, who will walk you down the aisleâbut the air feels different. Bucky canât stop hearing Andrewâs voice echoing that one word, favorite.
He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. Youâd ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face heâd ever seen. Heâd teased you for it, and youâd shoved your plate at him, muttering something about âtextureâ and âgodawful smell.â Heâd laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.
It was such a small thingâordinary and stupidâbut somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesnât know. He doesnât know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parentsâ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesnât know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.
He doesnât know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that heâs the only one left who does.
After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Buckyâs still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. âThanks for helping tonight,â you say, voice careful. âI know itâs not the most exciting thing in the world.â
He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. âExcitingâs overrated.â
You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different nowâheavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. Itâs easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plateâs done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. âAndrewâs motherâs really going all out. Itâs sweet of her.â
âYeah,â Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. âSweet.â
You glance over at him. âWhat?â
He shakes his head. âNothinâ.â
âBucky,â you press, arms folding. âDonât do that. What?â
He hesitates, then shrugs. âJust funny, sâall. You always hated cucumbers.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âCucumbers,â he says again, half-smiling. âYou used to pick âem off your sandwiches and dump âem on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.â
You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles youâthe diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. âI⊠guess I did.â
âGuess you forgot,â he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like heâs seeing something youâre only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. âAnyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.â
You nod slowly. âRight. Of course.â
At the door, he pauses. âGoodnight, doll.â
âGoodnight, Bucky.â
When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You donât know why the stupid detail bothers you so muchâwhy it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you canât shake it.
Because heâs right. You do hate cucumbers. And you canât quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.
---
It starts as something small, almost imperceptibleâa ripple under the surface of a life youâve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels⊠tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But theyâd cracked something open that youâd spent months keeping tightly sealed.
Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrewâs laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentencesâhis job, the house youâll have, the way âMrs. Reidâ rolls so easily off his tongue.
You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, thereâs this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?
You start noticing how often you nod when you donât agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesnât strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life thatâs being built around you.
It isnât bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talkâor at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.
But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driverâs seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that heâs seeing a version of you that isnât real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.
And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way heâd grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.
You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.
You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. Youâre on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packagesâbolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The windâs sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and youâre juggling everything when a voice behind you says, âyou always did try to carry the world by yourself.â
You turn, startledâand there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe itâs just that heâs smiling, a little shyly, like heâs not sure if heâs allowed to.
âBuck,â you breathe, shifting the packages. âWhat are youââ
âWas passinâ by,â he says easily, stepping closer. âFigured you could use a hand.â You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk heâs always hadâthe one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you donât want to name. âStill stubborn as ever,â he murmurs.
âStill nosy,â you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.
He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. âCâmon, doll. Iâll walk you home.â
The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around youâthe whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.
It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and piecesâthe dress, the flowers, the venueâbut even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like youâre reading from someone elseâs script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. âYou happy?â
The question lands like a pebble in a pondâsmall, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. âWhat kind of question is that?â
He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. âJust seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.â
You laugh, but it doesnât sound right. âOf course Iâm happy. Why wouldnât I be?â He doesnât answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, âAndrewâs good to me. Youâve seen that.â
âYeah,â he says quietly. âIâve seen it.â
Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe thingsâthe weather, Steveâs latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. âThanks for helping,â you say.
âAnytime,â he replies.
You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. âYou should come by Sunday. Weâre having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.â
He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. âYou sure thatâs a good idea?â
âWhy wouldnât it be?â
He doesnât answer right away. Then, finally, âalright. Sunday.â
You smile, relieved. âGood.â When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You donât look back.
Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didnât know youâd been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothingâthe way Steve still canât cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, itâs as if the years between youâve been peeled away.
You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. Youâve missed that sound more than you realized.
When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldnât look at him like that, but you do anyway.
He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between youâfamiliar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughterâs faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The streetâs quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. âYou really are happy?â he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.
You hesitate. âIâm supposed to be.â
He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if thatâs answer enough. âTake care of yourself, doll.â
He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. âBucky.â He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stopsâthe air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you donât know how to do thisâhow to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words wonât come. So you just let go. âGoodnight.â
He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. âGoodnight.â
When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like itâs trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesnât look backâbecause heâs afraid that if he does, he wonât be able to keep walking.
---
The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter daysâbright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of youâyou, Andrew, his mother, and Steveâhave spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of âlifting heavy things,â but truthfully, he just couldnât stay away.
The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing wayâpale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.
Youâve been moving nonstop for an hourâbending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how itâll all come together. Youâre tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.
Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steveâs beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. âCareful, sweetheart,â Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. âYou donât have to do that yourself.â
You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. âIâm fine. Just making sure the space works.â Itâs right about then that your purse slips off the chair where youâd set itâand the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab itâand promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. âGoddammit.â
The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrewâs head snaps up from where heâs been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expressionânot much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadnât been watching her.
Steve looks like heâs about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin thatâs already threatening to break loose.
You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. âIâsorry. Table jumped out at me.â
Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. âItâs alright, darling. Maybe watch where youâre stepping next time.â
You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. âHere,â he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. âYou kiss your fiancĂ© with that mouth?â
You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. âDonât start.â
He smirks. âCouldnât help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.â
âShould I be flattered that you missed it?â
He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. âMaybe I just missed you.â
The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrewâs voice cuts across the room, âeverything alright?â
You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. âYes. All fine.â Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrewâs mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.
But you feel Buckyâs gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylightâs already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. âYou okay?â
You exhale a laugh. âJust humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.â
âSheâs gonna live,â he says with a grin. âHell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.â
You groan. âShe looked like Iâd cursed out a priest.â
âShe kinda did,â he teases. âNever thought Iâd say this, but I missed hearinâ you swear.â
You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. âYouâre impossible.â
âMaybe. But you used to call me worse than that.â
You roll your eyes. âWhen you deserved it.â
He laughs, genuine this timeâthe sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. âYou got a mouth on you when youâre mad, sweetheart. Donât pretend otherwise.â
âI was sixteen,â you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. âEveryone had a mouth at sixteen.â
âYeah,â he says softly, looking ahead. âBut you had fire.â That quiet toneâlow, almost reverentâsteals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but heâs not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just⊠heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.
When you reach the corner where youâll part ways, you stop. âYouâre walking the wrong direction again.â
He smirks faintly. âNever said I was goinâ anywhere in particular.â
You hesitate. âYou didnât have to come today, you know. I know itâs not exactly your kind of thing.â
âI didnât mind,â he says simply. Then, after a beat, âI just wanted to make sure youâre okay.â
âIâm fine,â you lie automatically.
He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. âYouâre allowed to be more than âfine,â you know.â You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. âSee you soon, doll.â You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until heâs gone.
That night, Andrew callsâhis voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, âwatch where youâre stepping,â and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.
You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the darkâa soft, frustrated word that youâd never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do tooâquietly, bitterly, but real.
---
The night of the dance comes almost by accidentâone of those things Steve insists on, claiming itâll âdo everyone good to get out.â Heâs been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. Thereâll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.
Youâd refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrewâs family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentlessâand Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.
The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly outâbrass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.
You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldnât come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. Heâd kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.
Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn backâuntil you hear a familiar voice. âHey, doll.â Buckyâs leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. Heâs smilingâthat lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.
You exhale. âYou lookââ
âDonât say it,â he warns playfully. âI already know.â
You grin despite yourself. âYou were going to say it anyway.â
âMaybe,â he admits, pushing off the wall. âYou look beautiful, by the way.â
Itâs simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. âThank you.â
He offers his arm with a flourish. âShall we?â You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is aliveâbright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.
Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. âYou made it!â
âWouldnât miss it,â you say, smiling.
Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. âSince when do you drink the fancy stuff?â
Steve shrugs. âFigured Iâd start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.â
âYouâre the sentimental one,â Bucky teases. âYou cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.â
âYeah, and you didnât?â
You laugh, shaking your head. âYou two havenât changed a bit.â
For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who youâre pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.
But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. Youâre fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. âCome on.â
You blink up at him. âWhat?â
He nods toward the floor. âDance with me.â
âBucky, I donât thinkââ
He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. âItâs just a dance.â
Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. Itâs slow, easyâthe kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.
You havenât danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy stepsâyour heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. âSo,â he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. âBig dayâs coming soon.â
You nod. âTwo months.â
âYou nervous?â
You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. âShould I be?â
He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. âGuess that depends.â
âOn what?â
âOn whether youâre happy.â
You swallow. âYouâre starting to sound like a broken record.â
âMaybe,â he says, smiling faintly. âBut you still havenât given me an answer.â
You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the womanâs patterned dress catching the light as she spins. âItâs not that simple, Bucky.â
âDoesnât have to be.â
The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waistâso small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. âYouâre staring.â
âCanât help it,â he murmurs. âIâve spent half my life lookinâ out for you, and the other half trying not to.â
Your breath catches. âBuckyââ
He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. âDonât worry. Iâm not gonna ruin your night.â The song ends, but neither of you move right away. Youâre still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. âThanks for the dance, doll.â
You nod, voice soft. âAnytime.â
He smilesâthat quiet, sad smile that doesnât reach his eyesâand turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far awayâthe music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.
When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.
But every time you glance across the room, Buckyâs already looking at you. And when the band starts another songâsomething slow and achingâyou can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world youâve built is about to crack.
The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.
You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strongâlaughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone elseâs life.
You hadnât meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. Youâre halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. âFigured Iâd find you out here.â You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hairâs a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man whoâd smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone whoâs come to do something he canât take back.
âHey,â you manage, your voice thinner than youâd like. âNeeded a minute.â
âYeah,â he says, stepping down beside you. âMe too.â
The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. âItâs getting late. I shouldââ
âDonât go yet.â It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. âSorry. Justâjust wait a minute.â
You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. âYou canât marry him,â he says quietly.
The words hit like a physical thingânot shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. âWhat?â
He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because itâs funny, but because heâs run out of ways to hold it in. âYou heard me.â
âBuckyââ
âDonât.â His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. âDonât pretend you donât know what Iâm talkinâ about. Youâve been pretending long enough.â
You step back, shaking your head. âYou donât get to say that.â
âThe hell I donât.â
âYou donât,â you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. âYou had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didnât. You went off to war, and you didnât write, you didnâtââ
âI thought I was dead!â he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. âI thought I was dead, and when I wasnât, I didnât know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?â
âYou already have,â you whisper.
He laughsâquiet and bitter. âYeah. Guess I did.â You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. âIâm not tryinâ to hurt you, doll. I justââ He stops, searching for the words. âEvery time I see you with him, it feels like Iâm watching somebody else live your life. And I canât keep doinâ it.â
Your throat tightens. âYou donât know what youâre saying.â
âI do.â
He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. âYou think I donât see it? The way you look when youâre with himâpolite, careful. Like youâre walkinâ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? Youâd throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You donât laugh like that anymore.â
You blink, and your vision goes blurry. âThatâs not fair.â
âItâs true.â
You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. âGod, you think you can just come back and tell me Iâm unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?â
He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. âNo. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.â The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. âI know. I know Iâm too late. But Iâd rather ruin whatâs left than spend another day pretendinâ I donât still feel this way.â
You whisper, âBucky, stop.â
He shakes his head. âI canât. Not this time.â
âDonât do this to me.â
âIâm not doinâ anything to you,â he says quietly. âIâm tryinâ to be honest. For once.â
You step closer without realizing it, until youâre only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything youâve both been avoiding. âYou donât get to tell me you love me now,â you say, voice shaking. âNot after all this time.â
He swallows. âI know.â
You look up at himâhis eyes, his face, the way heâs looking at you like youâre something precious and painful all at once. âThen why are you saying it?â
âBecause Iâd rather you hate me for it than never know.â
He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You donât. The touch is so light it barely registers, but itâs enough to make your heart lurch. You realize youâve been waiting for itâfor years, maybe.
And then he kisses you.
It isnât careful. It isnât perfect. Itâs desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.
For a second, you let yourself fall into itâthe familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. âDonât,â you whisper. âPlease.â
He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. âIâm sorry.â
You shake your head, voice thin. âNo, youâre not.â
He opens his mouth, closes it again. âYouâre right. Iâm not.â
You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. âI have to go.â
He doesnât stop you this time. âYeah,â he says quietly. âI know.â
You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You donât look back, because if you do, youâll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.
When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesnât ask what happened. He doesnât need to. âGuess she went home,â Steve says quietly.
Bucky nods, staring down at the street. âYeah.â
âYou okay?â
Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. âNot even close.â
Steve doesnât say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.
That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you donât recognizeâflushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.
You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still thereâthe warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it wonât happen again. That it doesnât change anything. But deep down, in the place where youâve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens nextâno matter how much you tell yourself otherwiseâthat kiss didnât feel like the end of something.
It felt like the start.
---
The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside youâAndrew had stayed at his parentsâ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. Youâd told him it was fine. Youâd meant it.
But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.
Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long timeâyour eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.
You look like a woman who hasnât slept. You look like a woman whoâs done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guiltyâbut not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.
You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.
You canât marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. Iâd rather you hate me for it than never know.
You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed youâd marry. Heâs kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. Youâll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.
Bucky is none of those things.
Heâs reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that wonât leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesnât sleep. He disappears for hours to âwalk,â though you suspect heâs not walking so much as running from his own mind.
But when heâd kissed youâGod, when heâd kissed youâthere had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you canât un-feel it.
You find yourself outside his building before you realize youâve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. Youâre in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if theyâre the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go insideâbut your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.
It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.
When the door opens, he looks⊠wrecked. Buckyâs hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softerâsomething like disbelief. âDoll.â
âCan I come in?â
He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is smallâone room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. Thereâs a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.
You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. Heâs watching you carefully, like heâs afraid if he blinks youâll disappear. âI shouldnât be here,â you say first.
He nods once. âProbably not.â
Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, âwhat happened last night canâtââ
ââbe undone,â he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. âI know.â
You swallow. âAndrewââ
âDoesnât love you the way you deserve,â he says, too quickly.
âDonât,â you whisper. âDonât make him the villain. Heâs good to me.â
âI know he is,â Bucky says softly. âBut he doesnât see you.â
You turn away, pacing to the window. âYou keep saying that. That he doesnât see me. What does that even mean?â
He moves closer, not touching you yet. âIt means he doesnât know the way your hands shake when youâre excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesnât know how you look when youâre mad and trying not to cry. He doesnât know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.â You close your eyes. âHe doesnât know you,â Bucky finishes, voice low. âNot the way I do.â
âThatâs not fair,â you whisper. âPeople change, Bucky. Iâm not who I was before the war. Neither are you.â
âMaybe not,â he says, and now heâs close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. âBut youâre still you. The real you. And Iâm still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.â
You turn around, ready to tell him to stopâbut heâs looking at you with that same quiet honesty thatâs always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. âYou think this is easy for me?â you snap, tears stinging your eyes. âYou think I havenât spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do thisâthat I can marry him, smile, build a life thatâs good, even if itâs notâŠâ You trail off, breathing hard.
âNot what?â he asks softly.
âNot you.â The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.
Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. âSay that again.â
You shake your head, tears slipping free. âDonât make me.â
He takes a step closer. âSay it.â
You look up at him, voice trembling. âItâs not you.â
He doesnât move for a long moment, just studies your faceâevery tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, âthen donât marry him.â
You let out a shaky breath. âBuckyââ
âDonât marry him,â he repeats, firmer now. âDonât spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you donât feel it too.â
Your throat closes. âYouâre asking me to destroy everything.â
âIâm asking you to be honest,â he says. âFor once. Just with yourself.â
The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, âif I walk away from him, thereâs no going back.â
âI know,â Bucky says. âBut maybe thatâs the point.â
You meet his eyes, and for the first time in monthsâmaybe yearsâyou feel something that isnât fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.
By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the tableâgold glinting in the soft morning lightâand sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you donât answer. Not yet. You donât know what youâll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.
That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different nowâlighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. âYou look like you havenât slept.â
Bucky huffs a laugh. âI didnât.â
âShe come by?â
He hesitates, then nods. âYeah.â
Steve studies him for a moment. âYou tell her?â
âYeah.â
âAnd?â
Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. âI donât know yet,â he says. âBut for the first time since I came home⊠it feels like maybe things might be right again.â
Steve smiles faintly. âThatâs something.â
âYeah,â Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. âIt is.â
Outside, the city hums to life againâthe promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You donât know what comes next.
But you know who you want to face it with.
---
It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finalityâthe sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. Itâs strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.
Andrew had called three times since last night. Youâd answered none of them. Youâd written him a letterâneat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesnât waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didnât say Buckyâs name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadnât been somewhere else.
When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usualâwashed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.
Bucky doesnât hear the knock at first. Heâs just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. Thereâs a record playingâsomething scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.
Heâs been trying not to think about you; heâs failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesnât answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing youâor not seeing youâwill finally undo him for good.
But he does. And there you are. Your coatâs damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. Thereâs no ring on your hand, and your eyesâGod, your eyesâlook clearer than heâs ever seen them. âHey,â you say, voice small but sure.
He blinks, then steps aside automatically. âYou came.â
You nod, stepping inside. âI did.â The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, thereâs no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. âI ended it,â you say.
Bucky freezes. âYou what?â
You meet his gaze. âWith Andrew.â
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. âYou sure?â
You nod once. âI told him the truth.â
For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forwardâone, then another, until youâre standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. âWhat did you tell him?â he asks softly.
âThat I couldnât marry someone I didnât love,â you whisper.
He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. âAnd who do you love?â
You donât look away this time. âYou.â
The silence that follows isnât emptyâitâs full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.
And then heâs kissing you.
It isnât desperate this time. Itâs steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You donât even realize youâre crying until he murmurs against your lips, âhey, hey. Donât.â
You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. âIâm okay.â
âYou sure?â
You nod, smiling through the tears. âYeah. I think I am.â
He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. âYou have no idea how long Iâve wanted to hear that.â
âMaybe I do,â you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long timeâstanding in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.
Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes teaâthe way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. âYou sure youâre okay?â
You smile. âYouâve asked me that three times.â
âCanât help it.â
âI know.â
You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. âI think Iâll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.â
He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. âYou know this wonât be easy.â
âI know,â you say. âBut at least itâll be real.â
He looks at you thenâreally looksâand you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache thatâs been hiding behind his smile since the war. âReal sounds good,â he murmurs.
The weeks that follow arenât simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think youâve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrewâs family. Your motherâs disappointmentâquiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.
But thereâs also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hellâcoffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.
Sometimes, itâs quietâhands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Buckyâs coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, itâs loudâdancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, heâll reach for your handâjust a touch, light and unassumingâand itâll still take your breath away.
Itâs early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outsideâcar horns, laughter, the world moving on.
You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smilesâthat same crooked grin thatâs undone you a hundred times over. âMorninâ, doll.â
You grin back. âMorning.â
He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesnât ask for anything except the promise that youâre both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, âyou know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.â
You laugh, low. âWhen you vanished to find Steve?â
âYeah,â he says, smile widening. âShouldâve kissed you then.â
You tilt your head, teasing. âYou made up for it.â
He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. âNot done makinâ up for it.â
You smile against his skin. âGood.â
Outside, the city keeps movingâtrains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isnât perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.
extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3
everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005
bucky barnes taglist: @harleycao @wkhannah @star-yawnzzn @baguwagu @averyhotchner @heldbybarnes @thegirlwhowaited5everok @herejustforbuckybarnes @daddysbitchybaby @greatenthusiasttidalwave @sidkneeeee
Beautiful đ

















