H 🌙

You were leaning against the iron railing outside your building, arms crossed, one scuffed boot propped up behind you. Hair pinned up in a rush, streak of grease on your cheek from helping your mother with the busted fan in the window. You didn’t hear them so much as feel them coming — like a ripple in the rhythm of the block.

“Morning, boys,” you said without looking, voice dry as kindling.

“Sun’s barely up and she’s already packin’ attitude,” Bucky Barnes replied, that usual drawl in his voice like he thought he was the second coming of James Cagney.

You gave him a sideways glance. “And you’re packin’ delusions. Must be somethin’ in the water on your end of the street.”

Steve gave a tired chuckle, already wedged between the two of you in spirit if not in body. He had a half-eaten apple in one hand and worry in his eyes — like always. “Can we go one day without a brawl before lunch?”

You raised a brow. “You think this counts as a brawl? Stevie, this is foreplay.”

Bucky damn near choked. Steve went red all the way to the tips of his ears.

You let the silence sit for just a second too long before snorting, then pushed off the railing. “Relax, Rogers. I wouldn’t flirt with this guy if he was the last swing dancer in Manhattan.”

Bucky smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, trouble. You’d miss me if I dropped dead.”

“Only thing I’d miss is the peace and quiet.”

But he knew, and you knew, that wasn’t exactly true. You butted heads with Bucky like it was your second job, but there was something magnetic about him — the kind of boy who knew the weight of every girl’s stare but still acted like the world owed him one more.

He dressed like he owned the sidewalk — suspenders slung loose over a plain white tee, sleeves pushed up to show the muscle he never stopped bragging about. Hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to cut a streetcar in half.

You hated that he could smile like that and get away with murder.

Steve, sweet and lean, kept his shoulders tight like he was always bracing for something. He didn’t speak unless he meant it, and when he did, people listened — not because he was loud, but because he was honest. If Bucky was a firecracker, Steve was the matchbook — quiet, flammable, and always trying to keep things from going up in flames.

“Where we headin’?” you asked, pulling a cigarette from your purse. You didn’t light it — just liked the feel of something between your fingers when you talked. “We going to that theater again?”

“Nickel matinee starts in twenty,” Steve said, tossing the apple core into the gutter. “Double feature — G-Men and something with Myrna Loy.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Another damn fed movie? They’re just propaganda with prettier faces.”

Bucky gave you a lopsided grin. “You just don’t like cops ‘cause they keep catchin’ you runnin’ your mouth.”

You stepped in close enough that he blinked, caught off guard by how quickly you cut the distance. “I don’t like cops ‘cause they don’t care about girls like me unless we’re dead or useful. Big difference, soldier boy.”

His grin faltered — just a flicker — and Steve, ever the peacemaker, cleared his throat and gently nudged his way between you both.

“She’s not wrong,” Steve said quietly, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “Cops only come to our side of the block when someone’s bleeding. Or brown.”

Bucky glanced between you two, then dropped the grin altogether. His voice went soft — maybe even respectful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just tucked the cigarette behind your ear and started walking. “You never do, Barnes. That’s the problem.”

But still — still — when your shoulder brushed his as you passed, you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t move either.

After the movie, the three of you settled along the edge of the promenade overlooking the East River, legs swinging above water that glinted dull and gray under the setting sun.

You were mid-rant. Again.

“And don’t even get me started on the benches,” you said, jabbing a thumb behind you like the injustice was sitting right there. “I mean, really? A freakin’ bench? Can’t share a place to sit ‘cause someone’s skin looks different? What kind of country invents trains and planes and peanut butter and still can’t figure out where a person should be allowed to sit?”

Steve nodded slowly, elbows resting on his knees, listening like he always did — not with judgment, not with pity. Just taking it in, quiet and steady.

Bucky popped the cap off a soda bottle with his belt buckle, because of course he did, and took a long sip before muttering, “You sure you don’t wanna run for office? You talk enough for three senators.”

You shot him a glare. “If I ran for office, I’d be dead before I made it to the first speech. They don’t like girls who say what they mean — especially ones who don’t smile while doin’ it.”

Steve winced. “She’s got a point.”

You gestured at him. “Thank you. Steve gets it.”

Bucky held up both hands, defensive but grinning. “I didn’t say you were wrong. I’m just sayin’, maybe the bench thing ain’t our fight. Not really.”

You stared at him. “See? That right there. That’s the problem.”

He blinked. “What is?”

“You thinking just because it doesn’t hurt you means it ain’t your fight.”

Steve looked over at Bucky, brows raised slightly. “You walked into that one.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back on his palms, looking up at the sky like it might hold some kind of answer. “I’m not tryin’ to be the bad guy, alright? I know the country’s busted. I know some people got it worse than me. I just—” He shook his head. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

You snorted. “That’s what they all say. ‘Ain’t my place,’ or ‘it’s just the way it is.’ Then you blink, and it’s been seventy years since slavery ended and we’re still out here arguing about who gets to use a water fountain.”

Bucky looked over at you — really looked. You were staring at the river like it had betrayed you personally, eyes hard, jaw set, that fire in your belly burning so bright it practically radiated off you.

“I just think,” you said, softer now but still fierce, “if you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention.”

Steve nodded again, quiet and firm. “You’re right about that.”

Bucky was silent for a beat. Then he said, quieter than either of you expected, “I am payin’ attention.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just sighed.

────────────────────────

One Week Later

It was too damn hot for anything. The kind of sticky, breathless heat that made the whole neighborhood move slow. You were sitting on the curb outside the corner store, nursing a warm soda and fanning yourself with a folded-up newspaper when Bucky came jogging around the corner, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Oh no,” you muttered as soon as you saw his face. “You’ve either done something stupid or something worse.”

He stopped in front of you, grinning and breathless, hands on his hips. “You remember that diner on 10th? The one with the best cherry pies in Brooklyn?”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one with the ‘whites only’ sign in the window?”

“Yeah, that one.”

You stared at him. “Bucky. What did you do?”

He pulled something from his back pocket and held it out — a metal sign, rectangular, scratched and dented, but unmistakable.

The words “WHITES ONLY” had been spray-painted over in red.

“I may or may not’ve borrowed this,” he said, tossing it onto the sidewalk with a loud clank. “And I may or may not’ve told the guy behind the counter he could shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

You stared at him. Blinked. Then burst out laughing — not because it was perfect (it wasn’t), or smart (definitely wasn’t), but because it was so Bucky. Loud, impulsive, dramatic, and maybe even a little dangerous.

He looked proud of himself, then uncertain. “Was that… stupid?”

You stood, brushing your hands on your skirt. “It was loud. It was reckless. And it was probably illegal.”

He winced. “Okay, so yes.”

“But,” you said, stepping closer, eyes locked on his, “you listened.”

Bucky shrugged, suddenly sheepish. “Don’t really like the idea of a place that’d take my money but not someone else's. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

Your throat tightened at that. You hadn’t expected much — just the usual back-and-forth, the teasing and fighting. But this? This was real. Maybe not world-changing, but it was Bucky-changing. And that mattered.

“You know,” you said slowly, “for a guy who runs his mouth like it’s his job, sometimes you say the right thing.”

He gave you that damn grin again. “I’m a man of many talents.”

You rolled your eyes — but this time, you smiled too.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, August 1936

It was late afternoon, and the sun had dipped just enough to turn everything golden. The heat still clung to the brick and concrete like a second skin, but a breeze finally cut through, lifting the hem of your skirt as you stood outside Wilson’s Department Store, eyeing the newest window display.

There it was. The dress.

Soft yellow with a sweetheart neckline, pleated skirt, and delicate white piping along the seams, like something you’d see on the pages of Ladies’ Home Journal if you ever had the spare coins to buy one. It was soft, feminine, ridiculous — and perfect.

And looking like it belonged to a girl who didn’t have to count pennies or scrub floors.

You stood there staring, thumb hooked into your belt loop, brow furrowed. You weren’t wearing anything special — a hand-me-down skirt that was a little too loose at the waist, and a blouse with a stain near the hem you’d tried to cover with a brooch. Your heels were scuffed. Your nails had oil under them from helping patch the neighbor’s busted radio.

You weren’t ashamed, not exactly. You’d worked for every thread on your back. But you still wanted to look nice, sometimes. Wanted to feel like a girl instead of just a fighter.

“Ey,” a voice behind you called. “You gonna rob the place or just stare it down ‘til it surrenders?”

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That voice had been haunting you since you were thirteen.

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

Bucky chuckled and stepped up beside you, Steve just a step behind with a tired smile already forming.

“What’s the occasion?” Steve asked, looking at the dress too. “Not your usual color.”

You shrugged, arms crossed, jaw tight. “Just lookin’. Ain’t a crime.”

“We were headed to Deluca’s,” Steve offered. “Thought you might wanna come.”

You hesitated — just for a second — then gave a shrug. “Sure. Can’t afford the pie but I’ll steal bites off your plate.”

The three of you fell into step down the sidewalk, the usual rhythm settling in. Bucky tossing a coin up and down in one hand, Steve quietly narrating neighborhood gossip in a tone that suggested he didn’t quite believe half of it, and you walking just a little ahead, tongue sharp and posture tougher than you felt.

“Y’know,” Bucky said after a while, like the thought had only just occurred to him, “never figured you for the dress type. Thought you were more… y’know. Practical.”

You turned to look at him.

“Practical?“

“Yeah,” Bucky said, encouraged by your silence. “Like… you don’t care about all that frilly stuff. You’re not like the other girls. You don’t care about all that stuff. Lipstick and ribbons and whatnot. You’re... different.”

“Different,” you repeated, flat.

Your jaw tensed.

Steve gave Bucky a sharp side-eye, already sensing disaster. “Buck—”

“I mean,” Bucky went on, oblivious, “you’re always talkin’ about politics, and unions, and—hell, you cursed out that priest last week for callin’ Roosevelt a communist—so like you don’t need to be pretty. You’re, y’know... rough around the edges. But in a good way.”

Steve groaned under his breath.

You stopped walking. “Rough around the edges?”

Bucky, to his credit, froze. “No, I meant— Not rough like bad rough. Just— You’ve got character.”

Steve tried. “He’s saying you’re—uh—authentic.”

You turned on Bucky, arms folded. “Let me see if I’ve got this. I’m not like other girls, I don’t care how I look, and I’ve got rough edges and character.”

“No, no—dammit,” Bucky rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you don’t have to put on airs. You’re... you.”

Steve muttered under his breath, “You should stop talking.”

“I meant,” Bucky tried again, hands up, “you’re—different in a good way. You’re smart, and tough, and you don’t need a dress to be beautiful.”

You stared at him, arms folded so tight across your chest you could’ve snapped a rib.

“Oh, so I’m not beautiful now, and I get points for not trying?”

“No! That’s not—Jesus, that’s not what I meant—”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “Buck, for the love of God, please.”

“I meant you are beautiful, but not because you try, just… ‘cause you don’t? Like, you’re not… shallow.”

“So girls who like pretty things are shallow now?”

“No! Not shallow. Just, y’know—less…” He trailed off, realizing he had no end to that sentence that wouldn’t get him killed.

You scoffed. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Barnes, ‘cause your brain’s hangin’ on by a shoestring.”

Steve coughed into his hand to cover a laugh.

Bucky was flustered now — flushed, nervous, trying to backpedal in boots made of wet cement. “All I’m saying is, you don’t gotta change a damn thing. You’re already—you’re already you, and I like you.”

“That’s rich,” you said, backing away him. “Coming from the guy who just said I’m not like other girls. Like being other girls is some kind of disease.”

Steve sighed. “He’s an idiot. He means well—”

“She knows I didn’t mean it like that,” Bucky said to Steve, then looked at you. “C’mon, honey—”

“Don’t patronize me,” you snapped.

His face fell. Just a bit. But enough.

You took a step back, jaw tight. “I do care how I look, Barnes. I just don’t have the luxury of pretending I don’t. I like dresses. I like lipstick. I like feelin’ pretty. But you know what I don’t like?”

You didn’t wait for an answer.

“Feelin’ like the only reason a guy’s got anything nice to say about me is because I’m not like the girls he thinks are too much. Like I’m some prize for not askin’ for nothin’.”

Bucky looked stunned, like he hadn’t even considered that angle. Like he’d been trying to give you something and dropped it straight into the gutter.

Steve, quietly, said, “She’s right, Buck.”

You held your stare with Bucky a moment longer, then exhaled — sharp, frustrated, done.

“I’m goin’ home.”

“Wait—hey, hold on—”

You were already turning, fists clenched, eyes burning — not with tears, never that — just anger. Embarrassment. The ache of being seen just enough to sting.

“I said I’m goin’ home,” you called over your shoulder, “before I break somethin’ you can’t sweet-talk your way out of.”

You didn’t stop walking.

And this time, neither of them followed.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, Early September 1936

It had been a month.

Thirty long days of radio silence — no knocking on the stoop, no wisecracks outside the shop where you helped your uncle sort through junked radios, nothing.

Steve had tried. Lord, had he tried — showing up at your stoop like a walking apology letter, rambling about how Bucky was a jackass “but not that kind of jackass,” and half a dozen “he means well” speeches. You’d listened, arms crossed, jaw tight, thanked him politely, and shut the door with the kind of finality that said grudge fully intact.

And honestly? You didn’t miss Bucky Barnes. Not really. Not much.

...Maybe a little.

Now it was a Saturday night. Crickets chirped under the hum of streetlamps and jazz drifted faint from a neighbor’s radio. You were stretched out on the front parlor couch in your slip, your hair pinned halfway, half-heartedly reading a borrowed copy of Gone with the Wind that you’d dog-eared so often you were certain the library’d start charging you.

That was until your Ma called out from the kitchen, voice thick with flour and annoyance.

“Get the door! I’m elbow-deep in potatoes!”

You muttered a few curses under your breath — ones your Ma would swat you for if she heard — and pulled on a robe as you headed for the front door.

You pulled it open, half-ready to bark, “What?” — and then froze.

There he was.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Hair slicked back like always, but a little messy, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No smirk. No swagger. Just Bucky, standing there with his hands shoved into his coat pockets like a schoolboy who’d lost his lunch money.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You blinked at him, arms crossing out of instinct.

“What do you want?”

Bucky shifted on his feet. “Can I... can I talk to you?”

You glanced over your shoulder, then stepped halfway onto the stoop, leaving the door cracked open behind you.

“I’ve been practicin’ this,” he admitted, eyes down. “For, uh. For a while. In my head.”

“Didn’t get a chance to use it on the other girls you insulted this month?”

He winced, hands tightening in his pockets. “No. Just you.”

You said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he began, voice low. “For what I said. For how I said it. I was tryin’ to say you don’t need all that stuff to be beautiful, but it came out like you weren’t allowed to want it. And that’s... that’s not fair. You can want lipstick and dresses and still want to break the whole damn system.”

You arched an eyebrow, still guarded. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Steve,” he muttered. “Well, mostly. And maybe a little from this pamphlet I found at the co-op, but it was all in real small print, and the lady at the desk was real intense.”

That made you almost smile. But not quite.

“I know I talk too much,” he continued. “And I don’t always think before I do. But I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. About how I made you feel. And how I hate the thought that you might’ve thought... you weren’t enough. Or too much. Or whatever the hell it was I made it sound like.”

You sighed quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t wanna be angry all the time, James. It’s like—people expect me to be. Like the minute I open my mouth, it’s just bark, bark, bark. Sometimes I wish I could just... be. Y’know?”

He looked at you like he understood. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

“I like your bark,” he said, almost sheepish. “But I like when you’re just you, too.”

You looked down, toes tapping the wooden stoop.

There was a pause — soft, honest, unpressured — before he asked, gently, “Did I blow it? Or... have you forgiven me?”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes like you were calculating the weight of the whole damn thing.

“I’m takin’ one of those quiet moments where I weigh your good qualities against your bad ones,” you said slowly, “to decide if you’re actually worth the trouble.”

He straightened, hands dropping from his pockets like he wanted to prepare for a punch.

You tilted your head. Composed. Narrowed your eyes.

“You made it.”

His grin bloomed across his face — that trademark Bucky Barnes smile, the one he used when he won a game of stickball or caught the last seat on the trolley.

It knocked the breath out of you a little, not that you’d admit it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “I got somethin’. For you.”

He stepped back a bit and pulled something from his coat pocket— a neatly folded bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He held it out.

You looked at him, suspicious. “What is it?”

“Just... open it.”

You frowned, lips already pursed, but your fingers tugged at the twine anyway.

You tugged the string loose and unwrapped the paper — and then you saw it.

Your breath caught.

Soft yellow cotton. Sweetheart neckline. White piping at the seams. The exact dress from the department store window. The one you’d stared at. The one you’d fought about.

Your heart tightened like a fist. “Bucky—this ain’t—this wasn’t cheap.”

“I know.”

You pushed it back into his hands. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Did you steal this?”

“What? No!” he raised his hands. “I took extra shifts at my pop’s shop. I’m still covered in oil under this shirt. Go ahead, check.”

You gave him a flat look.

He softened. “I remembered you starin’ at it. That’s all.”

You looked down at the dress. Ran your fingers over the hem.

“I’m not takin’ this.”

“You are,” he said firmly. “Because if you give it back, I’ll just sneak it in through your window next time you leave it cracked.”

You stared at the dress. Then him. Then the dress again.

Your lips twitched — damn him — and you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t hand it back.

He noticed the smile threatening to appear on your face.

“Stop lookin’ so pleased with yourself,” you muttered.

“You’re smilin’.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Then, slowly, you held it close, not too obvious, just enough to breathe in the new fabric. Your lips twitched. “Fine.”

He smiled wider. “Fine?”

“Don’t make me repeat it.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Alright.”

Bucky hesitated again, rocking back on his heels. “I should probably head home. Don’t wanna push my luck.”

You looked over your shoulder, then back at him. “Ma’s makin’ shepherd’s pie.”

His brows rose. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “You know it's just me and her, and she always makes too much.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean... if you need help eatin’ it...”

“You comin’ in or what, Barnes?”

His grin turned boyish again — a little crooked, a little sheepish, all charm. “You sure ’cause I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“Oh for God’s sake, Barnes, come in before I change my mind.”

He stepped over the threshold so fast you’d think you’d offered him gold.

And just like that, you shut the door behind him.

Five years Later

Brooklyn, September 1941

The diner smelled like strong coffee, burnt toast, and a little bit of grease — same as it always had. The bell over the door jingled as Steve and Bucky stepped in, the wind from the street trailing in behind them. The place was half-full, same old chipped counter, same tired cook hollering from behind the swinging door.

Bucky slid into a booth near the window, knocking his shoulder against Steve’s as he grinned.

“You’re buyin’. I got grease on my pants for you this morning.”

Steve rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “You volunteered to fix the radiator, Buck.”

“Doesn’t mean it didn’t take effort, punk.” He kicked his boots up under the table and leaned back like he owned the place.

“Always with the dramatics,” Steve muttered.

Just then, the bell on the counter gave a sharp ding, and a voice called over it:

“Well, well. If it ain’t Barnes and Rogers. Lookin’ like you crawled outta a sewer and a church basement, respectively.”

You.

You were in your uniform dress — nothing fancy, blue apron tied at your waist, hair pinned back (mostly), a pencil tucked behind your ear. You had a rag slung over one shoulder and that trademark glint in your eyes.

Steve smiled. “Hey. Didn’t know you were workin’ today.”

“Pulled a double,” you said, striding over. “Mrs. Fratelli called out again. Probably ran off with the meat truck driver like she threatened.”

Bucky’s face lit up the second he saw you.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said smoothly. “Miss me since this mornin’, or you too busy dreamin’ about me in your sleep?”

You gave him a flat look. “I dreamt I ran you over with a trolley. Twice.”

Steve snorted into his water.

Bucky grinned wider. “Still think that’s your love language.”

You leaned in, eyes narrowing as you placed two menus on the table, voice low and teasing. “You keep talkin’, Barnes, and I’ll slip hot sauce in your coffee.”

“I like it when you threaten me,” Bucky said, eyes gleaming. “It means you’re thinkin’ about me.”

You rolled your eyes before bending just a little and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth — soft, familiar, like it wasn’t even a question anymore. Just something you did. His hand instinctively brushed your hip as you pulled away.

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “Not in front of me. Please.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I kissed his face, Rogers. Relax.”

“Yeah, but then he’s gonna get all dopey and start sayin’ stuff that makes me wanna drown myself in syrup.”

“Too late,” Bucky said dreamily, eyes still on you. “Already feel like I’m swimmin’ in sugar.”

You grabbed the coffee pot from behind you and poured two cups — sliding one in front of each of them with a pleased smile. “And that’s why I’m rationing how much coffee you get today.”

Bucky raised a hand solemnly. “If lovin’ you means sufferin’ through caffeine withdrawals, I’ll take it.”

“Awful,” Steve mumbled. “You’re both awful.”

You winked at Steve. “You love us.”

“I tolerate you.”

“I’ll take it,” Bucky said.

You were already walking off to the next table, hips swaying, head turned just enough to catch Bucky watching you. You rolled your eyes at him, but there was no bite in it.

He looked across at Steve, still grinning like a damn fool.

Steve sipped his coffee. “You’re pathetic.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, watching you over the rim of his cup, “but I’m in love with a girl who can verbally eviscerate me and still kiss me like I hung the moon.”

“...Pathetic and doomed.”

Bucky just smiled wider. “Can’t wait.”

The diner’s usual low hum was alive with clinks of silverware and the hiss of coffee pots, but Bucky’s eyes were fixed on only one thing — you.

You were making your rounds like you ran the place, pouring coffee into mugs with an easy flick of your wrist, tossing back quips with regulars who knew better than to get fresh.

Your hair was coming undone in the back, a curl slipping down your neck, and your apron had a grease smudge near the hem — and Bucky swore he’d never seen anything prettier.

Steve followed his line of sight and let out a sigh into his coffee. “You ever blink when she’s in the room?”

Bucky didn’t even look away. “Would you, if that was yours?”

Steve snorted. “She ain’t yours. She lets you hang around.”

“She’s got that look in her eyes today,” Bucky said, head tilting as he watched you swipe a rag across a booth. “Like she’s two seconds away from smashing a sugar jar over someone’s head.”

“That’s just her face, Buck.”

Bucky finally turned to Steve, flashing that familiar smirk. “You remember last fall? That night in Fort Greene, after the street fair? I kissed her—right outta nowhere. Thought she was gonna sock me in the jaw—”

“She probably should’ve.”

“—but instead,” Bucky said, practically glowing, “she grabbed me by the shirt and kissed me back.” He smiled wider, tapping the side of his head. “Swear to God, I thought I’d been knocked out cold. Like I won the damn lottery.”

Steve made a face. “I think I liked you better when you were pining and pathetic.”

Bucky raised his cup in mock toast. “I still am. Just, y’know, happily pathetic now.”

Steve shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping from him. “She keeps you humble.”

“She keeps me honest,” Bucky corrected, and turned back to watch you.

That’s when the radio near the register crackled a little louder than before, catching just enough attention to lower a few voices.

“…German U-boats continue patrolling the Atlantic, with reports of more attacks on British convoys. American destroyer Greer engaged by German submarine in recent weeks. Though no formal declaration has been made, the Roosevelt administration urges continued readiness…”

Your hand slowed on the countertop, just slightly. Conversations across the diner dipped low or stopped altogether. The cook leaned halfway through the window to turn the volume up.

“—and while President Roosevelt affirms America’s stance as non-combatant, whispers out of D.C. suggest it’s only a matter of time. Should Congress act, all eligible men eighteen and up may be called to serve.”

The old man in the booth behind Bucky snorted and muttered, “Guess the boys better enjoy their hot dinners while they can.”

Someone else murmured, “Been coming for a while now.”

And just like that, the warmth in the diner cooled by a few degrees.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just talk. Same as last month. Same as the month before.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on you as you busied yourself clearing a table, like if you just kept moving, it wouldn’t matter what was on the radio.

That look was on your face again, the one Bucky knew well: that mix of anger and weariness you always wore when the world decided to take something instead of fix it.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Nah. It’s real now.”

Steve looked at him. “Buck—”

“I know it’s coming,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. “Same way my pop did. He knew in ’17. Signed up before they even came knockin’. Said if it’s gonna come for you anyway, you meet it head-on.”

Steve was quiet. He hated this part — the inevitability of it. Watching people he loved step into something they might never come back from.

Bucky looked down at his hands, fingers running over a small tear in the napkin dispenser. “If I go…”

“You don’t know that you’re going—”

“If I do,” Bucky cut in gently, “look after her.”

Steve blinked. “Me?”

“You’re the only one I trust to,” Bucky said. “She’s got no one left but you and me. Since her Ma passed…”

His voice faltered a little. Just enough for Steve to notice, but not enough to make Bucky admit it.

Steve leaned back, gave a dry laugh. “Buck, she’s more likely to look after me. She’d have me patched up, scolded, and fed before breakfast.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Then look after each other. Promise me.”

Steve held his gaze. “Alright. I promise.”

They both turned to look at you, now laughing softly with a little girl sitting at the counter, sliding her a cherry from behind the counter when the cook wasn’t looking.

Bucky’s voice was soft, but firm. “She acts tough. Mouth like a sailor. But she’s got this big heart, y’know?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

The radio crackled again.

And in the brief stillness that followed, Bucky looked like he was trying to memorize everything — the sounds, the feel of the place, the curl of your lips and the way your smile came slow but full.

Just in case.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, November 1941 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The wind was bitter that morning, the kind that bit through layers and settled into your bones. Steam hissed from the train engine as the platform filled with a quiet hum of voices — families clustered close, trying not to show just how tight they were holding on.

You stood a little behind Steve, arms crossed over your chest, Bucky’s coat wrapped tight around you. The sleeves were a little too long — he always said he liked seeing you swallow up in it. But you kept your chin high, eyes fixed on the tracks like if you didn’t look at him, this whole thing wouldn’t be happening.

Bucky stood a few feet away, saying his goodbyes. He bent to hug his ma first — her face pulled tight and red with holding back tears. His father clapped him on the back with a hand that lingered longer than usual. And Rebecca, red-nosed and blinking back tears, hugged her big brother like she couldn’t believe he was actually leaving.

You shifted your weight, watching the family scene in silence. Steve nudged your shoulder lightly, offering the smallest smile. You didn’t return it, just stared ahead.

Then Bucky turned. Said his final goodbye to his folks, kissed Rebecca's temple and whispered something that made her laugh through her tears.

You watched it all, arms crossed, jaw set.

Steve stood beside you, shoulders hunched, breath curling in the air. He wasn’t saying anything, which you were grateful for.

And then Bucky turned.

He made his way over, bag slung over one shoulder, grin already blooming on his face even though his eyes didn’t match it. He stopped in front of Steve first.

“Well, punk,” Bucky said, trying to keep it light.

“Jerk,” Steve answered, just as steady.

They clasped hands — firm and fast, pulling into one of those hugs that ended with a clap on the back that said all the things they weren’t going to say.

“Stay outta trouble,” Bucky said, forcing a smirk.

Steve gave a small laugh. “How can I? You’re takin’ all the trouble with you.”

Bucky chuckled, low and tired. “Somebody’s gotta stir things up overseas.”

Steve looked at him, jaw flexing. “You’ll be alright.”

“’Course I will.” Bucky bumped his fist against Steve’s arm. “You think I’m gonna let you get taller and better looking than me? Not a chance.”

Steve laughed softly, blinking fast. “Write when you can.”

“I will.”

They lingered a beat longer, then Bucky turned to you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared out over his shoulder at the trains, the people, the nothing that didn’t matter.

Bucky stepped toward you, slower than usual. You kept your arms wrapped around yourself, shoulders stiff, almost as if you were protecting yourself.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re really gonna make me leave without seein’ those eyes?”

You swallowed, jaw clenched as you pulled your coat tighter. “Train’s gonna leave whether I look at you or not.”

He reached out, gloved fingers brushing your elbow gently. “You’re wearin’ my coat.”

“I was cold,” you said flatly, eyes still fixed on something past him. “Not like I did it for sentimental reasons or anything.”

He smiled. “Course not.”

You didn’t answer. Just shrugged tighter into the coat, blinking fast. Bucky stepped in closer, so close the brim of his cap was nearly brushing your brow.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said quietly. “Just a little while. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

“Don’t lie.”

That made him pause.

You finally looked at him. Really looked. And the moment your eyes locked, something in your face cracked — not broken, but bent under the weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The world behind your eyes was loud, and Bucky could hear every scream of it.

“I’m scared,” you said finally, voice small.

“Me too.”

Another silence. Longer this time.

Bucky’s face softened. “You think I ain’t comin’ back, don’t you?”

“I think a lot of boys say that to their girls before they leave,” you said, voice even but tight. “And not all of ’em get to mean it.”

Bucky reached up, thumb brushing the side of your face, glove rough against your cheek. “I’m not all of ’em. I’m me. And I’m coming back to you.”

You looked down at his chest, fingers curling slightly like you wanted to hold on and didn’t know where to start.

You bit your lip. “If… if something happens—”

“Don’t,” he cut in gently. “Don’t say it.”

“I need to say it, James. I need to—”

“No.” His voice was firmer this time, but not harsh. He leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “I’m comin’ home. You hear me? I’m gonna come back and you’re gonna yell at me for leavin’ my boots at your door again, and you’re gonna steal all the covers, and we’re gonna forget this whole goodbye thing ever happened.”

You blinked fast, breathing shaky.

“If you need anything,” Bucky said, “go to my ma. She’ll take care of you.”

You raised your brows, voice dry. “Your ma hates me.”

Bucky blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“She glares at me like I taught Rebecca to swear.”

He paused, then grinned crookedly. “She just doesn’t love you as much as I do.”

You let out a small, breathy laugh — not quite whole, but better than nothing.

He kissed you then. No heat, no show — just steady and sure, like he was trying to anchor the both of you in the moment. Your hands clutched at his coat, pulling him closer for one more second, two, three.

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet.

“Come home to me.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. “You’re all I wanna come home to.”

The train let out a loud hiss. Passengers began calling their goodbyes, some already starting to board.

Bucky kissed your forehead, quick and sure. Then stepped back — one step, then two — still looking at you like he didn’t want to turn around.

“You stay warm, alright?” he called, voice louder over the bustle. “Eat something other than burgers and coffee once in a while!”

You scowled faintly. “You’re one to talk!”

He gave you that big, crooked grin, the one that always made your stomach flip.

Then he turned and walked toward the train, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And you stood there in his coat, trying not to let your eyes water in the cold, with Steve silently stepping closer beside you — not saying anything. Just being there.

The train pulled out of the station a few minutes later. And Bucky was gone.

Three years later

Brooklyn, October 1944 – Atlantic Avenue Train Station

The train pulled into the station with a shriek of steel and smoke, hissing to a stop under the gray Brooklyn sky. The platform was packed — families pressed up against the rails, hopeful and desperate, faces turned toward the windows of the arriving train like it might spit out salvation.

You were right at the front, your press badge pinned to your coat as you tapped your heel anxiously against the concrete, not even trying to play it cool. You looked good — hair pinned sharp, lipstick bold, a belted coat cinched over your skirt, the hem just brushing your knees. You always made a point to look good when he came back.

You weren’t just you anymore — not the loudmouthed girl with calloused fingers and second-hand dresses. You were a name in print now. Famous columnist at The Brooklyn Standard, known for stirring the pot and refusing to let anyone — the government, the public, or the boys back home — forget the hypocrisy of this so-called land of the free.

You had a national voice now, but today, that didn’t matter. Today, you were just the girl waiting on her boys to come home.

And then you saw him.

Steve stepped down first, tall and broad and shining like something out of a poster — because, well, he was now. The star-spangled uniform clung to him like it belonged there, a coat trying and failing to hide it, but that open smile on his face? That was all Steve. Your Steve. Brooklyn Steve. The one who carried extra change for the subway because he was sure one day you’d forget.

You didn’t even have time to shout before Bucky followed behind him — slightly thinner than you remembered, bruised under the eyes, but real. Whole. Alive. Still him.

And when he saw you—

“Doll—!”

You didn’t wait. You shoved past a vendor and a couple of sailors, arms already out. You practically launched yourself at him.

Bucky caught you mid-stride, arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you clean off the ground. Your legs lifted, and you buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms tight around him like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go. His duffle bag dropped to the ground with a heavy thump as he spun you once, breathless and warm.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your temple. “God, I missed you, baby.”

He held you like he was afraid you weren’t real. Like if he let go too fast, you’d vanish into the smoke and the station noise and all the things he saw out there in the dark.

“I’m not crying,” you muttered against his neck.

You pulled back just enough to kiss his face — everywhere. Cheek, brow, nose, temple. He laughed, a sound somewhere between hysterical and joyful, as you brushed your fingers over the short edge of his hair.

“I’m kissing you so you know it’s me,” you whispered. “So next time you disappear, I’ve got your damn face memorized.”

He grinned, breathless. “Don’t plan on disappearing again.”

You pressed your forehead to his for one more second before turning to Steve, who stood nearby with a patient smile.

“Well, well,” you said, arching a brow and resting your hands on your hips. “Would you look at that. Steve Rogers. Has anyone seen him? Small fella, polite, sketchbook always tucked under his arm? You’re wearin’ his face, stranger.”

Steve laughed — loud and whole and rich. “That’s me, alright. Just with a bit more… calcium.”

Bucky snorted behind you, still clinging to your waist like he hadn’t seen you in a decade. “You mean steroids.”

“Super-serum,” Steve corrected.

“Fancy steroids.”

You grinned, stepping forward to pull Steve into a hug, strong and sure. He hugged you back with those new arms of his, still gentle like he might break you.

You whispered to him as you held tight: “Thank you for bringing him home to me.”

His voice was quiet. “Would’ve brought him back sooner if I could.”

You pulled back and cupped his cheek. “You brought each other back. That’s more than most people get.”

Just then, a kid across the station shouted, “Hey! It’s Captain America!”

Steve flinched slightly, and you rolled your eyes. “Great. They spotted you.”

“You’ve been in the papers too, y’know,” Steve said, tugging his bag higher. “Every time I see your name, someone’s mad about it.”

“Means I’m doing it right.”

Bucky watched you, chin tilted slightly, pride glinting behind tired eyes. “Told the fellas you were raising hell while we were gone.”

“I did more than raise it. I printed it in bold.”

He slid his hand into yours, fingers tight between yours like he hadn’t remembered what it felt like until now.

“We got you for a few days?” you asked, voice softer now.

“Four,” he answered. “Four days, and then they send us back to God knows where.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll make ‘em count.”

He glanced at you, and a little smile flickered on his face.

“You already are.”

────────────────────────

Your Apartment — 2:47 a.m.

The radiator hissed in the corner, clanking loud enough every so often to make you flinch. The warmth it gave off didn’t quite reach the corners of the old apartment. You were used to that — this was the place you’d grown up, after all. The chipped paint, the creaky floors, the faded wallpaper your ma had put up in '28.

Bucky had crashed in your bed as soon as you'd gotten home. You'd followed later, after checking in on Steve — who was passed out in your old room, still fully dressed. Poor guy had barely gotten the boots off before slumping on your old too small twin bed.

Now it was late, maybe two, maybe three in the morning. Outside, the city hummed quiet and cold. Inside, the room was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. You'd drifted in and out of sleep — curled against Bucky’s side, your head on his shoulder — until the sudden jolt of his body broke the stillness.

He gasped sharp, sucking in air like he’d been drowning, his muscles tensed tight beneath you. You sat up instinctively.

“Bucky?” you whispered, brushing your hand over his chest.

His eyes were wide and wild, not quite seeing. Sweat clung to his brow, and his breath came hard and fast. You gently cupped his face and leaned closer.

“Hey. Baby, it’s me. It’s just me.” You reached up to stroke his hair, fingers tangling through the soft brown strands. “You’re not there. You’re here. You’re home.”

He blinked, chest still heaving as he tried to slow his breathing. Your other hand rubbed soothing circles against his sternum.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice barely a breath. “Breathe with me, okay? You’re safe. You’re with me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Just breathing. Then he shifted, head pressing into the crook of your neck, his arm curling tight around your middle as if he was trying to burrow into you, as if your body was the only thing tethering him to this world.

The room was quiet save for the sputter of the radiator and the soft rhythm of your fingers in his hair. You didn’t ask too soon. You knew better than to push.

After a long while, his voice emerged — low, ragged.

“They kept us underground,” he murmured finally, voice rough. “No light. Cold. No names. Just numbers. They… they strapped us down, filled us with something. And when the pain started, it didn’t stop. I thought my head was gonna split open. I couldn’t scream after a while. My throat just gave out.”

You didn’t move, just kept your fingers stroking slow, steady lines along his scalp, the other hand curling along the back of his neck.

“I thought…” he swallowed. “I really thought that was it. That I was gonna die in some freezing hellhole in the Alps with no name and no grave.”

“Hey,” you whispered, voice cracking. “But you didn’t. You came back to me.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, “Sometimes I feel like I left pieces of myself behind. Like I didn’t all make it back.”

Your chest ached at that. You tightened your hold around him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re all here,” you whispered. “And the rest… the rest we’ll find together, yeah?”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t cry. You didn’t let yourself. Not while he needed you steady.

Silence again. But the kind that wasn’t heavy. Just close. Breathing. Rebuilding.

His head rested over your heart, and you felt him calm as he focused on the steady beat beneath your ribs. Then—

“Marry me,” he said suddenly, muffled against your skin.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

He lifted his head, eyes locked with yours now — clear, steady, fierce in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Let’s get married,” he said again. “Tomorrow. Or today. Whenever you want. Just—let’s do it.”

You sat up a little more, still blinking at him, mind spinning. “James—”

“I don’t want to wait,” he cut in, softer this time. “I’ve been through hell and back, and every time I thought I wasn’t gonna make it, all I wanted was to get to you. Just to be here again. To hear your voice and feel your hands and—”

He grabbed your hand then, pressed it to his chest like he needed you to feel how real he was. “We’ve been through too much. We’re already each other’s, right? So let’s make it real.”

You stared at him — this man you’d grown up with, fought with, fell for. His eyes never left yours.

“I got it all in my head,” he added, quick like he was afraid you’d talk him out of it. “We’ll go down to the courthouse, get the papers. You can wear that yellow dress I got you. I’ll wear that suit Ma made me save for ‘something good.’ Steve and my family can be our witnesses. We’ll get egg creams after and laugh about how fast it all was.”

“You sound like you’ve been planning this,” you muttered, heart thudding.

“I have,” Bucky said, without missing a beat. “Since the day you kissed me instead of sockin’ me in the jaw.”

You looked at him — really looked at him — hair a mess, face a little pale under the moonlight slipping in through the window. He looked tired and strong and so, so sure.

You swallowed. “You know I always wanted more than marriage and housewives and babies, right?”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s not what I’m askin’ for. I want you, just how you are. Loud and brash and brilliant. I just want to be yours — proper.”

You met his gaze, fierce and full of something too big to name. “I love you. So… yeah. Let’s get married, Bucky.”

Bucky smiled. That slow, boyish, heartstopping smile you hadn’t seen since before the war.

Then you leaned forward, kissed him slow, and pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “You better not change your mind in the morning.”

“Not a chance, doll.”

──────────────────────────────

The Next Evening

The second that Bucky opened the door, he bent low and scooped you clean off the stoop with a dramatic flair that made you yelp and burst into laughter.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” you gasped, arms flailing before looping around his neck. “What the hell are you doin’?”

“I’m carrying my wife across the threshold,” he grinned, eyes bright with mischief as he marched toward the living room like it was a palace. “That’s what a gentleman does, ain’t it?”

You tossed your head back laughing. “This dump is the same place I've been sleeping for years, James—”

“Not the point, sweetheart,” he said, adjusting his grip under your thighs “I’m startin’ traditions here. And one day, when I come home for good, I’m gonna carry you over the threshold of a real house. Big porch. Little garden. No leaky faucets.”

“You’re outta your mind,” you muttered fondly, brushing his hair back from his forehead as he leaned in and kissed you — quick, then long, then quick again.

Your feet finally hit the ground again and your fingers immediately went to the neckline of your dress — the same pale yellow one he’d bought you all those years ago. The satin straps slipped off your shoulders as you took a breath and said, “Can’t believe this thing still fits.”

Bucky tilted his head like a puppy, eyes scanning your body like he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you.

“Why wouldn’t it fit?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you turned toward the mirror. “Bucky, you got me this dress when we were teenagers. I was still livin’ on Ma’s grocery scraps and bad coffee.”

He stepped up behind you, hands curling around your waist as he dipped his head into the crook of your neck. “You look the same to me,” he murmured against your skin. “Just more beautiful.”

You turned toward him at that — letting your forehead rest against his chest. “You always been such a smooth-talker.”

“No,” he whispered, drawing his fingers slowly down your back, “I just speak the truth when it comes to you.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Your fingers reached for the buttons on his shirt with practiced ease.

“You know,” he murmured between kisses, “if you keep smilin’ like that, I’m not gonna make it to the bed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You got somethin’ against the couch?”

“No,” he laughed, scooping you up again — this time with a little less ceremony — “I just figured the bed deserves the honor tonight.”

You squealed and let your head fall back as he carried you down the short hallway, your yellow dress now barely hanging on. Once in your bedroom, he laid you down gently, reverently, like he was handling something holy.

“You sure you don’t wanna wait till tonight?” you teased as he hovered above you, eyes dark with love and want. “Make it real proper?”

Bucky’s laugh was low and quiet, almost a hum. He leaned down, brushing his lips against your jaw, then your throat. “We’re married. That is proper.”

Your breath hitched as he kissed the hollow of your collarbone.

“You know I love you, right?” he said, suddenly serious — eyes locking with yours. “I’ve loved you since you threatened to throw a shoe at my head for callin’ you mouthy in ‘31.”

You smiled softly and cupped his cheek. “You still talk too much, Barnes.”

“Then maybe I’ll shut up and show you instead.”

And he did.

He kissed you like a promise. He kissed you like you’d never have to say goodbye again.

His kiss deepened slowly, and when his hand slid behind your neck to cradle you closer, you let yourself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth and security and the slow realization that this was it. You were married. This was your forever.

Bucky kissed like he meant to remember every second.

He tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, fingertips moving with reverence, not rushing, not demanding—just feeling. When you shifted beneath him, he helped you sit up, fingers fumbling a little with the tiny row of buttons down your back.

“Too many of these damn things,” he muttered.

You laughed softly, leaning back into him. “You’ve been wanting to get me out of this dress since the ceremony, admit it.”

His breath ghosted hot against your shoulder as he kissed your skin between each word. “Since before that. Since I saw you this morning and realized I was gonna be lucky enough to call you my wife.”

The dress slipped down your arms, the delicate fabric pooling at your waist, revealing the soft cream of your slip underneath.

Bucky stilled for a second, eyes roaming over you like you were some rare treasure unearthed in candlelight.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, hoarse. “God—look at you.”

You reached up and tugged at his loosened tie, pulling him down into another kiss. “Then look closer, Barnes.”

That broke something in him.

He pressed you back down into the bed, hands everywhere now—still gentle, but needier. His mouth trailed kisses across your collarbone, then lower, tracing the edge of your slip with aching slowness.

“Can I?” he asked, lips brushing the swell of your breast.

You nodded.

He peeled the slip down carefully, like undressing a secret. When your breasts spilled free, he groaned, breath catching like it hurt. His lips closed over your nipple, tongue flicking gently before he began to suck, slow and deep.

You gasped, arching into him.

His hand moved down, smoothing over your stomach, then lower, over the delicate lace of your underwear. He kissed lower still, murmuring against your skin.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’ve wanted this,” you whispered, “for so long.”

“I know,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

He kissed the inside of your thigh, then dragged your underwear down, baring you completely. You heard the sharp inhale he took as he looked at you—eyes blown wide, filled with awe.

Then he was over you again, chest pressing to yours, and you were tugging at the waistband of his slacks, unfastening the button, the zipper, until he was bare too—hard and flushed and shaking slightly in your hand.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely steady.

“I married you,” you whispered, guiding him to you. “Of course I’m sure.”

And when he slid into you—slow, deep, stretching you in the most perfect, heart-wrenching way—it was everything. You both gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He moved slow at first, reverent, lips brushing over yours with every thrust.

“Love you,” he whispered. “So much. Always.”

You held his face as he made love to you, feeling him fill you again and again until your breath came in soft cries and your heart was a song in your chest. The pace built gradually—never rushed, just more. Deeper. Closer.

When you finally came, it was with his name on your lips and his body pressed fully into yours. He followed seconds later, buried deep, gasping your name against your skin like a prayer.

After, you held each other.

Naked. Married. Home.

And when Bucky whispered another love you against your neck, you kissed his temple and whispered back:

“We’ve got forever now.”

────────────────────────

Six Months Later

Austria – Hydra Territory, March 1945 | Before the Assault on Zola’s Train

The snow howled outside the makeshift command tent like a restless animal. A biting wind cut through even the thickest of coats, but inside, by the dull light of a single hanging lantern, Bucky sat hunched over a folded piece of paper — his hands trembling just a little.

He had read it once.

Then twice.

Now a third time.

Each word hit harder than the last, scrawled in your handwriting — slightly rushed, ink smudged near the edge where you’d probably leaned your elbow like you always did.

Steve stepped in, brushing snow off his jacket, eyes narrowing immediately at the look on Bucky’s face.

“Hey,” Steve said gently, careful. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at the paper like it held the entire universe.

Steve leaned forward, concern building. “Buck?”

Bucky's gaze stayed fixed on the paper, his thumb rubbing over the last line like it might vanish if he stopped touching it. Then — slowly — he looked up.

And Steve’s heart dropped. Because Bucky Barnes, mouthy ladies’ man, unshakable Sergeant Barnes, had tears in his eyes.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely there. He blinked, breath catching.

There was a beat of silence — and then Steve's mouth opened in a stunned, breathless laugh.

“Jesus, Buck,” Steve breathed, standing as the words hit him. “You’re gonna be a dad?”

Bucky shook his head, jaw tightening, smile breaking free like light through clouds. “Six months along. She found out just after I left. She didn’t wanna tell me sooner — didn’t wanna distract me.”

Steve stepped forward, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck…”

Bucky let out a short, shaky laugh and folded the letter up carefully, tucking it back into the inside pocket of his coat, close to his heart. “A kid, Steve. I’m gonna have a baby. With her.”

“She’ll be a hell of a mother,” Steve said softly.

Bucky pulled him into a hug before he even realized what he was doing. The kind of hug men didn’t give each other unless it was earned through blood, war, and years of brotherhood. Steve hugged him back just as tight.

“You gotta come home for this,” Steve said against Bucky’s shoulder. “You hear me?”

“I will,” Bucky said fiercely, pulling back, that old steel in his voice. “We finish this mission. We stop Zola. Then I go home. I’m not missing that. I won’t.”

Steve gave him a firm nod. “One last job.”

“One last,” Bucky echoed, eyes lifting to the mountains beyond the tent wall. “Then I get to hold her. Both of ‘em.”

The snow kept falling. The train would be here soon.

But for a moment, there was warmth in that tent — a pulse of hope beating hard and stubborn against the cold world outside.

And in Bucky’s chest, beneath layers of wool and metal and grief, your letter sat close to his heart — a promise of what was waiting if he could just survive the night.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

Brooklyn, April 1945

Sunlight slanted through the lace curtains, warm and golden on the worn floorboards. Your fingers moved fast across the keys, glasses perched low on your nose, your rounded stomach nudging the edge of the desk.

You were working on an article about women in shipyards. Words came easier when you didn’t think about how long it’d been since the last letter.

You tried not to count the days anymore.

Then — a knock.

Your hands paused over the keys. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Just past four.

With a soft grunt, you pushed yourself up, one hand bracing the small of your back. You crossed the room slowly, brushing crumbs from your sweater, muttering, “If that’s Mrs. Klemanski again askin’ for sugar—”

You opened the door.

And saw Steve.

Your heart jumped up into your throat before you could stop it.

His uniform looked sharper than ever, chest full of medals, that familiar bashful way he stood with his cap held between both hands. Your smile came without permission.

“Steve,” you said, relief threading through your voice. “You’re—wait—where’s Bucky?”

Then your eyes dropped. You saw what he was holding — a folded jacket, a bundle of letters tied in twine, something metal glinting dully between his fingers.

Your smile vanished.

“No,” you whispered, instantly shaking your head. “No—”

Steve’s face cracked. Like something in him broke the second you said it. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward with trembling hands, like he could soften the blow if he was gentle enough.

You backed away, hand flying to your mouth.

“No, no, no—don’t. Don’t say it.”

“Sweetheart—” he started softly.

“Don’t call me that, Steve—where is he?” Your voice shook, louder now. “Where is he?”

Steve’s eyes welled up. “The train—we were ambushing Hydra. Something went wrong, Buck—he—he fell.”

Your knees buckled a little. You reached for the edge of the wall to steady yourself.

“I don’t understand,” you croaked. “He promised—he said he’d come back. He promised me, Steve.”

“I know,” Steve said, stepping inside, setting Bucky’s things down on the table like they were sacred. “I know. He meant it.”

“No, no—he wouldn’t leave me.” Your voice cracked, nearly childish in disbelief. “He—he was coming home, we were—he was gonna hold the baby, we hadn’t even picked names—”

Steve crossed the space in two strides and caught you just as your legs gave out. He held you tightly against him, like he was trying to keep you from falling apart with just his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, into your hair. “I’m so sorry. I tried—I tried to get to him. He was—he was just gone.”

You were shaking. Hands fisting into Steve’s shirt, crying so hard your whole body trembled.

“He was supposed to come home,” you rasped, face buried in his chest. “He promised me, Steve. He swore it. He said—he said after this—he’d come back.”

“I know. I know.” His voice cracked and you felt his tears fall against your hair.

You cried like the world had ended. And for you, it had.

You didn’t even notice the letters scattered across the table, or the chain with the dog tags hanging over the edge. Not yet.

You just held on to Steve like he was the last piece of Bucky left in the world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

One Year Later

Brooklyn, April 1946, 6:04 PM.

You juggled your bag, house keys, and the folded newspaper under one arm as you pushed open the door to your apartment. It clicked shut behind you with a satisfying clunk — thicker walls, newer locks, good insulation. Worth every penny.

You hadn’t gotten two steps in when the smell hit you.

Garlic, tomatoes, something rich and savory wafting in the air. Your brows furrowed.

You didn’t cook. Not when you’d been running around chasing sources all day.

The quiet babble of a baby's voice reached your ears before you could say anything.

You moved toward the kitchen, already shrugging off your coat.

“Jamie?” you called, more out of instinct and confusion than alarm.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the kitchen.

There he was—Steve, of all people—standing at your tiny stove like he owned it, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring something in a pot. His cheeks flushed a little as he turned toward you, sheepish.

“I, uh… hope it’s alright. Didn’t mean to intrude,” he said with that boyish, bashful charm.

You leaned your hip against the doorframe, staring. “You're not intruding. Just surprising. Last I heard you were in Marseille.”

“Got back yesterday,” he replied, gently bumping Jamie’s foot with his hand as your son giggled, “And I figured I’d surprise you. Hope you don’t mind.”

You blinked, then shook your head with a soft huff of laughter. “Mind? I’m just surprised Mrs. B let you walk away with Jamie. She told me she was keepin’ him overnight so I could get some rest.“

Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said I could take him. Only because I promised to bring him back with no less than ten fingers and ten toes.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

He grinned. “I counted twice. All still there.”

“I'm just glad Mrs B loves Jamie more than she dislikes me,” you teased lightly, stepping forward.

Steve snorted as he wiped his hands on a towel. “I think she’s finally warming up to you.”

“Only took her a decade and a half,” you said dryly.

Your eyes shifted toward the high chair near the small table.

There he was—your Jamie. James Steven Barnes. Nine months old, dark hair a soft mess on his head, cheeks full and pink, legs kicking in slow, distracted rhythm as he banged a wooden spoon against the tray. He lit up the moment he saw you.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, crossing the room quickly. You scooped him into your arms with ease, planting soft kisses across his face as he squealed in delight. “Mama missed you somethin’ awful.”

He babbled and reached for your face, hands warm and sticky.

Steve leaned over the counter, watching the two of you with something unspoken in his eyes. Something soft and heavy.

“Thanks,” you murmured without looking up, brushing Jamie’s hair back. “For watchin’ him.”

“Always,” he said quietly.

You glanced at him, then down at the little boy now tucked against your chest. You bounced him gently, kissing the crown of his head.

He looked so much like Bucky.

Jamie’s eyes had his smile in them. That crooked brightness. That same stubborn little crease between his brows when he concentrated. Every day he got older, he looked more like him. Sometimes it ached. Sometimes it made you laugh.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Steve said, breaking the silence. “Nothing fancy. Chicken and potatoes. I followed a recipe from one of those little books Mrs. Barnes keeps in her kitchen. The ones with the oil stains and notes in the margins.”

Your eyes narrowed playfully. “You can read her notes?”

“She writes in cursive. I’m not illiterate.”

You snorted. “I didn’t say it, you said it.”

Jamie giggled, delighted by your laugh.

The apartment had gone soft with golden lamplight. The radio murmured low jazz in the background, and your living room-kitchen hybrid felt, for once, more like home than like memory.

Jamie sat now wriggling in your lap, pudgy fingers smacking the edge of the table as he made soft, happy grunts. You held a spoon in one hand, alternating between your own plate and coaxing tiny, mashed-up bites of potato toward your son’s mouth.

Steve, across from you, ate slower now. The nervous energy that had filled him while cooking seemed to have drained, leaving him thoughtful as he glanced between you and Jamie.

You scraped the spoon along the edge of Jamie’s dish, gently cooing at him, “You’re makin’ more mess than you’re eatin’, baby.”

Jamie shrieked with laughter and kicked his legs against your thigh. You rolled your eyes, smiling, brushing his hair back.

Steve watched, silently fond.

After a moment, you leaned back slightly, sighing. “Steve…”

He looked up.

You hesitated, then spoke, voice gentler than your usual sharpness. “You gotta stop putting your life on pause for us.”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m serious,” you said. “You’re here all the time, runnin’ yourself ragged makin’ sure we’re okay. You don’t owe us that.”

“I don’t see it like that,” he said.

“Well, maybe you should,” you said, a bit sharper now. “For God’s sake, Steve… there’s a woman across the damn ocean who’s in love with you. Who you love.”

Steve was quiet, picking at his food. “I do love her,” he admitted softly, after a beat. “I think about her every day.”

You nodded slowly, adjusting Jamie in your lap as he reached for your plate.

“But,” Steve added, eyes lifting to meet yours, steady and sure, “I love you. And I love Jamie. It’s not one or the other. It just… is. And Peggy understands that.”

You looked down at Jamie, brushing your thumb across his cheek as he leaned into you, content. You kissed his temple. “You were here when I needed someone. I’ll never forget that.”

“I wasn’t just here because you needed someone,” Steve said. “I wanted to be here.”

You swallowed thickly.

He cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting. More serious now. “I, uh… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. “What is it?”

“I’m going away for a while. Longer this time.”

You froze. “What do you mean?”

“They think Hydra’s back,” he said quietly. “There’s a lead—small, but real. I’ve gotta follow it. Could take a few months. Maybe more.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around Jamie’s waist, holding him tighter.

You were quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that stretches over aching bones.

Then you asked, voice tight, “Are you comin’ back?”

He nodded. “I’ll always come back.”

You stared at him, gaze sharp, testing him for truth. “You can’t promise that.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’ll try.”

You looked away, blinking hard. “Just… don’t die, Stevie. I can’t lose another man I love.”

You sighed before kissing the top of Jamie’s head and gently passed him across the table. “Take him while I clean up.”

Steve took him easily, and Jamie reached for his face like he always did.

You stood at the sink, your back to both of them, hands trembling as you rinsed plates that suddenly felt too heavy.

Behind you, Jamie giggled.

And Steve said softly, “You’re not alone. You’ll never be alone.”

────────────────────────

Siberia – June 1946

It was colder than Steve had ever felt. The kind of cold that went through bones and memories, through war medals and stitched-up wounds. Snow drifted down in ghost-silent flurries outside the base, the world unnervingly still.

One of the lasts Hydra holdouts. Tucked into a mountain, almost forgotten.

The air inside was sharp with antiseptic and old blood. The hallways were long and shadowed, cracked concrete walls humming under the weight of hidden horrors. The Howling Commandos moved ahead in silence, boots heavy on the ground. Dum Dum took point. Gabe and Morita swept the side halls. But Steve… something had pulled him down this one, this narrow corridor lined with rusted steel doors and buzzing fluorescent lights.

He felt it before he saw it. Something like instinct. Like memory rising from his gut.

Then he saw him.

Encased in thick glass. Wires attached to skin. A cryogenic pod humming low and blue, the frost crawling up from the base, covering the sides in veils of condensation.

Steve froze.

He didn't breathe.

“God…” His voice was barely more than air.

Bucky.

Hair longer, tangled. Face gaunt. But it was him.

Still him.

And his arm…

Steve’s breath shuddered. The left arm was gone. Replaced with cold, glinting steel. Matte black plating layered in Hydra’s signature design, trailing from shoulder to fingertips. Wires snaked from the seams into the pod.

Steve's mouth opened, but no sound came out. It felt like grief all over again—but this time crueler. Because this time, Bucky was here. And Hydra had done this to him. The scars on his shoulder where steel met flesh were jagged and red, raw as if they'd been carved with no thought for healing. His ribs showed under his skin. His hair was matted. There were bruises on his face, half-healed and sunken.

He looked like a ghost.

“Cap?” Dum Dum’s voice came, low and hesitant behind him. “What do we do?”

Steve swallowed hard, eyes locked on Bucky's face. “We don’t touch it. We don’t dare open it. We don’t know what it’s keeping him alive from.”

────────────────────────

Somewhere in Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, One Week Later

It took seven days to move the chamber.

Howard Stark and his team worked around the clock. Peggy Carter coordinated intelligence and security. The best British and American minds worked shoulder-to-shoulder in the converted medical wing of the base. Stark called in every favor he had left. The facility practically vibrated with tension.

And then the pod was opened.

Slowly. Carefully. Oxygen, sedatives, heart monitors. He was intubated, stabilized, removed from cryo. They monitored every breath. Every neural spike.

And then…

Bucky screamed.

Woke like a beast torn from hell.

Hands strapped down immediately. His body thrashed, nearly flipping the bed. He screamed again—no words, just noise. Animal, broken, panicked. One arm flailed wildly—metal catching the edge of a tray, sending it clattering to the floor. A doctor tried to restrain him and got nearly thrown across the room.

Steve rushed in, yelling over the chaos. “Bucky! It’s me—it’s Steve! You’re safe, pal, it’s me!”

But Bucky didn’t hear him.

Didn’t see him.

His eyes—those warm, familiar blue eyes—were wide and glassy. Vacant and terror-stricken. He screamed again and then curled into himself, sobs ripping from his chest. A medic got a sedative in him. Slowly, the tremors faded. His breathing slowed.

Steve stood frozen.

Peggy stepped beside him, placing a hand on his arm. “He doesn’t recognize you.”

Steve didn’t respond. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They broke him,” he whispered. “They really broke him.”

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The room was dim now. Quiet. Just the steady beep of a monitor and the gentle hiss of the IV.

Steve sat at Bucky’s bedside. His best friend lay still, unconscious again. Shackled loosely—just in case. The metal arm still gleamed under the muted lights. Stark had examined it with thinly veiled horror. “Cut nerves, fused bone, direct-to-brain wiring,” he’d muttered. “Barbaric. Brilliant. Inhuman.”

Bucky’s skin was a mess of faded bruises and whip-thin scars. The tips of electrodes had left circular burns along his chest and temples.

Steve brushed a strand of hair back from Bucky’s forehead, gently. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Bucky or himself.

Behind him, Peggy lingered in the doorway. Watching quietly. “You never stopped believing he was out there.”

Steve didn’t turn around. “I don't what I believed. I just thought that he'd somehow come back.”

Peggy stepped into the room, her voice gentle. “And now he has. It’s just going to take time.”

Steve finally looked up at her, eyes tired. “How do I tell her? How do I go back to Brooklyn, look her in the eye, and say… he’s alive, but not really?”

Peggy didn’t have an answer.

────────────────────────

Southern England – Allied Base Hospital, September, 1946

It had been five months since Steve had last seen you. And it tore at him every time he thought about it. You’d written him faithfully, letters worn with fingerprints and smudged ink by the time he finished rereading them—every one a small, steady light.

You wrote about how Jamie had taken his first steps at the park, how he reached for a pigeon and toppled into the grass with a giggle so loud people turned to look. How his first word, predictably, had been “mama.” How you were trying to wean him off the bottle and that it wasn’t going well.

You’d written with joy—exhaustion sometimes—but joy, nonetheless. You never asked much in return. You never demanded updates. You let Steve share what he could when he could. And he had written back. But he hadn’t told you about Bucky.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t know how.

What was he supposed to say? “Bucky’s alive, but he doesn’t know he has a son. He wakes up screaming and cries for you like a man who doesn’t know time has moved on.”

You deserved rest. Not more weight.

So Steve kept it in. And he sat with Bucky. Every day.

────────────────────────

Hospital Recovery Wing.

It had been three months since they’d opened the pod.

Bucky was healing—physically, at least. The bruises were fading, and the medical team had finally managed to remove the rusted remnants of Hydra’s control nodes from his scalp. Howard Stark had designed a brace to help ease strain on the shoulder where flesh met steel. There were less screams at night now. Sometimes, there were even full nights of sleep.

But the mind—that was still a maze.

Steve watched from the hallway as Bucky sat near the window, a blanket over his shoulders, hair tucked back behind his ears. He was paler than usual. Leaner. His hands—his real one and the metal one—trembled sometimes when he tried to hold a cup of tea.

But his eyes had life again.

And pain.

And hope.

Steve stepped in. Bucky looked up, and for a second, Steve saw the old grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You got news?” Bucky asked, voice still rasped and lower than it used to be, like his throat hadn’t fully recovered from the screaming.

Steve nodded, sitting across from him. “Another lead on Hydra. A nest in the Alps. Small.”

Bucky didn’t care about that. He never did.

His fingers gripped the edge of the blanket. “Steve… just take me home.”

Steve’s heart cracked—again. “You’re not strong enough yet, Buck. You know that.”

Bucky’s eyes were bloodshot, a tremor in his jaw. “I don’t care. I can’t do this anymore, Stevie. I need her. Please—please—just let me see her. She’ll fix me. She always does.”

Steve looked down at his hands, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“She’s pregnant,” Bucky said suddenly. Desperate. “She told me. In the last letter. She’s pregnant and I’m here doing nothing. What if something happens? What if she needs me?”

Steve looked up slowly. He hadn’t told him. Bucky didn’t know.

“No,” Steve said softly. “Buck… she’s not pregnant.”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up in alarm.

Steve stood, pacing. “She was. A year and a half ago. You remember… pieces of it, I know. But it’s been almost two years since the train.”

Bucky looked lost. “But… the dreams. I keep reading her say she’s pregnant.”

“You remember what you needed to. What your heart clung to.”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What… what happened?”

Steve pulled a folded photo from his breast pocket. It was worn. The corners curled from too much handling. He handed it to Bucky gently.

It was you.

Holding Jamie.

In your lap, both of you bundled in coats on a bench, smiling at the camera. The baby’s grin was unmistakably Bucky’s.

“That’s your son, Buck,” Steve said quietly. “James Steven Barnes. He’s… he’s beautiful. He just turned one in July.”

Bucky stared at the photo for what felt like forever. His hand trembled as he held it. His lip quivered.

“I missed it.” His voice cracked. “I missed his first breath. First cry. First birthday. His first… everything.”

Steve crouched in front of him. “You survived. That’s what matters now. You get to be there now. And you will. He’s got your hair, you know. Wild as anything. And your laugh. Same crooked smile too, only shows when he’s about to get into trouble.”

Bucky gave a broken, watery laugh. “God. Steve. I gotta see ‘em.”

“I know.”

“I can’t wait ‘til I’m better. I need to see her, Stevie. Please. I need her. She keeps me here—just thinking about her. I hear her voice sometimes, I see her, clear as day. I need—” His voice broke again. “I need to know she’s real. That she’s safe. That she didn’t forget me.”

Steve rested a hand gently on Bucky’s shoulder, firm and steady. “She never forgot you, Buck. Not for a second.”

Bucky looked down, eyes wet. “Do you think she’ll still want me?”

Steve nodded slowly. “She’s never stopped. And Jamie—he’s going to know his father. Just… let’s get you strong enough to hold him first.”

Bucky clutched the photo to his chest and closed his eyes, whispering your name like a prayer.

────────────────────────

Brooklyn, October 1946 – Late Afternoon

The apartment was warm and golden with late afternoon light, soft jazz floating low from the radio, and the scent of clean laundry still faint in the air.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your skirt fanned around your knees, Jamie sprawled across your lap in all his squirmy, wiggly glory. His tiny hands tugged at your necklace with single-minded glee.

“Alright, Jamie bear, time to close those eyes,” you said gently, as Jamie giggled, flopping onto his side in a dramatic act of defiance. “I mean it, Mr. James Steven Barnes—fifteen minutes, that’s all I ask.”

He shrieked in laughter.

“Mama,” he giggled, pointing at you like he’d won something. “Mamaaaaa.”

“Oh, you think I’m funny now?” You leaned in, kissing his cheek noisily. “I’ll remember that when you’re sixteen and I’m threatening to walk you to school in curlers.”

Jamie laughed again, grabbing for your nose this time.

You gave him a side-eye. “Baby, I’m gonna be honest—you’re dangerously close to getting tickled into submission.”

He squealed, thrashing happily as you wiggled your fingers near his sides.

“You little tyrant,” you murmured affectionately, brushing his dark hair back from his forehead. “How can something so small hold me hostage with just a smile? I used to be terrifying, you know. Ask anyone. Your mother used to demand respect.”

He blinked up at you like you were the sun, gurgling some nonsense about “ba-da!” before grabbing his foot and trying to chew it.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around him. “You’re exhausting, and perfect. And I’m already losing this war.”

Just as you rocked him gently, trying to coax him into at least entertaining the idea of sleep, there was a knock at the door.

knock knock knock.

You froze, your hand resting on Jamie’s head. His body went still too, his laughter pausing as he tilted his head in curiosity, those wide, wondering blue eyes staring at the door.

There was nothing ominous about the knock. It was solid. Simple. But something in your bones went cold. Something deep and hidden in your belly clenched the way it had when Steve stood in that doorway a year and a half ago—holding a folded uniform and dog tags, with grief weighing down his eyes like stone.

You swallowed, whispered, “Stay here, baby,” as Jamie stared at you with a questioning look, still quiet.

You padded barefoot to the door slowly, every nerve in your body humming. The familiar creak of the hardwood beneath your feet didn’t comfort you like it usually did. Your hand trembled slightly on the knob, your heart pounding without rhythm.

You opened the door.

Steve stood there, tall and square-shouldered in his uniform, his hat tucked under one arm, and that soft, almost apologetic look in his eyes. You blinked, stunned, still registering the sudden appearance of him. Before you could even form a word—

He shifted.

And behind him stood someone else.

You didn’t breathe.

He was thinner and yet... bigger. Paler. His hair longer, jaw unshaven. The blue of his eyes more haunted. His shoulders stooped, as if the air itself weighed too much. A right hand holding a duffle. The other—

Your eyes dropped involuntarily.

And your breath stopped cold.

A gleam of dull silver. Seamless metal. The joints so real, so smooth, that for a split second, your brain couldn’t compute what you were seeing.

Your gaze snapped back to his face.

Bucky.

You stared.

And so did he.

Your knees almost gave out, hand flying to your mouth.

His eyes found yours—and they filled like floodgates breaking. He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything.

He looked at you, like he’d been starved and was seeing food for the first time. He took one shaking step forward and whispered your name.

You didn’t think. You didn’t breathe. You just ran.

The tears came fast, blurring your vision, and then your arms were around his neck, and his good arm dropped the bag and wrapped around your waist as you collapsed into him.

You clung to him like your body remembered something your mind was still catching up to. Your fingers brushed the metal at his shoulder for half a second and you froze—staggered, breath caught—but then pressed your face to his throat, choosing his warmth over your confusion.

He was real. Cold metal and warm skin and heartbeat thudding under your hand. He was real.

Bucky buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he didn’t believe you were real, holding you with his one good arm like he’d never let go again.

“I thought—I thought I’d lost you,” you choked out, pressing your face against his cheek. “I thought—I held your dog tags, Bucky—God, I—”

“I know,” he choked. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, a little voice called from the living room. “Mama?”

You stilled. Bucky lifted his head.

His eyes were wide.

“That... is that him?” His voice cracked.

You nodded. Gently untangling yourself, you stepped back, reached for his hand, and led him a few steps inside.

You pulled him gently into the apartment, guiding him just far enough for Jamie to come into view—standing wobbly on two legs, gripping the edge of the couch for balance, his gaze locked on the stranger, with big, curious eyes.

“Jamie,” you said softly, crouching beside him, heart pounding, “baby, this is your daddy.”

Bucky’s breath hitched audibly. He dropped into a slow, careful crouch, almost like he was afraid he’d scare the child by existing.

Jamie waddled closer, curious, and unafraid.

Bucky stared, completely still.

Jamie blinked at him. Then his face cracked into a gummy, delighted grin. “Pup!” he declared, mispronouncing it as he pointed at Bucky.

Bucky let out a choked breath of a laugh—half-sob, half-shock. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, opening his arm slowly, still scared.

Jamie stepped into it without hesitation.

And Bucky wept as he held his son for the first time, cradling that tiny body like porcelain.

You moved beside them, touching his shoulder—his metal shoulder. He flinched slightly, but relaxed when your hand stayed steady.

You leaned in, whispering against the side of his head. “He’s been waiting for you.”

“I missed so much,” Bucky whispered hoarsely. “God... he looks like me. But he’s got your nose. He—he said Mama. He can talk?”

“Just a few words,” you murmured. “He took his first steps this summer.”

Bucky’s face crumpled, and he pulled Jamie closer to his chest. “I’m here now,” he said softly. “I swear. I’m here.”

Jamie reached up, tugging gently at his hair, and Bucky actually laughed—a real one this time.

And for the first time in so long, the ache in your chest loosened—just a little.

Because he came home to you.

And he was real.

And he was yours.

“Bucky?” you whispered, cautious of the sudden influx of steps racing outside the door. His lids began to flutter, sleep still heavy in his eyes but then – the door burst open.

It slammed against the wall, echoing so loudly that you could feel the sharp vibration of it in your chest. Bucky lunged for the gun secured under the nightside table, the safety unlatched before he could even aim, only to find Steve on the other end of the barrel. His chest heaved with every breath, sweat dampening on his forehead.

“Compound’s been breached,” Steve panted, glancing back over his shoulder. “They must have found a way to disarm the alarm. The lights are supposed to be FRIDAY’s secondary defense. It’s the only reason Nat woke before they made it to her room, otherwise she’d be—”

“Who's behind the attack?” Bucky was already halfway across the room, yanking on a pair of jeans and pulling a t-shirt over his head to cover his exposed chest. He slid the magazine from his weapon to check for bullets before locking it back into place.

“No idea,” Steve confessed as he ran a tired hand through his unkept hair. “Took down six already and there’s more on the lower levels.”

You were still laid in bed, covers pulled up tight to your chest as you watched the two super soldiers lay out a plan of attack. Steve was dressed in sweatpants, his tank ripped at the edge where a knife must have nicked the fabric. Bucky’s hair was messied and unruly, the imprints of pillow marks on his cheeks.

They looked so terribly human; vulnerable with the lingering draw of sleep still present on their bodies, their reflexes moving just a little slower under the pale glow of moonlight through the window.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky called gingerly, his hand slipping along your arm. You startled at his touch, surprised by the sudden contact, but he didn’t pull away. “I have to go, but I need to know you’ll be safe here. Tell FRIDAY to lock the door behind me, okay? No one will be able to get in. Don’t open it for anyone. Not until I come for you.”

You nodded numbly as Bucky eased you from the bed and to your feet. He handed you a sweatshirt that had been hung over the chair – an old SHIELD crewneck he’d worn the day before. It hung loose again your frame, covering the majority of your exposed skin. A glimpse of your sleep shorts peaked out from the bottom. Gently, you brought the collar up to your nose and inhaled the lingering scent he’d left behind – a desperate attempt to ease the panic coursing through your veins.

Steve pressed his lips to a thin line, giving you a solemn look as he handed Bucky a second gun. You weren’t trained the way they were. You weren’t a field agent. It didn’t matter whether Bucky had taught you a few things in the ring or that you’d been working on building your endurance with Nat around the track down by the lake. You were only an engineer. Your ability to heal would not serve to protect you or the people you loved. It could not spare them from harm before it happened.

Bucky and Steve turned to the door and a jolt of panic cursed in your chest.

“Bucky, wait!”

You leapt into his arms, desperate to hold him just once more. His hands coaxed down your spine, steadily and even. It wasn’t the first time he’d left you to face certain danger, but it was the first time it was happening on your own soil, under your shared roof. The middle of the night and he was ripped from your arms. It was worse than the nightmares you’d learned to fight off.

His lips pressed to your collar. “I’ll be back for you. Stay here, sweetheart.”

“Be careful,” you warned, reluctantly prying your arms from around his neck, “or we’ll have to redraw the conditions of our deal.”

He chuckled at the memory of the night you spent laid up in the hospital room days after you’d nearly died to save Steve’s life. Bucky had sworn off your abilities to heal his injuries outside of his shoulder and that, too, he regulated fiercely to ensure you did not take on more than you could handle. You'd spent hours going back and forth, arguing the injuries you felt were worth taking on to spare your friends and the injuries Bucky couldn’t bear to watch you suffer.

It was a warm memory, a pleasant one – the first one you could recall where someone had so stubbornly argued to spare you of the pain that came along with your gift. Bucky was determined to keep you from the sacrifice it demanded; never intending to use you as a means for power and authority the way your parents had. He would have been happy to never see you use your gift again if it meant you never suffered from a pain that was not meant for your body again.

That feeling he elicited in you – the feeling of safety and security, of ease and comfort – was not one you’d known well before. Your parents had drained you of every drop your body could manage and even then, they worked to bleed you dry all in the name of a sacrifice they deemed the world entitled to. Bucky worked every day to undo the damage they’d done, to remind you of your worth beyond your abilities.

But it was in moments like these – moments when he was about to rush into enemy lines and would certainly come back torn and battered that you resented his desire to spare you of foreign pain. You wanted to heal every last injury that dared touch his body. You wanted to take every burden he carried before it could drag him under.

Screw your deal. Screw his conditions.

But he was smiling at you – beautiful and kind and loving despite the glow of crimson lights from the hallway. Danger on his back and he still took the time to smile for you.

“Deal stays in place, sweetheart. I’ll come back whole, I promise,” Bucky winked, stealing a final kiss from the corner of your mouth before he followed Steve out into the sea of red, glowing light. The door closed behind him and you were left with a terribly unsettling silence.

“FRIDAY?” you called nervously, glancing up at the ceiling. “Please lock the doors.”

“Of course, Miss Y/l/n,” the AI replied, and then, the sharp clicking of several locks secured you in the room. You winced at each one as they settled into place. His bedroom was a fortress on par with the cells held in the basement of the compound. You didn’t dare wonder whether Bucky’s was the only room with such protocols in place, if he’d once used them to allow himself to sleep at night even when he feared the monster might return in his slumber.

In the far distance, the echo of a gunshot clipped through the air. You sank down behind the bed, clutching your knees to your chest. Your palms pressed against your ears in an effort to drown out the sound.

Helplessness was not a trait you cared to hold, and yet, when your friends faced the cruel edge of enemy lines infiltrating their own doorsteps, you could do nothing to protect them.

Some gift you had... The ability to heal what had already been destroyed. To only relieve the burden of pain that had already been cast. Never to protect them from it in the first place. Never to ensure they did not feel an ounce of the suffering they would come to endure.

Perhaps it was a selfish thought. Perhaps you were asking too much.

But for those who gave everything to protect everyone else around them, could you not wish that they be spared? Could you not hope that a scratch never cut their skin? A bullet never grazed their bones? Their blood never dropped thick and heavy from their fingertips?

It was foolish to ask for such things and you supposed it didn’t matter much anyway.

You’d be there when the blood exposed in dangerous lines upon their skin. You’d take away the destruction these invaders dared to cast. It will be as if nothing had ever touched them, no harm had ever laid waste to their bodies. To undamage the skin and mend what was once broken.

You’d find a way to work within the confines of your deal with Bucky.

Until then, you’d wait.

***

You could not hope to know how much time had passed while you listened to the gunfire that threatened your friends’ lives. Each shot caused such a violent jolt in your body it might as well have pierced through your own skin. Each echo could have ended Steve’s life, or Natasha’s, or Sam’s, or Tony’s or... or Bucky’s.

Still – you waited.

Your fingertips grazed over the scars on your stomach. Raised edges from the bullet wounds you’d sustained from the bullets that nearly killed Steve and the stab mark from the stranger in the alley. The only injuries that nearly cost your life to heal. The warnings to remind you just how close to a sacrifice your gift was meant to be.

Then, silence.

You peered at the door, heart pounding on par with the lingering echo of the final shot. Slowly, you pulled yourself to your feet, fingers grasping at the excess fabric of Bucky’s sweatshirt at the sleeves. Under the door, the red glow began to fade until it was nothing at all. Relief sank deep into your chest as an exhale carried away the weight sitting upon your lungs.

It was over. Bucky would come for you soon and—

A deep black smoke began to spill from the vents. Darker than what could have been drawn from a fire – so impossibly onyx in color that it could only have been made of something from inhuman abilities. You sprinted to the door as if you could outrun the influx of smoke to the room. It coated the gentle glow of starlight from the window and darkened the single lamp at your bedside until you could see nothing at all. Pitch black darkness and you fumbled with the doorknob, hands shaking, before you remembered FRIDAY’s protocols.

“FRIDAY! The door! Open the door!” you coughed violently as you shoved your shoulder against the impenetrable surface. Smoke filled your lungs, burned into your eyes and you covered your nose and mouth with the collar of Bucky’s sweatshirt. It wasn’t enough.

Then finally the door swung open and you fell out into the hallway, scrambling on the cold wooden floors to escape the smoke.

“Kid!” Tony shouted, racing towards you. The nanoparticles on his suit dissolved to expose his face, barley a scratch despite the deep bruising on his cheekbone. “FRIDAY deploy purifying protocols on Barnes’ room!”

The door slammed shut, trapping most of the black smoke inside. A whirring sound screamed from beyond the doors, as if a vacuum had sucked the air dry. You stared at the lingering smoke hanging along the ceiling above you, terrified it might have a mind of its own and plunge down into your lungs. But then it too was sucked back into the vents at FRIDAY’s command.

“Are you alright?” Tony asked, though his voice was tense. It sounded more like a demand to cover the panic and concern etched into his tired eyes. “What the hell is my top engineer doing out here in the middle of a raid?”

“Running from whatever the hell that was!” you grumbled back, coughing so violently blood spilled from your lips. A remanence of the smoke filtered in faded clouds in your exhales.

“Remind me to find a way to blame Barnes for this,” Tony huffed, though a teasing grin peered through. He extended his hand to you, the nanoparticles of his suit retracting back into the plate on his chest.

“I guess this means the threat’s been eliminated?” you questioned, eying the absence of his armor. You placed your hand into his grip.

“You expect anything less from Earth’s Mightiest—ah, shit!” Tony hissed, yanking his hand back from your grip and cradling it to his chest. He stared down at his palm, a stunned expression stealing away the lighthearted teasing from his features.

“Tony? What is it?” you asked cautiously, moving closer, though he took a step back before you could reach him. You couldn’t tell whether he was trying to shield you from what had caused such pain in his hand or if it was an involuntary flinch – the kind you’d make out of hesitation, out of fear.

Slowly, Tony turned his palm to you and you gasped at what you saw. Along his lifeline drew a deep, bloodied laceration that had not been there moments before. It cut into his skin as if a blade were held to it, sliding over the surface and bubbling crimson down his wrist. Blood dripped over the edge and onto the hardwood floors.

You blinked. "I don’t-- I don’t understand...”

Tony stared blankly back at you. He couldn’t seem to find an explanation himself.

“Y/n!” Sam skidded in from the stairwell, Natasha hanging in his arms though she looked rather annoyed to be in such a position. She was gripping a wound on her left side, a knife still embedded between the ribs. Blood pooled from between her fingers. It was enough to draw your attention away from the strange anomaly on Tony’s hand.

Natasha grumbled under her breath as Sam swung her around the furniture in his path, her position jolted with every step. He grimaced as she gripped a pinching handful of shoulder until he yelped and finally slowed his pace.

Sam placed Nat on the couch to your left, panting heavily as he wiped his brow. “It’s bad down there. Steve and Buck are handling the last of them but Nat got jabbed pretty good.” He turned to you. “Helen won’t be able to break through the security channels to get inside for another hour. Any chance you could—”

“You don’t have to ask, Sam,” you replied easily, offering him a smile that eased the weight off his shoulders in an instant.

Sam’s hand grazed over your spine as he gestured you towards the couch Natasha was laid up on, when suddenly he out a terrible cry. He jolted away from you, nearly collapsing to the floor if not for his catch on the edge of the couch. He nursed his left ankle, pushing the entirety of his body onto his right foot. Then, he shifted his weight, testing the pressure, but the tension in his breath and the tight grip of his jawline was enough to tell you that the pain was excruciating.

Your heart was pounding. “Sam...?”

“I’m fine,” he strained as he forced out a smile. “It’s my ankle. I... I must not have felt it with the adrenaline rushing.” He gritted his teeth, barely able to put any pressure on it at all. “Help Nat. I’m okay.”

Hesitantly, you nodded. Tony was gripping his hand, watching you as if he were studying something in his lab, an equation written on a whiteboard and a marker in his hand, tapping the cap against his teeth. A shiver carried up your spine under his stare.

Slowly, you knelt beside Natasha. “Hey Nat, how are you feeling?”

“Never been better,” she gritted back through a hardwired jaw. She still managed a grin as she met your eyes. Sweat beaded on her forehead and you brushed it away with the edge of Bucky’s sleeve. She eyed her open wound. “Thought you had a deal with Barnes, huh?”

“Bucky’s not here right now, is he?” you teased, knowing full well he wouldn’t be happy if you took on an injury like this. You knew enough that it would hurt, might take longer than a few minutes to heal, but it wasn’t life threatening, not with the rate in which your body could mend the broken pieces back together. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but you'd survive it. It would spare your friend from suffering unnecessarily as she waited for Helen to arrive.

“Ready?” you inquired, hovering your hands over the hilt of the knife. She nodded and you yanked the blade from her ribs.

Your hands quickly replaced its intrusion. Closing your eyes, you felt for the tears in her muscle, the veins that had been cut, the skin marred from the blade. You waited for the warm, gentle glow to emit from your palms, but you found yourself dragging your nails at the bottom of a well; dried dirt all that remained.

You pushed past it, desperate to draw on your gift, but the more you looked, the more a heaviness weighed against your palms – a resistance to your own power. A chill swept through you; ice pressed your skin.

Something was wrong.

“Y/n...” Tony warned, but you could barely hear him.

You shook your head, losing your grip on your connection to Natasha’s injury. It should have begun to transfer by now. You should have felt the sharp pain of the knife slide in between your ribs, should have felt the trickle of blood down your stomach. But now—all you could feel was bone.

Wait— Bone?

You could feel it as if your hands had wrapped around the bone itself. Something so strong and still impossibly fragile within your grip. Your power flooded along the surface, dipping into the memory of old cracks and held on as if it had dug claws into surface. You gritted your teeth, trying to pull away from your power’s fixation upon Natasha’s clavicle.

“Y/n, step back, now!” Tony’s voice rang out and your eyes blew wide.

Under your palms was not the golden light you’d known all your life, but instead a deep black shadow. You tried to jump away but the darkness had coated around Natasha’s bone. The shadow sunk deep into the crevices, slithering through each dip and into the crack of the year-old fracture.

It snapped. Natasha began to scream.

You scrambled to the floor, kicking yourself as far away from her as you could manage. Your breaths were coming in too quickly – rapid and heavy and threatening to drown you under the weight of the tension. Tears spilled down the side of Natasha’s face and you froze – body stilled as stone as she bit down hard enough on her lips to draw blood in an effort to muffle the agonizing cries.

Sam was putting new pressure on Natasha’s open stab wound, blood pooling around his fingers, as Tony paced back and forth with a cell to his ear in an attempt to page for medical. Blood from his own laceration spilled down his wrist and trailed along his forearm like raindrops over a windowpane. Sam shifted to relieve the pressure on his left foot as he grazed a gentle finger over the break along Nat’s collarbone. She hissed at the touch.

Your hands were trembling as you struggled to keep yourself grounded, gripping into Bucky’s sweatshirt, knocking against the cold steadiness of the floors, brushing over the edge of the doorframe against your back. Natasha’s blood coated your palms and spread with every new touch.

Nothing made sense. Injuries didn’t just occur out of thin air. Tony’s cut appeared as though it had been carved by an invisible blade. Sam's broken ankle snapping only at the moment he was clear of danger. Natasha fractured clavicle...

You froze.

They were all injuries you’d healed before. You’d once felt Tony’s cut on the center of your palm as if glass had shredded through it. You’d known the pain of Sam’s broken ankle as you’d once gritted your teeth in an effort to hide its claim on your own body from Bucky. You’d stuffed a towel in your mouth to keep from screaming as Natasha’s fractured clavicle healed under the surface of your own skin. You’d healed these injuries before. Only now, your power was transferring them back.

Bile retched its way up your stomach and you heaved its contents onto the floor beside you.

“Y/n!” Bucky’s voice echoed from down the hall as he and Steve rushed out from the stairwell.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him and you did not allow yourself not a single ounce of relief to see his body clean of the blood and ruin that usually laid waste upon his skin after heavy combat. You started to scramble backwards against the floors, desperate to keep him out of your reach, but Bucky was too quick for that.

“No! Don’t touch me!” you tried to warn him, but Bucky’s hands were already on your shoulders, drawing you to his chest. You pushed against him, sobs racking through your spine.

“Sweetheart! Hey, hey, it’s alright!” Bucky hushed; the relief evident in his body as he held you in his arms. “It’s just me. You’re okay.”

You shook your head rapidly, pressing your hands against his chest to push him away. “I’m not—I'm not, Bucky! Something’s wrong!”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, confused, before a hiss drew from his breath. He lifted his right hand in time to watch as blisters formed against the knuckles, skin tearing away as if he’d ruined them against the punching bag in the gym himself. His lip twitched as he tried to hide the sting of it but you could see the pain on his face. You took advantage of his hesitation to pull yourself from his grip before you could do more damage.

Steve started to approach, worried. He reached towards you, fingertips nearly grazing your skin. “Y/n, are you—”

“Get back!” you screamed, jumping far out of his reach. Steve retracted his hand, startled. “You can’t be anywhere near me! I could kill you, Steve. I--” you glanced down at your own hands in horror, “--I could kill you...”

Bucky moved to comfort you, but you flinched before his hand could touch the exposed skin on your shoulder. Hurt washed over his features as if he might actually believe it was his touch you were afraid of; the hands of the Winter Soldier, the hands of a killer, of Hydra’s enforcer. But it was never him. Never him.

“The smoke,” Tony said at last as the room turned to him, a defeated sigh on his breath. “It messed with her powers. Reversed them, by the looks of it.” He held up the laceration on the inside of his palm. Blood dripped from the gashing wound. “I got this from a lab accident not long after Y/n was hired here. It was how I learned about her abilities.”

Sam hung his head in realization. “I broke my ankle last year and Nat—” He sighed, adjusting his stance. Blood spilled from between his fingertips as he added pressure to her wound. She was barely conscious. “Y/n healed Nat’s fractured collarbone not long after.”

Bucky held his breath, his gaze still fixated on his knuckles. It took him a moment as his stare drifted from the pebbled blood on his hand up to you. A sinking weight build of agony and grief upon his features. “This was the first injury I let her heal.”

“Steve, you need to keep your distance at all cost,” Tony warned, pointing a finger in Steve’s direction. “If she gives those bullet wounds back... you won’t survive it.”

Steve took a cautious step backwards despite the fact he was already half across the room from you. He winced as he looked down at his feet, guilt pressing into his features. You were trembling across the room from him and still—you posed a threat to his life.

Fear was not a casualty you were used to be on the receiving end of. Pity, gratitude, awe, excitement, wonder – sure. Your gifts granted absolution from pain, stole the wounds that would surely scar, eased the discomfort from those who had suffered. You’d seen plenty of emotion in the eyes of those you touched. But not fear. Not like this.

You were shaking, staring helplessly at the people you would have given your life to heal as they now carried the injuries you had given back to them, winced and ached from pain you caused.

“I’m...” you gaped, slipping your hands behind the protective layer of fabric of Bucky’s sweatshirt and folded your arms over your chest, “I’m so sorry... I didn’t... I didn’t know...” You looked to Natasha who was barely clinging to consciousness, a whimpered groan escaping from her lips as Sam pressed her wound. “Nat... Nat I’m...”

“Sweetheart, it’s not your fault,” Bucky urged, instinctively moving closer but you pulled sharply out of reach. You didn’t dare allow yourself to witness the hurt upon his features, the desolation warped into such beautiful lines upon his face. He let his hand drop back to his side, defeated.

“We’ll figure out a way to reverse it,” Tony promised, eyes darting between you and the distance you settled away from your friends. “FRIDAY should have a sample of the smoke that dosed you in Barnes’ room.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at that, horror flashing over his face, but you nodded weakly before Bucky ask.

“I’ll need a place to stay,” you said meekly. “Somewhere isolated.”

“No,” Bucky shook his head defiantly. “No, that’s not necessary. You’ll stay with me. You haven’t healed any other injuries of mine. There’s nothing to give back.”

You clenched your jaw. “Your shoulder, Buck...”

“I don’t care about my shoulder!” Bucky’s voice broke in the effort, the intensity startling you. “I’ve dealt with that pain for decades. So go on and give it back to me, sweetheart! I don’t care. I won’t let you be alone through this.”

You stilled, heart sinking down into your stomach. When had he become so willing to endure such pain to keep you from the isolation you faced? Was it long before he first showed up in your lab, weakly leaning against the wall and massaging the tender aches in his arm, finally working up the courage to ask for the aid of your gift? Was it back when he refused to allow you to heal his injuries, long before he knew what they would do to you in return?

He inched closer to you; steadily, gently, as if approaching a frightening animal. He held out his hand, offering it to you.

“Please, Y/n...”

You stared at his hand, unable to tear your eyes away from the cuts on his knuckles. You remembered how they’d felt as they broke open upon your own hand the day you’d healed him. Curled up on the floor of the gym, nestled against his side, your hand shoved deep into your pocket to shield him from the truth as you swallowed back the sting of its pain.

It took everything you had to turn away from him.

“I’ll be on the lower level until it’s safe to return,” you said flatly, the emotion void from your voice. It was all you could manage. “There’s still lab equipment there from the remodel last year. I know I’m a mechanical engineer, but Tony, if you could send a sample there it could at least keep me busy until—”

“Done,” Tony agreed eagerly. “I’ll send some to Fitzsimmons as well. They’ll want to take a look at it.”

You nodded. “Please make sure FRIDAY secures the floor so... so I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“This is ridiculous! We’re not going to isolate you in the fucking basement!” Bucky sprang forward, his chest heaving so rapidly he looked close to a panic attack. You wanted to lunge towards him, to absorb the frantic beating in his chest and the fire in his veins, but you wouldn’t dare touch him again, not knowing what kind of damage you could do to the nerves in his shoulder.

“There’s no other choice,” Tony said, guilt sinking into his features. “Y/n has healed hundreds of injuries in her time here. If every touch can bring them back, even when she’s not consciously trying to heal... It could be disastrous. Imagine if she gave back every injury you ever sustained in the last five years all at once. It would kill you.”

“I never used her powers at every inconvenience, Stark,” Bucky snapped, venom dripping on the edge of his tongue.

Tony stilled. “I didn’t know what it did to her at the time, Barnes. None of us did.”

“Bucky, please,” you reached towards him, almost to set a hand against his forearm but quickly smothered the instinct. You clung your covered hands against your chest. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“So let me come with you,” Bucky begged. His legs appeared weak, like he might sink down to his knees in front of you, his pride lost to the smoke that had burned to your lungs. His hands clenched to fists; his breaths heavy inside his chest. “Keep yourself away from everyone else if you have to, but don’t do that to me. Please... not me, too.”

Tears stung in his eyes. Wet and red and clouding over the blue you’d come to adore. Pain drenched into his body and you didn’t have to lay a single hand upon him.

“I’m sorry...” It was barely more than a whisper, your voice threatening to give out entirely. Bucky’s chin fell to his chest, defeat sinking low into his body as if weights clung to his limbs and dragged him down into the hardwood floors. You wouldn’t dare a glance in his direction as you turned your shoulder. It was the only way. Tony understood. Maybe in time, so would Bucky.

It was what you told yourself anyway as the stairwell door closed behind you and you descended into the closed off level in the basement. Bare footsteps through the silence and the heavy exhale in your breath all that kept your company as you turned on the lights.

Cobwebs hung against the ceilings. Exposed beams and furniture covered in sheets. Not even FRIDAY was hooked up on this level so you would have to lock the doors manually. Your fingers grazed over the locks as you stole one last look into the hall, wondering if Bucky or any of your friends might chase after you, might try to convince you to stay. But you were only met with more silence.

Fear was a powerful emotion, after all.

***

“It’s been three days, Y/n,” Fitz’ voice drawled through the speaker. “Maybe if you could just try the gloves I sent you, it will—”

“I can’t risk it, Fitz.” You raked your fingers through your hair, nails digging into your scalp enough for the sharp sting in follow in its wake. The burn of it settled you back into your body. “I mean... who am I supposed to test it on? I've healed more than just a minor papercut for these people. I’m talking major field injuries and you want me to just see if I... I don’t know... puncture their lungs? Or shred a bullet through their torso? Or reintroduce a blade to their throat? I could throw all three at once if I’m not careful and I could end up killing an Avenger!”

“Alright, alright,” Fitz sighed. You could hear him tinkering in his lab through the soft crackling in the speaker. The glass of test tubes clinking as he swiveled around the room in his chair. A moment of silence passed, which could only indicate that he was hesitating before he spoke. There was rarely room for much silence at all when it came to Fitz.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “There’s always Sergeant Barnes.”

You flinched, nearly dropping the sample of smoke as you adjusted its position under the microscopic lens. “No. Absolutely not. Don’t bring him up again.”

“I’m serious, Y/n!” Fitz huffed rather dramatically, his thick Scottish accent curling on his tongue. “You haven’t healed anything for him that could be life threatening, nothing that is any more pain than the man is already used to—”

“I said no, Fitz!” you snapped, a stray vial falling to the floor at your feet. The glass shattered onto the tile floors. In the lingering emptiness, you could feel the weight of the last few days sinking onto your shoulders; heavy and dragging along muscle and skin and bone until your feet had burrowed into the ground.

You knew Fitz was only trying to help, that he was working around the clock to help reverse whatever this smoke had done to your abilities. He didn’t deserve the blunt end of your frustration.

“I’m sorry,” you sighed, covering over Fitz’ muttered apology. “I just...I can't be another person that causes him pain. There have been so many and I can’t add myself to that list. I’m supposed to heal his pain, Fitz. I’m supposed to take it away. I can’t... I can’t give it back.”

Fitz’ exhale fluttered through the speaker. You could hear the clock ticking from across the room, the roar of the quinjet’s engines outside Fitz’ lab 30,000 feet in the sky. If you listened hard enough, you might be able to hear the fracture inside your chest as you glanced back to the window along the locked door to the lab, half hoping to find Bucky waiting for you despite your desperate pleas for him to keep his distance, despite the fears you held of your own powers, despite the lingering words of your parents mocking you in the back of your head -- ‘sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.’

“We’ll sort it out, Y/n, I promise,” Fitz said after a moment. You weren’t sure whether you believed him, but it was a nice thought to have.

Through the speaker, you hear the soft tap of shoes clicking over the tiles before the voice of a feminine English accent added, “I won’t rest until I isolate the variables in this sample. You know Fitz and I... can’t stop until the problem’s solved.”

You could hear the smile in Jemma Simmon’s voice, could practically picture the nervous glance she would share with Fitz before you could find the strength to respond. If anyone could figure this out, you knew it was them. Even with the slight waver of uncertainty in their voices, it was nice to know they meant well, that they were trying.

“Thank you,” you managed to mutter back.

“Of course, dear,” Jemma replied cheerily. You could tell it was forced and a little strained, but you appreciated her effort.

You glanced up at the clock. “I should probably go anyway. Don’t want take up more of your time.”

“Oh, it’s no bother—!” Fitz tried to interject.

“Just find that cure for me, will you?” you replied instead, faking your way through a moderately convincing laugh.

Fitz paused, likely sharing that knowing look with Simmons. “We will.”

“Take care of yourself,” Jemma chimed in before you could manage to end the call. “I know you’re holing yourself up in that basement but it doesn’t mean you have to be alone. Precautions can be taken. That door has a window, you know.”

You nodded, glancing back at the door and the unanswered reflection. “I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow.”

You ended the call before their reply.

***

“This is what you were made for,” your mother cooed as she slid a comforting hand along your hair. Tears spilled down your cheeks as your Achilles tendon fused itself together. Tissue and muscle and agony with every new fiber – snapped and mended in a matter of minutes. You were eight years old.

“You are exceptional,” she praised, lifting a hand to bring forth the next in line as you finally caught a full breath again, just as the pain subsided. Only a moment of recovery. Only a glimpse of what it felt like to live inside your own body without the intrusion of pain that should not have been yours to suffer.

“This is your purpose, my love.” She guided your hand to the stranger’s chemical burn along his forearm. You whimpered as your skin began to bubbler and blister, all while the man glowed in awe of your gift. Such wonder. A miracle within itself.

He bowed. Your skin sizzled.

“This is how you will change the world.” You mother brought forward the next stranger. One after another. Endless. She spoke to you as if you were more than a scared, young girl; as if your pain was a simple side effect of such a magnificent gift.

“It hurts,” you whimpered before the next woman in line could approach. The burn hadn’t had a chance to heal yet and it was still bubbled along your skin. Oozing and angry in its color.

Your mother didn’t look in your direction, instead she beckoned the woman forward. A broken hipbone, by the looks of it. She couldn’t stand from her wheelchair, but she looked to your mother in gratitude, as if she were the one offering salvation and not the whimpering child upon a makeshift throne.

“Please,” you shook your head, trying to squirm out of reach, but your mother held you firm.

“We talked about this, my dear,” she replied with all the comfort of a mother’s voice though her eyes were cold and distant. “Your gift comes with a cost and you must bear it. It is a sacrifice for the good of the world.”

Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.

You nodded, brushing the tears from your cheeks. The burn had cleared on your skin and slowly, you reached towards the elderly woman. The warm light glowed along your palms as you hovered your hand along her hip. When you could not bite back the scream as your bone cracked under the surface, your mother scowled.

Jolted awake, you flung the thin sheet from your lap and quickly pushed yourself to your feet. Rubbing deep pressure into your temples, you tried to find space to ground yourself amongst the unfamiliar room. Memories of your time as little more than a wishing stone in your mother’s hand usually left you feeling unsettled for hours.

You took in a deep breath, holding it until you felt the pressure sting against your lungs, and exhaled long enough to lose the tension burned to your chest. Your hands gripped along the counter tops, feeling for the cold, hard surface. The dips in the metal. The bump of paper along the path. Feeling, feeling, feeling. Grounding.

Usually, you had Bucky to bring you back from those dreams. His arms wrapped around your shoulders; his heartbeat nestled under your ear. Steady rhythm and the gentle coax of his hand along your spine. Hushed murmurs in your ear, praise and reassurance. Reminders that you were more than the false god your parents had deigned you to be. Bucky would pull you from their clutches even as you felt their claws sink punctured marks to your skin.

But you didn’t have Bucky. You’d made sure of that, hadn’t you?

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, choking back the sob before it could manage to escape. The lump at the back of your throat was suffocating; burning and aching. It threatened to cut off your air supply entirely. Short, hollowed breaths followed.

How was it possible that you missed that feeling of helplessness you held just moments before the smoke? The sacrifice you’d finally learned to use as a gift in kindness had become a curse. It stole from you the one thing that you had to offer, the one aspect of your being that made your existence worthy and whole and—No.

Those were the words of your parents. Your sacrifice – your gift – was not your purpose.

You were a decorated mechanical engineer. You designed tech and suits and defensive armor for the Avengers. You were top of your class at the Academy. You were hired by Tony Stark before he had any idea of the healing power that you possessed; he’d seen your worth beyond the power that had once been a beacon for the sick and injured.

“You’re worth more than just a vessel for our pain, Y/n!”

Bucky’s voice still rang in your ear from the day you woke in the med wing days after healing Steve from the brink of death. You glanced down and lifted the edge of your shirt, fingertips grazing over the scarred bullet wounds you nearly didn’t survive. Raised edges of one of the few scars that remained on your body – unhealed. It was the last time you’d ever allowed yourself to use your gift in such a way – to endure the sacrifice it demanded.

But it was one thing to begin to find worth in yourself beyond the pain you suffered in the name of those you loved, another to be the cause of such a burden.

You had only started to learn how to live with yourself as you stood by and watched as Sam gritted his teeth through stitches on the open wound on his forearm, as Natasha limped on a sprained ankle for weeks, as Steve tried to hide the shortness of breath when a rib inched too close to his lungs. You had only begun to accept Bucky’s endless pain in his arm; the nerves he’d only allow you to heal once every few weeks when his will wore down.

But to know that for every injury you healed, every moment where they glowed in wonder and amazement at your gift, you could return it at the graze of your fingertips... It was unimaginable.

You could brush Natasha’s fingers as you reached for the same coffee mug and dislocate her shoulder. You could bump Sam’s hip in the kitchen and litter scrapes and bruises over his entire body. A quick hug from Tony and you could brand burn marks along his arms and legs. You could run into Steve in the hallway and put three bullet holes into his torso— a single touch and you could give back the night that almost ended his life. You could kill him.

You sank to the floor, arms wrapping around yourself, unable to hold back the tears any longer. Sobs racked through your body until they came gasping, until you were dry heaving, until you could barely catch your breath. Under the weight of such pressure, you hadn’t noticed the footsteps beyond the door, the press of a hand against the glass.

“I could break the lock, you know,” Bucky's voice called from the hallway. Your eyes snapped up to find him watching you through the window by the door. Your vision blurred and you brushed your sleeve against your eyes.

“I haven’t done it yet because I’m trying to respect what you asked of me, to give you this space, but,” he sighed, dropping his gaze as another tear fell heavy against your cheek, “watching you like this is going to kill me. Please, sweetheart. Please just let me in.”

You shook your head, eyes flickering to the mess of scar tissue hidden beneath his thin t-shirt. “I’ll hurt you...”

Bucky held his ground. “I don’t care.”

“But I do!” you cried, pushing yourself back to your feet. You stumbled backwards away from the door until you felt the cold press of the wall against your spine. It was as much distance as you could safely manage and it wasn’t enough. You cornered yourself against the wall like a frightened animal.

Bucky gritted his teeth as you tried to muffle another sob. He disappeared from the window and without warning, the knob dislocated from the door and dropped to the ground. The door eased open as Bucky stepped inside, the lock broken under the pressure of vibranium.

“Please,” you begged, though it came out as barely more than a whimper, “please don’t come near me.”

Bucky took another step forward. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be!” you shot back. “I have no idea how this power works, Bucky. I could—I could give back all the pain I took from you at once and—God—I don’t know what that could do to you!”

There was not a single ounce of fear upon his face as he steadily repeated, “I don’t care.”

He was only a few steps away now. Your heels pressed against the trim at the edge of the floor, hands falling flat against the cold surface of the wall. You’d sink into the foundation if you could have, but Bucky inched closer.

“Nothing,” Bucky started, a desolate look upon his face, “could hurt me worse than seeing you like this. Nothing you could give me could hurt more than these last few days—of knowing that you’re scared and alone down here.”

Your lips parted, trying to find the words as Bucky stood within your reach. He stilled, watching as another tear slipped over your cheek, and his hand clenched as if he’d taken the effort to restrain himself from wiping it away himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you whispered, gaze dropping to his chest. “You asked me not to work on your shoulder without your consent, to not take on your pain unless you asked. You didn’t want to see me in pain so please... don’t make me return it to you like this.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, his hands curled so tightly you wondered how much he was holding himself back from pulling you into his arms anyway. He leaned towards you, like he might be considering it, but then—he stepped back.

“Let me stay with you, at least,” Bucky asked, putting distance between you. “You can’t hurt me if you’re standing across the room. This way, you won’t be alone. Let me do this for you.”

You paused, watching his stance as he gripped tight to the back of an old lab chair. It warped under his palms. Still, he evened his breaths, concentrated on you. His haze burned as you did everything possible for avoid his eyes.

“Would you leave if I said no?”

Bucky swallowed and reluctantly muttered, “yes.”

“I could put you through excruciating pain, Bucky. If you were to touch me, even by accident—” You shook your head, tears stinging against your eyes. You didn’t want to finish your sentence, but you both understood. It could be worse than the fall, worse than the surgery he’d gone under without proper anesthetic, worse than the decades of abuse and heavy metal pulling at his shoulder. “Being down here with me... it’s worth the risk to you?”

“Yes,” Bucky replied without hesitation. His hand twitched as if he had to restrain himself from reaching for you. “Trust me, sweetheart. Asking me to leave you again will hurt worse than anything you can dole out with that new shadow magic.”

He pressed a smile onto his face, teasing and gentle, though it ached in his eyes. You nodded, unable to return it.

“I’d like to not find out,” you said, but it was acceptance enough. Bucky nodded, grateful, and he pulled out the chair on the opposite end of the room. The silence hung heavy between you, but amongst the ticking of the clock over the door and the hum of the air conditioner, you could still hear his even breaths.

***

“I’m sorry, Y/n, I wish I had better news,” Fitz’ slumped into his chair. It rolled away from the video monitor as he hung his head.

Nearing a week since you’d been exposed to the smoke that reversed your abilities and you were no closer to an answer. Even the sample you kept locked behind the containment window within your own makeshift lab had proved worthless. The smoke rose and fell inside the vial, shifting as if itching for a way through the cracks – as if it were sentient.

“It’s not nothing!” Jemma popped on screen, still wearing her lab goggles over her eyes. She smiled at you as she always did – so bright in the face of the dark end of a tunnel – and still, you could not bring yourself to even mimic one in return.

“It’s altered my DNA, Jemma,” you replied flatly, repeating the findings they just presented to you moments earlier, as if any one of you could have forgotten. Across the room, you could feel the shift in Bucky’s tension as he watched from his distance.

“There’s always a chance you could learn how to control it,” Fitz offered timidly. He exchanged a worried glance with Jemma before continuing. “Think about it. As a kid, you didn’t have control over your healing ability. Any touch could set it off, right? Maybe this is the same thing. Maybe you could learn to—”

“What?” you scoffed. “Torture people? Be a more competent monster?”

Fitz froze, a stunned look on his face. “That’s not what I meant.”

Bucky crossed the room, careful to keep a full six feet between you as he approached the monitor. “Why don’t we touch base tomorrow, okay? Thanks for the update, guys.” The moment the camera went black, Bucky turned his attention to you. His jawline was hard-set as his hands gripped into the edge of the table. “What was that about?”

You shrugged. “What?”

Bucky bit at the inside of his cheek, watching you, as if he might be waiting for you to fess up. Hands planting on his hips, a tense exhale, and he finally grunted out, “you really think I don’t know what it’s like to hurt the people I love?”

The air stilled in your lungs as your folded arms slacked at your sides.

Bucky shook his head. “I know exactly how you feel, Y/n. I know what it is to have your body made to be a weapon, to have no fucking say when you hurt the people you care about. I know, Y/n. So hear me when I say you are not a monster.”

You tapped your fingertips against the edge of the counter. Nervous energy. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Yes, it is!” He nearly crossed the room to you but you flinched the moment he took a single step. The motion forced his body to stone. Slowly, he forced a steady breath before continuing, “you told me a dozen times the pain I caused when I had no control was not mine to claim. How is this any different?”

It was. It had to be.

Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice.

You didn’t say a word as you turned your back to him, sinking onto the couch and pulling the sheet high up along your shoulders. You could only vaguely hear Bucky's defeated breath as he turned back to his place at the opposite end of the room.

There was no glimpse of sunlight in the basement, no windows to watch the glow as it pulled behind the tree line. There were no shadows to hide behind as you burrowed behind the stone-built wall you’d placed in Bucky’s path. Your shame was littered upon your skin – vibrant under the florescent overhanging lights.

***

“I won’t do this anymore—I can’t.” You threw your belongings into the only duffle bag you could find; torn and ripped at the seams from its home at the edge of a dark alleyway. You’d scrubbed it clean four times in the dead of night before your parents could know you held onto it. Hidden away. Protected. Waiting until the moment the final straw had snapped.

“I told you this would happen,” you mother sneered toward your father. “We allow her to attend university, gain all these meaningless degrees, and now she thinks she can abandon her gods-given duty!”

“My degrees are not meaningless,” you snapped back. A pile of clothes shoved into the duffle in a messy heap.

“In comparison to the work you have done to heal—”

“The work?” you scoffed, a dead laugh bitter against your lips. “You mean the suffering you forced me to endure for the sake of your own goddamn egos!”

Your mother straightened her spine, the frown curving low upon her pink stained lips. “For the good of others, there is a sacrifice you must—”

“DO NOT SPEAK TO ME OF SACRIFICE!” You roared, stilling your movements as you faced her save for the heavy rise in your chest. Will and will. Stubborn and unrelenting as you stared down the hardened expression upon your mother’s face.

“Darling,” your father eased, “your power is a gift from the gods. We cannot ignore it.”

He always did believe in that crap. His belief in divinity is what allowed him to excuse the pain he’d put you through – to do so in the name of something greater than himself. Whether it was in fear or wonder, you never did know. It didn’t matter, you supposed. He still allowed his child to suffer broken bones, burns, diseases, and scars that were never meant to be hers.

You closed your eyes, clawing for the strength you’d gathered this morning as you tugged the duffle from under your bed.

“Tony Stark offered me a job. I’m going to take it.”

“Stark?” your mother scoffed; arms folded over her chest. “That arrogant bastard? What will you do for him, huh? Heal the Avengers? What a useless waste of such power—”

“He hired me as a mechanical engineer,” you shot back, pride swelling at the sight of surprise upon her features. Her brow raised in disbelief. You smirked. “He has no idea of my abilities. He hired me because I’m damn good at my job and I can use something other than this fucking gift to actually help people! I can make armor and defensive tech for the Avengers. I can save lives! I can help before there is even an injury to—”

Your mother slammed the door behind her as she left. Even in her absence, the room still felt heavy with the tension she left behind – thick, suffocating. Your chest rose and fell with the weight of each breath. Slowly, your gaze shifted to your father. He swayed in his stance, a helpless look back at the door.

“Dad...” you tried, but he held up a hand – silencing you. He did not speak another word to you as he turned his back to you. His head hung low, shame and disappointment at the free will of his only child, to go against the gods, to dare to ask for a life behind the pain they surrounded you in your entire life.

You woke gasping for breath; tears wet on your cheeks, soaking into your pillowcase. Sweat beaded along your brow, slick against your arms and legs as you kicked the thin sheet off of your body. You struggled to even take in a breath, hands trembling so violently you could hardly grab hold of the edge of the couch to pull you upright.

By the time you managed to find your footing, you spotted Bucky’s cautious, half sleep-ridden glance in your direction. He stilled, gaze flickering over the reflective lines on your face, the rapid rise and fall of your breath, and he was on his feet.

“What is it? What happened?” he urged, instinctively rushing across the room to you.

Even beyond the panic attack lighting like fire through your body, the dread as he closed the space between you drew the clarity back to your focus. You flinched out of his reach before he could lay a comforting hand against your forearm, before his hands could slide into your own. He stilled.

“Don’t,” you panted, taking a step back.

“You can’t keep up this wall between us forever, Y/n,” Bucky warned, his voice lacking the bitter resentment you expected it to hold. Instead, it carried a weight – a heaviness—a sort of agony you couldn’t understand. “What will you do if this doesn't go away? What if Fitzsimmons doesn’t find a cure? Will you spend the rest of your life flinching every time I come near you? Will you never allow me to touch you again?”

Your gaze dropped to the floor, unable to answer his questions. Bucky narrowed his eyes, studying the hesitancy within your stance, the inability to meet his gaze. He shook his head, like trying to rid himself of whatever terrible thought had entered his mind. He gritted his teeth, hands curling to fists to keep from shaking.

“You wouldn’t...” he started, barely able to get the words out. “You wouldn’t leave me, would you?”

Your breath hitched and perhaps it was the guilt seeped deep into every pore upon your face that Bucky knew your answer before you could even hope to spare him with a desperate excuse. His shoulders slumped as if the wind has been knocked out of him, his stance swaying on uneven feet as he brought his hand to his eyes. Trembling.

“Bucky, please--” you begged, tears burning in your eyes as his face fell, “you don’t understand! The pain I could cause you—”

“Don’t understand?!” Bucky shot back, agape. The vein along his right forearm rushed to the surface as his fist met the table top with a loud BANG. “I love you! I understand perfectly fine! I know what the risks are! I know the pain you could give back and I don’t fucking care! I. LOVE. YOU.”

A throat cleared at the edge of the room. Both of your heads snapped to the window to find Tony standing on the other side, holding a vial in his hand. A bandage still remained over his palm from where you’d reintroduced the laceration from three years earlier. He clenched his jaw, gaze shifting between you and the obvious storm he’d walked in on.

“Priority express from Fitzsimmons,” Tony said slowly, setting the vial in the compartment below the window. Through the small opening, it would allow you access to the strange, amber fog contained within the glass without opening the door to the lab.

“Is it a cure?” Bucky dared to ask.

Tony shrugged. “Unclear. Simmons had it sent over for Banner to evaluate as well. It’s promising, but we don’t have any concrete proof that it could restore her power. I figured Y/n might want to examine it herself. Fitz is working on putting a trial together to test it safely.”

Bucky swallowed. “How long until we know if it’s the real deal?”

Tony must have replied an answer, but his words were lost to you as you crept across the room. Slow. Steady with every step as you approached the sample. Transfixed by the swirl of golden smoke as it gently lifted and sank within the vial – breathing, living. You reached a hand for the containment window.

“Y/n?” Bucky’s voice called from the edge of the room. It wavered.

Your grasp curled around the vial; cold within your grip, lighter than air.

Maybe it could end right here, right now. Maybe you wouldn’t have to face a future without your friends, without Bucky. You wouldn’t have to endure an endless, paralyzing solitude for the rest of your days – isolated from everyone you’ve ever cared for in fear of returning the injuries and wounds that may take their life. You wouldn’t have to endure yet another sacrifice – another burden – to protect the people you loved.

You could spare Bucky the pain of walking away, of protecting him beyond what he was willing to understand. You could hold him again. Love him again. Touch him.

Bucky was staring at you, studying the look upon your face. His brow furrowed, recognizing the desperation in your eyes. You thumbed the lid from the vial until it fell to the ground. Bucky lunged for you.

“Y/n, wait!” Tony's hand slammed against the glass, but you’d already inhaled the smoke.

The room stilled around you. Bucky held his breath as he watched you from his distance, close enough to reach out and touch you if he dared and still—a thousand miles away. Tony gritted his teeth as he dialed a number on his phone, bringing it to his ear.

You’d barely registered the golden smoke as you breathed it in. It hadn’t burned, hadn’t felt it as it filled deep into your lungs. Only faded remnants of ambered air puffed from your lips in every exhale.

“She took it!” Tony snapped on the phone. “What are we looking at, Fitz?”

“Do you feel any different?” Bucky asked gently, inching closer. You drew your attention away from Tony’s hushed conversation behind the window. Bucky reached a hand to you but quickly withdrew it, as if he’d had to relearn each time that his touch was unwanted.

You shook your head. “I hadn’t felt a difference when it reversed, either.”

Bucky swallowed. He lifted his palm to you, holding it within your reach so that you might make the choice to take it. “We’ll have to test it somehow.”

You clenched your jaw, stealing a glance over at Tony who was mumbling into his conversation with Fitz. He met your eye for a second, a terrible mixture of frustration and understanding rolled into one – masked by the scowl upon his features.

Then, you turned to Bucky and his extended hand. “Okay.”

You knew it would come to this eventually – that you would have to learn how to touch him again without fear, without the belief that you could instill a year’s worth of nerve damage back into his shoulder—a pain worse than the surgery Hydra had done on him without anesthetic, worse than the fall that took his arm. You’d have to belief you could hold him without consequence again.

With a trembling hand, you reached for him.

But then – lightening sharp pain in your chest. You screamed, falling to your knees as a white-hot burning sensation lit fire inside your lungs. Bucky rushed towards you, hovering, unsure whether he could lay a hand upon you as he shared a panic look with Tony. The phone was hanging helplessly at the end of his hand.

“Get her to medical, now!” Tony ordered. “Fitzsimmons is on their way. That shit hasn’t been tested yet! It could do more damage than we know.” A flash of horror crossed his face. “She could take on every injury she’s healed at once!”

Bucky wasted no time as he threw his arms around you, but he was gone just as fast – burned as if the single touch to your skin had torn his arm straight from his body. He screamed as his right hand jolted to his shoulder, pressing into the tissue as if it might alleviate the pain.

You looked at him helplessly as your breaths came in heavy and labored. “Bucky... You can’t. Don’t do this to yourself.”

Bucky gritted his teeth, determination spurring him forward as you clutched at your chest, finger digging into your skin as if they could rip into your lungs. He ignored your objections as his arms circled around you; one hooked under your knees, the around wrapped behind your back as he hulled you into his arms. His face contorted in pain, skin burning red under the pressure, but he did not make a sound as he lifted you into the air.

The pain in your chest was excruciating; your breaths barely shallow enough to capture oxygen, and still – you begged him to leave you.

“Bucky, let me go,” you pleaded, hand gently running against his shoulder as if you still had the ability to take the pain for him. You longed for the golden glow under your palms, the burning ache in your own shoulder as his nerves repaired under the surface. Temporary but still meaningful.

“I say this with love--” Bucky exhaled tightly, sweat beaded on his brow, “shut the hell up, sweetheart.”

Bucky carried you up the stairwell, across the open floor and past the worried glances from your team. Even as the smoke pillowed into your lungs and every breath burned as if fire has manifested itself within your chest, as you whined against his chest, begged him to leave you behind, Bucky kept going. It didn’t seem to matter when tears were sliding down the sides of his face, his skin flushed and hot from the pain in his shoulder he refused to relent. With you hung in his arms, weight dragging down on nerves that were already lit aflame, his gaze losing focus as his vision began to tunnel, he kept going.

By the time Bucky got you to the med bay, Helen was there waiting. Her team was dressed in full hazmat suits – not a single recognizable face amongst the bunch. Another precaution, you assumed. It was difficult to return an injury you had never healed.

Bucky set you onto the gurney and promptly collapsed into the chair at the edge of the room as the medical team swarmed around you. Despite the smoke burning inside your lungs and the wires and IV being hooked to your body, you kept your focus on Bucky. You watched as he unlatched his left arm, letting it fall to a heap on the floor as the weight released from his shoulder. He winced, breathing through the pain as a trembling hand moved to massage the tender tissue. He swayed, even as he sat. The pain was drawing him under and he refused to let it.

Don’t fight it, you cried, but the words had not left your lips. You glanced down to find a morphine drip hanging above your bed. Eyes growing drowsy, you fought to stay awake, to make sure Bucky was okay, that he didn’t go into shock from the pain you’d given him.

Bucky’s eyes closed, his head falling back against the wall – the pain finally having rendered him unconscious. And then – the darkness pulled you, too.

***

“What in the hell were you thinking!?” Fitz flung his arms in the air, pacing back and forth along the edge of your med room. One hand came down to plant against his hip, the other rubbing circles against his brow. “We sent it over to you to examine! To discuss in the morning! To give you hope, dammit! No one told you to huff it, you idi--”

“Fitz!” Jemma warned, hitting him on his arm. He furrowed his brow at her, a silent look between the two of them speaking more than you expected they ever needed to say aloud, before he managed a half-assed grimace in your direction. Jemma sighed as she sat on the edge of your bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” you shrugged. The pain in your lungs had disappeared by the time you woke to find Fitzsimmons hovering over your bedside, their noses deep in your chart and tapping a finger to the monitor hanging over your bed.

“Fitz is right though,” Jemma admitted. “It was only a prototype. We hoped, certainly, but we still don’t know the implications of what it could do to you.”

“Has anyone tested it?” Fitz asked, his head popping up.

“There’s no point. I already know it didn’t work. Bucky’s still recovering from the nerve damage I returned to his shoulder when he carried me over here,” you muttered, gaze flashing over to Bucky as he sat propped up against the wall in the same chair he’d collapsed into hours earlier. Helen had managed to get an IV in to manage his pain, but no one dared to move him.

Fitz nodded. “Was that after the smoke had dissolved?”

You raised an eyebrow. “It still burned when he brought me in here if that’s what you mean.”

He and Jemma exchanged a glance. Another silent conversation. Fitz turned his head towards Bucky. He folded his arms over his chest, taking a swift step towards the opposing wall as if he were readying himself to retaliation.

“Sergeant Barnes!”

“Dammit, Fitz. Leave him alone,” you warned as Fitz shouted Bucky’s name again.

“You can’t test it on us,” Fitz told you, swatting away Jemma’s hand as she tried to smack his arm again. “You’ve never healed us before. But you can try it on him.”

“No,” you shot back as Bucky’s eyes fluttered open. “No way in hell. I’m not doing that to him again.”

“Do what?” Bucky questioned, rubbing at his eyes. He bent down and grabbed the metal arm laid at the floor by his feet and fastened it back into the socket. A few clips, a flexing of the vibranium plates, and he swung his arm in a circle for good measure to make sure it was secure. Slowly, he made his way to your bedside.

“Fitz wants to test the sample they made,” you explained, rolling your eyes. “Again.”

“No, not ‘again’,” Fitz argued, his Scottish accent punctuating every syllable. “It wasn’t in your system enough to work when Sergeant Barnes carried you here. Now that it’s cleared your lungs, it should have absorbed and restored your original power.”

You shook your head. “You didn’t see what it did to him, Fitz. I won’t--”

Bucky’s hand slid onto yours. You gasped, stunned by the contact as Bucky’s fingers curled under your palm. It was the first time you’d felt him – truly felt him – since the black smoke had punctured your lungs and stolen your healing abilities. You’d forgotten how calloused his palms were, the rough edges contrasted by how gentle he held your hand, as if it were something delicate to behold.

The room fell deadly silent – only the heart monitor’s gentle beep filled the room. Not even your shaken breath could be heard as you held it tight within your chest. You wouldn’t dare look up to watch the grimace upon Bucky’s face, his expression contorting into pain once more.

“Anything?” Jemma asked cautiously.

“Nothing,” Bucky replied and your gaze shot up to his. His rolled his shoulders, his face slack of the hard-set lock he’d worn when he’d carried you to the med wing. Instead, something beautiful sat in its place – a smile edging along his lips. “Well, no worse than it usually is.”

“What if I’ve already given back all the nerve damage? What if I can’t transfer pain to him because there’s nothing left to give?” you asked Jemma, concern quickly wiping away your relief. Bucky squeezed your hand, soothing a thumb along your palm. You held back tears as they threatened to break. “What if it’s not fixed? I— I can’t risk running into Steve. I can't take that chance."

Bucky nodded, his hand slipping out from your grip for only second. He nabbed the chart hung at the edge of your bed and slid his palm down along the edge of the paper. He hissed at the contact, shaking out his wrist.

“Here,” he offered his hand to you. At the center of his palm was a paper cut. The same affliction he once told you he would not allow you to heal for him had he known it would hurt you. He was resistant as he held his hand towards you, still reluctant to allow you even a sliver of his own pain, but he knew how badly you needed to test this – to make sure your friends were safe.

Your eyes flickered to his. He gave you a short nod, his breathing steady, a gentle smile upon his lips urging you to take his hand. Always so willing to put himself on the line for you.

Slowly, you hovered your hand over his, holding your breath. You felt for the tissue along his skin, the slight cut barely noticeable to the human eye. You imagined threading it back together, the skin fusing back into place. You waited for it come back to you – the ability you’d both loathed and craved your entire life. Waiting. Waiting. Until—

A warm, golden light brightened at the center of your palm. You gasped at the sensation, tears springing to your eyes as you felt the welcomed sting of the paper cut absorb into your right hand. Fitz and Simmons were gleaming from across the room. Bucky’s hand was gently brushing hair from your eyes, his smile bright across his face as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

As you pulled your hand back, you soothed your thumb over the healed cut along his palm. Perfectly intact skin as if it had never been broken. Your right hand held it instead, laid upon your body for only a moment before it too faded into the graveyard of foreign injuries. You choke back a sob.

“We probably should still run some tests,” Fitz started to say just as Jemma dragged him towards the door, kindly offering, “we’ll give you some space” over Fitz's rambling. The two of them bickered sweetly all the way out the door and down the hallway.

The moment they were gone, you turned to Bucky. “How’s Natasha? We should get her in here so I can—”

“Can you not let yourself rest for even one moment?” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. When you didn’t relent, he exhaled a tired breath. “Natasha’s okay. Helen was able to stabilize the stab wound. She’s got stitches and she’ll be good as new in a week or so.”

“But her clavicle—”

“--is not something she’ll agree to let you heal again given how painful it was for you the first time,” Bucky warned gently. You started to protest, but Bucky edged you towards the side of the bed, slipping in next to you. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, tugging you against his chest. “She doesn’t blame you, sweetheart. No one does. They know you had no control over it.”

You sighed, listening intently to the even thump of Bucky’s heart. “Do you think anyone will trust my powers again?” Bucky narrowed his brow and you added, “I saw the way Steve looked at me. I know I scared him and hell—he was right to be scared given what I could have done to him. It’s just... I know they’re the Avengers and this is my job—”

“It’s not your job to heal us,” Bucky reminded you gently.

You groaned, shoving him in his ribs playfully until he began to laugh. His hand settled over yours, easing away from the ticklish spot on his side. His touch turned gentle, his thumb stroking sweetly over your knuckles.

“I used to just be the girl who made your suits and your tech,” you whispered, lost in the way Bucky’s fingers danced along yours, how effortlessly he touched the woman who had rendered him unconscious from pain just hours earlier. “But then I was your healer. I know it was never required of me but that was my job, Bucky. That was what gave my life meaning for a long time. To heal the wounds of superheroes and to do it on my terms – because it meant something to me. Because I loved you all.”

You took in a careful breath as Bucky listened patiently, his left-hand running lines along your arm. “I don’t want to lose that, Bucky. I know we have our deal and I know I need to be careful about what I take on but... I don’t want to lose them over this. I don’t want them to be afraid of me, to be terrified I might accidentally bump into them in the hall and open up an old wound I healed years ago.”

“Fitzsimmons will run more tests,” Bucky assured you, his lips grazing over your forehead. “We’ll make sure it’s safe. Prove it to everyone and to you. I’m here through it all, okay? I’m laying right here with you and I’m just fine, aren’t I?”

You nodded, tears in your eyes. But still – “Fear can do a lot of damage, Bucky.”

You remembered how Tony had stepped back when he first saw the cut on his palm, how he flinched when he looked at you. You remembered the panic on Sam’s face, the unconvincing story of a broken ankle he hadn’t noticed until the moment you touched him. Steve inching back to the furthest point of the room. Natasha’s screams still echoed in the back of your mind—the snap of her bone breaking under the weight of your power still fresh upon your fingertips.

“If they’re scared of my power... If I can’t be the one who heals them...” You swallowed past the dryness in your throat. It burned. The next words left you in a hushed, broken voice, “I don’t want to lose my friends, Bucky.”

“You won’t,” Bucky was quick to reply. He twisted himself on the bed until you could meet his eyes. A new sort of pain burned into the pale blue of his eyes – a longing to bear the burden of weight carried upon your shoulders. “You are and always have been more than your powers, Y/n. I know you weren’t always made to feel that way and I promise, I’ll spend every day of my life convincing you it’s true. Your gift is incredible and it’s saved our asses a dozen times over, but if you decided to never use your powers again, no one would think any different of you, honey. They’re not going anywhere. This team loves you, Y/n -- healing abilities or not.”

The weight of Bucky’s words settled over you as you curled in tighter to his side. This strange new feeling – to have a family who would not only seek to protect you from the dangers of your gift, but to entertain the possibility of loving you beyond it? To still want you even if your gift wasn’t on the table? It didn’t feel possible—though, you supposed, that was the lingering echo of your parents speaking. Bucky proved to you again and again how wrong they’d been, how cruel they were to convince you that your happiness and comfort was theirs to sacrifice.

“You know I love you, too, don’t you?” you asked carefully, leaning up against Bucky’s chest to dare a glimpse of his face. “You said it... down there when we were... arguing.” You sighed, heat burning against your cheeks under Bucky’s watchful gaze. He nodded for you to continue, giving you the courage to say, “I just... I want you to know that I do, too— love you.”

Bucky smiled sweetly. He peppered a kiss to your forehead. “I know, sweetheart.”

“Are we interrupting?” Sam grinned from the doorway, head peeking through from the side. Bucky rolled his eyes, but still gave him a short wave that signaled the all clear to enter. Sam wobbled into the room on crutches, his left ankle wrapped in gauze before he sunk into the chair Bucky had been passed out in hours earlier.

On his tail, trailed Tony who gave a short wave – showing off the stitches on his palm. Steve followed with his hands stuffed into his pockets, taking his place leaning against the wall with a leg kicked up to hold his balance. Natasha strolled in the rear, carrying a plate of cookies in one hand while the other was wrapped in a sling, protecting her fractured collarbone. The knife wound on her side was covered by her shirt, but you could spot the outline of the bandage against her ribs. She smiled at you as she set the cookies on the table.

Before the nerves could dare infiltrate your stomach, Sam was already telling you what you’d missed from the rookie SHIELD gossip corner in the kitchen. Laughter filled the room while Steve pretended not to be just as amused by the antics of freshmen agents. Fitz and Simmons returned shortly after, sneaking cookies as they huddled in the corner with Tony – both a little starstruck as he talked about his latest suit design.

You looked to Bucky, surrounded in a room of your closest friends – your family – who had not once even considered abandoning you in the worst of what your power could do. Grateful was not a strong enough word.

Bucky seemed to read what you could not begin to say, and he simply returned your smile and kissed the crown of your head. His arms wrapped around your shoulders and it was easy to fall in against him. Your comfort. Your safety. Sanctuary and home.

In his arms, surrounded by your chosen family, there was no burden upon your shoulders, no sacrifice calling your name and dragging you back into the shadows under the guise of love and honor. Only kindness. Only teasing jokes and laughter filling the room. Only the sweet smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies and the pressure of Bucky’s fingertips along your spine in gentle circles.

Only love.

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