author's note: hi guys! i've posted this on ao3, but i wanted to share it on here, just a little revamped with extra yearning!
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Bucky trusted you with the one thing he didnât trust anyone else with.
âShe likes the salmon stuff,â he said without meeting your eyes, handing you the silver key in your palm.
âDonât let her trick you into second helpings.â
And just like that he was gone. You were sleepy eyed and in your pyjamas when he showed up at your door at 2am, donned in his tactical gear, eyes dark, stormy and unreadable. You barely had a chance to ask where he was going before he disappeared down the stairwell as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived. Your moments with him were always like that, fleeting flashes, like a shadow slipping past, never quite long enough to grasp.
You stood there for a moment after you shut your door, the key still warm in your hand, the silence pressing in, following you back into your apartment. You set the key down on your counter, and your feet carried you to the window. Outside, the street was still, bathed in the soft yellow hue of a nearby streetlamp. Shadows stretched long over the sidewalk, wind rustling faintly through the deciduous trees. You watched the corner where he always disappeared, your gaze lingering longer than you meant it to, waiting, maybe, though you wouldnât have admitted it out loud. The neighbourhood always seemed to hold its breath with you until he came home from wherever he went. It was the kind of hidden pocket in Brooklyn that felt like it had slipped through the cracks of time, tucked just far enough from the chaos to be quiet, but close enough to feel the cityâs pulse. Tree lined sidewalks stretched between weathered brownstones and narrow walk-ups, their bricks beige and softened by age, fire escapes rusted and tangled with ivy, window boxes overflowing in summer and bare in winter. The apartment building you both lived in wasnât much, just four floors of creaking wood, peeling paint, and mailboxes that got stuck when you opened them. The stoop railing chipped beneath your palm, the hallway lights buzzed sleepily, and the floorboards groaned like they remembered every footstep. It was lived in. A little forgotten. And somehow, despite the fading corners and quiet hush of it all, it had become the backdrop to something else entirely, something unspoken and delicate, like a thread strung taut between your door and his.
Your neighbour was a mystery, always bundled in heavy jackets, even when the breeze was warm, with a cap pulled low over his brow like he didnât want to be seen. Some days, he disappeared completely. When he came back, it was like the building shifted slightly, realigning itself in his presence: the soft creak of his boots on old wood, the faint trace of woodsy soap and Palo Santo that lingered in the hallway after he passed. There was something about him that never quite settled, like he was always halfway out the door even when he was home. It pulled at you in a way you didnât know how to explain. He was a closed book you longed to read, a locked door you shouldnât try but always wanted to open. A quiet man who said so little, and yet whose silence seemed to hum with things he didnât know how to give voice to. And still, you watched for the rare moments when that quiet almost cracked, when something in his expression softened, when he looked at you like he wasnât used to being seen.
When it felt like, just maybe, you werenât the only one who wanted more.
The first time youâd been to his apartment, it was only for a second, you got his mail by mistake. Youâd never seen him that close before, not really. Not like that. He stood in the doorway, a black henley stretched tight across his broad chest and thick shoulders, the soft fabric molding to the shape of muscles that hinted at raw power beneath without fully giving it away. The sleeves clung to his thick biceps and forearms, shadowing the cold gleam of his metal arm beneath the fabric, only a subtle metallic catch of light at his sleeveâs end betrayed its presence. His dark hair was longer, a little tousled, like a hand had just ran through it. His jaw was set, dusted with rough stubble. He took the envelope from your hand, fingers brushing yours in a way that felt warmer than it should have. His ice blue eyes lingered on your face for a moment longer than necessary, like he was memorizing it, and just when you thought he might look away, he spoke.
âPaper bills,â he murmured, a faint curve ghosting at the edge of his mouth. Then, just like that, he was gone, door closing with a soft click.
The second time, it was to return his library card. You had been chatting in the elevator with the older lady from apartment 4B about how you wanted to read more. You hadnât realized heâd overheard. That evening, when you got back to your apartment, you found the card taped to your door, accompanied by a sticky note.
âHeard you wanted to read more. Thought you might like this.â
No signature, no further words. Just the quiet gesture. A few days later, you found yourself standing hesitantly outside his door, the library card clutched in your hand. When you knocked, the door opened slowly, revealing him in a worn, dark flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, white cat was brushing against him at his shins. His eyes met yours, both brooding and full of quiet yearning, something he didnât dare voice.
âThanks for the card,â your voice soft, quiet.
He took it from your hand, fingers brushing yours gently, holding them there a beat too long before he pulled away.
âYou brought it back already,â his voice low and rough, surprise softening the edge.
You offered him a nod and a small, shy smile. He didnât return it.
âRead something good?â he asked, eyes holding yours a moment longer, like he was trying to figure out what you didnât say.
âA few things,â you answered, voice barely above a whisper.
âGood,â he muttered, stepping back just enough to lean against the doorframe, the plates of his metal arm shifting slightly. His gaze stayed locked on yours, intense, unspoken, like he was wrestling with whether to say more or keep it all inside. You thought the corner of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile, but it never fully formed.
âKeep reading,â his voice gruff, giving a brief, almost imperceptible nod and closed the door before you could say anything else, leaving the silence thick with something unsaid, and the growing realization that maybe he was paying attention after all.
It was always almost. Almost a smile curling faint at the corners of his mouth before he looked away. Almost a question in his eyes he didnât have the courage to ask. Sometimes, youâd catch him looking at you like you were something heâd already lost. Like he wanted to say everything all at once but didnât know where to begin. And youâd look back like you were begging him to try.
His apartment always felt like somewhere you shouldnât be. And now here you were, the next morning, key heavy and unfamiliar in your hand, crossing the invisible line into a world he didnât let anyone enter.
You fumbled for a moment before finding the lock, sliding the key in and turning it with a quiet click and slipping inside. The early light spilled softly through the windows, wrapping his apartment in a cool, tender stillness. It smelled clean, like laundered cotton and soap, but beneath that were scents that spoke as if the space was alive with the fragments of his life, the warmth of dry wood from a long extinguished fire, the faint hint of worn leather from boots or a jacket, burned coffee from the morning before, his presence known even when he wasnât there.
Alpine greeted you with a soft meow, weaving between your legs as you moved further inside. Her silky tail flicked nervously, but she settled quickly when you crouched down, offering a gentle hand.
You poured her breakfast, the sound of salmon flavoured kibble hitting the bowl loud in the quiet living room. As Alpine ate, you let your eyes drift around the space, spartan and careful, every object with a purpose, every surface clear. It was a place that belonged to someone used to moving fast and staying hidden. You noticed the furnishings were minimal: a dark wooden coffee table stained with rings, a simple canvas armchair pushed into the corner. Your eyes caught a stack of worn books on his floating shelf, their spines cracked and pages dog eared. Titles ranged from obscure history to battered old novels, a mix that spoke of a mind both searching and restless. There was something almost tender in the way they were arranged, books heâd returned to, perhaps, like memories too precious to discard. It was a space stripped of excess, where everything had its place and no distractions were allowed, reflecting his need for order in a life that was anything but.
You reached out to scratch behind Alpineâs ears, and she closed her eyes, purring softly. Gently easing yourself up, you stepped away from her and padded curiously toward the kitchen, your eyes drawn to a woven basket resting on the island. The floorboards creaked faintly beneath your feet, the muted sunlight casting long shadows along the walls. The basket on the marble counter held plums and pears, their skin glowing softly, ripe to the touch. Tucked just beneath was a note, written in his familiar handwriting:
âDonât let Alpine eat these. These are for you, not her.â
A teasing line, maybe. But more than that, it was softness offered. A moment that felt more intimate than any words exchanged at the door. You pressed the note between your fingers and held it there for a moment longer than necessary.
Carefully, you set it beside the basket and picked up one of the plums, cool and heavy in your hand, like something pulled from a summer dream. You didnât eat it. Not yet.
Your eyes fell to the hallway.
You hadnât meant to look toward it, hadnât meant to let your steps follow, but something pulled at you. The hallway stretched out ahead, dimmer than the rest of the apartment, the walls bare but for one black and white photograph hung, an old Brooklyn cityscape, fog curling around lampposts like ghosts. Your fingers brushed the frame as you passed. You told yourself youâd just look. Just enough to satisfy the gentle ache of wondering. But your feet moved softly across the hardwood, and before you knew it, you were halfway down the hall. The air felt heavier here, more private. You slowed near the end, heart thudding a little louder than it had a moment ago.
There it was, his bedroom door. Slightly ajar.
Something in you knew you shouldnât go any farther. Not out of fear, but respect. This was a foreign intimacy that neither of you dared to indulge in. You hesitated there, one hand brushing the doorframe, not quite touching the door itself. The air smelled like him again, deeper this time. Sleep warm linen and cigarette smoke, a trace of cologne he barely used.
You told yourself it was because of Alpine, because you were here to take care of her. He kept her toys in his room, obviously. But really, it was the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this glimpse inside could unravel some of the mystery.
You hovered there, breath held holding the weight of your want.
The door creaked softly as it opened, the sound barely louder than the hush that followed. The bedroom was dim and still, as if it had been sleeping too. The blackout curtains were only half drawn, letting in narrow bands of morning light that painted the sheets in long, pale gold stripes along the floor. Everything smelled like him, more concentrated here. You could almost pretend he was still here if you closed your eyes, just stepped out for a moment, just down the hall or standing behind you. His bed was unmade, coarse forest green sheets twisted at the edges, a heavy wool blanket pushed halfway down, like heâd left in a hurry. A chair sat off to one side, draped in a dark henley and a jacket that had seen better days. His gear was always neatly stacked in the corner, knives, gloves, a folded towel with rust stains that looked too much like blood. A gun laid dismantled on his desk next to a cup of cold coffee, an ashtray, a half melted candle, and a book with its spine cracked in half, splayed open on his desk.
Leather-bound, the edges worn smooth with use, the elastic band slack with time. It looked like it had been thumbed through hundreds of times. Like it knew secrets. And something in your chest twisted.
But your hand moved anyway.
You stepped closer, peering down at the open page. Your fingers hovered over the journal for a moment, and then you picked it up. It was heavier than you expected. Warmer, like it had absorbed his thoughts.
You sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping gently under your weight. The journal rested in your lap like it was the answer to your questions.
The pages were full. His handwriting was tight, deliberate, like someone not used to speaking out loud. A language of its own, all written in blue ink. You flipped past dates, some crossed out, some smudged, before one page made your hands still.
âShe doesn't twist the chain of her necklace when the elevator takes too long anymore. Always happened around thirty seconds in. Didnât think it would be something I notice. Funny how I still look for it."
You turned the page, fingers trembling slightly.
âShe gave me my mail. Her fingers touched mine. That shouldnât mean anything. It does. Donât know if I deserve the way she looks at me.â
âSaw her again today. Talking to 4B in the elevator. Smile hit harder than it shouldâve. Donât know what the hell Iâm doing.â
âI left the library card on her door. I wanted her to look at it and wonder about me the way I wonder about her. I saw the books she borrowed on my account. One of them got me through the worst winter.â
A breath caught behind your ribs. You werenât supposed to see this. You knew you werenât. But now that you had, it was like a dam breaking. The pages whispered his truths in your hands.
âI leave next week. I want to ask her to feed Alpine. Iâll get her something from the market. She always comes back with fruit.â
You flipped to the next and found a more recent entry, a day ago. The last one before the rest of the pages are blank, where the ink was fresher, and the handwriting more desperate, almost frantic, like heâd been racing against time to get it all down before the feelings slipped away.
âItâs been quiet lately. Too quiet. Not just the silence around us, but the kind that lives inside me, the kind I canât shake. Since I got back from Bucharest, thereâs been this weight settling in my chest. The memories come back in flashes. Fragments. Faces of the men I killed flashing in my mind, their screams still ringing in my ears. Shadows of broken bodies, desperate eyes that haunt me in the dark. And the blood, always the blood. Stained on my clothes, my hands, like itâs never going to wash away. And I pull away from her because itâs easier than trying to explain the chaos rattling in my head. Opening up means showing the cracks Iâve spent years hiding. And I see how that silence stretches between us like a wall. I want to tear it down, but Iâm scared. Scared that if I let her see whatâs really inside, sheâll run instead of stay. I donât know how to close that gap without saying too much and ruining whatever fragile thing we have, or saying too little and letting it slip away. Every time I open my mouth, the words get tangled up and lost, so I just end up looking from a distance, wondering if she knows how bad I want to be close, how Iâm dying to cross this line without breaking everything. Sheâs the one thing I want to keep safe, not from bullets or the world, but from the darkness inside me. But when she looks at me the way she does, itâs like a door cracking open in a place I thought was sealed shut years ago. A chance Iâm terrified to take but desperate to grab. I want more than this, more than the silence. Iâm scared Iâll never find the courage. But I canât stop hoping. I want to stop pretending itâs okay to live without her.â
Your fingers drift lightly over his words.
Of course youâd heard of him before. His name carried weight, spoken in headlines and footnotes. A ghost of a man. The Winter Soldier. A cautionary tale.
Youâd known the name before you ever knew the man.
The man that leaves his laundry in the communal machines too long sometimes.
The man that carries groceries with his flesh hand, not the metal one.
The man who checks his reflection in the lobby mirror, just for a second, like heâs reminding himself who he is now.
You thought you understood him, or at least, the version he allowed.
Quiet. Wary. Shy. Maybe broken. Maybe healing.
This is the truth stripped bare.
The ink feels like a secret pulse, alive beneath your touch, carrying the weight of things he only dared to write when no one else was watching. The crease in the sheets beneath your hand shifts with a quiet exhale when you stand up, leaving a faint imprint of where you sat. You close the journal, the soft rustle of the pages seems loud in the hush. A flush rises in your chest, shame or longing, you canât tell, and the room tilts with the heady realization.
He wants what he wonât let himself have.
The thought comes quiet and sudden.Â
He aches, just like you do.
Youâd spent so long thinking it was one sided, something innocent on your side that was blooming in the quiet of shared glances and barely there conversations. But these pages, his voice stitched between the lines, tell a different story. One that mirrors your own. One that makes your heart ache with the weight of what you almost missed.
His silence isnât empty, itâs full of you.
You close the journal, as Alpine watches you with half lidded eyes, her tail curled neatly beside her, hoping she'll keep your secret. Thereâs a stillness in the air that wraps around your shoulders, heavy, like the room knows what youâve done. You linger in the doorway, one hand brushing the frame like youâre trying to anchor yourself, like memorizing the feel of it might undo the dizziness pooling behind your eyes. You donât look back. Not until youâre already in the hall as your breath catches at the soft click of his apartment door behind you before you lock it.
Later that night the same lock turns with its familiar soft scrape, and Bucky steps inside with the kind of silence that only comes after rain and blood.
The apartment is dark except for the thin blade of streetlight that slips between the curtains and lies across the floor like a silver scar. The air smells faintly of you, something warm, like vanilla.
He trods down the hallway, and crosses his room in three slow steps, boots scuffing on the worn floorboards, eyes set on the crease on his bed. The closer he gets, he can almost see the outline of you, knees drawn up, breath held the way his is now.
He steps closer. His hand softly grazing the sheets, afraid to smooth it out, afraid to erase where you'd been. Then he sees the journal. Exactly where he left it. Except the pages have been closed. His fingertips hover above the cover, and he doesnât open it. He just stands there, jaw clenched, fingers clenching into a fist, trying to breathe around the ache building slowly in his chest.
He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, right beside where you were, and sits in the dark with his head bowed, elbows on his knees, trying to breathe around the sudden, impossible size of being known.
Outside, a siren wails and fades.
He doesnât need to ask if you read it.
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