jules❀

PRIOR 

It will be a simple mission. No undercover needed. It won’t even take a day. Get in, get out. All things Fury and Steve had both said in response to your disagreement of No. This is a bad idea. Send someone else. 

Or rather, just send him. They were right after all, in theory, it was a simple mission. Just east of the Sakha Republic, in a rural little snow covered town. It wasn’t like it was a rescue mission. There were no hostages. Hell, there weren't really any hostiles. Just information kept on a small drive in the backroom of a bunker, put there with the idea that no one would think to even look in the small, barely inhabited town. It was famous for its record low temperatures, and therefore not a place people chose to necessarily “settle down” in. Not unless their family was native, not unless they were used to the climate from generations of acclimating. 

Which meant the drive was not heavily guarded. Why would it be? Who would have thought to look there? Only someone who had been there before. Someone trained by the same organization to be one of the most lethal tracking agents in all the seven continents. Someone who had leaned against the wall in the corner of the room when Steve gave you the mission file and your orders to stick together. 

The same man who said nothing when you tried to reason with Steve, and then again with Fury. When you turned your head to see if he’d chime in, tell them how ludicrous this is, he had his head turned to stare at the door with that unfeeling expression. Like all he wanted to do was leave. 

Orders are final. Fury had said while stamping the file and sliding it across the desk. Stick together. This isn’t a mission where you split up to cover ground. Get in, get out. 

And so you turned, following Bucky Barnes out the door with the file in hand. 

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PRESENT

Turns out getting in and getting out wouldn’t be a problem. No, you would find that went just fine. Smooth as can be. Aside from the usual bickering. 

“Cover me.” He whispered when you both turned the last corner, guns raised just in case. You hadn’t needed to pull the trigger once. 

“What? No. You cover me.” You scoffed as though it were obvious. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable, but you were considerably newer at this than him. Didn’t it make sense for the man practically dressed in weapons to do the covering?

“No. I’ll retrieve it, you stand watch.” His voice turned cold as you both approached the door. 

“That doesn’t make any sense!” You take focus off your gun to raise your hands in confusion. 

But his head snaps towards you with reflexes that can only be credited to the serum in his veins, one hand snapping over your mouth and the other grabbing your wrist to return the gun's aim down the hall. His eyes were cold enough to rival the tundra outside when the unspoken words passed between you: keep it down.

You watched him pull in a slow breath, his eyes dropping to where his gloved hand rested over your mouth. A second later, he dropped it and the hand around your wrist once he knew your focus was back on the hall. 

“It makes sense because I know this place,” he drops his tone low to match the whisper, “I can find it quicker and most likely be back before you even need backup.” 

You open your mouth to retort, only to close it again. Damnit, he was right. You had watched him lead you through these halls like he knew them personally, and you supposed he did. It briefly made you wonder what else happened in this bunker, what other memories these walls held for him. 

You didn’t respond, instead clenching your jaw and turning your back to the doorway to watch the hall in front of you. He must have understood that to be an agreement, because then he was sneaking into the room and disappearing in the dark. 

Replaying the conversation brought you back to why you disagreed with the mission assignment in the first place. You knew Steve saw the dynamic between you two, because everyone did. It was hard not to when you seemed to be the only person on the entire team that Bucky could not stand to be in the same room with. 

It hadn’t always been like this. When Natasha recruited you, the team was welcoming. Your degree in biomedical engineering gave you much to talk about with both Banner and Stark, although you discovered quickly you still had a lot to learn. You hadn’t had much time to go further into the career after college, when you lost your adopted parents suddenly. You had turned to every physical outlet possible to handle the grief–the anger–and that’s how Natasha found you. Lying on your back at midnight in the middle of a sparring mat at the local gym. She gave you an offer that sounded like exactly what you were looking for. 

You hadn’t always been great at making friends, but it didn’t matter much. Sam was so outgoing, you barely had to talk half the time. Tony took pride in teaching you and Peter what he knew. Banner shared your love for comfortable silences. Natasha and Steve took over training, and Wanda quickly became one of your closest friends. Turns out you both needed a good friend, someone to talk to about lighter, kinder things. Someone to remind you that girlhood was a necessity.

Bucky… was fine at first. You picked up on his quiet nature, noticing he really only became talkative with Sam. That was fine, you knew it wasn’t personal. 

Until one day, a few months in, when everyone had a down day for once. Wanda had asked if you wanted to visit the city with her, mumbling something about finding something to wear out with Vis. You planned a whole day around it, did your hair up in your favorite blown out curls and everything. You needed a girls day.

You had entered the common room, humming a Sinatra song you hadn’t been able to get out of your head. You had greeted everyone like usual, excited to be out of uniform and planning to leave the tower for something other than a mission. 

But the atmosphere changed when you met his eyes, or rather his snapped to yours. You watched in confusion as his eyes swept down over your knee-length dress to your Mary Jane’s. Something almost stricken passed over his face, but it was gone the next second. Then he cleared his throat, mumbled something under his breath, and left the room with tension across his shoulders. 

You looked skeptically down at your a-line skirt, red with white polka dots, that hugged high on your waist and flowed at the knees. Then, you turned to everyone else, and asked “Did I do something?” 

But everyone shook their heads, apart from Steve, who looked to the door he left through with an expression of contemplation. And that’s how it was from that point on. Intentional avoidance. He left rooms so abruptly you found yourself asking Thor if you smelled or something. He basically refused to train with you, always having some sort of excuse. The only time he didn’t find somewhere else to be were mission briefings, where he stuck to the wall. Those didn’t seem much different except that he visibly disliked being put on the same team, and he would often argue your role on the mission if there was any level of danger to it. As if you weren’t capable. 

That’s when you started speaking up, and that’s when it started getting ugly. He was shocked the first time you asked: “What the hell is your problem?” But only for a brief second before his eyes turned cold and he snapped, “I’d rather not have a liability on a mission I’m supervising.” 

The sad part was, you respected him. You knew his story. Hell, you were required to write papers over your hypotheses on the engineering design behind the metal arm in college. You knew how far he’d come when you saw his ability to joke with Sam, smile with Steve… but not you. No, you were a problem, apparently. 

The sound of your name snaps you out of whatever headspace you found yourself in, watching metal fingers snap together in front of your line of sight. You blinked several times, backing away from the hand and turning a glare to the man in question. 

“Were you even paying attention?” He looked astonished, unbelieving.

“Yes.” No. You felt your cheeks heat in embarrassment, but narrowed your eyes at him all the same. Daring him to question you. 

He stood straighter, looking down his nose at you in some form of a staring contest you didn’t remember signing up for. He was good at it, so good you looked away with a sneer. You refused to look back, not wanting to see the smirk you no doubt heard in his voice when he said: “Let's go.” It was as easy getting out as it was getting in. Retracing steps, evading guards at the front doors, and you set off back into the treeline to the jet. 

Which is exactly what you did not account for. The jet. 

Mind you, this was Stark designs you were working with. These jets survived situations many would think incapable. But where you were, the temperature had the ability to reach a negative sixty eight degree celsius (-90 F). It was already hard to keep yourselves warm, and partly why you were glad there were no hostiles around. The layers under your snow-colored gear were harder to move in than you were used to.

“It’s not starting.” Bucky sighed after the third time turning the engine. 

“It has to start.” You said behind him, more to yourself than anyone else, trying to will it into reality. You didn’t listen as he grumbled something else, coming to stand beside him, “Scoot.” 

“I doubt it’s going to behave any differently for you.” He didn’t budge. 

Fine then. 

You crouched next to him, hearing a sharp intake of breath as you crawled under the dash. Putting yourself right between his knees. 

“You could have just–” he made a frustrated noise and stood back several feet. You didn’t turn to look at him, just shaking your head as you worked on removing the dash panel. It came off after you found the tabs holding it in place. 

“What? Been that long since a woman came near you?” You found him standing behind you, watching you work with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Honestly, you had a hard time believing what you had said when you were reminded of what he looked like. Even in layers, the mere span of his shoulders and biceps was obvious. He’d shed his jacket when entering the jet, and you wondered if the serum gave him better temperature regulation. 

His eyes narrowed, watching you set the panel down, “Been so long since a man's been near you that you don’t understand personal space?”

Okay, ouch, but fair. 

“I asked you to move,” You responded in a sing-song voice, turning your attention to the cables and wires under the dash. You didn’t want him to see on your face that yeah, it had been a long time. You hadn’t bothered with any sort of dating in college, too busy, too focused. Then after, when the accident happened and the grief took over? It wasn’t even a thought on your mind. You had no hunger for it. It was only this past year that you found yourself discovering that you could still… feel that for another person. 

You especially didn’t like that the grumpy cyborg behind you had helped with that epiphany. 

“And you could have explained why before you practically bent over in front–”

“I did not bend over!” You cut him off with a shout, keeping your eyes on the wires. “I crouched!”

“Well you might as well have–”

“Has it really been that long that you’ve forgotten–OW!” You hadn’t expected the wires to still be circulating electricity, so you hadn’t exercised much caution when inspecting them. You pulled your electrocuted finger back, popping it into your mouth on instinct because it burned. “Fuck–” you mumbled around it.

Bucky was crouched beside you the minute he saw the spark, forgetting the argument entirely. He brought a hand up to your wrist, prying the finger out of your mouth. 

“Hey!” You tried to scoot back, finding the pilot seat behind you, “Now who doesn’t know personal space!” 

“Shut up and let me check it.” He yanked on your wrist, using merely an ounce of that superhuman strength. 

“It’s just a burn.” You grumbled, looking from your pointer finger to him as he assessed. When he discovered it was, indeed, just a small burn on the tip of your finger, he eased his grip and moved his eyes to the wires. 

“Why’d it do that?” His voice rasped, like he didn’t like that this wasn’t something he knew. 

Yeah, suck it Barnes. Tracking skills can’t help you with this. 

Small victories. 

You cleared your throat, pulling your hand away to stabilize yourself since the shock had thrown you off balance. You followed his eyes to the wires, explaining, “The internal mechanisms must still be functional, it’s the external bits that are frozen over. Meaning energy is circulating, hence the shock, but it’s too cold for the ship to respond to it.” 

Bucky nodded, pulling his lower lip between his teeth as he processed what you were saying. Then he stood, moving before you found yourself eye-level with his thighs. You noticed a burning sensation in your chest at the action, as if part of you was displeased that he turned away so quickly. You quite literally swallowed it down, pushing it as far away as possible. Not even noticing that through the struggle, you were staring. 

Until you heard a huff, your eyes snapping up from his thighs to where his brow was raised and his mouth was tilted into a smirk. He looked down at you, still on your knees, as if he had caught you. Damnit. 

After a second, you noticed him waving his phone by his ear, “I’m gonna call Steve, see if he or Stark have a plan for this kinda thing.” He explained before walking off into the back of the ship, phone pressed to his ear. 

Your brows furrowed because, why did he need privacy to call Steve? 

You rose, looking between the dash and the door he disappeared through. It wouldn’t be professional to eavesdrop but… then again, you didn’t really give a fuck. 

You kept your steps light as you walked over, feeling the constant chill in the air that you’ve felt since you landed. Your hairs have been on end this entire time, goosebumps rising under the layers of thermal gear. 

You stay on the outside of the door, knowing he will hear you if you go any closer. With a hand over your mouth and nose to cover your breathing, you lean closer to the door. 

“There’s gotta be a quicker way out of this…” he sounded frustrated–no, aggravated. Beyond. 

“It’s negative fifty degrees, she’s not built for this and even I haven’t adapted yet.” 

It wasn’t often you heard him complain about comfort, you weren’t sure he thought much of it after decades in captivity. But he was right, you weren’t built for this. Him being right twice in one mission was not a statistic you were interested in. 

“Don’t leave me like this, man…” his voice caught you off guard, made something in your chest give. He sounded almost defeated. A small moment of stretched silence before he continued lowly, “stranded...with her.”

With her. 

With her? 

You stepped back, face twisted so tight you wouldn’t be surprised if it stayed like that. That interaction, his tone, the idea that he was almost distraught at being stuck with you. So much that he called not only his best friend, but his captain. 

Thoughts raced through your head of the past year and a half you’ve spent with the team. You wished you could go back to every single moment, every possible word you exchanged with the Winter Soldier. Anything that would tell you what the hell you did. You hadn’t disliked him until he started treating you like a plague. In fact, the opposite. 

Last time you dated, when you were much younger, you didn’t care much for muscles or facial hair. You thought your type would stay the same forever: lean, charismatic business types. But after a nine year break where you barely noticed men, you would find out you were wrong. There was something magnetic about a man broad enough that you know he’d throw you over his shoulder without a bit of struggle, and yet he was still so gentle, so soft-spoken. Until he wasn’t. Until he found something lacking in you. 

You had paced several meters from the door when it finally opened, his phone call apparently being over. You turned, meeting his eyes with a blank expression. He was leaned against the doorway, his arms crossing over his chest. 

“Steve says Tony is working on sending another jet, but since we’re so far out…” he looked away, like the words physically pained him, “it’ll most likely be tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow. 

When his eyes turned back to you, you kept that calm expression and nodded, “Okay.” 

His brows rose immediately, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard, “Okay? That's it?” 

You shrugged, biting your lip and surveying the ship. “Should we try to head into town?” You asked.

He still didn’t look like he believed that was all you had to say, “No. Hydra will have discovered its files are missing by now, the town is too small to not be spotted.” 

Right. 

Another nod from you, then in the most business-like tone, “We’re going to need to check for supples… see if we have any MREs.” Not to mention blankets. The sun was still up, probably for the next few hours, meaning the temperature was bound to drop more. It was only going to get colder, and you were already trying to hide the shivering behind clenched teeth.

Bucky only pushed off the doorway, planting his feet wide with that stare. Like he was looking into you, eyes narrowed like you were a language he was trying to learn.

“What’s wrong?” Came abruptly, drawled in that Brooklyn accent. 

The mere question made you blink in shock, taken aback. But you only allowed another shrug and, “Nothing.” Because what were you supposed to do? Demand he tell you what you did to make him hate you so much? Listen to the first man you’ve been attracted to in years list your faults one by one? You had at least a night together, maybe more; you were cold enough that stretching your fingers was a feat; and defending yourself didn’t sound like the best use of energy. 

When you didn’t get an immediate response, you turned to find the jet’s storage unit. You only got a few steps before you felt a hand wrap around your upper arm. You were gently tugged to a stop, turning to find his eyes already on yours. This time there was a different look in them, closer to concern if you didn’t know better. 

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe searching for a reaction from you. But then you watched as he faltered, eyes dropping down to where his flesh hand wrapped around your jacket. His grip tightened for a second, testing, before loosening. 

“You’re freezing.” He said as if it were a shock, and not a probable scenario with your surroundings. Except that you could feel him through the many layers, much like he could you, and he was considerably warmer. Your hypothesis about the serum enhancing his homeostatic balance in terms of temperature was panning out. 

“‘m fine.” You mumbled, pulling away only to be met with resistance when he held strong. You pulled in a slow breath, “Bucky–” “That’s it?” He said again, eyes flickering between yours, “No complaint, no insult?”

You searched for anything to say because, yeah, you were tempted to throw something at him about the situation. You were tempted to scream, to challenge him to a spar just to get the energy out. After a minute, you found you were tempted to cry. 

He must have seen something pass over your face, because he studied you for a few more moments before his face fell back into that blank expression. It wasn’t as blank as the soldier, who you’d only seen in pictures from news articles and files, but it was still impressive how he could just… turn off. His eyes moved over your head before he dropped your arm completely and brushed past you. 

You resisted a roll of your eyes when he didn’t even say what he was doing, turning and following him back into the storage compartment. You had planned on going back there anyway in search of extra clothes. Figured he’d be busy searching for food for the night, since the cold clearly didn’t bother him as much. He moved fluidly, you felt stiff. 

So it was a surprise when you turned the corner and found him reaching through tubs and totes, pulling out blankets and seeming to assess them. You watched him frown, dissatisfied with the ratty pieces of cloth he was finding. This jet was SHIELD's before the Avengers took over, you didn’t expect to find much. 

“Thought you weren’t cold,” you kept your voice low, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe he was cold; you had just made an assumption based on his shock at finding you freezing. 

He didn’t miss a beat when he said, “I’m not,” and then held a blanket up to test its length. It dropped from just below his chest, where his arms held it, to where it brushed the floor just so. He turned suddenly, looking between you and the blanket. After a moment, he cocked his head and set it down away from the ones he deemed disappointing. 

Your eyes widened, was he…? 

“Why don’t you go check the nook for any MREs?”  He cut off your thinking, already turning to go through the next tote.

“I…” it was your turn to look confused. He was just on the phone with Steve, sounding like being near you was a life-or-death scenario, and now he was sorting blankets when he wasn’t even shivering? 

As you backed away, you made the distinct decision that the cold must be getting to you. Something wasn’t adding up, unless you just didn’t understand some aspect of superhuman nature. 

You pulled your scarf up over your nose as you walked to the nook, the power was out there as well. The whole reason it wasn’t as cold as it was outside was because the jet was so well sealed off, designed not to be affected by any external stimulus. But this room had an external wall, and you could definitely feel the drop in temperature. You pulled your gloves back out from your pockets, slipping them on as you searched through cabinets.

A half hour later, you had searched through all that you could find and came back almost empty handed. You knew they had given you a backup ship because it was supposed to be simple, in and out, you were never supposed to need any supplies besides your gear. But still, it was frustrating walking back to the main deck with only one MRE in hand. You expected a fight over it, maybe him to say you hadn’t looked hard enough, that you were just trying to make things harder. 

What you didn’t expect was to find Bucky walking out of the storage compartment, wearing new clothes and carrying more in his arms. The ones he found fit snug over his thermal layers: grey sweatpants and a dark blue hoodie. You didn’t like that they looked good. 

He stopped when he saw you, holding the one MRE in your hand, “That all that was back there?” 

You bit your lip, glancing down at the meal, “Yeah, turns out they don’t stock this ship regularly.” 

He only shrugged, “This isn’t one of the mains.” He didn’t look mad, just as frustrated by the entire situation as you. The air was starting to feel denser, a small glance showing you that the sun was setting faster than you had thought.

“You changed.” The words were really just to fill the silence you felt creeping in. An observation that seemed to remind him what he was doing. 

“Yeah,” he stepped forward, holding up two more pairs of pants and another thermal shirt with a hoodie, “You need more layers, especially for nightfall.”

You looked down at the clothes, none looked particularly clean. You didn’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s clothes either. 

He must not have liked the hesitation, because then he was grabbing the MRE and shoving the clothes toward you, “It’s this or hypothermia. You choose, doesn’t affect me either way.” He growled. 

And there it was. 

You took the clothes with nothing but an, “I’m aware,” as you stalked off to change.

Nightfall did indeed come quickly, as apparently it does in the north. After you changed, you did your best to keep busy. You tried every panel under the dash despite knowing it probably wouldn’t do anything, you were just grateful for a distraction from the cold creeping into your bones. You listened to the sharp clicks of Bucky sitting in the back of the deck, sharpening his knives and checking his gear. It was quiet, which would be nice if it didn’t feel… charged. 

The thing about the bionic staring machine, was that you could feel it. When his eyes moved from his guns up to where you were kneeling under the control module, the hairs on your neck would quite literally stand on end. It happened a lot. You weren’t sure if he was checking that you hadn’t frozen over, or just silently cursing your name. 

By the third hour in, you couldn’t sit still. It was cold, too cold. Colder than anyone should ever be able to handle. The cold wasn’t just in your bones, it was licking up your spine. Bucky had gotten up at some point and searched for even more layers, cornering you until you quit your pacing. 

You hate how his hand on your shoulder felt like heaven, like you had been living in this cold all along and there he was inviting you into warmth and shelter. You pulled away. 

“You need more,” he held up the long-sleeve shirt, eyes piercing yours in a way that did not invite argument. 

You weren’t even sure what you mumbled before taking it and adding it to the layers under the hoodie. 

When you reemerged that time, he was making a cot. All you wanted to do was keep pacing.

“Bucky–”

“Don’t.” You could tell he was way past pretenses, mere seconds away from dragging you, when he latched onto your wrist. His tug was gentle as you led yourself to the blankets, but you got the idea behind his fingers curling into your gloves. You sat, and watched him methodologically position the blankets around you. Not even blinking when he wrapped his hands around your ankles and prompted you to pull your knees to your chest, he then tucked the blankets until they were so tight you couldn’t move. 

“Thought it didn’t affect you either–”

“Shut up.” He cut off your slurred words, knowing exactly where you were headed. He didn’t meet your eyes the entire time, but there was something frenzied in his movements that you didn't attribute with the soldier or sergeant. 

He left briefly, or maybe it was longer, you weren’t sure. You were tired, your eyes felt heavy. You didn’t even realize as you began to nod off—

“Nuh uh,” suddenly he was in front of you again, kneeling down and using his teeth the pry open the MRE. 

You groaned, shaking your head and pulling away, “No–” 

He cut you off with your name, but you kept shaking your head incessantly. 

“You’re bigger,” you reasoned, not wanting to give him another item on his list of issues with you, “you need it–”

“You need the energy,” he focused his hands on assembling the rations, “Digestion generates internal heat, and we need to keep your body temperature up.” 

You knew that, you’d probably remember going over it in college if thinking weren’t so difficult at the moment. Still, you slurred through chattering teeth, “But you–”

“I’m enhanced, doll,” his voice was gentler this time, “I can go longer without nutrients, and I adapt quicker to drastic temperatures.” Then his hand came up, prompting you to raise your chin. 

You found yourself trying to wriggle out of the blankets, bringing your hands up before he stopped you. His metal hand closing over where the blankets overlapped, a disapproving hum that only added to the confusion fogging your mind. You must have made some sort of noise to match the feeling, because he was shushing you next. Then, in an action that cemented the idea that the cold had you delusional, he lifted the spoon up to your mouth. 

Your eyes widened, piecing together what was happening. This man, who you could still hear complaining about your company in the back of your mind, was now… dotting on you? Waiting expectantly with a spoonful of noodles and broth for you to open your mouth. 

An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in your chest, along with that same inviting warmth. It was kind in a way you hadn’t expected from him, nor from anyone in the past half decade at least. Since you became an adult, and more so after losing your parents, it was you and only you. You took care of you. Even when you were sick, you didn’t expect anyone to look after you like the romcoms raised you to believe. No one else was needed.

But even through the brain fog and heavy eye-lids, you weren’t too stubborn to admit that now? You needed someone else.

The broth was warm, at least warmer than you were. You welcomed the taste, and from there didn’t once resist when he held out the spoon expectantly. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t comment on the possibility of the situation being awkward. No, he made it seem almost natural. His eyes moved over your face as you ate, checking to make sure you’re still with him with open concern. 

Only after you finished and looked slightly more comfortable did Bucky hesitate before standing, like he wasn’t sure about putting distance between you with you like this. It seemed like he was the one who couldn’t sit this time, his shoulders raising with tension. You buried your nose in the blankets and watched as he looked out the front dash at the night sky. It was well past the middle of the night now, the temperature probably reaching its lowest. If you could both hold out the next several hours, the temperature would slowly start rising again. If only just. 

You felt warmth in your stomach from the broth spreading through your middle, but it didn’t stop the chattering of your teeth. You pulled in ragged breaths, watching the air thicken when you exhaled. You found yourself entranced by watching it happen again and again, like a slow type of hypnosis…

“Okay, come here.”

His voice snapped you out of it, turning your attention back to the man pacing the length of the upper deck. You didn’t even have it in you to ask what this time, just watched as he marched over and dropped fully onto the floor next to you. He carefully, but quickly, started pulling the blankets apart until you were back down to your hoodie, then he pulled his over his head. “What are you doing?” Your voice took on a higher pitch as he moved the hoodie over your head instead. 

“Trying to keep you alive, you’re losing color.” Bucky grunted, pulling the larger hoodie over yours. 

“Are you not…?”

He was quiet for a moment, contemplating before, “I lived in this kind of temperature for seventy years. I adapted.” 

You weren’t sure what to say to that. You didn’t have time anyways, because the next thing you knew, he was pulling you away from the wall you were propped against. Then he stood, only to move into that space behind you. 

He must have seen the look on your face when he took your shoulders to pull you back against his chest, because he said, “Humor me,” in a low rasp that stripped you of your defenses. Especially with that same warmth, that was so much more comforting than the soup and noodles. You were melting into him without a conscious thought to the reaction, your cheek hitting the fabric of his thermal shirt while he pulled the blankets around you. You’d feel ashamed in any other situation, but with that smell that was so distinctly him you couldn’t find an ounce of it anywhere. 

His slow exhale of relief encouraged that relaxation you felt. Then he was arranging you in his lap, his legs on either side of you as he turned you so more of your body was pressed to his. The ability to feel him through the layers was tribute to how cold you were, or how warm he was able to remain. 

You could have moaned when he brought his right hand up, pulling the hood tight over your head before settling on your cheek. Or maybe you did, judging by the way his breath hitched. But he kept it there, rubbing warmth into your cheek while his left arm bracketed your back. 

What caught you off guard most was when his hand drifted down to the neck of your hoodies, slipping inside only to rest against the slope of your shoulder, his thumb brushing over your pulse. You had half a mind to ask what the hell, but then his chin came to rest on top of your head. And as your pulse beat against his thumb, you could feel the tension melt from his posture. 

You decided at that moment that maybe you had been missing out, if this was what it was like to be held by a man. Even with this man who you had thought would like to throw you off the tower's helipad several times, you suddenly had no doubt that you were safer right here than you could have been anywhere else. This time, instead of the brain fog, you found your eyes closing for an entirely different reason. But you still had one question… 

“…Why?” 

You were asleep before you could hear his response. 

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The morning was still frigid, but considerably warmer than the night. So much so that when you woke, still curled into his chest and listening to the sound of his heart beating in time with yours, something told you it was time to move. Though your bones did not want to yet. There was an ache in your stomach that felt a lot like indignation at the idea of prying yourself from Bucky. But it was warm enough that the seven layers you now had would allow you to move. The sun was out too, giving you the chance to inspect the ship with more light. 

The other reason was, well, you appreciated what he did the night before. You were quite literally to the point of not feeling your limbs before he bundled you in more clothes and blankets, offering you food and shelter. It was so unlike him, except it wasn’t. It was exactly like the man Steve described to you in stories. The one that took him in when he was at his worst, that stood between him and everyone who tried to tell him what he couldn’t be. But you knew how he felt about you specifically. You didn’t want to push the hospitality he gave… didn’t want to overstay your welcome. 

So, even when a voice in the back of your head, one more tender and delicate than you’d heard from yourself in years, piped up with Stay. It’s safe here, you forced yourself away. You carefully untangled from the blankets, not wanting to wake him yet. Once you were standing, you turned back around to adjust the blankets so they would remain over his chest and arms. 

You paused when your eyes caught him, still asleep and more relaxed than you’d ever seen. No furrow between his eyes, no indent below his cheekbone from where he would grind his teeth; just a dusting of pink across the bridge of his nose from where the cold had seeped in just a little. His mouth rested, so unlike the sneer usually reserved for you. Something about it made you want to run your thumb over his bottom lip and–

You stood, took several steps back.

That indignation in your belly turned into something akin to longing. You forced a breath through your nose, pushed the feeling down and away. Then you, too, turned away. You didn’t know when Stark would be able to get a team out here, might as well find something to keep yourself busy. 

You bit hard down on your lip under your scarf, tasting copper as you turned the flat screwdriver. 

One more time.

You wedged it into the space between the stereo and where it was mounted on the interior wall, trying to find the right angle to…

Little more to the left.

Angle, and–

Music burst from the speaker, jumbled and incoherent as it wasn’t tuned to the channels, but music nonetheless. You laughed in pride that your hypothesis about the stereo being isolated enough from the elements to work with a few… adjustments, was correct. You moved your scarf and dropped the screwdriver between your teeth, balancing on a chair as you messed around with different buttons, searching for the antenna system. 

Rock… country… rap… pop…

“What are you doing?”

His voice was brusque, almost impatient, and you jumped at the intrusion. You hadn’t even heard him approaching. 

You turned from the radio, finding him standing in the doorway with that usual wide-leg, crossed arms posture. His face was set in something strict, as if he had just woken up and remembered where he was. 

You removed the screwdriver and cleared your throat, brushing off his tone, “Trying to get us some music… maybe we won’t be bored to death.” 

Something passed over his eyes, they became wide and cautious as he stepped forward. “We don’t need music,” he said. 

You only scoffed, turning back to mess with the radio some more, it was on some heavy metal station now. “What do you mean? I thought you liked music?” Sam had said so at least. 

You knew you liked similar music, so you didn’t really see the issue. You had always loved music from the 40 and 50s specifically. When you were very young, your parents had found your biological grandmother. They said they wanted you to know some of where you came from, and she was more than grateful for them reaching out. Your best memories were listening to her sing Eta James, or dancing to Bill Crosby over the radio. You carried it with you after she passed, along with anything she shared about her childhood. 

“We have better things to be doing.” He reasoned, but it sounded more like an excuse to you. You weren’t about to let his gruff attitude ruin you trying to find a little entertainment. 

You disguised the jab with a lighthearted tone, “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the deck,” another jab at the stereo system, “You said we can’t go into town. So, no. We really don’t have better things to do.”

He growled your name, but it was too late. 

The music cut out for several worrisome moments before the stunning voice of Ella Fitzgerald came through as the station leveled out. You gasped in delight, jumping off the chair and stepping back as if you could see the music notes filtering out of the speakers. 

You felt like jumping up and down, spinning to the rhythm of dream a little dream of me. Something about it made the cold just that much more tolerable. It brought back memories of stories your grandma told you. You would come to learn your biological parents had been from New York, and so had she. She would take you and your mom and dad to coney island, tell you all her stories from there, then you’d sing something like this on the way home. She’d let you go through all her big hats that her mother had passed down, and her mary janes.

You did end up spinning in a slow circle, singing along–

Until the music stopped completely.

You froze, turning to find the stereo completely disconnected from the wall. When you followed the sparking wires as they fizzled out, you found a metal hand clenched tight, then two blue eyes set on you. 

Your mouth opened in shock, all he did was stare you down. Still in just his thermal layers, you noticed the tension that melted last night was back in full force. That divot in his jaw appeared along with the strain around his eyes. You’d think someone had kicked his cat for how offended he looked. It almost forced you a step back, almost, except this was the man you knew. This was the man you were sure fantasized about throwing you off roofs. You knew this man.

But weren’t you doing a nice thing? You didn’t understand. You had heard Sam tease him for not knowing modern classics, and heard him mumble about how much he liked listening to music that reminded him of home. 40s music. So, what had you done wrong? 

You expected him to speak, to say something. But then he dropped the stereo, let it fall to the ground, and turned his eyes away from you. With a look that must have been all soldier, he turned for the door. 

But as you stood there and stared at the radio that had been ripped from the wall, hearing it glitch as the room fell into inevitable silence, you found that the action had hurt you. More than it probably should have. Or maybe it was all the actions up to this point: the obviously insincere kindness from last night mixing with this moment. You didn’t care anymore about being nice. About being civil. Not about the phone call or the mission briefing or any of it. 

You turned to him with a fire in your throat, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” You shouted at his back. You had to admit it felt good to give the frustration somewhere to go. 

You saw him freeze in the doorway, practically watched the cyborg gears turning in his head. They must have short circuited, because then he was turning back and curling his lip in a way you were all too familiar with. But that was okay, you could work with this. This wasn’t the uncomfortable feeling you got from being cared for. 

It didn’t exactly give you that same warmth either, but you told yourself you didn’t need it.

 “Excuse me?” it was deadly, the tone he used. You were sure it made many targets roll over and show their bellies, not you. 

“Don’t act like you didn’t hear me,” you took a step forward, motioning back to the broken radio, “What the fuck kind of problem could you possibly have with the radio?” 

“You know damn well I don’t have a goddamn problem with the radio,” he snarled, matching your step forward, “my problem is you. Always has been.” 

You could have acted shocked. You weren’t, you were almost relieved. Let him tell you. Let him remind you that pining after him was useless. Let him remind you that you hate him, and he hates you, and you’ve never needed anyone. Never will. 

“Yeah, I got that. ‘You ever going to tell me why?” You shout back, another step forward.

“Because you go and do shit like this!” 

“Like what?! Try to give us something to do while we’re stuck here? Put on music we both like–”

“You remind me of the 40s!”

His snarl cut through the room, loud and rasped, and you flinched back from the shock of the words. The room fell into silence. You were close now, maybe no more than a foot of space between you, chests heaving from how quickly you got worked up. Your face twisted in skepticism. What could that possibly have to do with anything? What did it even mean in the first place? 

You didn’t have to ask, because he was leaning closer the next second. You were reminded once more of how his eyes rivaled the tundra. 

“Do you know how infuriating it is to be constantly reminded of a home that no longer exists? To do the work, to become comfortable in modern times when the world has completely changed and your mind is still in another century, only to learn that none of it matters–”

“What are you–”

“Uh-uh,” he held up a finger to you, “none of it matters because here comes my little teammate wanting to play dress-up. Wanting to pretend she’s different because she knows Sinatra, or because The Shop Around the Corner is her favorite movie! Listen to me, it doesn’t matter. You know nothing. You’re a little girl biting off more than she can chew with this team because you had no where else to go, and then you had to go walking around in your polka dot–” 

You didn’t think before your hand flew out, all you knew was that you wanted him to shut up. You were done listening, done letting him pretend he knew anything. 

The slap rang out across the space, his head snapping to the side probably out of shock more than actual force. You were somewhat shocked too, it wasn’t like you to resort to that kind of thing outside the sparring ring or field. You didn’t like it. You had been raised to talk it out, not to resort to fists unless they started it first.

Yet when his eyes came back to yours, that typically cold blue now blazing, you found you didn’t really care when your hands planted on his chest and shoved. Hard. He barely moved. 

“You–” it was your turn to point a finger, “are a piece of shit, James Barnes. You don’t know anything about me or who I am–”

“Ya’ seem pretty easy to read to me.” He snapped, his Brooklyn accent thicker in the midst of his anger. 

“Well, news flash!” You mocked, “You know fuck-all! And honestly? I don’t believe that’s the entire reason. You like being reminded of your home, I’ve seen you!” 

“I’m allowed to!” He turned it on you, “You don’t get to take something you know nothing about and pretend–” 

“I’m not pretending! Why would I be?” You scoffed, “It was passed down to me by the only grandparent I had left, you asshole!” 

“Exactly, I–” He stopped short and looked down at you, then at the lack of space between you two. You were tempted to drop your eyes under the scrutiny, but you didn’t, you chose to watch as several emotions passed by his eyes.

It looked like he was about to speak again when the crew door opened suddenly, the cold outside air wafting in. The conversation was immediately dropped when potential danger was sensed. You both turned, legs wide, and reached for your guns. 

But it was only Sam and Natasha, standing just below the jet with expectant looks. 

“Heard you two needed a rescue,” She called up to the deck, your heart just about burst. 

“Better late than never, aye, tin man?” Sam jogged up, clasping Bucky over the shoulder while you grabbed your bag and walked past both of them. 

“Thank god,” you mumbled as you reached Natasha. 

She looked you over, then above your shoulder to where Bucky stood behind you, “That bad, huh?” she asked after noting that neither of you were injured.

You sighed, “Consider it a miracle we didn’t kill each other.” 

You didn’t bother to tell her that last night would have made a completely different story, and that you honestly felt whiplashed at the back and forth. No, you just followed her to the Quinjet. Sam and Bucky entered behind you, but you didn’t pay attention. Only returning a smile to Sam’s teasing before finding a spot in the back of the ship beside a window. You didn’t bother making small talk the rest of the flight. 

When the jet landed, you were the first one off. Throwing your duffel bag over your shoulder and not even looking back. The climate here was better, meaning you needed out of your six layers, one was discarded in the jet, now. You brushed past Steve and Tony, which would have felt a little rude if their expressions didn’t look like they expected it. Everyone knew the two of you couldn’t get along, and yet the look on Steve’s face was almost devastated. You almost wanted to ask why he looked like someone had crushed his hopes and dreams, but honestly, you were already done for the day. 

The only person you saw for the rest of the day was Wanda, who had stopped by after you had gotten cleaned up. She must have sensed you needed a debrief, because she just listened while you paced and ran your hands through your hair and called him every name under the sun. You appreciated that she heard you, that you felt seen.  What you did not appreciate was what came after. When you groaned that you hated him and she cocked her head at you from her spot on the bed, “Are you sure?” 

You stopped, dropping your hands and turning to her with a face that said: have you not been paying attention? 

She shrugged, “It’s just… I’ve seen how you look when you dislike someone, and you’re not the combative type. This energy is… intense,” she looked at you as if she could literally see said energy, “I just wonder if there’s something more…” 

You huffed, “There isn’t.” You would speak it into existence if you had to. Or, more correctly, out of existence.

Wanda just hummed, slowly nodding, like she was piecing observations together. Then she concluded with, “You just seem riled up.” 

“I’m just frustrated by the entire situation. I mean, he accused me of playing dress-up, who does that?” You forced yourself to shake off the memory, because replaying it only aggravated you more. 

“Maybe you need a distraction?” 

“I don’t feel like going to the gym right now…”

“I didn’t mean the gym,” Wanda stood from her perch, walking to your wardrobe and shifting through the hangers. You turned, watching with a furrowed brow before she found what she was looking for. Then she turned to you, holding a hanger with a frilly, white beaded dress. It was one of your favorites because it looked just like something you had seen in photographs of your grandmother and great grandmother. 

But you weren’t sure what she was getting at now, “Wanda…”

“You need a break,” She closed your wardrobe and hung the dress on the outside of it, “Maybe not today, but tomorrow? Several of us were assigned to missions this morning, so the tower will be mostly empty.” She turned back to you, something conflicting in her expression as she placed her hands on your shoulders, “Go do something you enjoy. Wear your dress, listen to as much Sinatra and Armstrong as you want, and ignore him.’’ 

She left not long after, and you sat in bed staring at the dress where it hung. She was right, you should just ignore him. He had no right to get under your skin, and you were ashamed that you let him. Except you would rather hang onto the anger than what happened when you laid down for bed that night. When your cheek hit the pillow, suddenly you were back in that jetship in the middle of the night, except the cold wasn’t in your bones this time. The pillow very quickly became the hard muscle of his chest, your blankets feeling like the protection of his arms if you didn’t know better. Even his scent was ingrained in your memory. 

You forced yourself awake every time it happened, pushing the memory away. You didn’t like how many times you had to do that before falling asleep. It made you wonder if, by some chance, he was having the same trouble. 

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“You wanna talk about it?” 

Bucky barely glanced up at the sound of Steve’s voice, who stood in the doorway looking at him expectantly. He thought about not responding, maybe even pretending he was invisible. But Steve was giving him that look he always did, that told him he saw right through his bullshit. It didn’t help that he was sitting in the common room in the middle of the night, his duffel bag still on the carpet in front of him, not unpacked nor in his room. He was on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. So yeah, he wasn’t doing much to hide his distress. 

He sighed, finally lifting his head, “Why’d you put us on that mission?” Because he had to have known it was a bad idea. You didn’t like him. He was already incapable of not making a fool of himself, but this time he’d set a record. 

Steve pushed off the doorway, giving that token Captain America headshake of disappointment, “Because I get it.” 

Well, if that wasn’t the most vague answer possible. “What’s there to get?” Also, what could he possibly get? 

There were several moments where Steve looked to be choosing his words wisely before he met his eyes again. This time with more confidence when he said, “You’re different now, Buck. You’re not the same man you were in the 40s, neither of us are.” 

Bucky scoffed, turning away, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.” 

“I’m saying,” he stopped on the other side of the coffee table, “that it can be hard to experience intense feelings again after decades of nothing… especially in a new time and place.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped back, face twisting in obstinance. Steve was right, he knew it, they both knew it. He didn’t hate you, he wasn’t even the least frustrated by you… at least not how he’d portrayed it. He was just… struck. Struck was the only word for it. Dumbfounded, too. He thought he’d never get to go home except in photographs and literature. He often visited his parents' street in Brooklyn, but never felt anything fill that ache in his chest. 

Until you walked in that day, humming Ole Blue Eyes with your hair pinned in big curls. He wasn’t sure how you did it, how you transported him back in time with just the sway of your dress around your knees. But in that moment, it was 1942. He was untouched by war and torture, with nothing to do but spin the most beautiful girl he’d seen around the bar all night. He felt light. He felt sick. It was the kind of pleasure that hit you hard enough that you weren’t sure it was pleasing at all. 

And Steve was right. He wasn’t the James Buchanan Barnes of the 40s. He didn’t have the same charm, the perfect lines. All he had was his fear of anything intense. Anything that wasn’t mundane, because mundane was safe. Alone… alone was safe. So, he lied. To you, yes, but even more so to himself. Told himself you were performing, playing dress-up, maybe even compensating for what you never had. The entire time he was falling… hanging onto every moment he saw you in polka dots or plaid. And then when he learned who you were? Smart as a whip, confident, compassionate? He knew he was fucked. 

Steve had to have seen this on his face, because he said, “Talk to me, pal.” 

Bucky wasn’t sure he had the words when he dropped his head back into his hands. With a groan, he admitted, “I said some horrible things, Steve.” 

He nodded, and Bucky was grateful for the lack of judgement in his expression. He was already beating himself up, he didn’t need anyone to add onto it. 

When he didn’t immediately respond, Bucky continued, “She started showing symptoms of hypothermia early in the night… I was so panicked, all I could do was cover her up.” He swallowed hard, dropping his hands and hanging his head, “I held her all night and in the morning I woke up to her hardwiring the radio to play 40s music and I… I couldn’t handle it.” 

“Did you try to make it right?” He asked. 

“I didn’t have time. She ran the minute the jet landed,” He looked back up at Steve, “I don’t think she’d listen anyway.” 

“If you told her the truth, I bet she would.” 

“I wouldn’t even know what to say… like you said, I’m not who I was.”

Steve shrugged, gave him a smile, “You don’t need to be, I don’t think lines would work on her anyway. Just be honest.” 

Bucky scoffed and pushed off the couch, he wrung his hands out to fight the urge to pull at his hair. “It’s been a year of this, there’s no way–”

“I’ve never known you to not work for what you want.” Steve cut him off with a voice that said he didn’t have a doubt about the statement. 

And it happened to be exactly what James Barnes needed to hear. He’d come too far to back down from a challenge. He knew how to put in effort, put in the work; but, as awful as it sounded, “I think I’d rather her hate me than lose her altogether.” 

Steve only had one response to that: “But what if you didn’t lose her? What if she didn’t hate you at all?”

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In the end, you did exactly as Wanda said. While your body was still exhausted, probably from working overtime to keep homeostatic balance in the frigid climate, you forced yourself up and out of bed. You threw your hair in heat rollers and buttoned the delicate beads of the dress. Delicate was the perfect word for it, which is why it was one of your favorites. You spent so much of your time in tactical gear that you enjoyed the soft silk fabric brushing your skin. It made life feel more peaceful. You didn’t feel ashamed of the femininity of it, not when you knew part of your femininity lay in your strength. Neither could be taken from you. 

You spent all day in the sunshine, walking through the parks of NYC and listening to the birds and the sound of squirrels playing in the trees. It was refreshing, feeling a breeze that didn’t chill you down to the bone. You drank hot coffee just to feel the warmth of it in your belly, and the pain in your hands when it got too hot. You sat on a bench and watched couples picnic in the park, and smiled at how in love they looked. You forced down the pang of jealousy when you heard a man compliment the woman he shared a checkered blanket with, it wasn’t their fault you were alone. Or that, when you did have taste in men, it was untimely and poor. 

You shook the thought from your mind several times as you walked along the sidewalk, your kitten heels making soft noises against the concrete. You windowshopped and browsed through stores you couldn’t afford, just to feel like a normal New York citizen and not like a member of the Avengers. 

Alas, when the sun began to set and your legs grew tired, you knew you had to head back to the tower. The halls were quiet with the absence of the team, and you wondered who was gone and who remained behind. You figured you’d know soon as you walked the hallway to the kitchen, looking for dinner. 

It was your name being called behind you that made you stop before finding your way through the door. You turned around, and there he was. Halfway down the hall, Bucky stood with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was wearing one of those stupid henleys that sat too tight across his chest, and his hair was rumpled. Messy. Something about it matched the look in his eyes and they way he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he stared at you.

You pulled in a deep breath, feeling the lace of your bodice brush against you. You knew you’d have to face him at some point, and there was no real reason to put it off. He was also your teammate, whether he liked it or not. You never had an issue with him besides how he treated you, and that you wanted to know why. Now that you did, you weren’t sure what to do. It was an absurd reason, and also not one you had any care to do anything about.

You cleared your throat, “Yes?” 

There was a moment where he looked… unsure? You weren’t sure you had the word for it, and yet that was all it could be. He genuinely looked nervous when he glanced at his shoes then back at you. Several moments passed before you felt your patience waning, your brows raised expectantly. Only then did he mutter, “I want to explain.”

Oh. Straight to the point. 

You shrugged, “You explained clearly, there was no misunderstanding.” Wanting to leave it at that, you took a step closer to the kitchen. You figured he’d let you, and that he’d let it go. You could be teammates and mind your business outside of missions. You’d watch and listen and wear whatever you wanted and it wouldn’t have to bother him, because it didn’t have to affect him.

But he only stepped closer down the hall, “I mean that I want to apologize.” The words were rushed, as if out before he could really form them. 

You looked over your shoulder, your face twisting, “Excuse me?” You must have misheard. 

And yet, “I want to apologize.” He said after pulling in a breath. Then he dropped his shoulders and stood straighter, lifting his chin as if embracing the statement. You saw that confidence you were used to, at least a little of it. “My behavior was hurtful and I–”

“You were honest.” You cut him off, still half turned away, because this was awkward and you didn’t know how to navigate it, “Now we can–”

“But I wasn’t.” It was several steps forward this time, and that desperation crept back in his tone. He was no more than a few meters away, his hands out of his pockets and limp at his sides. “I wasn’t,” he repeated, “I…” he looked pained, his eyes flickering over your face as if testing your reaction. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you were this confused in an interaction, yet you decided that fine, you’d bite. You gave him your full attention, “What do you mean, you weren’t honest?” 

The question didn’t seem to help, and you couldn’t help but notice how he couldn’t quite look at you. He’d glance at you, at your dress and curls, and then pointedly away. “I called you infuriating, which you are… it’s just that…” he trailed off, going quiet. 

You felt your eyes narrow, he was just here to rub it in, “Thanks for the reminder, Barnes–” 

“No!” He stepped closer, then back again. “I meant that–that you are, just not in the way I said.” 

What? 

You froze, shaking your head slowly as if trying to find sense in the words. 

But he only kept going, “You are infuriating in your ability to pin me without so much as a look. Really,” he said your name like a plea, “everyone sees it but you. You walk into a room, and I’m done for–”

“I walk in a room, and you leave–”

“Because I don’t know what to do! Do you have any clue what it's like to feel nothing for seventy years, and then everything in the span of a few seconds?” He looked at you now, lifted a hand over his heart as if to show you, and you felt yours stop as you got an idea of what he meant. 

But he couldn’t possibly–

“You walk in a room,” he repeated slowly, “and suddenly I’m twenty, standing in a crowded speakeasy trying to remember how to ask the most beautiful girl in the room to dance.” 

Oh. 

But your head shook, your heel taking a step back, “Bucky, this isn’t funny–”

“I’m not joking.” He said immediately, his face broken, “I wish I was. But, God, doll, of all the things I’ve done, I don’t think joking about this is one I could manage.” Doll. You’d heard that before, through frozen ears. It made your stomach flutter then too. “I don’t understand.” Your voice breaks, your feet suddenly feeling shaky in your heels. 

“I know,” he nods, “I know. I’ve been horrible to you, and I’m so unbelievably sorry. I… I don’t have any excuse besides that I had no clue how to process it. I didn’t only lie to you, I lied to myself every time I saw you…” his eyes lifted to your hair, dropped to your dress, “every time you wore something like this and I felt sick, I told myself I hated you… but I don’t think I ever even believed myself.” 

You stared, and stared… and then stared some more. Your mouth dropping open and your eyes blinking as if testing if he’d disappear. He didn’t. He stood in front of you, strong and broad like the soldier you knew, but with heartbreak in eyes that were usually steele. You suddenly understood the nerves, feeling them yourself too. A hundred thoughts raced through your mind, and yet you were still at a loss for words. 

He splayed his hands as if begging, but you knew he never begged. And yet, “Please say something…” 

Your mouth moved wordlessly for several moments, the past year rushing through your mind just as it had when he broke the radio. “So this whole time… every insult…” 

He was already shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it. I don’t even know why it started, I just know that when you snapped back that first time… suddenly any attention from you was enough. I’d take whatever you’d give me.” 

That statement, more than anything else, brought a reaction out of you. The butterflies and the nerves were still there, yes, but suddenly you were angry. This entire time you had scolded yourself for finding him attractive when he was… 

You found yourself closing the distance, only to plant your hands on his chest with a shove and, “You idiot!” 

He seemed to take that as rejection, lifting his hands and stepping back, “Okay, I’m sorry–” 

But you didn’t let him, immediately stepping into his space, “You’re telling me we’ve been arguing and–and I’ve been shaming myself for feeling anything for you when we…” you trailed off, that anger dissipating into realization. He hadn’t actually said he wanted you,  and you knew better than to get your hopes up. 

He said your name in the form of a question, but you were already shaking your head. 

You felt an unfamiliar sting behind your eyes when you sneered at him, “You know I have no one, and I’m okay with it. I’m used to it, so trying to toy with me isn’t going to work–” 

You went to step back, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into him with another call of your name. You didn’t want to look at him, but when he caught your cheek and turned you, all you saw in his eyes was awe. Pure affection that stripped you down and made you feel exposed. A look that you weren’t sure any man had ever given you. He didn’t even say anything, just met your eyes and made sure you saw everything he felt. 

And then he was kissing you. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, pulling you in while he kept you close with the hand over your cheek. It was soft, if a little hungry, his lips moving over yours and coaxing a response. It took a minute before you realized that you did indeed need to respond, and slotted your mouth over his.

Except that anger wasn’t completely gone, something just as intense burning deep. So, after moments of matching that gentle back and forth, you sunk your teeth into his bottom lip and pulled. As if to say, don’t make me regret this. 

The minute he felt it, his mouth following yours as you tugged, he groaned deep in his chest. A sound you weren’t even sure he was aware of. But then his hand was sliding from your cheek into your hair, his arm wrapping fully around your waist and gripping your dress. He fisted your hair tight, forcing your head back so he could kiss you harder. You felt trapped in his arms in a way that felt entirely safe, like nothing could touch you here. There was no world, no avengers, no accident. Nothing to worry about but the taste of him on your lips and the press of the wall he backed you into. 

And when you both pulled away, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “You have me. All of me. You have always had me.” 

Overnight, his opinion changed. Texting, he decided, was his favorite thing about the modern world. No longer did he have to wait for a response to the love letters he drafted. No longer did he have to hang around the mailbox hoping for an envelope stained with your lipstick. He could simply fire off an adoring text, and your replies were almost instantaneous. 

But it was uncommon for his phone to blow up like this when the two of you were together. When you were apart, it buzzed every few minutes with your responses to his loving messages. But when the two of you were both home, nestled in the apartment you shared, Bucky abandoned his phone. In his eyes, everything and everyone else could wait. 

He often ditched the thing upon returning home, leaving it on the counter or the coffee table. He didn’t squirrel it away into his pocket or keep it on his bedside table. No, he disconnected from it completely. Happily. He only ever wanted to be present with you. To be completely free from distraction when you were around.

But whoever was calling didn’t get the memo. They called once, twice, five times in a row. 

You’d called out to Bucky every time, letting him know that a very persistent individual was eager to get ahold of him. But he didn’t seem to care. He was too busy folding and putting away your laundry in the bedroom. Too content in this perfect picture of domestic bliss.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said as he finally swept through the kitchen, empty laundry basket in hand. “I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

“It seems like something,” you told him. “What if it’s Sam or Joaquin? What if something’s wrong?”

Bucky thought it over for a moment. His distaste for his phone was strong, but his concern for his friends was infinitely more powerful. And while he didn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend who spent all of his time occupied by his screen, he opted to give the missed calls a glance. Just in case.

A familiar number- a number he hadn’t seen in ages- was splashed across his notifications. It wasn’t saved in his contacts anymore, but he’d recognize it anywhere. Before he had a chance to wonder why it was plaguing him, his phone began vibrating once again. That same number, one he saw as an ancient relic of a past life, illuminated his screen for a sixth time.

He stared at his buzzing phone. He didn’t want to answer. Had no interest in speaking to this person. But just as he tried to place his phone back on the counter, something gnawed at him. Nagged at him. Told him there had to be a good reason for these calls. 

He eyed you for a short moment and answered the call.

“Um… hello?”

There was no way this was Sam or Torres, that much you knew. But who else would call Bucky six times in a row? Who else would bother him on a Saturday? Whose call would he answer while at home with you? Nat was more of a texter, and Yelena had broken her phone in an “incident” only a few days prior. You found yourself at a loss for answers.

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky said into the phone, almost irritated. “Did you need something, or-”

He listened for a long time, throwing in the occasional “yeah” or “okay”. Whoever was on the other end, he didn’t seem thrilled to be speaking to them. But he was hearing them out. Giving them a chance. He even reached for a piece of scratch paper and a pen and jotted down a few notes here and there. You and your cookie dough sat in suspense.

“Um, alright. I’m going to…” His eyes found yours, “Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.”

And just like that, the mysterious call was over. 

Bucky slipped his phone into his pocket. It wasn’t like him.

“Well?” you stared at him, expectant. “Who was that?”

Bucky let out a sigh. His head fell an inch or two. He smoothed the crease between his brows with the pad of his thumb. He stayed this way for a long, quiet moment. Until finally, he, asked:

“Do you remember me telling you about Tara?”

Tara. Tara. 

“Yeah.”

How could you forget?

He’d told you about his ex-girlfriend Tara a few times. She’d been a fellow special agent with SWORD; that’s how they met. The way Bucky described it, their breakup was amicable and quiet, no dramatics. He said it was for the better. That they simply grew apart.

Sam told a different story. 

After nearly three years together, Tara left. She got a job offer on the other side of the world. She didn’t know how long she’d be gone, didn’t know if she’d ever come back. And while Bucky wanted to stay in Brooklyn, wanted to stay in the only real home he’d ever known, he promised her he’d follow. That he’d go with her, if that’s what she wanted.

But she didn’t ask him to tag along.

Instead, she ended things. She boarded a jet and began an entirely new life, a life that didn’t include Bucky. 

And it destroyed him. 

He wanted, more than anything, for her to be happy. Wanted her to pursue the opportunity. But her departure ate through him like acid. It hollowed him out, turning him into a shell of himself. He had loved her so much. So deeply. So endlessly. They talked about the future they’d share. About getting married. He’d considered their relationship a sure thing. A guarantee. 

And then she was gone.

Sam helped him pick up the pieces. But it took time. A long time. Sam said he barely recognized his friend at times; he was more of a husk than a person. 

An intense feeling of unease settled into your stomach. Why had Tara called? Was she finally back in town? Did she want a second chance with Bucky? Would he leave you for her? Were you just his placeholder until she returned?

“Well, she’s back in the city,” Bucky told you.

Your heart dropped. A pang of anxiety struck you like lightning, but you refused to show it. 

“Oh yeah?” you asked casually. Maybe too casually.

“Yeah. And she wants my help.”

It took you off guard. 

“With what?”

Bucky sat down on one of the barstools that lived under the kitchen island. He scratched at his stubble. “Her new organization thinks they found another underground sect of Hydra.”

“Oh.” You stomach twisted. “Shit.”

Bucky nodded. “They want me to come work with them for a while. Help them handle it. Cause I’m,” he let out a small, cynical laugh, “Cause I’m the expert, or whatever.”

A small part of you, the selfish part, was relieved. Tara had called about a work matter, nothing more. There was nothing romantic to it. But a much larger part of you fell stricken with worry. 

Anytime something Hydra related came up in Bucky’s work, it knocked him off kilter. His nightmares returned. His anxiety worsened. It pushed him to the precipice, forcing him to cling to his newfound peace by his fingernails. It killed you to see him that way. Killed you to know that he was hurting. 

But he refused to back down when it came to Hydra. Refused to shy away from the harsh reality that Hydra was still lurking. Still skulking in the shadows. And no matter how it affected him, he was dedicated to toppling every last Hydra holdout. For the good of the world. For himself.

“So, what do you think?” He stared at you expectantly.

You stared right back. 

“Um, what do I think?”

You weren’t quite sure what he was asking. Or why. This decision was entirely up to him. It was his mental health on the line. His trauma being unearthed all over again. But you offered him your opinion regardless. 

“Well, I think it’s… it’s going to be hard on you,” you said. “Every time you deal with Hydra, it has consequences. But I know you want to take them down- rightfully so.” You shrugged, “So you should do whatever feels right to you. If it gets to be too much, you can always take a step back. And I’ll be here for you the whole time. So-”

Bucky’s smile put a stop to your words.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little, “What?”

“I meant, what do you think about me working with Tara?” He asked. “Don’t get me wrong, your answer was great- perfect, actually. And I definitely needed to hear that,” he smiled at you again, totally smitten.  “But I need to know if you’re comfortable with this. And be honest with me, okay? Because if this makes you feel weird, I won’t do it.”

“Oh, um…” you shrugged.

The truth was complicated. And though you would rather Bucky not work with the previous love of his life, what option did you have? How could you possibly ask him not to take this job? He felt a responsibility to eliminate Hydra, to tear them apart the way they did him. And you weren’t going to get in his way. 

In the grand scheme of things, Bucky working with his ex didn’t matter. If partnering up with Tara meant cutting off yet another head of the snake, it was more than justified. 

You swallowed to your immature, childish, petty feelings about the situation, and put on a smile.

“I mean, it’s a work thing. It’s not like she called you up and asked you to marry her,” you forced a laugh. “We’re all mature adults here. If you want to do it, then you should. I know how much it means to you that Hydra is wiped off the map. And I’m not going to stop you just because the two of you used to be-” 

The words ‘in love’ got stuck in your throat.

“Used to be together,” you said. “Plus, I trust you. I’m not worried about you straying.”

You were, in fact, very worried about him straying. About him spending time with Tara. About him remembering just how much he loved her. About dormant feelings suddenly awakening. In a previous life, she was ‘the one’ for him. The love of his life. And you feared that she’d returned to reclaim her title.

But before the dread could set in, he rose from his seat and made the way around the counter. He wrapped his arms around your waist and settled his chin in the crook of your neck. 

You feared he’d notice your thundering pulse. Your unsteady breathing. 

“You definitely don’t have to worry about me straying,” he said, his breath fanning your skin. “Thank you for always being so understanding. I love you.” 

You leaned back against him, eliminating what tiny space remained between your bodies. And for a split second, you felt at ease.

But the voice in the back of your head, the one that you’d wrongfully silenced in the past, told you this was a mistake. That this was the beginning of the end. It told you that you’d seen this film before and that the ending would by agonizing. It screamed at you, warning you that you were, once again, repeating a well-known pattern. 

But you muzzled it, just like you had before.

Because, while the situation did have a haunting air of familiarity to it, Bucky was different. He was loving. He was trustworthy. 

Wasn’t he?

Yes. Of course. 

You chastised yourself for even wondering. For doubting. It wasn’t fair to saddle Bucky with the weight of your failed relationships. To be suspicious of him when he gave you no reason. 

You wriggled until he loosened his grip, allowing you to turn around. 

“And I love you,” you let your lips melt against his. “So, when do you start?”

It wasn’t so bad at first. 

His days started early, much earlier than yours. He slipped out the door and into the dark morning before you woke each day, leaving you in an empty bed. Waking without him next to you, with his side of the bed empty and cold, stung. 

Gone were the early morning chats over coffee. Gone were the shared showers before work. But you didn’t allow yourself too much time to mourn these lost moments with Bucky. They would return one day, you knew they would. Once his work with Tara’s organization was over, things would return to normal. You just had to be patient.

And while your shared morning routine was a temporarily put on hold, your usual evening schedule was alive and well.

The two of you cooked and ate dinner together every night, just as you always did. You shared a glass or two of wine. Did the dishes. And when the kitchen was clean, you’d curl up against Bucky’s side for a little tv time. 

There was one notable difference, however. One noticeable change to your evenings, to your home as a whole. 

Bucky’s phone never left his side. He always had it with him, either tucked into his pocket or cradled safely in his hand. It sat on his nightstand at bedtime, only inches away. It buzzed with emails, texts. And he refused to let them go unanswered, even for a few minutes. 

Surely, he wasn’t doing it because he wanted to. Right? It was all business, all professional. It had to be. He was the expert, the authority on Hydra. He had to be reachable, that was all.

But his newfound habit didn’t pair well with his borderline constant comments about Tara.

“Tara said the funniest thing today.”

“Tara had a great idea.”

“Do you like this coffee? Tara introduced me to it.”

Tara.

Her name pinballed around inside your head, buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. It was loud, almost deafening. A deep, animal instinct screamed at you, warning you: something wasn’t right. He talked about her far too often and far too highly for this to be an innocent professional relationship. Surely, there was something amiss. Something going on between them behind closed doors. 

There had, at one time, been so much love there. Was it really possible that that love died out?

The suspicions piled higher and higher as the days passed. Every time Bucky reached for his phone, a knot twisted in your stomach. Surely, Tara was sending him flirtatious texts. She had to be. You found yourself dying to dig through his phone. To investigate each and every message she sent. But you restrained yourself, never daring to break the trust you and Bucky had so carefully built.

After a short while, you found yourself hating Tara. Cursing her. Raging against her inside your own head. The stories you came up with, the horrible pictures you painted- they twisted her into a villain. An evil siren sent to sink her claws into the love of your life and steal him away.

It almost frightened you how easy it was for you to hate her. To hate someone you didn’t know.

And she hadn’t even done anything wrong. 

But you couldn’t help it; you were jealous. Jealous of all the time she spent with Bucky. Jealous of how often he spoke with her. Jealous that, even when he was at home, she was still on his mind. 

And you hated the feeling. Hated the immature thoughts that stirred inside your head. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t overcome the weight of the green-eyed monster on your back.

Two weeks into Bucky’s new gig, you stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for him. He was late. On a normal night, he returned home between six and six-thirty, but the clock neared seven and there was no sign of him. He didn’t answer your calls, didn’t respond to your texts. It wasn’t like him.

You started on dinner without him, though you couldn’t remember the last time you cooked a meal alone. The two of you always worked together, evenly sharing the labor of making dinner. It was part of your routine, one of your shared patterns. And ever since your morning routine was snatched out from under you, you grew to cherish the time spent making dinner with Bucky. 

Suddenly, you felt startlingly alone. 

You woke up alone. Got ready for work alone. Returned home to an empty apartment. And with Bucky otherwise occupied, you made dinner alone, too. 

As eight o’clock rolled around, you once again fiddled with the tin foil covering the meal you’d so carefully prepared. After doing your best to keep it warm on the stove, a distinctive burning smell forced you to pull it from the burner. You supposed lukewarm and covered in foil was better than charred into oblivion.

As you tore another piece of foil from the roll and wrapped it tightly around the dish, your phone buzzed, and Bucky’s picture lit up your screen. All at once, you found your tight muscles relaxing. 

A deep, calming sigh left your chest. Some silent, subconscious part of you had feared that something happened to him. That Hydra silenced him once and for all. That he couldn’t answer your calls because he was lying dead somewhere. It was a reality too horrible to even acknowledge. And so, you’d pushed it to the darkest corner of your mind and opted focused on dinner. But that didn’t stop your hands from shaking. 

The tremors calmed a bit as you answered his call.

“Buck?”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he sounded out of breath. Hurried. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer- I’m so sorry I’m late. I got pulled into a last-minute meeting and it ran long.”

“That’s okay, it happens,” you told him. “Dinner’s ready. Will you be home soon?”

“Twenty minutes, I promise,” he told you. “Did you eat already?”

The question almost offended you. “Of course not, baby. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He let out a disappointed sigh, “Doll, you didn’t have to-” 

“I wanted to. I’d much rather eat with you, even if it means waiting a while.”

He was quiet for a moment; you could almost see the sad smile spreading across his face. “You’re too good to me- you’re the best. I’ll be home soon, okay?”

And he was.

The two of you ate your room temperature dinner together and discussed your respective workdays. Bucky, of course, namedropped Tara more times than you could count. And by all accounts, she was incredible. It made you wonder when Bucky would realize that you couldn’t compare. That you couldn’t compete with her. On paper, she was his perfect match. She was his other half. Tara was whip smart and worldly. Hilarious. Gutsy. And absolutely deadly. 

How could you compete against someone like that?

Sleep evaded you each night as you as you compared yourself to his lost love, to the one that got away. Over and over again, you listed your attributes against Tara’s, examining how you might stack up to her. You played out every possible scenario in your head. Not one of them ended with Bucky choosing you. And you couldn’t blame him.

His weekends were soon consumed by work. No longer did he spend his Saturdays and Sundays with you, browsing the farmers market and enjoying brunch. No longer did the two of you have movie marathons or bake fresh cookies. Instead, he spent his weekends at headquarters or locked in your home office. The two of you didn’t go on dates or spend time with friends. No, Bucky spent all of his time with Tara. 

A month later, Bucky studied you over another late dinner. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked.

He put down his fork and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, your cheeks, searching for a fever. 

“Um, yeah. I think so…” you eyed the hand pressed against your cheek. “Why?”

“Are you sure? You seem tired, baby.” He looked at you closely, examining the most minute details of your face. His gaze dropped to your plate, and he frowned at your virtually untouched meal. “Are you not hungry? Maybe you’re getting sick.”

A small sigh pushed through your lips. 

It wasn’t at all what you needed to hear. Ever since Bucky started working with Tara, you feared he’d fall back under the spell of her otherworldly beauty, of her wit and charm, and leave you in the dust. The thought kept you up, driving you slowly insane each night. And knowing that you looked tried, that Bucky thought you looked sickly, drove another pang of anxiety into your chest. 

“I just haven’t been sleeping well lately,” you told him. “It’s been- work has been really crazy.”

It was such an easy lie. You reached for it two days prior when Bucky asked why you’d bitten all the skin off your bottom lip. And it came in handy three days before that, when he asked why your nails were bitten down to the quick, why your cuticles were raw and bloodied. 

“Oh, that’s right. Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He removed his hand from your cheek and placed it instead on your forearm. “Do you know when things will go back to normal?”

You simply shook your head. 

And that was the last night you ate dinner together.

The following night, you found yourself back in the kitchen, cooking dinner alone once again. You’d never realized just how much you hated cooking until you had to do it by yourself. With Bucky around, you looked forward to making dinner every night. Looked forward to dancing in the kitchen and watching him chop vegetables with his expert knife skills. But without him, it became your most dreaded chore.

You glanced longingly at the clock and found a renewed sense of hope. It was nearly eight, which meant Bucky would be barreling through the front door and wrapping you in his arms in no time. You poured two glasses of wine and placed them on the table, allowing yourself a smile. He would be home soon.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Around nine-forty, your phone buzzed. Bucky’s name appeared in block letters across your screen. And before you could even say hello, he was speaking.

“Baby, hey. I don’t- I’m so sorry. I’m leaving right now, okay? I promise. I’m on my way.”

It took everything in you to keep your disappointment from seeping into your words. This wasn’t his fault- you knew it wasn’t. And it wasn’t fair of you to be upset with him. To make him feel worse. But you missed him. Desperately.

Never before had any of Bucky’s meetings lasted this long or run this late. You knew in your gut there was something going on. Something secretive and sinister. Something that would rip you to shreds.

The manufactured casual tone you adopted didn’t sound convincing to you, but you hoped he’d buy it. “It’s- don’t worry about it, Buck. Okay? It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, doll. I didn’t- I was gonna be home normal time. But I couldn’t step away from this briefing.” His words came out in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, I should have at least called. This is- it’s not okay. I feel awful.”

“Don’t feel awful, baby. It happens.” You wondered if this ‘briefing’ included everyone from the team. Or if Bucky and Tara had been the only ones in attendance. “Um, dinner is in the fridge, okay? I made-”

“Please tell me you ate without me,” he nearly begged. 

“Oh, um. Yeah. Yes. I did- I ate already.” 

With crossed fingers, you hoped Bucky would believe your lie.

With Bucky MIA, you hadn’t even considered eating. Nothing sounded remotely appetizing. In fact, your stomach had tied itself into a thousand intricate, painful knots. The nausea crept in soon after, and the idea of eating dinner flew entirely out the window. 

But it was easier to lie, to tell him you’d eaten. It would save him a little guilt. And if you could convince him that you’d already had your share, he wouldn’t ask about your lack of appetite. 

But you adopted your best happy-go-lucky tone and pretended that you weren’t losing your mind.

“Sorry, Buck, I wasn’t planning on eating without you, but it got pretty late and-”

“No, no. I’m glad you ate. I’m sure you were starving,” he said. “I’ll be home soon, okay? I can’t wait to see you.”

He rushed through the front door twenty minutes later, apologies falling from his lips one after another. He scooped you into his arms and dotted kisses all over your face between “I’m sorrys”. And you assured him that all was well. But you had to wonder if his affections were genuine. If his apologies applied only to his late arrival, or if he’d committed some other transgression he’d yet to confess. 

But you sat at the table with him anyway as he reheated the dinner you’d made by yourself. You listened to him tell you all about Tara’s brilliant work in the briefing. And you wondered how much longer you’d get to keep him. 

Dinner became non-existent for you, as did most other meals. You did your best to stomach small, infrequent snacks here and there. But the anxiety of Bucky’s possible infidelity made it almost impossible to keep food down. 

You still cooked, though. Regardless of the intense nausea, the biting stomach pains, you still managed to put together decent meals for him. You’d tuck the food neatly into Tupperware and stack it in the fridge, knowing damn well he’d never be home in time to eat it warm.

It was as if, after his first excessively late arrival, a seal had been broken. Never again did he return home at a reasonable time. He came through the door ever-later as the days dragged on. Nine-fifty. Ten-thirteen. Ten-thirty-five. Eleven. You did your best to stay awake, at least. To be there to greet him when he got home. But as his homecomings grew later and later, you found yourself dozing off before he’d even texted to let you know he was on his way home.

Some nights, he didn’t come home at all. You’d wake in the morning to find his side of the bed untouched. His boots missing from the front hall. On those mornings, it became obvious just how disconnected you were. On those mornings, you realized that the two of you were just ships passing in the nights. On those mornings, you wretched in the shower before work. 

Every obvious warning sign was there. Every red flag. Every neon fucking sign pointed to the fact that Bucky was having an affair. And it threatened to eat you alive.

You’d never been so miserable. So heartbroken. Pain radiated through your chest and pulsed through your veins. Every cell in your body throbbed with agony. You wanted someone to put you out of your misery. To wipe you from the face of the earth and save you from Bucky’s confession and eventual departure. But no such mercy came.

Part of you wished you’d spoken up. Wished that you’d told Bucky not to take the job. 

If you’d just voiced your concerns, maybe he never would’ve strayed. Maybe things would still be normal. And god, did you miss normalcy. You missed the patterns. The routines. The “boring” domestic life you once shared with Bucky. You missed talking to him. Spending time with him. Being close with him. The distance between you seemed to grow every single day. And you feared you’d never bridge that gap.

But you didn’t have to.

Bucky returned home one Sunday night in unusually high spirits. He found you in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, and lifted you into his strong arms.

“Baby…” He buried his face in your neck and smiled against your skin. “I’m so excited for next weekend.”

You were so lost in his touch that the words didn’t register for a quite a while. It had been so long since he was this affectionate, this close. Tears threatened to pool in the corner of your eyes as you relished in the sensation of his arms knitted around your back. His breath on your skin. And for a moment, you allowed yourself to consider the possibility that things might be okay.

Suddenly, you realized what he’d said.

“Next weekend?” You pulled away just a hair, allowing yourself a glimpse at his face. “What’s next weekend?”

 “’What’s next weekend?’” He let an exaggerated, over-dramatic gasp fill his lungs, “I can’t believe you forgot! We’re going to the cabin, sweetheart! Next weekend, remember? It’s the weekend of the nineteenth! Keep up, doll.” He shot you a wink.

The cabin?

Sure, the two of you had planned to escape upstate to your aunt’s cozy little cabin. But that was agreed upon months ago. Long before this job. Long before Tara. You’d assumed that with Bucky’s long hours and lack of weekends, that that plan was defunct. But apparently, you were wrong.

“Wait, we’re still going?” you asked, incredulous.

“Of course,” Bucky said. “I told them I can’t work next weekend, no ifs, ands, or buts.” He snaked his hands from your spine to your sides and allowed them to slowly inch up your body. When they finally cupped your face, he pressed his lips to yours in a long, deep kiss full of longing. “I’m long overdue for some interrupted him with my best girl.”

Your heart fluttered. 

“I know I’ve been really busy. And tired. And distracted. And- I’ve been a fucking absentee boyfriend,” he sighed. The self-hatred in his voice was almost palpable. “I didn’t think this job would be so… intense. I’ve barely been home. And I know this whole thing has gotta be tough on you.”

Tears sprang forth once again. You did your best to blink them away, but they persisted, and a few rolled down your cheeks against your will. 

You sighed, “I just miss you.” The words had a fractured quality about them. 

“Oh, sweetheart…” The heartbreak in his voice forced more tears to your surface. He pulled you into his body, wrapping you in the tightest hug he could safely manage. “I miss you too. So much. I promise nexxt weekend is going to be just for us. And when I’m done with this job, we’ll go away together for a long time, okay? No phones,” he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “No distractions,” he left a second kiss to your nose. “Just you and me,” he leaned down and dropped a third and final kiss against your lips. 

It was a simple promise, nothing extravagant. But it was exactly what you’d been dying to hear. You’d been so convinced that Bucky would end things any day now, so sure that your time with him would soon be over. But hearing him make promises for your shared future helped ease the agony you’d been shouldering. And just like that, the storm clouds in your soul parted, revealing your first taste of sunshine in weeks. 

Bucky was still yours. And he still wanted you to be his. 

In the days leading up to your weekend away, you found yourself floating through life. Everything seemed easier, brighter, warmer. The constant nausea let up and the anxiety quieted. You ate a real meal for the first time in an indeterminable number of weeks. Sure, Bucky was still glued to his phone at home and staying late at the office. But you could see a light at the end of the tunnel. 

After the absolute misery you’d experienced, hope felt so foreign. So other. But you welcomed it with open arms.

All you had to do was survive until Friday. Bucky talked his team into granting him an early departure from the office, allowing the two of you to escape the city by noon. You’d drive upstate with the windows down, blaring some top 40’s hits from decades past. And together, you’d settle in for some much-needed reconnection.

On Thursday night, Bucky returned home around ten. And regardless of his long day, he was more exultant than ever. He practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled his dinner into his mouth and rushed to the bedroom to finish packing. It was the most energetic you’d seen him in quite some time. 

“Okay, I double and triple checked my bag,” he told you. “I’m ready.” 

“I’ve been packed since Tuesday,” you bragged. “And I got us…” you rifled through your duffle and unearthed a knotted grocery bag. “S’mores supplies.”

Bucky was floored. “You fucking think of everything!”

When the two of you settled in for bed that night, it almost felt like the good old days. Like the days before your doubts and suspicions and private agony. Before Bucky’s obsession with his phone. Before his late nights and his stories about Tara.

You slept like a rock that night, taking comfort in the fact the next day, you’d have Bucky all to yourself for an entire weekend.

He woke early the next morning, as he always did, and did his best not to disturb you. But you were too excited to sleep any longer. As he slowly and carefully rose from the bed, your eyes flew open. 

“Happy cabin day,” you whispered into the dark. 

Bucky’s startled gasp sent you into a fit of laughter. 

“You scared the hell out of- were you just laying there in the dark waiting for me to wake up?” 

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Well… happy cabin day, you creep,” he laughed, still catching his breath. “Leaving at noon sharp?”

“Noon sharp,” you said back. 

He dressed for his half day of work and allowed you to accompany him to the front door. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he left a kiss against your forehead, “And we’re out the door right at twelve.”

“Right at twelve,” you nodded. “See you soon, Buck.”

But you didn’t. 

Eleven rolled around without any sign of Bucky. Eleven-thirty and eleven-forty passed. And as the clock closed in on twelve, you wondered why you’d gotten your hopes up. Why you allowed yourself to get invested in this trip. Why you believed that things would actually work out.

But still, you held out hope. You sat perched on the arm of the couch. Waiting. Your duffel and Bucky’s sat at your feet. Waiting.

Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail. 

‘Maybe he’s just running a bit late,’ you thought. ‘Maybe he’ll be home by twelve-thirty. Or one.’

But he wasn’t.

Nor was he home by two. Or three. 

The familiar nausea crept back in. The anxiety returned.

At four, you tossed your packed duffel into your closet and stripped out of your roadtrip clothes. You donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt and sank into the couch under the weight of your disappointment. All the hope, all the optimism you’d felt in this last week evaporated. And in their place settled a pointed shame. 

You couldn’t believe you’d been so stupid, so naïve. You should’ve known better. Should’ve managed your expectations. This was your own fault, really. If you’d been smart enough to read between the lines, you wouldn’t be so heartbroken. 

Around five, your stomach gave a hollow, gurgling growl. You’d been too excited to eat that morning as you rushed around completing last minute tasks before leaving for your weekend away. And after the realization that Bucky had gone back on his word, you were too sullen to even think about food, made nauseous by your anxiety.

But the nausea subsided for a moment, leaving an unbridled hunger in its wake. For a long moment, you considered putting together a simple dinner. There were groceries in the fridge, and you certainly had plenty of time to cook and eat, seeing as Bucky sabotaged your plans. But you didn’t have it in you.

Every night that you cooked dinner alone required a herculean effort. You had to push yourself, had to give yourself a rallying speech. And every night, it worked. Every night, you somehow found it in you to drag yourself to the kitchen and assemble a decent meal- albeit, a meal you wouldn’t eat. But with your hopes for a romantic weekend away dashed, the pep-talk didn’t work. Encouragement didn’t work. Nothing on the planet could force you to make even the simplest dinner. The kitchen seemed too far; you couldn’t fathom walking all the way to the cupboard for a snack.

But your bedroom? That was close by. That was doable. 

With a pitiful groan, you heaved yourself up off the couch and lugged your body into the next room. You fetched your duffle out of the closet and fished your hand around inside until you unearthed the bag of s’mores supplies. With your bounty tucked under your arm, you made the journey back into the living room and settled onto the couch once again.

A few marshmallows and a graham cracker or two would have to suffice; it was all you could manage. 

At six, your phone rang. Without even looking at the screen, you knew it was Bucky. Knew he’d be guilty and repentant and upset. Knew he’d promise to make it up to you. Knew he had a perfectly good reason for blowing off your trip. 

The petty part of you wondered if he’d simply had trouble tearing himself from Tara’s side. 

On the final ring, you answered his call. 

And you were right, he was guilty. And repentant. And upset.

“Baby, I’m- you have no idea how sorry I am. I wanted to call sooner, we were just- I was so busy. We’re working on a new lead and-” he huffed, “It’s not an excuse, I know it’s not an excuse. I made you a promise and I’m so sorry I let you down again.”

A few tears welled in your eyes, your nose burned. 

“It’s fine,” you said. “Happens.”

“I’m on my way home right now, I’ll be there as quickly as I can and as soon as I get there, we’ll leave for the cabin. We can-”

“We’re gonna hit too much traffic,” you told him, your voice flat. “That was one of the reasons we decided to leave at noon. We didn’t want to get stuck, remember?”

“Right. Well…” He went quiet for a moment as he searched for the right thing to say- for anything to say. “T wanted me to extend her apologies.”

‘T’? He was giving her nicknames now?

“She didn’t mean to keep me so long,” he said.

Your pitiful dinner churned in your stomach, fighting desperately to crawl back up your esophagus. 

Tara. Kept him. It seemed to you that Bucky was somehow reading your mind and acting on your greatest fears.

“Hey, have you eaten yet?” He asked, filling the silence, “I can pick up something for dinner, anything you want.”

The marshmallows and graham crackers looked at you with pity.

“That’s okay, I already- I’m not hungry,” you sighed. You didn’t mean to sound so dejected, but you didn’t have the energy to hide it. “I’ll just see you when you get home.”

You hung up and let your phone slide in between the couch cushions. Never before had you felt so much like an island.

Bucky tore through the door twenty minutes later, his face shiny with sweat. You knew he’d desperately rushed home, hoping it would somehow fix the situation or at least mitigate some of your disappointment. It didn’t. 

“Sweetheart…” he flew to the couch and sat by your side, “I am so, so sorry. I- I didn’t mean to be late.”

He eyed you for a moment, waiting for you to speak. But you didn’t. You remained still, leaning back against the couch cushions. There were no tears, no rageful words. You were quiet. Resigned. 

He averted his gaze, too guilty to even look at you.

“I didn’t want to stay,” he swore. “But T needed me. She practically begged me.”

T needed him. Not the team. Tara. 

It should’ve upset you, but it didn’t. You were past the point of being upset.

“Six hours late is…” You shook your head. “How does that even happen?”

Bucky ran a hand down the side of his face, “I don’t know. I’m the authority on this stuff and Tara said it was really important, so I- it doesn’t matter. I told her I needed to leave at noon, and I didn’t. I fucked up, not her.”

You nodded. You didn’t want to fight with him. And even if you did, you were too tired. 

“I hope you know I’m not actively trying to make you miserable. I don’t want to be gone all the time.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I hate this. I hate that we never get to do anything together, and I hate that I can never spend any real time with you, and I hate that you look so…” He fell silent for a long moment as he drank you in. 

His close observance made you want to shrink away. You knew he was taking inventory of your hollow, heartbroken stare. Your tired eyes. These days, you barely recognized yourself in the mirror. The face looking back at you wasn’t yours- it couldn’t be. It was too empty. Too deflated. More like a fragile husk than a person. 

 “I… I don’t remember the last time I saw you really smile,” the realization swept over him as he spoke.  “Or… heard you laugh,” a deep crease formed between his brows. “I miss it. I miss you.”

You nodded, feeling suddenly guilty. The cynical, sour part of your brain had gotten to you, convincing you that Bucky was relishing in your destruction. That he was taking joy in draining you, gutting you. 

But as you watched the tears gather slowly in his eyes, you realized just how wrong you’d been.

 “I didn’t think it would be like this,” he swore. “I knew I’d be busy, but I…” He shook his head, “I didn’t know I’d be leaving  you alone all the time. And breaking promises. And it’s-” With the back of his left hand, he all too aggressively swiped a rogue tear from his cheek; you were certain the sharp bite of the metal stung as it dug into his skin. “Hurting you like this is- it’s my biggest regret. And that includes everything I did for Hydra. I promised you we’d always be on the same team, and I’m…”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket; your chest tightened. Was he really pausing to check a text from Tara? Now?

“I’m calling the Tara,” he said, “I’m quitting.”

You unearthed yourself from the couch cushions, yanked upright by Bucky’s words. “What?”

“I can’t do it anymore. If I keep working on this, I’m gonna lose you,” he said, his voice wavering, desperate. “And I can’t risk that.”

Suddenly, a distinct and pointed feeling of guilt engulfed you. Here Bucky was, prepared to abandon his efforts to topple Hydra- for you. He was willing to allow that hideous, evil organization to rise again- for you. He was ready to default on the promise he made to himself- for you. 

How could you have doubted him? How could you have been so suspicious? He’d done nothing wrong, aside from coming home late. But that wasn’t an indictment of his character or an accurate depiction of who he was as a partner. He was kind. He was trustworthy. He was loving. 

His fingers flew over his screen, dialing Tara’s number; you didn’t love that he had it memorized. But before he could finish, you rested a hand atop his, stopping him.

He stared at you, “What are you-”

“I can’t let you quit.” 

“But-”

“If you don’t see this through, you’ll regret it. It’ll eat away at you for the rest of your life.”

He tried to protest, to prove you wrong, but you silenced him.

“I know you, Buck. I know how you feel about Hydra. And even though I’m… yeah, I’m miserable right now, but it’s fine. It’s short-term. I’ll survive.” You outstretched your free hand and settled it on his forearm. “You need to do this for you. If you quit, you’ll hate yourself. And if, heaven forbid, Hydra makes some big resurgence, you’ll always blame yourself. You’ll always wonder if you could’ve stopped it, here and now.”

He considered your words for a long, quiet moment; you watched a war rage beneath his surface. You knew you were right. Knew that you’d read his mind. Knew that if he sat idly by and allowed Hydra to claw its way back to power, it would kill him. People would get hurt; people would die. And it would be his fault, at least partially. But he couldn’t help the desperate longing in his gaze, the fraught ache as he stared at you. 

You could practically see him being torn in two by the nearly impossible choice.

“You’re…” he gave a small shake of his head, “You’re right. But this whole situation is- it’s eating you alive. You just said that you’re miserable. I can’t-” He looked down at his phone once again, “I can’t let you to be miserable. I can’t do that to you.”

You shrugged, hoping to assuage some of his guilt. “So, it’s not ideal.” The laughed you tacked onto the end didn’t convince him; it didn’t even convince you. 

A long silence filled the room. A deep frown settled Bucky’s into Bucky’s mouth as he hemmed and hawed over his options. You knew he’d choose to stay on. Hoped he’d quit. Feared he’d tell you he was leaving you for Tara.

Finally, he spoke.

“I can’t… I can’t walk away from the job,” he sighed, “It goes against everything in me.”

You gave him a polite nod; his decision wasn’t a surprise.

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m okay with- with the way that things have been going for us,” he said. “I’ve been so preoccupied that I haven’t really been- what does my therapist call it?” He thought it over for a moment. “I haven’t been ‘emotionally present’. I haven’t been physically present much, either.”

You shrugged, “You’ve been under a lot of stress. I understand-”

“Yeah, but you’ve been in this by yourself,” he huffed, angry at himself. “And it’s not fair. I turned this into something one-sided.”

Alarm bells blared in your head at the word “one-sided”. What the hell did he mean by that? Was this him telling you that your feelings were no longer requited? Was he apologizing for hurting you, only so he could tell you he was leaving you?

“I’m gonna tell Tara I have to scale back my hours, or something.”

The alarms quieted a few decibels.

“If there’s anything I can do to make this whole thing easier on you, all you have to do is tell me. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.” He bit down on the inside of his cheek, “Cause I can’t keep doing this to you. I can’t keep apologizing and hoping that it’ll fix all the late nights and broken promises.” He shrugged, “But even though I know it won’t fix anything… I’m sorry. I mean it.”

Another long stretch of quiet occurred as you looked him over. His shoulders were hunched in defeat, devastation. His jaw was tense, his brow furrowed. He held one of your hands in his warm palm, and rested his metallic hand on top, as though cradling something delicate. Something precious. He looked genuinely miserable. Genuinely despondent. And your heart ached for him.

He was a good person. He took this job to protect the world, to protect you. Who were you to crucify him for coming home late a few times? Who were you to be suspicious of his intentions when all he wanted was to mend things with you? It wasn’t fair to accuse him of infidelity. To assume that he was stepping out on you behind your back. Your insecurity, you decided, was not his fault nor his problem. 

And so, you vowed to stop jumping to conclusions. To stop assuming the worst of him. To stop writing fiction about what was going on between Bucky and ‘T’. 

However, you did want to ask him one question. 

“I really appreciate the apology- the apologies,” you corrected yourself. “And I know you’re not doing anything malicious. You’re just trying to do your best.”

He nodded. 

“You’re not in an easy position here. I want a lot from you; your job wants a lot from you. You’re being stretched really thin right now. And I know you’re stressed out about how this is affecting me.”

Bucky nodded again, more emphatically this time. 

“There is- there’s one thing you could do that might make things easier on me,” you told him.

Bucky scooted a bit closer, “anything.”

“And I need you to be one hundred percent honest with me.”

“Cross my heart.”

You hesitated, second-guessing your question. But if you were to stay sane for the remainder of this job, you needed a straight answer. There wasn’t a mature, adult way to ask. Each way you phrased it sounded pettier and more childish than the last. 

And so, you simply dropped the question in his lap. 

“Is there anything going on between you and Tara? Romantically or-” you winced, “Sexually?”

He stared at you, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. 

Was he simply surprised to hear such a preposterous question? Or was he shocked that you figured out about his torrid affair?

“What?” he finally said. “Between Tara and- no!” He shook his head, an incredulous look on his face. “I would never do that.”

The weight that had been sitting on your chest ever since Tara’s first phone call suddenly felt lighter. It didn’t vanish completely, but it lessened. You’d been aching to hear those words come out of his mouth. And now that they finally had.

“I’m not that kind of guy, sweetheart. I don’t do that sort of thing,” he swore. “Did you think that I was-”

You forced a laugh and shrugged. “No, no. Of course not. I didn’t actually think you’d-” the word got stuck in your throat. You had to force it out, “-cheat on me,” you lied. “But with the long hours and the late nights and all the texts and phone calls you guys share…” 

“It is not like that, I promise,” he said, denying the accusation with his entire being. “Tara is great, and yeah, we spend a lot of time together. But I love you. You are the only person for me.”

He went on. And on. And on. For a solid two minutes, at least. He vowed that he wasn’t sleeping with Tara, swearing on every holy book in existence that he didn’t have feelings for her. He promised that he was in love with you, that he wanted you, that you were the love of his life. Only you.

And it should’ve made you feel better. But as Bucky continued his unrelenting, gushing promises about his love for you, he unknowingly planted more seeds of doubt. He strong denouncements and fierce denial of any romantic or sexual wrongdoing brought one phrase to mind: 

“Thou dost protest too much.”

You knew then, without a doubt, that you were losing your mind. 

But you couldn’t stop the vicious cycle; the ghosts of relationships past refused to allow it. And so, over the course of the next few minutes, you found yourself endlessly oscillating between ‘he’s laying it on thick to hide the fact that he’s cheating and ‘he loves me so much, it’s so awful of me to think he’s hiding something.’ 

You thanked the universe that mind reading was not amongst Bucky’s enhanced abilities. If he’d been able to hear all of your thoughts, if he knew how quickly your pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the next, he’d think you were crazy.

“All this to say,” he paused, and locked eyes with you in a moment of deep, genuine connection. “I love you. And only you. I don’t want anyone else.”

And though a sliver of suspicion remained, you accepted his words at face value. 

“I love you too, Buck.”

He pulled you in for slow, long kiss. The two of you melted together, desperately affixing your bodies together in an attempt to make up for lost time. 

“What do you think?” Bucky said when the two of you finally parted, “You still want to go up to the cabin tomorrow?”

You had no reason not to. You gave Bucky the affirmative and a wide smile stretched across his face. The previous night’s excitement returned and together, you made a plan for the following morning. 

But when the following morning came, you woke to an empty bed. Again.

When your alarm went off at seven, you bolted upright. Today was the day that things between you and Bucky were finally going to get back on track. But when you turned to his side of the bed, he was nowhere to be found. His pillow was cold. 

“Buck?” you called, your voice bouncing off the walls of the deserted apartment. “Are you here?”

No answer. 

“Of fucking course.” 

With a deeply disappointed sigh, you flopped back down and decided to sleep until noon. How could he do this to you- again? How could he ditch you? How could he promise to be more present, only to turn around and disappear? A tornado of anger swirled inside your chest, interrupted only by tidal waves of hurt. Of grief. 

But just as the first tear slid its way down your cheek, the front door opened. 

Cautious, quiet footsteps crept through the living room, down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. Bucky’s head slowly peeked around the corner. And once he realized you were awake, he rushed to your bedside with his hands concealed behind his back. 

“Good morning, sweet- hey, are you okay?” Concern eclipsed his smile as he eyed the rogue tears clinging to your lashes. “Are you crying?”

You wiped your eyes with your t-shirt and gave a shake of your head, “No, I’m- I just had a really strange dream. It was a sad one.”

Bucky frowned, “I’m sorry, baby. Do you think that a bacon, egg, cheese, and hashbrown breakfast sandwich on an onion bagel would help?”

Your eyes widened, “You went to The Hot Bagel?”

Bucky nodded. From behind his back, he revealed the brown paper bag printed with your favorite bagel shop’s logo.

“Oh my god, this is- how long was the line?” In one swift motion you stole the bag from Bucky’s grasp and tore into it, revealing a miracle wrapped in tinfoil.

“It wasn’t long at all. There were only two people in front of me,” Bucky said, his smile proud.

“Buck…” you narrowed your eyes at him.

His face dropped. He feared that he’d ordered incorrectly. That he’d taken the wrong bag from the counter. “What?”

“If there were only two people in front of you, what time did you get there?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he gave a small shrug. 

“But it’s one of the busiest shops in the city and-”

“And I know it’s your favorite. So, I went.” He said it so matter of factly, as though it were a no brainer. “I would’ve been back a little earlier, but the onion bagels weren’t quite ready when I got there. I almost got you an everything instead, but…”

Your expression grew incredulous. He let out a belly laugh. 

“But I knew you’d give me that exact look. So, I waited a little longer.”

Together, the two of you inhaled what you deemed the best breakfast sandwich in New York. And once you’d tucked the s’mores supplies back into your bag and gotten ready for the drive, Bucky led you by the hand down to the car. 

The drive was exactly what you’d imagined. Windows down. Clear skies. Invigorating music. Bucky danced with you to today’s hits. Eighties ballads. Forties crooners. He provided backup vocals and took the occasional solo. This was how it was supposed to be. This was what your relationship had always been: warm, safe, comfortable.

There was no room here for doubt or suspicion or distrust. 

As the cabin rolled into view, you made a conscious decision to remove any inkling of wariness from your mind. Bucky was yours. And you were his. And that was that. 

Like a perfect gentleman, he unloaded the car and carried the bags up the porch steps. The cabin sat tucked in amongst a swath of trees that shielded it from the main road. Its interior was decorated with thought, with care, with love. It welcomed you in and instantly, you felt right at home.  Rounding out the space was a small yard, complete with a hammock and fire pit.

It seemed that the weekend might be saved after all, until you glanced into Bucky’s bag.

As he was unpacking his toiletries and getting his clothes sorted, the shiny silver corner of his laptop caught your eye. It was tucked under a pair of sweatpants, but you knew in your bones that it was his computer. Upon further inspection, you discovered a hotspot hiding amongst his clothes, as well. 

So much for the ‘uninterrupted weekend’ he’d sold you.

But instead of assuming the worst, instead of spiraling, you reasoned with yourself. He’d packed his bag prior to your heart to heart. Prior to your admission of being miserable. Prior to his promise to scale back his hours. It was perfectly logical to think that he’d simply forgotten to remove his computer and his hotspot from his bag. That he had no intention of using them this weekend. That he only packed them in case of an emergency.

And maybe- just maybe- he didn’t intend to work during your getaway. 

But work he did, anyway.

Bucky found you lounging in the hammock, protected from the sun by the shadow of a large, old tree. 

“Where have you been?” you asked, looking up from your book. “You said you were right behind me.”

He had said it would only take a few minutes for him to “send one last email” before he could “completely unplug.” But that was forty-five minutes ago.

“I know, I’m sorry. One email turned into a phone call, and that turned into a zoom,” he said, exasperated. “But I’m here now. Does that hammock have room enough for two?”

Some childish and petty part of you wanted to call him on his shit. It wanted to throw the words “uninterrupted weekend” back at him and watch as he ate them.

But he looked so tired. Everything about him screamed ‘rundown’. This was the longest you’d ever seen his stubble. His hair was longer, too- longer than he liked it. There was a defeated air about the slope of his shoulders. And every breath seemed more like a sigh. He didn’t get to go out for long runs in the park anymore; this was probably the most time he’d spent in the sun in weeks. 

The loving, devoted, compassionate part of you won out against your immature instinct, and you allowed him to share your hammock. He climbed in with a warm smile stretched across his face and tucked his body into your side. It was the perfect way to spend an afternoon- save for his near-constant texting. But you figured that a preoccupied Bucky was better than no Bucky at all.

He never even cracked the book he brought along for the trip. He, instead, allowed it to rest at his side while he responded to Tara’s messages. Every once and a while, you caught a glimpse of his screen, and everything appeared to be on the up and up. There were no emojis. No flirtations. No double entendres. Just business. 

And though you wished he’d knock it off and be present with you, you let it to slide. He was just trying to make everyone happy. Trying to stretch himself thinner than thin. And he was clearly miserable, himself; you thought it best not to add insult to injury.

And the weekend was still lovely regardless. It was the most time you’d spent together since he started with Tara’s organization, and you swore you could feel yourself coming back to life. The two of you ate and danced and made s’mores and fell asleep under the stars. And even though it was a truncated version of the trip you’d hoped for, you wouldn’t have traded it for anything. 

Things were looking up. 

Another respite from Bucky’s hellish schedule came a few weeks after your cabin jaunt. Just as the sense of renewal granted by the getaway started to wear off, Bucky came home from work one Friday night with a nearly cartoonish grin on his face. 

He bounded through the front door and threw himself at you, sweeping you into his arms. It was unexpected, almost strange; he never came home with his energy intact like this. But you welcomed it; you missed seeing him this way. 

“I have good news,” he said. “Do you wanna guess what it is?”

“Hmm…” you thought it over for a moment, “Are you-”

He didn’t allow you to properly formulate a guess; he was far too excited. 

“I’ll give you a hint: guess who has the whole weekend off?” he asked, spinning you around as though on a dance floor.

Your jaw dropped. “Really?”

“Really.” 

It was like music to your ears. Like your birthday and New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day rolled into one. You could’ve sworn that confetti fell from the ceiling. That fireworks exploded outside your window. It wasn’t just good news. It was great news. The best news you’d ever received. 

“We’ve hit a wall with this lead we’re working on,” he told you. “There’s some information we need in order to move forward, but not even our access team has been able to get to it. It’s not in any of the systems they’ve looked through.”

You gave him a strange look, “What’s an access team?”

He rolled his eyes and laughed a little, “They’re hackers. But they told me to stop calling them ‘hackers’ cause apparently that sounds ‘cheesy’.”

You shrugged, “‘Hackers’ kinda does make it sound like you’re in a bad spy movie.”

“They hack! It’s the name that makes the most sense!” he laughed. “Anyway, they think it’s probably being stored on a drive somewhere off-network, that way no one can hac- I mean, access it. And our entire strategy hinges on that information. So, there’s not much we can do right now.”

It struck you that maybe you were supposed to be sensitive to this plight. To the frustrations of his job. Maybe deep down, he was disappointed that Hydra’s fall would have to be delayed. But he didn’t seem all that bummed about it. If anything, he seemed unburdened. 

“They called things off for the weekend so everyone can recharge,” he told you. “I think they’re hoping that a free weekend will help people come back with fresh eyes and clear minds.”

“Yeah, it’s almost like allowing your employees to rest helps them be better problem solvers,” you quipped.

“Who could’ve seen that coming?” he laughed. The sound hit you deep in your chest; you realized just how much you missed that laugh. It vibrated against his lips as he pressed them to yours.

The possibilities of how the two of you might spend this rare, free weekend- farmer’s markets, museums, drinking and dancing- evaporated from your mind as he kissed you. And suddenly, they were replaced by hungrier, more salacious options.

But for the time being, you quieted them. This was Bucky’s weekend, his free time.

He never had the time to do what he wanted to do anymore. Ever since he started this job, his time no longer belonged to him. This job owned every day, every minute; he was lucky enough to get a few hours on loan so he could sleep.

“Well, whatever you wanna do this weekend, I’m in,” you told him when you finally parted. “You get to pick since you never have free time anymore.”

He fell silent for a long moment, thinking. 

“Anything you want!” you promised him. “We can go on a bike ride or roam around in that fancy bookstore in SoHo or-”

“If it’s alright, I’d rather not.”

“You’d rather not what, Buck?”

He sighed, “Would you mind if we didn’t do… anything? I don’t want you to be bored all weekend, but I just…” 

He let out a long sigh and looked around the room. As his gaze swept through the space, you watched him take in the subtle changes here and there: a new throw pillow on the couch, a different set of coasters on the coffee table, a new lamp to replace the one he’d accidentally broken. 

This was the apartment you’d hunted for together. The apartment he’d called his “safest place”. His “favorite place”. And yet, he’d barely spent any time within its walls in recent days. He was more like a guest here. A stranger. A foreign transplant.

His eyes filled with the same desperate longing you’d seen before the cabin trip. “I just want to be home, you know? But if you want to go and-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you told him. “If you want to stay home all weekend, we’ll stay home.”

He eyed you warily, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” you promised. “I’ll never say no to weekend at home with you.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face. 

You weren’t quite sure if he was excited to spend the weekend at home with you, or if he was simply thrilled to lounge on the couch for a few days. Either way, you were happy to have him all to yourself. Happy to keep him out of the clutches of others for a few days. 

“Maybe we could get some snacks and have a movie marathon? There are a ton of classics I’ve never seen,” he said. “Jaws, Jurassic Park, Alien. What do you think?”

You quirked a brow at him, “I think it’s criminal that you’ve never seen Jurassic Park.”

“I know,” he groaned. “That’s why I’m trying to rectify it! What do you think?”

You, of course, agreed to his proposal. The two of you made a list of movies and a list of snacks, and you couldn’t resist the excitement building in your chest. This weekend was going to be the mulligan. The do-over. After your cabin weekend was cut short, after it was tarnished by Bucky’s constant correspondence with Tara, the two of you needed a second chance at an uninterrupted weekend. And the opportunity had finally arrived.

The next day, Bucky settled in next to you on the couch. He draped a blanket over your lap, pulled you securely into his side, and pressed play on Jaws. Jurassic Park followed shortly after, and he raved about it as the two of you made and ate lunch. A slew of movies spanning multiple genres left Bucky in awe. It was a strange experience, watching Alien after West Side Story, but you didn’t care. Bucky was home, and that’s all that mattered.

And much to your surprise, he hadn’t mentioned Tara once. Hadn’t texted her. Hadn’t paused the movie to read one of her emails. And for the first time in a long time, things inside your apartment felt less crowded. 

But a nagging thought needled at you. What if he was simply being more covert about corresponding with Tara now? What if he had gotten better at covering things up?

No. You wouldn’t allow yourself to think that way anymore. 

With a deep breath, you nestled yourself deeper into Bucky’s embrace and vowed to simply enjoy the weekend. You didn’t know when- or if- you’d get another one like this any time soon. And you damn sure weren’t going to waste it by concocting wild speculations.

Once the sun finally set behind the skyscrapers, Bucky pressed play on your last movie of the night: When Harry Met Sally. But just as Harry and Sally bumped into each other in a bookstore, there was a knock at your front door. 

Bucky looked at you. You looked at him. 

“Were you expecting someone?” he asked.

You shook your head.  

“Hmm,” Bucky rose from the couch, “Maybe it’s a neighbor.”

He strode toward the front door and pressed his face against its surface, peering through the peephole. You could’ve sworn you heard a quiet gasp fill his lungs.

“Who is it, Buck?”

He didn’t answer. He removed the chain on the door with a slow intensity. Inched the deadbolt open at a glacial pace. His movements were painstaking, deliberate. Almost sluggish. Whoever it was, Bucky didn’t seem too pleased to see them.

When he finally turned the knob, he pulled the door open only a few inches. A sliver, really. He leaned his head out into the hall and spoke quietly with the mystery visitor. 

It was odd, his behavior. He had no reason to be secretive or cagey when speaking to a neighbor. He had no reason to hide his conversation from you. To shield you from this surprise guest. 

As quietly as you could, you rose from the couch a crept closer to the door, hoping to catch a word or two.

“Yeah, and I thought I told you never to come to my apartment,” Bucky said, his words hurried. 

Something about it made your stomach turn. Why would he feel the need to give someone such a specific stipulation, unless he had something to hide?

And then a woman’s voice filled the air. 

Not any woman’s voice.

Tara’s.

“I know, but I need you, Buck.”

A flash of heat scorched your insides. And before you knew what was happening, you’d wrenched the door all the way open. 

Tara stood before you in a floor length maroon gown dripping with intricate beading. She towered over you, her perfect body elongated by elegant heels. Her auburn hair was twisted and tucked into a fabulous updo. Diamonds dangled from her ears and encircled her slender neck. And deep red lipstick accentuated her perfect pout. 

You thought it possible that she’d stepped out of a magazine or off of a runway. 

And suddenly, you wondered what the fuck Bucky was doing with you. What he saw in you. How he could be with you when she existed.

A violent pain tore through your abdomen, nearly stealing your breath. It seemed that something sharp and jagged was ripping through your insides, shredding your guts into confetti. But you forced yourself to remain composed. To appear unbothered. 

Bucky shifted his gaze to you and then back to Tara. He looked nervous, as though you’d caught him red-handed. 

“Sweetheart, this is Tara,” he gestured to the devastatingly beautiful supermodel standing in the hall. “Tara, this is-”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said in a rush, her attention barely drifting from Bucky’s face. “But we really don’t have time for pleasantries right now, Buck. This is an emergency.”

“I don’t think I can tonight,” Bucky told her. “I have plans, we’re watching-”

“I know how to get the drive, I know where it is.” Tara shrugged, “Okay, I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”

Bucky didn’t answer, he simply quirked a brow at her, allowing her to continue.

“There’s a huge gala tonight at Thomas Weller’s house,” she said.

Bucky perked up.

“Weller’s house…” he said, thinking it over. “He lives in the-”

“The prohibition era mansion with the hidden room that acted as a speakeasy. Yeah,” Tara nodded, her eyes a bit wild. She seemed truly exhilarated by the circumstances. “He’s the only one Hydra would trust to keep the drive secure, and tonight’s the only chance for us to find it,” she said. “He has to be hiding it in that secret room- I feel it.”

 “But we can’t be sure…”

“Barnes, I’m sure.”

Bucky thought on it for a long, quiet moment. “Are you willing to stake Magdalini’s on it?”

Tara’s face lit up as her head fell back in a laugh. A loose auburn curl bounced at the nape of her neck. Her perfectly polished nails brushed against her chest as she caught her breath. You were certain she was the princess from every fairytale you’d read as a child.

“Yes!” she finally said when she composed herself. “I am willing to bet you a doz- TWO dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.”

Bucky took this very seriously. A knowing look eclipsed his face, and he granted Tara an understanding nod. You, on the other hand, were left in the cold. You weren’t sure what had just happened between them, but they knew something you didn’t. They shared something you were not a part of. Whether these cookies were an inside joke or some kind of metric, you weren’t sure. But they were important. 

You waited for an explanation, for one of them to afford you an invite to the joke. But no such offer came. 

“Do you still have your tux from the SWORD anniversary party? The one where we knocked over the ice sculpture?” Tara asked.

A small smile flickered across Bucky’s face. He cut his glance toward you, dropped his smile, and nodded at Tara.

“Then get dressed,” she told him. “The party starts in twenty minutes and it’s basically across town.”

“Okay, yeah, just-” Bucky began to make a sweeping gesture of invitation but cut it short when his eyes met yours. “Um, I’ll be out in a minute,” he told her, before shutting the door and leaving her in the hall.

With the door shut, the two of you shared a long, loaded look. 

“I’m sorry…” he finally said. “I know we were gonna watch movies and-”

“It’s fine, Bu-” you stopped yourself, not wanting to use the same nickname as Tara. “Babe.”

He sighed, “I keep disappointing you.”

You shrugged, “It is what it is. This is part of your job.”

You meant it. You knew he wasn’t doing this on purpose. Knew he wasn’t trying to hurt you. It wasn’t fair to blame him. It wasn’t even fair to blame Tara, though you wanted to. She, too, was just doing her job. Just trying to stop Hydra. And who were you to stop those efforts? 

But you couldn’t help the frustration that ground your teeth together. The disappointment. The irritation. It all pooled together into a sinister, inky cocktail that coated your insides. It seemed that, at every turn, Bucky chose Tara. You knew it was childish to feel that way. Knew it was petty and stupid and immature. But you couldn’t stop it. 

And Tara’s piercing beauty didn’t help. Her perfect cheekbones and flawless skin made you want to double over. Made you question if you were even the same species.

Bucky dressed in his tuxedo quietly, eyeing you every now and again. You sat on the edge of the bed, waiting to assist with his tie, if need be. Another heavy, endless silence wedged itself between the two of you. The kind of silence that precedes disaster. 

“So, what’s the deal with Magda… Madgolee-”

“Magdalini’s?” 

“Yeah.”

 “It’s this bakery out in New Hampshire,” he told you. “Tara and I were in Concord doing recon for this job, and we kind of randomly stumbled upon the place.”

You waited for something more, but nothing came. 

“But what do cookies have to do with you going to this party?” you asked.

“Well, when Tara and I were togeth- when we worked together,” he overcorrected. “If one of us had a feeling about something but no proof, we’d bet the other a dozen cookies from Magdalini’s.” He gave a quiet laugh, “Since it’s all the way in New Hampshire and always sells out before noon, it’s a pain in the ass to get those damn cookies. You have to trek out to Concord early in the morning and wait in a long line and it’s- it’s a whole thing.” He shrugged, “So her telling me that she’d bet two dozen of those cookies on this party tonight means she’s sure. Cause if she’s not, she’s gotta drag her ass all the way out there.”

Bucky smiled as he buttoned his shirt, clearly awash in the memories of that bakery. And the woman he shared it with.  And suddenly, you hated those damn cookies. 

You hated the inside jokes and shared memories Bucky had with Tara. Hated that he was leaving you. Again. To be with her. Again. Hated that you were so goddamn jealous. 

“Just um… let me know if you need help with your tie,” you muttered before fleeing the scene.

You found solace in the quiet, empty living room, and leaned against the back of the couch. Over and over again, you forced yourself to take deep, calming breaths. This wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you told yourself. He had a job to do; and as unfortunate as it was, this was part of it. When the dust cleared, things would go back to normal. Tara would disappear once again and your relationship with Bucky would be returned to its former glory. That was the silver lining, the light at the end of the tunnel. Your heartrate slowed, your frustration evaporated, and you discovered a newfound hope.

Until there was another soft knock at the door.

Just as you turned to face the sound, the door opened just a sliver. 

“Hi,” Tara leaned her head in, an apologetic smile on her beautiful face. “Do you mind if I wait inside? Your neighbors are staring,” she chuckled.

Of course, your neighbors were staring; a runway model was loitering in their hallway.

And though you didn’t want her in the space you shared with Bucky, what choice did you have?

You gestured for her to enter,  “Sure.”

She stood just inside the door, her elegant ensemble completely out of place in your home. She tucked her designer clutch under her arm and gave your apartment a once over. 

“It’s so cozy in here,” she said without a drop of condescension. “I love that painting. Where did you get it?” She gestured to the framed canvas hanging on the opposite wall.

“Oh that’s- I painted it,” you told her, suddenly sheepish.

“You did? Wow. It’s beautiful. You’re really talented.”

“Thanks,” you forced a smile. 

Not only was she smart and beautiful and skilled- she was nice, too?

“You um, you look really nice,” you told her. “I like your dress.”

It was painfully awkward. You were certain Tara could feel the envy radiating from your every pore. But you had to make an effort. Had to make nice. She was Bucky’s coworker; and regardless of the punishing schedule she’d set for him, she hadn’t technically done anything wrong. That you knew of. 

But the way she lit up when Bucky walked out in his tux made you wonder. 

Maybe it was unfair, you thought, to condemn her for her reaction- anyone with sight would react the exact same way. Bucky was always attractive but seeing him all dressed up made your knees weak. The custom-fitted tux hugged him in all the right places and accentuated his physique. It took every ounce of your strength not to pounce on him right then and there. 

“Is this okay?” he asked, looking down at his ensemble. “I had a little trouble with the tie.”

“I can help with-”                         “Oh, here, let me-”

Both you and Tara took a step in his direction, arms outstretched, prepared to assist him. Simultaneously, you snapped your head in the other’s direction and locked eyes. Tara flashed you a smile that you categorized as ‘almost apologetic’ and with a sweeping gesture, conceded. 

The tension in the room settled atop the three of you, forcing everyone’s eyes down.

After a deep breath and a shake of your head, you took your rightful place in front of Bucky. With nimble fingers, you adjusted the fabric of his tie until it was perfect. He shot you a look, silently apologizing for the incident. 

You wanted to brush the whole thing off. To pretend that it didn’t bother you. But it did. 

Sure, Tara was nice. But why would she feel entitled to get so up close and personal with Bucky this way? And why would she feel comfortable doing so in front of you? In your home? She was his ex, his coworker. It made no sense for her to be the one to fix his tie, especially when you were right there. Of course, it was just a bow tie; Tara hadn’t volunteered to French kiss him or anything of the sort. But the way she jumped at the chance to enter his personal bubble rubbed you the wrong way.

Maybe, you feared, Bucky allowed her to get close to him at work. Maybe the two of them spent time cozied up in her office when they were supposed to be attending meetings. Maybe she’d gotten so used to being intimate with him that this kind of task had become second nature to her. And maybe she’d been so overwhelmed by the sight of her lover in his tuxedo that she’d forgotten she had an audience. 

Maybe he wasn’t staying at work all night, laboring over this job until the early morning hours. Maybe he was sleeping at her apartment, in her bed.

The possibility trapped your lungs in a vice, cutting off your air supply. Bile rose in the back of your throat; it took everything in you to force it down. By some miracle, you remained composed, and adjusted Bucky’s tie.

“There,” you said , “All done.”

Just as Bucky tried to express his gratitude, he stumbled to the side. Tara had yanked him by the hand and began hauling him toward the door. Bucky stumbled behind her for a few paces before locking eyes with you. He slipped his hand from her grasp and doubled back to place a kiss on your cheek. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “I-”

“I won’t have him home too late!” Tara called from the door with a laugh. “Thanks for sharing him with me!” 

Before you had the chance to blink, Bucky and Tara disappeared out the door and down the hall.

‘Sharing’ him? Another vicious bout of pain ripped through you. And without an audience, you were free so succumb. You doubled over, allowing the agony to take hold of you. The sharp, searing pain sliced its way from your gut to your throat, flaying you wide open. Only when it quieted to an angry throb were you able to stand upright and hobble to the couch.

After an hour or so, you forced yourself to stop thinking about them. About Bucky and Tara together. About the things that might be transpiring on the other side of town. It wasn’t healthy, wasn’t productive. The pain in your abdomen had finally dulled and you knew that if you continued to ruminate, it would return with a vengeance. 

And so, you wiped your tears and dragged your body off the couch. You took a long shower, did your skincare, and slipped into your most comfortable pajamas. All you had to do was delude yourself into believing that Bucky was out with Sam or working with Yelena. It was the perfect fix, albeit temporary.

After your shower you climbed into bed and dove into your favorite silly sitcom. The canned laughter and over the top storylines helped distract you, helped lift your shattered spirits. With one tap of your remote you skipped half a season- expertly avoiding a storyline about the main character cheating on his girlfriend- and resumed your rewatch in a happier spot.

Still, you picked and bit at what was left of your nails. Eyed the clock every few minutes. Checked your phone more than you would’ve liked. You couldn’t help it.

Just before eleven o’clock, you heard the front door open. 

“Buck?” you called, hoping it was only him.

“Yeah…” he said. He sounded different. “It’s me.”

His keys clinked against the wall as he hung them on the hook by the door, and you knew he’d be in the bedroom soon. Knew he’d have his tail between his legs. Knew you were in for a long night of discussions and apologies. You turned off the tv and waited, expecting his slumped shoulders to lean against the doorframe any second.

But he never appeared. 

Something- instinct, intuition- nudged you out of bed.

Something was wrong. 

You cautiously made your way out of the bedroom and into the living room as the pit in your stomach doubled- tripled- in size. 

You found Bucky still standing by the front door, motionless. His eyes were downcast; his hands were shoved into his pockets. The bowtie you’d so meticulously fixed for him was draped loosely around his neck. The first few buttons of his shirt were open.

“Hey…” you called. 

He barely looked up, and only for a split second. “Hi.”

The distance between you seemed much vaster than it was. He seemed to be miles away, adrift somewhere far and unfamiliar. No one moved, no one spoke. The tension in the air grew heavier by the second, nearly crushing you.

And after a while, you couldn’t take the strained silence.

“Um, how’d it go?” you asked. “Is everything okay?” 

Finally, Bucky dragged his gaze from the floor. The misery in his eyes sent a pang of anxiety ripping through your chest.

“Something h-” he gave a small shake of his head, cleared his throat. “Something happened. Between me and Tara.”

His words knocked you off balance. Your nails dug into the couch as you fought to remain upright. The unforgiving pain in your abdomen exploded once again. And a tidal wave of nausea swallowed you whole.

“It was part of our cover, it wasn’t- there wasn’t anything romantic about it,” he swore. The words tumbled out of his mouth in a panicked rush. “We weren’t supposed to be in Weller’s office- a security guard was coming and if they knew we’d taken the drive, Weller would’ve had us killed. So, Tara k-” he choked on the word. “She kissed me. She made it look like we were a couple who’d gotten, I don’t know, carried away or something. Like we were just looking for a private room to…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide. 

“But we didn’t- we didn’t do that!” he said, almost frantic. “It was just the kissing, nothing else. I swear.”

Finaly, he unrooted his feet and made his way toward you; he stopped just a foot from where you stood.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so- I didn’t know that was gonna happen,” he said. “I had no idea. She just did it without telling me. I didn’t want to- I didn’t want her to do that.”

His words settled into your body, creating fractures and fissures as they went. 

A storm of sympathy rained down on you as you stared at him. He was in utter agony, that was no secret. His hands shook, his face was flushed, his eyes brimmed with tears. He hadn’t wanted that kiss. Hadn’t known about it or expected it. And he was suffering. The love of your life was suffering. 

But the ghost of relationships past returned, screaming at you over and over. Gloating.

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

“I told you so!”

This was exactly what you’d feared. What you’d dreaded. And regardless of the circumstances, your old wounds were ripped open once again. The flashbacks hit you like a truck; the familiar words tore you to pieces. There was no surviving this; no making it out alive. It seemed that you would bleed out, that you’d be lifeless and cold in a matter of moments. 

But the first tear dripped down Bucky’s face, and brought you back to reality.

It took all your might, all your strength, but you forced your impending collapse and demise to wait. Everything would have to wait. 

“I’m s- I’m sorry that happened to you,” you said.

His brow furrowed, “What?”

You breathed through the throbbing, unrelenting ache in your chest, and repeated yourself. 

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Buck,” you said, matter-of-factly. “She shouldn’t have ki- she shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t want it. Didn’t consent to it. It’s not okay.”

He stared at you, wide eyed. Another tear spilled onto his cheek, but he didn’t seem to notice; he was far too shocked.

“Sweetheart, I don’t care about that- I’m fine,” he shrugged. “I’m worried about you. About hurting you.” He dug his teeth into the inside of his cheek, “About what this might- what it might do to us.”

The words came out quieter, weaker than you’d hoped. “Wasn’t your fault.” 

“Baby-”

“I’m sorry, can you-” you cleared your throat, “Can you just give me one second?” You gave him a strained smile and turned slowly back to the bedroom. Bucky faltered awkwardly in the living room as you fled.

You turned too sharply around the corner into your bedroom, knocking the point of your shoulder into the wall. But you barely noticed; it didn’t hurt. It should’ve; you’d run into this corner enough times to know that it should kill. But it didn’t. You barely even noticed it. Some tiny portion of your brain registered the hit and catalogued it for the future, for when you’d discover the bruise and wonder about its origin.

On unsteady feet, you flew into the en suite bathroom and shut the door behind you. You didn’t mean to slam it, but the panic creeping into your bones stole your sense of decorum. It turned you into a jittery, unstable version of yourself. The sound of the door banging into its frame made you jump. 

With the lock twisted into place, you leaned against the nearest wall and promptly fell apart.

The was the breakdown of the century, the monster you’d been fighting off with sword and shield. But fighting was useless. It came at you like a natural disaster. Unstoppable. Uncontrollable. Life-threatening. It was your own personal category 5 hurricane. Your uncontained wildfire. Your San Andreas fault.

The tears soaked your shirt in mere moments. Your breathing was ragged, labored. A burning sensation clawed at your throat, your chest, as your lungs begged for oxygen. The weakness in your knees forced you to slide down the wall, searching for the stability of the floor. 

But even as you fell to pieces, you forced yourself to stay quiet. To do your damnedest to keep Bucky from hearing. Because no matter what happened at that party, he was still the great love of your life. And you didn’t want to upset him. 

But it was too late. 

“Baby…” Bucky called from the bedroom, his voice jagged with worry. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Please, can we talk?”

The handle of the bathroom door jiggled as he tried it, but found it locked. He sighed. 

His metal knuckles knocked gently against the wood, “Sweetheart, please… open the door.”

You didn’t answer.

“Baby, I’m-” he choked on the panic. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing- there’s nothing going on with me and T-” he didn’t say her name. “I swear to god, I swear on my life. I swear on Steve’s. It’s not like that.”

The logical part of your brain knew he was telling the truth. Nothing about James Buchanan Barnes said ‘cheater’. He was a loyal, decent person who would rather die than hurt you. Never over the course of your relationship had you ever caught him so much as looking at another woman. 

But the tortured, traumatized part of your brain was too busy falling down a rabbit hole of flashbacks to listen to reason. All at once, it grew to be too much.

Once again, bile crawled its way up the back of your throat. And though you tried to resist, you didn’t have any fight left in you. Your mouth flooded with saliva, and you threw yourself to the floor in front of the toilet. Pain rocketed through your knees as your crashed against the cold tile.

And finally, after months of staving off the nausea, you let it win. You allowed yourself to be sick. To be weak.

All of the fear and worry and pain exited your body in an almost violent fashion. It had been building up for so long, slowly taking over every cell. And now, it had forced you to the ground. Forced you to your knees. Forced you to lean over the toilet and retch, over and over again.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky called, distressed. There was a heightened sense of alarm in his voice. A pleading desperation. “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?”

Answering wasn’t an option, as you were otherwise occupied. 

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? But I’ll be right back.”

‘See?’ you thought, ‘He does care.’

The thought only brought on another wave of sickness.

The force with which your body lurched forward would most likely leave you sore the next day, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything other than bringing air into your lungs. 

Bucky’s voice entered your consciousness every minute or so as he checked on you; he sounded like he might be sick himself. But you weren’t able to ask.

Finally, it was over. The contents of your stomach were long gone, and you’d expelled only bile for the past few minutes. But after a spell of dry heaving, the forceful retching came to an end. You allowed yourself to slump against the nearest wall with relief. A sharp burn ripped through your throat and nose. Your hands shook. Tears clung to your cheeks and lashes. But it was over.

Your head fell into your hands, and you forced yourself to take a few deep, even breaths, though they did little to calm you. Images of Bucky and Tara still pummeled you from every angle. You wondered if you’d find her red lipstick smudged up and down his neck. 

In all honesty, you didn’t mean to say it out loud. You didn’t mean for Bucky to hear you. But you’d lost control of yourself long ago, and the words slipped out before you had the chance to stop them. 

“I can’t do this again.” 

The fire scorching down your throat banished the haunting visions of Bucky and his lost love and dragged you back to reality.

No part of you wanted to face him after the dramatic show you’d put on. After he’d kissed another woman. After everything that could’ve gone wrong did. The anticipation conjured a dark, swirling pit to open in your stomach. Would he end things tonight, after witnessing your instability? Or would he wait till the morning? Would he immediately fly into Tara’s arms? Or would he wait a few days out of respect? 

The nausea returned, but you didn’t have anything left to expel. You dragged a few greedy breaths into your lungs and forced yourself to face the facts: the longer you waited- the longer you hid- the worse it would be. And so, you pulled yourself up off the floor and rinsed your mouth in the bathroom sink.

Bucky hovered closely to the bathroom door. He was so close, in fact, that he left you almost no room to exit. 

“Are you doing alright, sweetheart?” His eyes were red; his cheeks were stained with tear tracks. “I brought you a glass of water if you’re interested.” 

He reached for you tentatively, his hand shaking ever so slightly. 

There was a time when you never would’ve avoided his touch. Never would’ve imagined pulling away from his hand. But you did. Maybe you didn’t mean to, maybe it was a reflex. But you did it. You yanked your body out of his path and tucked your arms into your chest, as though protecting yourself from some great danger. 

More than anything, you wanted to flee the room, the apartment- maybe the state. But you knew there was no point in running. Instead, you took a few long strides across the room, putting some distance between you and Bucky. It felt safer here. More comfortable.

The look on Bucky’s face nearly made you sick again.  

“Sorry,” you said, flames scorching down your throat. “I-”

“No, hey- it’s okay, I get it.” He forced the saddest smile you’d ever seen. “Um, I’ll just- I’ll put this on your nightstand.” He set the glass of water down behind him and turned back to you with anguish carved into his face. 

“Baby…” he sighed. “I’m so-”

“You don’t have to apologize again,” you told him . “It’s-” 

A wave of dizziness crested over you, sending the world around you into chaos. Black, shiny spots shimmered on the edges of your vision. Desperately, you grabbed onto the corner of the nearby armchair in an attempt to steady yourself. Your nails dug into the upholstery as you breathed through your tremulous grip on the world.

Bucky took a small, cautious step in your direction. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m-” You listed to the side once again. “I’m gonna pass out.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “What?”

And then you were falling. Falling forward. Black clouds obscured your vision, your ears started ringing. A gust of air fanned your face as you quickly folded toward the floor. A pair of strong arms locked around you suddenly. One encircled your waist; the other, your chest. And then you were out.

Everything was still black and cloudy; the sounds came back first.

The words were fuzzy at first, lacking any real, definable structure. But you could tell it was Bucky saying them. Could tell by his tone, his gentle voice, that he was reassuring you. The garbled, shapeless words grew slowly clearer until you finally made them out. 

“I got you,” he said. “You’re okay, baby. I got you.”

A cool sensation glided across your cheek; it sent goosebumps crawling over your skin. It felt so familiar. Why did it feel so familiar? The cold, metal drifted across your skin again, and you recognized Bucky’s vibranium hand. 

“You’re alright, I’m here,” he told you. “I’m right here.”

Finally, you rediscovered the ability to open your eyes. It was harder than you remembered, more taxing. But you did it. And Bucky’s face was the first thing you saw- his beautiful, anxious face. He sat next to you on the bed, leaning over you with unparalleled worry. 

“Hey,” his brow creased with concern. “How are you feeling?”

It took a moment for you to formulate the words, but eventually, you managed an “I’m fine.”

And technically speaking, you were. You weren’t dizzy or nauseous anymore. You hadn’t been injured when you blacked out- Bucky didn’t allow that to happen. So, physically speaking, ‘fine’ was accurate. 

But the embarrassment burned your face; you were certain that your skin must be scorching to the touch. It was all just so dramatic. So over the top. The sobbing, the vomiting, the fainting… It was like something out of a soap opera. 

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was still thin, still brittle with concern. 

You gave a cautious nod, “Yeah. I swear.”

He relaxed the tiniest amount. But if you knew anything about him, you knew he’d remain hypervigilant for the rest of the night, just in case. Hell, he’d probably remain hypervigilant for at least a week, ready to save you if need be.

“Thanks for catching me, Buck.” 

“Yeah- of course,” a small smile crept across his face. “Always, baby.” 

He ghosted his thumb over your cheek again, “Is this- has this ever happened before?”  he asked, “Or is it something new?” 

He worried more than anyone you’d ever known. And always about you. You kicked yourself for thinking he would ever stray. For thinking that he didn’t care.

“It hasn’t happened in a long time, but I used to pass out a lot when I was younger. Whenever I was really-” You cut your sentence off at the knees. 

He eyed you, “Whenever you were really what?”

There was no sense in saying it. Bucky already felt guilty enough, adding to his shame wasn’t going to help. 

“When you were what?” he asked again, more insistent this time. Anxiety practically dripped from his words. 

You sighed. “Whenever I was really upset. Or extremely stressed.”

Bucky matched your sigh with one of his own. His was heavier, weighed down by his responsibility for your episode. He gently stroked your face once more, but pulled away before his thumb could sweep the entire length of your cheek bone. He tucked his hands safety at his sides.

“Sorry,” he said. It was almost imperceptible.

“No, I’m-” you began to try and sit upright.

“Okay, hey, let’s just take it slow, alright? I don’t think you should get up yet.”

But you were determined to sit up. If you continued to lie there, Bucky would continue to dote on you. To wring his hands. And it would only increase the evening’s embarrassing dramatics. 

Much to Bucky’s dismay, you didn’t listen to his cautionary words. You pushed yourself up to a seated position without difficulty and rested your back against the headboard. 

In a flash, Bucky was on his feet. He stood right against the bed, his hands anxiously hovering over you, poised to save you at a moment’s notice. If you began listing toward the edge of the bed, he’d catch you. Again.

But no such incident occurred. You were perfectly steady, perfectly safe. You accepted the glass of water he offered you for the second time and drained it in a matter of seconds. 

“Do you want some more?” he asked, already heading for the kitchen, “I’ll go get-”

“No, no, I’m okay,” you said. “I want you to stay here- I wanna talk to you.”

Bucky halted in the doorway, frozen. Dread bloomed in his eyes. He lost his grip on the glass in his hand and barely reacted quickly enough to stop it from shattering. 

“Oh. Okay. Yeah…” he said; his words has a wounded quality about them. 

He took a few slow steps toward the bed but stayed at a cautious distance. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightened. He sucked in a sharp breath and coiled his metal hand into a tight fist. He seemed to be waiting for something, expecting something. 

But after waiting only a few short moments, he spoke again.

“You don’t- you don’t actually have to say it, if that’s okay. I don’t think I could handle hearing the words,” a broken smile flashed across his face for a split second. “But I understand. I won’t beg you reconsider- I get it. And I’m sorry, for what it’s worth- if it’s worth anything.”

“What?”

He placed the empty glass on your nightstand and headed for the closet. 

“I’m just gonna grab a few things. Some clothes and stuff. And then I’ll-” he sighed, “And then I’ll get out of your hair.”

You shook your head, “What are you talking about, Buck? I just said I wanted us to talk-”

“I know, sweetheart.” Something in his words sounded like begging. Like pleading for mercy. “And I know I need to let you say your piece, but I don’t know if I can h-handle it. At least not right now. And I know that’s selfish of me. And I’m sorry. But I’m-”

He was practically falling apart at the seams. Parts of him seemed to be peeling away, stripping him down to his most raw, vulnerable self. His hands shook. His voice wavered. His breathing came in shallow, erratic bursts. His body was determined to self-destruct before you could deliver the final, deadly blow. 

You jumped out of bed on unsteady feet, your arms outstretched toward him. If you could reach his side and anchor him to the earth quickly enough, maybe you could stave off the panic attack that loomed on his horizon. 

He, of course, protested. He tried to say something, something cautioning you against getting up in such a hurry. Against running across the room. But his voice barely carried any weight. 

“Hey, it’s okay. We’re okay.” Your hands cradled his face, “Breathe, baby. I don’t want you to leave. I want you here.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands found your waist. And he dragged deep, even breaths into his lungs. He was so focused, so concentrated on staying above water that you weren’t sure he heard your whispered reassurances. But you voiced them anyway. Just in case he could hear you. In case your words helped him somehow.

 It was a long time before he came back to you. But you waited patiently for him. As you always did. 

When he finally opened his eyes, he looked you over slowly, drinking you in as though seeing you for the first time. The panic had dissipated from his expression, leaving tentative relief in its wake. It seemed that he was just grateful you were still there. Grateful that you hadn’t cut your losses and left him in the dust.  

Finally, he spoke. It was a genuine question. No levity. No humor. 

“You still love me?”

It crushed you.

“Of course- of course, I do, Buck.” Your hands slipped from his cheeks, down his chest, and wound around his back. He pulled you tighter, crushing you against his body. 

“Even after-”

“Yes,” you said against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. About tonight- about all of it.” He smoothed his hand up and down your back in an endless loop. “I know this hasn’t been easy on you. I know I hurt you. And it’s just so- I’m done working with her. I promise.”

This conversation felt a bit too familiar. Hadn’t this happened before? Hadn’t he already offered to quit? And hadn’t you stopped him? It seemed that you were trapped in a timeloop of sorts, forced to endlessly relive this version of reality. You were about to, once again, stop him from quitting, but he spoke before you had the chance. 

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I can’t do this anymore. I can feel-” he cleared his throat, forcing the emotion down. “I can feel you slipping away. And I can’t keep putting what we have at risk-”

“Buck,” you sighed, “I trust you. Tonight wasn’t your fault. And if you need to keep working with-”

“No.”

And that was it on the subject. He wasn’t open to any arguments or rebuttals. 

“I’m not losing you over this,” he insisted. “I know you want to be supportive, but nothing is worth losing you.”

It was quiet- inaudible, really.  But you mustered up a “thank you” that only someone with enhanced senses could’ve heard.

The relief brought tears to your eyes. Never before had anyone actually chosen you like this. Never before had anyone dropped everything for you because they wanted to. It was a new feeling for you, and you wondered how you’d survived this long without it.

But the relief only lasted so long. 

“What about Hydra? If they’re getting stronger, if they’re coming back, shouldn’t you-”

Bucky shook his head, “The team can take care of it without me. I’ve given them everything I can; they know everything I know. And they have the drive now.” He shrugged, “They don’t need me anymore.”

The two of you remained locked in a tight embrace. A comfortable silence settled around your bodies. And for the first time in months, the suspicious voice in your head was quiet. There were no doubts, no fears. Only comfort. Finally, comfort.

“I’m sorry I reacted like that.” You unearthed your face from Bucky’s chest and did your best to look up at him. “The crying and the vomiting and the passing out, it’s…” you rolled your eyes and let out a huff, “it was a lot.”

He tightened his grip around you. 

“No, don’t be sorry. I’ve been- I’ve kind of been torturing you for months. I put you in such a… I put you in a terrible position- the worst position. And I wasn’t even there for you. I kept hurting you and leaving you and- and then tonight with the…” he shook his head. “I can’t imagine what that felt like for you.”

“But I-” You struggled against his inhuman strength until he begrudgingly loosened his grip and allowed you enough room to really look at him- though he refused to let go completely. “I made this all about me,” you said, disgusted. “She-” you had to force yourself to say the words; they tasted like vinegar. “She kissed you against your will. I know what that’s like, it’s not fun. And I made it about me- it was selfish.”

“Sweetheart-”

“What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Your words were steadfast. Unflinching. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve been supportive. I should’ve-”

He took your face in his hands, “It’s all okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out so defeated, so bathed in shame. “And I’m sorry I ever thought- I’m sorry I ever even considered that you might cheat. I know you’re not the type- of course, you’re not the type.”

“It’s okay. The late nights and the phone calls and all the-”

“It’s not just that,” you sighed, “I mean, that stuff was definitely part of it. But this whole thing just felt so…” 

For a split second, you allowed your eyes to close. The memories of betrayal and infidelity clawed at you, hissing and snarling as they tore open a pit in your stomach. You gave a slight shake of your head and opened your eyes, willing the past to dissipate. 

“It felt so familiar- too familiar. Like I’ve been here before.”

Bucky’s eyes widened a bit as he put the pieces together. He didn’t know much about your past relationships, just as you intended. He knew only that your exes hadn’t treated you all that well. You never went into great detail about how or why things ended, and Bucky didn’t pry. But a knowing look bloomed across his face as he allowed your words to settle over him. 

“You’ve been cheated on,” he said. 

You nodded, “Three times.”

A sharp gasp filled Bucky’s lungs; disgust twisted his features into a horrified mask. “Three times?”

Again, you nodded. 

“In a row. We were- I was really serious about each of them. We lived together. Talked about building a future together. And then… yeah.”

Bucky was too shocked to move, to blink. 

And suddenly, his disturbed stare was too much. His hands were too big and warm against your skin. His grasp was too tight. You freed yourself from his embrace and put some distance between his body and yours. The air around him was just so heavy, so hot. A similar heat scorched your cheeks as the embarrassment of your admission caught up to you; you dragged deep breaths of cool, crisp air into your lungs. 

Bucky stayed right where you left him; you weren’t sure if it was out of respect or utter shock.

“Is that…” He paused, probably wondering if he should even ask. You nodded, assuring him that it was okay. “That’s why I heard you say, ‘I can’t do this again’?”

A fresh wave of heat struck your cheeks, and you gave a reluctant nod. 

“Yeah.” You rolled your eyes, “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic about it.”

“You weren’t-”

“My instincts have just been screaming at me for months, you know? And I’ve been trying really hard not to listen to them and then tonight happened and- and it was like a chorus of thousands of people screaming ‘I told you so!’” You gave a shake of your head, “It was like all the old wounds were ripped open and I was bleeding out again and it was no one’s fault but mine for not learning from my past mistakes.”

Bucky nodded.

“But it’s- I mean, obviously, this situation is different, cause you didn’t actually do anything wrong. It was just, I don’t know, muscle memory.”

“Makes sense. You’ve been through a lot. Three times is…” He stared at you with heartbreak in his eyes. “Being cheated on isn’t your fault, sweetheart. You said ‘past mistakes’ like you’re to blame, but you’re not. You know that, right?”

Your shrug was cold, detached.

Bucky took a step toward you, “Baby, it’s-”

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” you said. A cynical smile spread across your face, “Those guys all cheated on me with an ex.” 

Bucky’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Yeah,” you leaned against the nearest wall, crossing your arms over your chest. Suddenly, you felt too exposed. “I know how it sounds, but it’s true. It was- it’s why I was losing my mind the whole time you and Tara were working together. I’m not this possessive, jealous person. I just- I thought the pattern was starting again.”

Bucky made a beeline toward you. He cautiously extended a hand in your direction and rested it against your cheek with a feather-light touch. There was something in his eyes, something sad and compassionate and concerned. The most genuine, heartfelt pity. 

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” He wrapped his arms gently around you, “I’m so sorry. No one should have to go through that. And I never would’ve taken this job- I never would’ve worked with her. I had no idea.”

“It’s not your fault. I didn’t want you to know.”

Bucky released you from his arms and took a step back, meeting your eyeline. “Why not?”

For a few seconds, you allowed your head to dip. Your eyes closed. Your jaw tensed. Speaking to Bucky openly and honestly wasn’t hard. He was the last person to judge or mock; he always listened with and open mind and open heart. But some things were hard to admit, even to him. He deserved the truth, though. Didn’t he? He deserved to know why you felt this way. Why you’d grown nervous at the first mention of Tara all those months ago.

“Because it’s embarrassing. Because I feel like…” you raised your head but deftly avoided eye contact. “I feel like I have this weird, very specific curse, or something. Like there’s something about me that pushes people back into the arms of their ex. Like something about being with me is so…” disgust colored your voice, “so awful that- that it kind of gives people a wakeup call, or something. And it helps them realize that the person they left behind is way, way better than anything I could ever offer them.”

He gave you the saddest smile you’d ever seen, “Sweetheart, that’s not true-”

 “Maybe if it had only happened once. Or even twice. But what’s that thing they say, ‘once is random, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern’?” The half-hearted shrug you threw his way was almost too pathetic. “When this kind of things happens to you three times- in a row- it makes you wonder if you’re the problem.”

A heavy silence filled the room. Bucky was still, his eyes trained on you. You fidgeted under his gaze, picking at the last remnants of one of your nails. The voice inside your head wailed. It wondered why Bucky wasn’t refuting your argument. Why he was completely silent. It feared that he agreed with you. That he’d taken your words to heart and finally seen the light, finally realized that there really was something wrong with you. That Tara was the better choice. That he was to be number four.

The urge to slap yourself across the face surged through you. There you were, doubting him once again. Projecting your problems onto him. Suspecting him of things he had never done- would never do. It took all of your strength, but you wrangled those skeptical, distrusting thoughts and shoved them into a dark corner of your mind. 

“But um, I know that this is my issue, not yours,” you said. “It’s something I need to work on. Cause it’s not fair of me to- I shouldn’t have put all of my shit on you. I know you’d never-”

“I would never,” Bucky insisted. He closed the space between you and cradled your face gently in his big hands. “I would never do that to you. You’re the only person I will ever want.”

You gave a slight nod. There was something shameful in your words. “I know- I know that. But the logical part of my brain was, I don’t know, hijacked. Or something. All I could think about was…” you sighed, “All I could think about was when you how going to tell me. I wondered if you’d sit me down and say it to my face- or if you’d tell me at all. I thought maybe I’d come home from work one day and all your stuff would be gone.”

His hands left your face. But before you could mourn their absence, his arms were wrapped securely, protectively around your waist. It seemed as though he was trying to save you from the pain of your past, to shield you from the ghosts. It was the same protection you offered him when the nightmares came calling, when the weight of his Hydra days grew too heavy to carry alone.

He let out a contented sigh as your arms wound around his neck and pulled you closer until you were certain that your body and his would meld into one. His heart beat against your chest, his breath ghosted across your skin. And for a long moment, you forgot the fear and agony that had plagued you these last few months. For a long moment, it was perfect.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, “Ever.”

“I know,” your arms tightened around his neck. “I’m sorry for being so suspicious. And so upset. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I-”

Just then, he pulled away, just enough that his eyes could meet yours.

“I know you trust me. But you had plenty reason to be upset. And suspicious.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, “You’ve been through a lot. It’s not your fault- your instincts were trying to protect you.”

“But-”

“No. No ‘buts’. Okay?” He was steadfast, almost stern. “You thought you recognized a pattern from your past, and you were scared. But you were just doing your best with the information you had. And that’s enough. You reacted in a way that makes sense, given the context. You don’t have to apologize or browbeat yourself for it. Okay?”

He eyed you for a long while until you gave him an unenthusiastic ‘okay’.

“And you aren’t cursed, by the way,” he asserted. “There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing about you that is going to send me running back to Tara or any of my other exes. You are…” His intense expression softened, melting into the purest form of adoration. “Everything to me. I could never want anyone more than I want you. Everything that I’ve been through- I would do it again. All of it. Because it led me to you-”

A quiet laugh left your chest.

“I’m dead serious,” he said, his expression grave. “I’d go back and do all of it again-  I wouldn’t change a single thing. If it brought me to you, I’d do it in heartbeat.”

There was no more humor in your expression, no more laughter bubbling on your surface, because he meant it. He really would repeat every heinous, awful thing that had ever happened to him- just to get back to you. Without a word, your tucked yourself against Bucky’s chest once again, and allowed his arms to crush you into his body. 

He was the good, trustworthy, loving man you always knew him to be. He was gracious. Understanding. Compassionate. Better than you ever dreamed. Better than you thought you deserved. He wasn’t a rerun of your past. No, he was a fresh, blank page. A clean slate. A brand-new story. For the first time, you didn’t have to worry about soul-crushing plot twists. You didn’t have to fear that the story might end prematurely, or that the next page might bring heartbreak. 

If anyone knew how to ruin something good, it was you.

All that you had to do was get inside and make friends with some of the people in the Avengers tower. But the mighty Avengers were a group of saps, and that made your plans so much harder to carry out.

They practically melted for you.

Against your better judgment, you let yourself into their lives. Everyone there loved you, and you let them think you did too. Even though deep down a part of you wanted to let it be real, you remind yourself of what they lacked, and what you'd lost in the face of these so-called “heroes." 

At first, Steve was the one who felt the most for you. He took pity and empathized with you like a kindhearted moron, thinking he'd made a grave discovery and recognized the potential you posed for the team. As if you didn't plan for that to happen all along and planted that seed in his mind the moment he met you.

You were trained for this kind of manipulation, and you weren't going to feel bad for it, not when you had something to achieve and no one to fall back on.

With nothing to lose, what's a little heartbreak?

You told them of your parents' passing when you were young, leaving you with no family other than the immediate ones who were already dead. What you didn't tell them was how they were killed, just brushing it off as something that happened too young for you to remember. Though you knew it all too well, and you were there for a reason. 

You let Steve take credit for your idea of becoming an Avenger, and they all fell perfectly for your little plan. 

It was Steve who introduced you to Tony—the man you were there to kill. 

You put on a fake smile and tucked your hands behind you, keeping yourself from inching forward and carrying out your mission. You'd spent so many years of your life having Tony's image drilled into your mind as the villain who was posing himself as a hero, telling yourself that he was utterly deserving of the smear campaign you originally planned to put him through. That was before you got close to the team. Before you landed on the idea of killing him, because you were finally close enough. The proximity that joining the team allowed you, it tempted you regularly, but you had to wait for the right moment. Pretending like you didn't hate Tony's guts was probably the hardest part. 

You infiltrated their trust and broke into their space. You took root inside their lives from the inside, and they welcomed you in with open arms. Like the perfect orchestration of a gorgeous tune, you drew the trap and they all fell inside, letting the kindness you showed them translate into trust and love. But you? You played the greatest trick on yourself. 

The grandest part of the scheme was the relationships you formed and the love you pretended to have for too long. Until that became real, because the truth was, you were never faking.

Bruce offered up his friendship and Clint his home like you were one of their own. Far too trusting for people who were meant to be protectors and careful assessors of danger. It was hard to pretend like the warmth you felt wasn't real when Clint baked cookies with his family and brought you some, or when Natasha would peel an orange and hand you half quietly. Natasha made it infinitely harder to hate her when she'd train with you endlessly as though she wanted to prepare you for when she wouldn't be around. She became your closest thing to a best friend you were sure you ever had— until she died.

They were all family that you loved despite it all. You let yourself believe that maybe you could have some sense of normalcy, that you could let your guard down even a little bit, and you let too many people in. 

Some people more than most— like Bucky. 

You didn't plan on falling for Bucky; you didn't even want to pretend like you loved him until you really did. But you had your own plans, your own mission, and your own vengeance to achieve, so stepping on some toes and hurting some feelings didn't mean shit to you. Even if it was the man that you didn't mean to fall for, who was carrying the brunt of the bargain. 

Bucky made it so hard to ignore him, with his soft smiles and his hand on your hip when you'd spar. His warm palm on your shoulder when you were out gazing on the balcony too long, and calling you to come inside for a cup of tea that he knew you would like. When your guard would fall, just for him, and he wouldn't push you for information, sitting in your silence with you. Because Bucky knew what it was like to get lost in your thoughts, and your mind is a war in itself.

Bucky watched you and knew you had your demons; he just hoped that in time you'd tell him about them. Slowly, you stopped calling him Barnes. You didn't know it yet, but you helped him take back his name, calling him James when others would call him Bucky.

Just being around him made you feel more human—more alive.

And damn him for making you care.

You hated how he made your heart flutter around him and your stomach drop when you'd worry for him. You shoved him into a wall once after he returned from mission, when he wouldn't answer you because he was occupied with disarming someone. One gruelling hour of him not responding over the comms on a mission you took as partners.

He came back to the jet with a few scratches on his face, but nothing major, and you still felt like you couldn't breathe at the thought of him not coming back. His chest heaved as you put a finger in his face, and his gaze seemed to soften in recognition that you were afraid, that you were scared of losing him.

It didn't take long for you to push him again and for him to catch your wrists, pulling you in, flush against him.

That was the first time he kissed you, swallowing your whimpered protest when you’d fisted his shirt and drawn him further into you. Desperately, you couldn’t even pretend like you didn’t want him once you’d touched. The two of you moved in unison toward the jet's couch as he walked you backwards, stripping you from your clothes without breaking the kiss. He lay you down like a careful art, taking his time while you calmed from the bottled-up emotions you refused to express out loud.

He loved you gently and softened the rough ends of his exterior so you could let yourself sit in the feelings that he also struggled to outwardly express. When you finally let him in and stopped pushing him away, he didn't just sleep with you, but he made love to someone for the first time since Hydra took him away. Truthfully, it was the first time he ever loved someone so deeply, and it scared him, but he knew it scared you too, so he let it consume him whole— for both of you. He did it again, and again, and he would've kept doing it if you'd let him. 

Bucky took you apart and put you back together as though you were his favourite mystery, caressing you like a Goddess on Earth.

Every touch felt like a blessing and in his mind leaving any part of you untouched was a sin.

Leaving bites over the scars on your skin, buried under layers of clothes that no one else had touched this delicately. You were completely and undeniably his. Neither of you ever told anyone about it, and how he held you after missions went wrong or how you sat with him when his nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep. Bucky never pushed you for anything more. He was afraid of you losing interest, so he tried to build your relationship silently.

When you wouldn't come out of your room for dinner, he'd bring it to you, cooking things he knew were your comfort food. He'd knock silently and linger there just to make sure you really did eat it. He made quiet dinners for just the two of you, leaving specks of food on his shirt or his brow as evidence of his labour.

After going to the bar with the team one night, and you drank too much, and he offered to take you home. You, however, were entirely wasted and couldn’t give proper directions.

Bucky took you to an apartment that no one else knew he had and let you sleep it off there. Except you cried like a wounded, inconsolable child, and he felt the heaviness of your sorrow like it was resting on his chest. He gave you a key to keep going there the next day, and you never gave it back. 

Part of you knows you'll always be his, even after you have to break his heart. He would unwrap you over and over again like a gift he was grateful to receive. He held you after it all, and you knew it wouldn't be the last time because of how safe you'd felt in his embrace. And Bucky knew from the moment Steve introduced you that he wouldn't be able to let you go. That you were and are the reason he'd wake up in the morning despite his nightmares and demons. You made it all worthwhile for him.

You fell hard for him, head over heels and disgustingly in love. But Bucky fell so much harder, unravelling for you after years of conditioning and trauma that ran deep. You chipped away at his walls by letting him love you and letting yourself love him back.

It wasn't because of your mission that you did it. You truly did care for him and you wanted to tend to his wounds that cut through his mind like a plague. It all happened so fast that you couldn't stop it. You couldn't help the way you loved him so deeply that you wanted any part of him you could have, even if it was for a little while. Even if the love was built on lies and deceit.

You knew that once he found out, nothing would be the same, and the two of you would never be able to go back. So you settled for now, stealing kisses between missions and meeting him in his bedroom when everyone else fell asleep. He settled for holding your hand under the briefing table and bringing you snacks that he knew you loved, even when you'd push him away.

Despite your reluctance, he wanted you the same way you wanted him. He would take any bits you offered him because, in his mind, he wasn't worthy of anything else — and you helped him break that barrier of self-deprication by loving his scars like your own. 

It was Bucky Barnes who had to stop you when you cornered Tony in the lab. It was Bucky who caught you in the grand act of your plan and had to witness everything about your relationship crash and burn in front of him. You didn't want to do it like this, but you had no choice now. 

After the annual Gala that Tony threw in honour of his father, Howard Stark, the sack of shit who mindlessly supplied weapons to the most immoral people across the country, and even larger weapons of destruction overseas. It didn't fucking matter that Tony didn't do it himself, but he was aware, and that was more than enough. Tony worked with his father, did demonstrations of his destructive weapons, and had years of experience helping with the supplies before he was abducted.

It took seeing the destruction, feeling the pain that had been felt for decades through his own suffering, for him to understand the gravity of the shit he was part of. The fact that he couldn't come to that conclusion without all of that unnecessary suffering that made your blood boil.

After he praised his father and Stark Industries' history at the Gala, you couldn't take it anymore. 

You were getting too emotional. 

So you followed him into the lab, using your stealth training to sneak in behind him, just before the doors would have locked. Using the training the team had helped teach you against him, you made your move. Your hand on your holster, you silently pulled it out and pointed it towards the back of his head, mind full of doubt and unsteady conviction that told you this was what you had to do. 

His voice startled you as he was still facing the computers, "You've finally come to finish the job, huh?" 

You scoff, gripping your gun a little tighter, "You knew that I was going to do this, and still you let me join."

Tony turns to face you, his hand still holding his glass of whiskey he'd been coddling all night. You were watching him while everyone else conversed— while Steve asked if you were alright, and Bucky tried meeting your gaze. This anger was bright and intense, and it was all his fault. Maybe if he weren't alive, it might calm your thoughts— 

"Well, it's taken you what? Over a year to muster up the courage to kill me. You really think I don't do intensive background checks, sweetheart? Go on then, take your shot." He brought his glass to his lips and drank, testing you. "But you know this is quite ironic, right?" 

Tony was always skilled at this type of thing, riling people up and seeking a reaction. 

Shoving the magazine into place fully, your finger danced over the trigger, "Don't tempt me, Stark. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time."

He steps closer to you, "then why the hell didn't you? You could have, hell, you probably should have done it before you got the rest of the team attached to you."

You didn't let your expression fall, remaining as stoic as you could as you spoke, "I'm only here for you." 

Despite your differences and wanting him dead, you'd grown fond of Tony.

Tony says your name, the sound slightly slurred from drinking too much all night, which you were banking on. A hint of tenderness behind his voice, as though speaking to an old friend. Having him not entirely lucid would've made this easier, but alas, Tony was always even more talkative than usual when he was drunk.

"I know what Stark Industries did to your family and what they," he pauses to correct himself, "what we took. I know I'm not perfect, but you have to acknowledge that what you've done is evil just as the rest." Though his words felt harsh, he spoke as though he wanted you to know it was okay. That he understood. "Just tell me, is revenge what you truly want?"

You didn't trust your voice, so instead you nodded. He continues with the soft scoff, "Did you ever even really care?"

Your breath hitched as the words sank in. You did care, you cared so deeply that it hurt. Still, you let your hurt evolve and eventually involve the people you'd gotten to love. The people you were supposed to hate. But that didn't matter now; you knew you were too far gone. The only thing that should have been on your mind was killing the man in front of you for the crimes of his company. The crimes of his father and his father's father, even if you knew your judgment was bordering on playing God. 

Taking on the role of judge, jury, and executioner, because someone had to, right? If you had to be somebody's villain, then fine, as long as you finally felt like you'd done something. Done anything to ease the pain of the younger version of yourself that lost so much and vowed to do something about it. You shift the weight of the gun in your hand and look back up into Tony's eyes, unrelenting on you. 

You're about to answer him when the door slides open, shifting your focus from Tony and taking in the two men storming in. Bucky and Steve emerged in the midst of a conversation as they took in the scene before them and froze. Bucky's eyes immediately fell on you — gun in your hand, cocked and pointed at Tony. It was unmistakable that you had been playing them, but Bucky didn't want to believe it, not even when Steve put a hand to his shoulder and tried to keep him from moving closer to you. 

He says your name, his voice careful and soft, "What are you doing?" 

You take a shaky breath, trying not to meet his gaze and feigning unamusement, "What does it look like, Barnes?"

The sharpness of your tone made his brows knit into a pained expression. The use of his last name and not calling him James, like you usually would, punched him in the gut. You weren't here to coddle him or anyone else, including yourself. He says your name like he's pleading for you, and you shut your eyes, masking your emotions and swiftly swiping a forming tear away. 

"Don't do this," his voice a pleading whisper as he inches closer to you, but you don't let him.

You ignore him and kick Tony in the back of the knee, knocking him over. You turn to face Bucky, just as he's about to touch you.

The gun turns to him, and he inhales sharply, his resolve crumbling, "baby."

"Don't," you try to hide the shakiness in your voice as Steve also inches closer, "don't call me that and just stay right fucking there. I'm not here for either of you, just Tony."

Bucky's face drops further, a bitterness forming in his mouth as he repeats your harsh words back, "you were never here for me," repeating after you like each word was ripping his throat raw as he said it, "you're here for Stark."

Reluctantly, you nod. This was your mission, this was the vengeance you needed since you were a child, and you'd gone and made it a hell of a lot harder. He nods back, the gears in his mind turning, and his breathing uneven. You knew his tells when he was nervous or in pain, or on the verge of an anxiety attack. This was the ladder, and you were fighting the urge to run to him and explain yourself, but there was no time. There was no point now. 

You bite back the words; I love you, James. I'm so sorry. But you never say it. 

You fire a single round next to where Steve was, making him flinch. Warning him to stop inching closer when he thought you were distracted. Tony looks up to Steve, and they both look at each other like they were asking the other what to do. But Bucky, his gaze never falters from yours. He watches you like he knew this would be the last time, and you swore you could hear his heart breaking. You lower your gaze from his. 

"Both of you need to leave," taking cautious steps away from them and pointing the gun back at Tony. 

"Like hell we are," Steve says as Buckys voice fails to find him. 

Tony looks up at them, "Yeah, guys, listen to the lady. Save yourselves and leave. This is my fight. I made my bed, didn't I, sweetheart?" 

"Shut up, Stark, we aren't leaving." Steve stands, and this time you let him. He says your name like he's reprimanding you, "You need to think about what you're doing, think about the team."

You say nothing, and Steve's eyes catch Buckys briefly. The frustration inside you boils over when Steve speaks again, "Think of how you're hurting Bucky." 

"This isn't about him or us." The sharpness is heavily evident in your tone. 

Bucky's voice seems to find him as your gaze meets accidentally his, his eyes glazed over like he was on the verge of tears, "Isn't it always about us?" 

You don't respond, you can't. 

His big, beautiful, blue eyes were blown out despite how little you seemed to care in this moment for his feelings, or how little you chose to show.

He sees your internal turmoil and inches closer, "Please, I love you. Don't do this."

You bite your lip to stop it from quivering. He hadn't ever admitted his feelings so raw to you, just shown it in a lack of the words he couldn't find just yet. You ignore the loud pattering of your heart as you press the barrel of the gun to his chest, and he just lets you, leaning into it and wrapping his hand around yours— not believing that you'd really shoot him. 

You knew that after this, after killing Tony, Bucky would be far from loving you for what you had done. You weren't sure if you could even blame him for it. If you were in his shoes, you'd assume the same, that you had used him; his time, empathy, and courage to love again. If you were him, you'd hate yourself for making him love like this, and for what? Revenge? Peace of mind? 

You made him feel utterly used all over again, even after he had exposed all his scars to you and told you about his past. You listened with open arms and welcomed him into your embrace, kissing his hands, both metal and flesh, and whispering to him that he was worthy. Breaking his walls down just to make him build them up even higher. 

This is why you weren't supposed to let yourself get too close and too attached to the life you could've had with him and not the one for your own preservation. Vengeance had consumed you whole since the night your parents had died from a senseless attack carrying weapons etched with an Stark Industries on the barrel. How easily accessible these weapons became for people in your neighbourhood to find and purchase, and for worse individuals to buy in mass. All because the Stark family name had to be the top weapons manufacturer, no matter the cost and no matter the lives lost. 

You thought of the bloodshed, of the killings and the destruction that they caused and your blood boiled again. All because Stark Industries didn't do background checks on who they sold their weapons to. Bloomed bright with intentful retribution, you had convinced yourself; this was the only way. 

You let him lean in close, one last time. The familiar scent of him filled your lungs as he gazed into your eyes as though he were begging for you to snap out of it. But you were more yourself now than you had ever been, and you swallowed down the lump in your throat, inching a little closer to him.

"Then you're an idiot for loving me." You pulled your head back just enough to slam into his forehead and send him staggering a few feet backward, and he let your hand go. Before you knew it, he was focused on you again, whispering your name like a call to prayer.

Your hand moved too quickly for him to catch you, and you shot at Tony, striking him between the shoulder blades. Before Tony even falls over and grunts in pain, and Bucky grabs you. He knocks the gun from your hand and topples you over to the ground. 

"Get off of me!" you thrash but he doesn't relent.

He hovers over you, his legs on either side of your body. He thinks he's successfully disarmed you, leaning over and giving you an emphatic look despite how harsh your words and tone was. Despite how you had just shot Tony right in front of him, proving your lack of loyalty to the team.

Desperately clinging onto the hope that you still love him, or that the love was ever real. You buck your hips up high, trying to get him off of you, but he was far heavier than you. You're thrashing beneath him, and he holds your left arm with his flesh one, the metal one caressing your face—an action you helped him learn to do to prove every part of him was worthy to you. 

Steve was holding Tony's wound tight to keep him from bleeding out, but the crimson was spreading fast. The blood is pooling and reaching where you and Bucky were.

Bucky's eyes were glazed over and teary, threatening to fall down his face. The same face that you had become so enamoured with. 

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

But you do the one thing you knew would hurt him most. You reach up with your free hand, grazing over his metal arm like you used to, soft and tender with your gaze still on his, a reminder of your intimacy before ruining the trust between you. 

"But I have to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

He leans back off of you, his gaze falling to the vibranium arm before up to your face. Shocked and pained. His expression was beyond broken now, and you wanted so badly to take it back just as you did it, but this was how you made him hate you. A tear slips from his face and lands on your cheek as he stares down at you, never blinking, just staring in utter disbelief. 

Your heart aches and hate yourself for what you were doing, but you seize the opportunity while he is distracted. Shoving Bucky off of you fully, and he doesn't do anything to stop you, his eyes remaining on where you were just lying beneath him. The warmth of your cheek lingering under his phantom arm as he looks to it. 

You don't look back, you don't grab your gun off the ground, and you don't wish to meet anyone's gaze—especially not Buckys. 

You ignore whatever Steve was shouting to Bucky and stride your legs forward. Panting hard, you push yourself toward the glass windows, throwing a chair and causing it to shatter. You were prepared to jump when a bullet flies and grazes you in the side, coaxing a pained shriek from you as your legs work mindlessly, pumping and continuing to push you forward. Adrenaline fuels you as you glance briefly over your shoulder, just in time to see Bucky, with your gun in his hand and his expression utterly shattered like you'd never seen. 

This couldn't be love, because love shouldn't hurt like this. Love shouldn't bleed like this. 

He has to hate you now.

You turn back and leap through the broken glass, Buckys face the last thing on your mind as you descend from the tower. When Bucky ran to look over the edge of the shattered window, looking to where you had landed, you were already gone. The only thing you left behind was the pool of blood Tony was rasping in and a trail of yours, from the wound Bucky had given you.

New York quickly became the place you hated most, so you left the busy streets behind. 

The following weeks left you on a manhunt, from the Avengers, law enforcement, and Bucky Barnes. 

For the next several months, you avoided all places they frequented. After betraying all your friends, you didn't feel the most enthusiastic to return to any place they might be or risk incarceration. Especially not after attempting to kill Tony and finding out through news channels that he had died in a way that you hated— because it was honourable. He did the one thing you never thought he could, and was a hero in the very end. 

This sent you into a spiral that felt endless, and you became a mess of yourself. You started to get sloppy and started seeking old comforts. Natasha's voice would play in your head, nagging you to watch your six and mind the corners of buildings when you crossed the street. She would be the voice of reason in your head when you reached for the phone with no SIM card in your bedroom drawer and contemplated using it to call Bucky. 

She would play in your mind when you went to the deli with the sandwiches Bucky loved and bought his order just to imagine how it would feel to be him. How would it feel to be defiled by the woman you loved? To relearn love just to be used to get to someone else?

You would ruin your own appetite often, and you weren't sure if it was cause of your spiralling thoughts or the fact that you were hallucinating the voice of your dead best friend. 

One winter night, you wore an old jacket that still smelled faintly like Bucky, missing his touch more than usual. Your hands shoved into your pockets, and the jacket zipped up high, covering your nose. You felt the cold metal of something in your pocket. With peaked interest, you pulled your hand out and stared at the key in your hand, the one to the apartment Bucky had. The one he hardly went to. In your mind, it felt like a sign to go there, to feel the air that you both once breathed together in and memorize the smells. You couldn't help it; your legs carried you there without considering the consequences. 

Carefully, you unlocked the door with a swallow creak that echoed in the dark and nearly empty space. Bucky was never one for much decoration, so the apartment only had the necessary furniture and appliances and throw pillows you lent him that never went back home with you. Kicking your shoes off, you walked over to the kitchen, drawn by the hum of the refrigerator. Once you walked close enough, you froze. The fridge was open, the light still on.

Fuck, someone was here. 

Your name is said so softly, so gently, spoken as though afraid it might scare you away. Like he wasn't sure if it was you or a dream. You already knew who it was without even seeing his face.

You turn slowly to meet his eyes—evaluating. 

"James," you breathe, hands clenched inside your jacket pockets. 

The look on his face made you feel all the more worse. His eyes were sunken in like he hadn't slept, red and rimmed. In his hand was a case file with your name on it. 

"I thought you were really gone," the file drops to the floor as he reaches for your face, "I thought you were dead." 

Not expecting him to touch you, you take his hand off of you, "I shouldn't have come here," you sputtered, moving out of the kitchen. 

Bucky followed you out of the room, hot on your tail. You could feel the sharp daggers of his gaze prickling at your back.

He calls out after you, "Hey," you keep walking, ignoring him. he says your name, footsteps heavy after you, "I am talking to you, dammit!" 

Still, you pretended not to feel his presence behind you, walking fast through the hallway. But he wouldn't let you get away from this conversation, not again, and he grabs you by your arm, pulling roughly. "Stop ignoring me," he spat out, glaring at you, "quit shutting me out, you left for months,"

"I can't do this right now, Bucky." you hiss

He flinches at that use of his name, grip tightening, "You can't do this right now, huh? You came here to what, then? Torment me further? Kill me like you tried with Stark? You leave me in the dark for seven months, and you're the one who can't do this right now?" 

You pretend like his tone wasn't puncturing your heart and pull your arm, but he doesn't relent.

His eyes were piercing with intensity and frustration, "Do you have any idea what it's been like, wondering why you pretended to love me? Wondering why you left me like that when I would've given anything you wanted?" his voice rose quickly. 

You try to interrupt him, "You don't understand—"

"You're damn right, I don't understand! Fuck, why did you even come back here if you want to leave so badly? You wanted to disappear, so why come back?" His emotions rose in his tone.

You try again, mumbling his name, but he stops you, yanking you closer, "Shut up and fucking listen! For once in your life, listen to me!" his chest rises and falls, "You could've talked to me and told me what was going on, but instead you just ran!"

"You shot at me!" you counter. 

"You took my arm off of me!" he practically screams your name at you, "If I wanted to fucking shoot you, we both know I wouldn’t have missed.”

You gulp at the realization; he presses closer.

“You used me to get to him, and you knew," his voice breaks, "you knew what that was going to do to me, and you did it anyway."

Everything in his face looked sunken in, like he wasn't taking care of himself since you disappeared. Suddenly, your surroundings overwhelmed you like skeletons in the closet. Dozens of empty cans of beer and bottles of whiskey. Even though he couldn't get drunk, it looked like he had desperately tried. Packages next to the front door, labelled in Sam's handwriting, urging him to eat something inside them. Cardboard boxes full of cases, papers etched over the ground from when he had been frantically rummaging through for any kind of clue.

You hadn't gotten to see just how affected he was until now, and it was eating you alive more than you had already been doing to yourself. 

"You've ruined me. I'm ruined and you're here just to leave me, again." His thumb stroked your cheek lovingly and tenderly, while his words came out broken.

"The worst part is I would let you use me so long as you came back. Why wouldn't you come back for me?" his words sounding utterly broken and more of a statement than a question.

"I should have, James. I didn't mean for it to happen like that—" 

He pushes you against the door to the bedroom, your back hitting it with a thud. Arms on either side as his hips press against yours, pinning you there.

"Don't. Just don't lie to me anymore," he rasps, "you did what you had to, right? You had to use me like a pawn, and I just rolled over for you."

You can't help how your words get lost on you, and you drown in the intensity of his sharp gaze. The tenderness in those blue eyes that you grew to love was gone, but still you desired him more than anything else, and you couldn't help how your eyes flickered over his perfect, plump lips. Even in this moment, you burned for him and only him. His gaze turns into something deeper, something between hurt and lust that you barely recognized. Everything about his body language screamed that he was restraining himself from you. 

He catches your gaze, and his hand mindlessly lifts, caressing the side of your face. 

"God, if you wanted to hurt me, shooting me in the head would have hurt less." chest heaving against yours. 

Tears prickled at your eyes, "I am so sorry, Bucky, I really am."

He shakes his head slowly, "You don't get to apologize, not when you still have me undone for you." His eyes are boring into yours, but his words contrast with his actions: "I fucking hate you, and I want you just as broken by this as I am."

You gulp, "I am broken by this," his hand finds the doorknob and pushes it open, pulling you inside with him. 

"No, you wanted to use me," he walks you backwards and shoves you onto the mattress, and you let him. "I'll show you what it's like to be used."

"James—" you try as he flips you over onto your stomach.

"You want me to stop? You tell me now. Otherwise, I don't wanna hear anymore lies from you."

But you can't tell him to stop. You want him, you'll always want him.

When you turn your head to look at him and nod, he pulls at your hips and keeps you on the edge of the bed as he practically rips your pants off you. Gasping as his metal knuckles grazed up your spine, pulling the fabric up with it and sending shivers like he knew it would.

The way he feels makes your core ache for him despite it all. You missed this— you missed all of him like an addict to his touch. Arching as he presses into you from behind, fisting your hair as he ruts himself against you, reminding you of what could have been.

Bucky was more than just a means to an end, and you wanted him to know that, but how could you? That you are capable of using him despite knowing his past? How do you convince him that you loved him when you'd shown him that you didn't want him? That he shouldn't want you?You've already shown your care to him, and he's well aware of how you'd used him, so maybe hating you was the only answer. Love might not be in your cards, but in this moment, your resilience was pouring through the cracks. If he hated you, then he would be okay, and the damaged parts of you couldn't reach him anymore. 

He leans over your back and shifts his hand from your hair to your throat; tight enough to threaten.

"You wanted this all along, didn't you?" breaths hot against your ear as his belt clinks open, "I've just been a bit of fun for you? An easy, broken man you could use over and over? A quick fuck?" 

Your lip quivers, "You were always more than that."

He releases your throat. Reaching over and down your chest to rip your shirt open easily. The fabric is thin—the buttons pop open and scatter across the room. With one quick, practiced move, he unhooks your bra without even looking at it. You gasp despite yourself and let him pull you up, bare back flush against his.

Your heart crumbles for him, and the damage you'd done that seems to follow you everywhere you go. In his mind, he already had his answer as to why you wouldn't come back, but he still didn't want to believe it. He still wanted you, even if it really were one last time before you left him again. 

Warm, soft tears roll down your cheek and onto his fingers, "James, I really am sorry, you didn't deserve this." 

His heavy length is pressed against your back as he grips your hair roughly, just enough to see your face. Bucky's gaze softens despite how tense he was, but you could still see the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"I told you, I don't want your apologies," tears threaten to spill from his eyes. He runs his fingers up your core, testing the wetness pooling there before he pulls your panties off, "I just want this."

You swallow your tears and the urge to try convincing him again. You nod—needing him just as badly, "Okay." 

The feeling of him alone makes you throb for him, aching for him like you have been for months.

Running his thick and angry red tip through your folds once, he collects the slick and watches your face contort in pleasure. He’s watching as you shut your eyes—savouring the feeling like you were deprived and storing the image in the back of his mind. He aligns himself and pushes the tip inside, making you writhe into the pillow.

But he doesn't coo at you like he normally would, he doesn't praise you the way he knows you like, and he doesn't try to make it slow and passionate. 

This was pure take and desire that consumed you both.

The stretch of him was as glorious as always, but fuck, you wanted to see him. He doesn't give a warning before thrusting in to the hilt, bottoming out and coaxing a sharp gasp from you. His lips close the distance to your neck, leaving wet, sloppy kisses that quickly become rougher as he sucked purple marks—marking you in a physical manifestation of what you'd done to him.

Leaving something behind for you to be reminded of in the morning. 

Gripping your hips tight enough that it would leave bruises, and you didn't care. His hips sank hard, movements meant to reach a peak that could prove something to him or to you somehow. Punishing in his thrusts, rocking the headboard against the wall in every movement.

The soft exterior of the man you loved so badly was gone. He was taking you apart in every way he knew how, because Bucky knew how to make you sing for him and had your body memorized like the back of his hand. 

The sounds he made were between a whimper and a groan, as though everything about this was ripping him apart. You knew him so well, studied him like a roadmap you could never forget. You knew his body like it was tattooed inside your eyelids, never escaping the softness. 

Being rough wasn't something Bucky liked to do with you, unless you asked for it. So this? This was tearing him to shreds. After months without feeling the sweet plush of your skin, Bucky so desperately wanted to take his time, but he couldn't trust himself with being able to leave you alone afterwards.

If he took any more time, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go. 

You whined his name, wanting to touch him. Reaching back for him, grazing your fingernails over his forearms, and he takes your hands, kissing them like he was sorry. You cry out for him again, but he shoves your face into the pillow, shutting you up and muffling your helpless moans. Putting down his full weight and your hands over your head, whispering breathlessly into your ear. 

"You wanted to use me, so take it. Take all of it." 

Puncuating his words by snapping his hips even deeper into yours and reaching the spongy spot that made you see stars. You push back into him to meet his thrusts, he moans so beautifully for you—and he hated it.

He hated how you had him undone for him and could hurt him so deeply.

Holding both of your hands with his flesh arm so you couldn’t touch him, the metal one comes between you and circles over the sensitive bud, making you jolt. But he won't let you escape the way he made you feel, so he plants a knee on either side of you to cage you under him. He urges you on while keeping his punishing thrusts, snapping even harder, faster. 

Overstimulating all at once; the rigorous pace brings you there faster than you began, and you scream his name as you fall apart. He groans like it hurts as your walls flutter around him and the slickness urges him on. He doesn't relent, pushing deeper into you again and again, chasing his high as you writhe beneath him, cooing at him that it was too much to no avail. He grunts in your ear, and you swear you could've came again just at the rasp of his voice. 

“James please,” you whimper.

Suddenly, he hooks an arm under your knee and flips you onto your back. When you meet his gaze, you see the tears in his eyes just before he crashes his quivering lips into yours. His tongue swipes over your lip before he tangles the muscle with yours, sweeping every crevice of your mouth in a desperately possessive manner. He swallows your whimpered moans and ruts himself in short, deep movements, reaching into you like he could understand you like this. Like he could finally reach your mind and unravel you in this bed.

In his bed. 

The taste of salty tears touches your tongue as he devours your lips. His pace becomes uneven and sloppy as you feel yourself reaching that peak again. He pulls back just to attach his lips to your neck, sucking and biting to leave his mark purposefully. His teeth sink in, and you moan his name loudly as you came again, grabbing at him now that you could. Hissing at your nails against his back, his moans are broken and he twitches and sputters your name quietly, spilling hot inside.

Still thrusting slow and deep like he just couldn’t help himself, he keeps his spend inside, not letting a drop escape as he remains sheathed in between your slick walls. He looks back down, taking in the deep marks he left there, a hint of apology in his eyes. He seems like he wants to say something, but he stops himself, leaning down and kissing you again—softer this time.

He swipes his tongue along your lips to coax you into opening your mouth for him again. He pulls back just enough to spit into your mouth. You swallow it for him, digging your fingers into the nape of his neck and pulling him back down like you couldn't let him go.

This time, Bucky whimpers at the contact you make, biting your bottom lip enough to coax another gasp and then pulling away entirely. He gets off of you, running his hand through his hair and dragging it over his face. He stands up fast and pulls his jeans back on.

"Where are you going?" you ask, but he doesn't look at you. 

"This doesn't change anything," he adjusts his belt through the loops, the sound clinking through the quiet air, besides the sound of both of your heavy breathing. 

You sit up, the evidence of the sanguine and desolate encounter dripping onto his sheets, "James, please, if you would just let me explain." 

He turns quickly, eyes red as he says your name like it physically pains him, "I told you, I fucking despise you. Loathe isn't strong enough to describe how I feel about you." 

You stop breathing for a moment, stuck in place. 

He continues, watching the pained expression on your face grow, "You're like a fucking plague on my mind, and I can't stand you anymore."

He takes backwards steps to the door, turning away from you, "I don't ever want to see you again, so you better be long gone by the time I come back here." 

You can't help the soft scoff that escapes you, gripping the sheet tighter, "and if I don't go?" 

He looks at you for a moment, his eyes trailing over your face and studying each feature. After a beat, he looks back into your eyes. The look he gives you is colder than anything you'd ever seen before from him. 

"Then I will kill you myself." 

He slams the door shut behind him, the sound deafening—making you flinch as you close your eyes. 

You were right before; this wasn't love. Love doesn't hurt like this.

Tony Stark became a name that would send a shiver down your spine, but your fists didn't clench like before. 

You refused to acknowledge it with the same fierceness you had before, since your oversight had blinded you. Now, you could see how partial you were and how you'd let anger cloud your judgment and nearly kill a man for the crimes of people before he was born. You still had hate in your heart for him— how could you forget it? But at least now, that sharp pain shifted to an ache dulled that you only felt in your bones when it was cold and you thought of Manhattan.

Nearly half a decade after you last saw Bucky, your life is much different now. Half the Avengers are either dead or retired. Somehow, you still felt some responsibility for what you'd done back then, and how you could never explain yourself, but you were convinced that you were worthy of it anymore. Apologizing to anyone would be selfish because you knew it was for yourself. 

The apartment you lived in—if you could even call it that—was cluttered with clothes and takeout from weeks prior. You hardly left your place now, even after Tony Stark sacrificed his life for the world and died.

An honourable death, for someone you thought to be the opposite of it entirely.

You didn't know how to deal with that or how to take back the things you'd done on your vengeful path. So instead, you stayed home and watched bad television. You were on your couch, licking ice cream off your spoon, when you saw the face that could've killed you on sight.

The bewitching face of the man you dreamt of more often than you'd ever admit, the piercing blue eyes of his unmistakable face above his scruffy appearance, and neatly tucked hair. He wore a crisp suit that you'd never seen him in before, besides a borrowed one from Steve at the many Galas you'd attended. He walked across wearing his stoic expression, the hint of sadness only you'd recognize behind his brief smile, before he spoke to an audience about a bill you didn't know anything about. 

James Buchanan Barnes was now a Congressman. 

You couldn't help the laugh that rippled through you at the thought that your James, your grumpy and impatient James, was now working a job that required him to not only talk to people often but also attend meetings regularly. The livestream of the video captured him shaking hands with people as he walked down the hall with other politicians, and then stopped. There you saw a short-haired woman, hair cut at her shoulders and a polished smile as Bucky bent down for her to whisper in his ear.

You felt an unfamiliar jealousy bubble in your stomach as you put the pint of ice cream on the table, spoon clattering on the coffee table, muttering to yourself from weeks of having no social interaction. Crossing your arms over your chest just as Bucky leaves the frame, and the woman does too. You throw your remote at the screen in an annoyed groan, hurling it harder than you intended. Wincing as you hear a soft crack and realize you've broken your television. 

When you got restless, you went on runs—always alone. 

That was how Yelena found you, cornering you at an intersection and somehow knowing who you were beneath the layers you wore to conceal your identity. She ran next to you, matching your speed, and you didn't have to turn your head to know it was her. 

"Yelena, long time no see, Sestra," peering over at her as you pull your headphones off.

Yelena smiles at you, "You remembered."

You don't smile back, but give her something in between, "Of course I do."

Yelena was an old friend, a person you knew through her sister Natasha and kept in touch with just barely. After Natasha died, you spoke to Yelena only once, to check on her and for your own peace of mind. You sought her out and cried with her for your fallen friend. You never got to explain yourself to Natasha, but Yelena still trusted you. You pulled her out of a low she didn't know how to navigate while you were going through one of your own. Yelena was the only person you told about what you had done to Tony. She listened carefully when you explained your true intentions for joining the Avengers, to see if she was truly empathizing with you. If anyone knew what it was like to face-to-face with someone who was the reason for your solace, it was her.

Clint was her Tony, and Tony was your Clint.

Though at least Yelena got to talk to him about it and found comfort and closure through it, you didn't even get to say goodbye.

She didn't judge you, not even when you brushed off more personal questions, mentioning the rest of the team, and purposefully glossing over Buckys' part in your story. She knew there was more missing, but she didn't push. You gave her general answers, and you told her of your vengeance and reasoning for doing what you did. You told her she wouldn't be hearing from you, and she did not protest.

But she told you she would come looking for you one day and apparently, today, was that day. 

She says your name, guiding you towards an alleyway. You oblige because you knew that Yelena wouldn't ask for anything from you if it wasn't serious. Yelena and you didn't have to see each other often for the two of you to converse like normal all over again, and you appreciated her for it.

"Are you alright?" you ask her, shoving your phone into your pocket.

"Oh, me? Fine, great. Working with idiots, but I dealt with worse before," she points at your pocket, "give me that."

"What? My phone?" but she's already reaching in your pocket, wiggling her fingers and pulling it out, "oh pfft, sure, yeah, go ahead." 

She types in the password without you having to tell her, saying your name when you're about to protest again, "Oh, shush, I have seen you naked. And you are too sloppy, too predictable," shaking your phone in your face, "you have not changed your password in 5 years."

You pout slightly.

Okay, maybe you have been getting sloppy.

She returns to going through your phone and reading over something aloud to herself before staring up at you. Shaking her head, she continues, swiping and swiping. 

"You have not texted or called anyone in, what the fuck, 6 months?" She pulls the phone case off and takes one of her earrings out, "What happened to having a life?" 

Popping out the SIM card and dropping to the floor before smashing it beneath her boot.

You exclaim, "Yelena!"

"What? You didn't have much on it anyway. Although I guess that means breaking it was useless," she tosses your phone into the bin as well. "I need your help, and we cannot be followed." 

You look entirely annoyed and wide-eyed at her, "You basically just called me a loser and broke my phone. You are going to be followed, whether you like it or not, Lena." 

She smiles then, putting her earring back into her earlobe. "Great, follow me then." 

Grumpily, you take one last look at your poor phone, cracked and at the bottom of the grimy garbage bin, before following after her. Taking a heavy footstep after the other as you follow behind her, just before she turns the corner out of the alleyway and onto the streets again. The familiar presence of her allowed you to roll your tensed shoulders back just a bit, still holding up some of the walls you'd built up high and mighty. You stared down at her shoes as she walked and noted how polished her clothes were, her suit brand new and tailored perfectly to fit her like she was ready for a fight right now. 

She walks across the street, and you suddenly realize where she was taking you, "Why are we going to my place?" 

"You have to change. I cannot take you looking like a teenage boy to meet Valentina," her eyes trailing over your outfit and then back to your face. 

You squint at her as you enter the courtyard—her movements too aware of an apartment building you’d never taken her too. She walks with too familiar a practice and holds the door open for you with a knowing smile, but you don't question it. Not yet at least.

Yelena plops on your couch and picks up a sock from the corner, staring at it, then you. "You live like this? Like slob?" 

You roll your eyes, walking over to her and taking the sock from her hand, tossing it into the laundry basket that you said you were gonna put away two weeks ago,

"I live alone, so who gives a shit." 

She hums at you like she knows something you don't, putting her hand under her chin and watching you, "You used to care how you lived. I don't get how nearly killing Stark made you this depressed."

You say nothing, pulling your hair back from your face and padding back toward the hallway, stripping off your hoodie. You make your way to your room to change, and Yelena stood and followed after you, replacing the couch with your bed. You try changing the subject,

"So, Valentina, huh? You still work for her?" you say as you rummage through your closet, struggling to find something that wasn't a hoodie or a shirt younger than ten years.

"She is the lady who's been giving me jobs, she’s reliable that much and she knows you’re still alive.” twirling her thumbs on the edge of your bed.

You stop moving and turn to face her. "Yelena, I don't do that shit anymore,"

Yelena sits up, "You don't just give that life up, don't kid yourself."

Rubbing the bridge of your nose, "Last time we worked together, neither of us had eyebrows."

She shrugs, "Eh, they came back." When you sigh, exasperated, she continues, "Come on, just this once. Come with me. I just do my job, clock in and clock out. Anyway, you are clearly not busy, so don't tell me you are because I know when you are lying." 

You mentally noted the exhaustion on her face and the bags forming under her smudged eyeliner. Yelena always got through her shit through humour, but something told you to go through with her ask and go anyway. 

Plus, you were bored out of your mind in your apartment.

You nod, "Yeah, sure, will you just come tell me what to wear then? I'm at a loss here."

Yelena stands and stretches her arms, making her way over to you. When she looks into your closet, she snort, "Your closet looks like mine. Lack of fulfillment and desperation."

Yelena purposefully ignores the men’s jacket sitting there, several sizes too big for you. She pulls out an old mission suit from the back of your closet, hidden behind a pile of boxes.

When she turns to hand it to you and sees the look on your face, she rolls her eyes, "I said my closet looks like this too. Jeez, you really don't get out much, can't even take jokes now." 

As you approached the bunker with Yelena, she began briefing you on her target. She explained, very poorly, who the Ghost was and how Valentina had sent you both to take her down by any means necessary. 

Yelena spoke just as you approached the hall. 

"She's stealing the files that Ghost lady. I need you to find them while I take her down, or you take her down, whatever floats your boat or whatever."

With quiet footsteps, the two of you crept into the bunker. The room was filled with boxes you assumed had documents and gadgets you hardly understood. Filing in after Yelena, you followed her to a packet of documents on top of a box, frowning at the symbols etched on the paper. Multiple designs for a suit and the letter S in different fonts stared back at you as you turned your head to her in bewilderment. Just as you looked at her, you caught a glimpse of a gun pointed at her by a tall man in a suit in dirty tones of blue and red. 

"Lena!" You shouted before grabbing her by her shoulders and rolling just in time for the bullets to fly past you.

Both of you huff as you land behind a box, still over Yelena. Getting off of her, you peer over the box, and the man shoots again, making you duck.

Still, you recognize him— John Walker.

While you don't know Walker personally, you know of his history and how he didn't even make it a month as Captain America before killing someone and having his shield revoked. Mentally, you noted how his replica shield wasn't made of vibranium, the same indestructible metal of Buckys arm. 

He says your name as though he knew you, and you snap your eyes up to his. You don't miss the frown on his face as he says your name again. 

"You were in the Avengers. I thought you were dead," clipping his gun into his holster, "Everyone does." 

Yelena peeks out, "You know him?"

You shake your head and step out, also leaving yourself exposed for Walker to establish some kind of connection. Yelena stands behind you when you hear a shadow. She yelps as someone new joins the three of you, flipping her over on her ass. Ghost, you recognized her from Yelenas brief description when another person emerges from the shadows, flipping a gun in their hand. When you turn, the Ghost is gone, and Walker is in your face. 

"Why the hell are you here? All official records say you're dead." His hand was on his holster, close to drawing it out again. 

Stepping backward, you scoff softly, "As you can see, I am very much alive, Walker." 

His eyes widen slightly at your use of his name, partly impressed that you even knew him and half-wary of you. The two of you remain staring at each other as Yelena dusts herself off and starts towards you, pointing at the Ghost who was fighting another person out of your line of sight. Walker draws his gun quickly to point at Yelena. 

"An ex-Avengers death isn't on my conscience," tilting his head at Yelena, and she looks unfazed, "but I am here for you," he says just as a sudden, deafening gunshot snaps the attention of all three of you.

Instinctively, you also draw your weapon, keeping the pistol pointed at Ghost. The three of you focused on the gunshot behind you and the hard thud hitting the ground.

Then you gasp when you see it.

The Taskmaster, someone you did know before and worked with after leaving the Avengers, is dead. Blood pooled over her mask and began spilling on the floor.

In your line of work, this was a common occurrence, bound to happen. But it has been a while since you’d seen a body of someone you knew, even vaguely. Your eyes shift up to the Ghosts as her mask cyphers off. 

"Well, my job is complete," she announces, stepping over the body.

John scoffs, disregarding the body like he were used to the sight, gun still in his hand, "mine isn't. Valentina was clear about needing you gone, Yelena." 

Just then, the sound of retching and dry heaving catches everyone's attention. You'll turn in unison, guns drawn and pointed at the new found voice when you see a man in blue scrubs, hair dishevelled and looking utterly afraid.

He keeps his hands up, a dry nervous laughter leaving him before he speaks, "um, is she, are they really dead?"

John ignores his question and walks towards him, boots heavy with practiced military precision in each step, "Just who in the fuck are you, guy?" 

"Bob, I'm Bob," he gulps as John waves his gun to urge him to continue explaining himself, "I just woke up in here. One minute I was doing a medical study, the next I'm here.”

You all exchanged glances, uncertain and confused.

Bob stammers as he racks his brain, trying to convince the menacing group in front of him of his innocence, “Please, you gotta believe me." 

You look over to the capsule behind him, the mould of a body in a high-tech casing that makes your thoughts race. If he were telling the truth, then he was a definitive experiment for Valentina just as you suspected John Walker to be. His enhanced strength only something you’d seen from your former Avengers—Steve Rogers and Bucky.

You thought back to when Bucky told you about the super soldier serum and how people continued to test in cruel ways to see just how far they could push the human body and create the perfect human.

The perfect experiment and weapon.

Your brows knit together, and you met Yelenas gaze. She's frowning like the gears of her mind have clicked into place and made the same realization as you. Of course, Valentina was playing you, she was always playing both of you. 

Valentina was killing people she had working for her previously—this was cleanup and you were doing the fucking dirty work for her.

"Okay," Yelena says finally, her gun going into her waistband and her other hand reaching to yours, lowering the weapon, "it's clear we have all been played here and all worked for Valentina in some capacity."

John grumbles, lowering his gun too, "What are you saying?" 

The Ghost rolls her eyes, "Are you a dense, dime-store Captain America? Valentina clearly sent us here to die," gesturing around the room. 

John stares at her, evaluating and intense, "I didn't know that Ghosts could speak." 

She smiles, a small hum of a laugh that was entirely humourless, "It's Ava, actually."

John scoffs again just as alarms blare and the bunker goes into lockdown. Bob scurries closer, and no one stops him. 

Yelena breathes out heavily, "We don't have time for this, you guys," staring at the elevator shaft, then at Ava, "We have to get out of here." 

Then they're all moving.

Without really telling anyone what to do, they were working in unison, as though this was what they were meant to be doing. John breaks open the power source, Ava unlocks the door, and Bob has the bright idea to get out of the Bunker by climbing. After listening to them bickering and scraping your knees against the elevator shaft a couple of times, you eventually do get out. 

In the car, Yelena shot an apologetic look at you from the front seat.

You gave her a tight, slightly annoyed smile back. You were sitting next to John Walker and the Ghost lady you now identified as Ava, and the loud man driving the car kept nudging Yelena and asking her questions, whispering about her having found her calling. You smirk to yourself a little when you see Yelenas' look of annoyance, not missing the silent acceptance there that she had found something worth fighting for. Ava adjusts something on her suit, while you stare out the window over John's head to watch the landscape. But he catches your eye, staring at you.

You frown, "What?" 

"You're Bucky Barnes's ex," he announces, and the pair in the front stop talking. 

"What does he say? Winter Soldier has a girlfriend?" Alexei catches your eye in the rear-view mirror, "You are Winter Soldier's girlfriend?"

You stammer, "No, I'm not."

"She is right technically, she's not his girlfriend." John says again, never shifting his gaze from you, "She's the one who backstabbed the Avengers." 

You wince, and Alexei gasps. Yelena doesn't even move because she already knew about this, even without you telling her about the part about Bucky. Ava doesn't budge either, unfazed by the declaration of your disloyalty as though she had anticipated it or had known somehow. 

Alexei suddenly laughs, "You are badass, like Lena, like Tasha!" he looks to Yelena, then you in the mirror again, "No mercy like the Soviet Union!" 

Yelena cuts him off, "Okay, Dad, please just stop. Let's just get out of here and go home." 

"Go home?" Alexei says, looking personally offended by her declaration, "No, no, no, this is a beautiful group, a new friendship and family to have and cherish. You cannot go home and forget all about this, Lena." 

"There is no point, they took Bob already," she says, looking out the side mirrors. 

"This is a glorious team! Just like when Natasha was Avenger!" Alexei gleams. Yelena shakes her head and groans at him. 

John snorts from next to you, "Yeah, go Thunderbolts." 

Alexei gasps dramatically, "You tell them of your little league team? Oh my, you already bonded." he snaps his head to look at you all, making the car jerk, "You know, one time someone pooped in the middle of the game, right there, on the field. It was so funny, they were so bad." Yelena grabs the steering wheel, steadying them. 

Ava suddenly announces that; "someone is following us."

Without waiting for anyone to say anything, she puts her mask back on and geo-leaps to the trunk of the car, facing the vehicle chasing you. 

Everyone quiets to look.

Yelena glances out her window, spotting three bulletproof vehicles roaring behind Alexlei's shitty taxi car. Despite his claim that it was bulletproof earlier, the shells whizzing past you now and shattering the windows proved otherwise.

A deafening screeching sound is played over the speakers of the truck behind you, and Ava nearly falls out of the car when you and John yank her back in through the broken window. She's disoriented over your lap as the shooting ensues.

In a swift move, Yelena peels out of the car, shooting out one of the tires and sending the vehicle crashing. Amongst the fiery crash, the other two roar closer to Alexei's terribly slow car.

Yelena sits back inside, fiddling with her gun, "That was my only bullet." 

John reaches for his gun, the magazine missing, "shit, I'm out too."

He glances back through the broken window, a roaring motorcycle appearing from the smoke of the crash, chasing behind the last of the three.

The name he utters makes the colour drain from your face, "Bucky?" 

You turn with him, and there he was. You feel your body run cold again, blood freezing in your veins. Bucky suddenly stops his motorcycle, grabbing the hitch of the other vehicle and pulling it to a taut. Anyone else would’ve been ripped in half but the sheer strength of him, Bucky yanked the enormous tank backward, punch the chain hard into the concrete below him. The car is then flying away from you and rolling into another fiery crash before you knew it.

John and Alexei laugh in relief as Bucky launches something beneath the other car, causing it to explode. Alexei hits the steering wheel, hollering something about ‘the Winter Soldier never retiring.’

The cheering dies down as Bucky turns his focus on Alexeis' car, pointing his weapon at it. 

But it felt like he was pointing right at you.

Suddenly, something is launched beneath Alexei's car and John curses. The explosion booms white as the car is airborne. Then you're sliding from the backseat, gasping as the car begins to flip. Ava and John hold onto the grab handles of the car, but you don't grab anything in time. 

You groan awake, wanting to rub your head.

Cuffs digging into your wrists as your eyelids flutter open.

Chatter makes your ears perk up, recalling what had happened, turning your disoriented head around and taking in the faces around you. You glance to your left, looking at John as he notices you lucid again, shooting you a reassuring smile— something you weren't sure about just yet. He mouths, asking if you were alright, and you nod, giving him a tight smile before turning your attention to a loud Yelena and Ava. 

"Yes, Bob!" Yelena exclaims as Ava continues for her, "We have been trying to tell you that!" 

But you feel eyes on you, piercing and intense. The hairs on your neck stick up. Looking into his eyes, you felt like all of your old emotions were back in full force, like they had never even left. His hands were on his hips, listening but not really hearing them as he watched you. Looking past all the other obstacles and through you like he knew what you were thinking. Probably because he knew you better than anyone else—and it felt like you were alone in the room when you looked up into his eyes. 

Shamefully, you looked back down, not wanting to meet his gaze. It was too hard, and you didn't know if you could take it. The last time you'd seen him, he said he never wanted to see you again. Said that if he saw you ever again, he would kill you. You betrayed him, broke his heart and made him feel like he was when controlled by Hydra; used and weaponized.

After a beat, he speaks, interrupting the rest of the group's bickering, “we have to move then.”

To your surprise, he walks over and uncuffs Yelena, breaking off the cuffs swiftly then Ava’s. "Valentina won't expect us to go together, let alone work together." 

Ava narrows her eyes, "You're letting us go?"

He moves to uncuff Alexei and Walker. 

"No, not exactly. But I'm trusting you guys won't betray me," he says, and you bite back a wince at his words.

Still, you avoid looking at him, staring down at your shoes as though it could get you out of this situation. John leads them outside as they’re too focused on their own quiet discussion to notice the tension between you and Bucky. 

Finally, Bucky stops behind you as everyone else regroups. He bends close to your ear, hands undoing your wrists, taking more time than you knew he needed.

He says your name, "So, will you?" 

"W—what?" you rasp, rubbing your unbound wrists together and trying not to look into his piercing blue eyes.

Watching you intently, he tilts his head ever so slightly, as though he were studying you. Looking over just enough to catch your eyes.

"Betray me again. Can I trust that you won't do that?"

You couldn't stop staring at the facial hair on his face and how his scruff had grown fuller. You wanted to badly to lean into him again, feel the touch of the one you'd been aching for and finally force him to listen to you, even if you knew it was self-serving to do it now that he'd clearly gotten over you.

You nod your head at him, biting the inside of your cheek. The sound of Yelena calling you guys to hurry up and come out from outside doesn't make him flinch, and he leans in a little closer.

The familiar scent of him—cedarwood and rich suede—engulfs your senses. 

An unexpected tug at the corners of his lips makes your skin bloom bright as he eyes the features of your face, stopping over the curve of your lips. He steps away enough to give you space to move. Reluctantly, you stand and walk over to the door, needing a breath of fresh air from his sudden proximity—when you catch something he says something just before you walk outside. A foot out the door and you still hear him with the smirk in his voice evident.

"You're so beautiful, even when you lie to me."

A familiar sense of bitterness filled your mouth when you entered the Watchtower. 

You probably should've been more specific about when asking Yelena about where she was leading you up to, because she failed to mention that the Watchtower was just the Avengers tower—renamed.

As you got out of the elevator, you couldn't help but notice the same features in the building you once resided in. Your eyes trailed over to the kitchen, where you'd cook with Natasha and Steve. Where you'd walk in at an ungodly hour for a snack, and Bucky would find you. The place Bucky cooked the meal for your first not-date, setting out wine, pasta and salad— before Sam and Steve had crashed it and ate more than either of you. It was once domestic and safe, but you could never fully let yourself simmer in it. Nagging in the back of your head like a virus that had no cure, you would never relax entirely. 

Distant discussion grabs your attention as you emerge from the elevator. 

"We are taking you in Val," John crosses his arms, staring over at Valentina, who had shifted her attention to you as you walked in with Yelena.

"Hmm, I don't think so, Junior varsity, Captain America." She smiled wickedly as John angrily pulled his gun out of his holster. 

A familiar velvety smooth voice called out to John to stop—Buckys.

"Walker," Bucky warned, and John let his gun fall back into his side. 

Valentina giggled, swirling her drink in her hand and looked to Ava, "Ah, Ava, it's nice to see you again," she shifted her focus over to Yelena, "Yelena, you look awful."

Before turning back to you and saying your name slowly, "I knew you wouldn't stay dead."

You give her a tight, unamused smile, "Still a cunt then, Valentina?" 

She smiles right back, turning to Bucky, "One betrayal wasn't enough, Congressmen? You want her to actually kill someone from your adorable little team this time?" and his jaw tightens uncomfortably. She continues, looking back to Yelena, "And you, are you sure you're still ready for that public-facing role?"

Yelena steps forward, "Hmm, eat shit, Valentina. Where is Bob?"

"You mean Sentry?" She tilts her head, and you turn to Yelena again, the documents you saw at the bunker filling in the blanks, "come on out." 

You all turn to see Bob walking down the stairs, clad in bright yellow and gold attire, looking entirely imperfect. His hair is now blonde and slicked back neatly. Yelena breathes out his name, but he avoids her gaze. His smile was uncertain and nervous as he stood next to Valentina. 

"Sentry is my protection plan, and my reason to sway the committee. I will be unimpeachable," she smugly glances around for your reactions. 

Bucky scoffs, "That is never going to happen."

"Enough talk, nobody messes with the West Chesapeake Valley," Alexei charges forward, towards Bob, "Thunderbolts!" 

Without breaking a sweat, Bob punches Alexei once, sending him flying backward into the wall.

Everyone is suddenly on edge as Bob becomes a bigger threat than anyone had expected. Your fists clench as you feel the tension rise above anything you could ever contain, snapping as the unsheathing of weapons filled the air around you.

Bucky points his gun, Ava geo-leaps and reappears behind him before he sends her staggering back again. John launches his shield, and Bob easily sends it back to him like a Frisbee. Yelena begs them to stop, both of you running towards him when Bob sends a current of energy, sending all four of you flying backwards again.

You groan as you hit the hard wall next to Alexei, distant thoughts of CTE rummaged as you daze at the concrete. Alexei is up before you and warily he helps you stand again. 

Bucky looks back towards you, sending you an evaluative look that borders on concern, before turning his attention to Bob and firing straight at him. You gasp when Bob stops the bullets midair and pushes them full force back towards Bucky, moving too fast for him to dodge them. Pushing yourself forward, his name name slips from between your lips. Everything swirls, it happens so fast, but John is there faster, blocking the bullets with his shield and staggering backwards. Ava and Alexei get there in time again for Bob to disarm them both effortlessly and throw them to the corner of the room. 

Yelena pleads again, jumping onto Bob's back, electricity flowing from her gloves to his neck, "Bob, you don't have to do this, you have a choice."

You feel your face heat; the situation Bob was in was all too familiar to your own, and Buckys ' gaze prickled at your back. You knew it was useless, but you grabbed Buckys disgraced gun off the floor and pointed it up at Bob since Yelena clearly didn't believe that he would disarm her like the rest of them. Suddenly, the metal of the gun is burning your skin and slipping through your fingers. You yelp at the seering sensation, dropping it to the ground, watching as the gun melts into a mush.

John reapproaches him as Bob throws Yelena over to the elevator and grabs John's shield, bending it in half. John eyes widen in shock as Bob grabs you both by your necks. You’re thrashing, clawing with the remains of metal flicking off your gloves as you try to get him off before he’s flinging you over to where the rest of the team was lying. 

Then Bucky flips his knife in his hand, launching it before John pulls him forward with just his mind. The knife uselessly clattering next to Bob. He holds him in the air for a moment before letting him crash to the ground again. But Bucky was headstrong, and you knew he wouldn't give up so easily.

He strips off his jacket, horrifically seductive in a time like this, and strides back for Bob, punching at him hard with his vibranium arm. But Bob was too strong, beyond anything any of you had ever seen and he catches Buckys hand, gripping tight. Bucky groans, trying to free himself when Bob yanks his arm out from his body, and you gasp sharply. Swaying a little, Bob hits Bucky hard over the head with his arm and knocks him out as he's sent back over to the five of you. 

You crawl over to his unconscious form and cradle his head in your lap, frantic.

"James, hey, wake up," lightly grazing his cheek as you shook him slightly.

The rest of the team is up quickly, Ava grabbing Bucky's arm off the ground and Alexei and John moving towards Bucky. You let them hold him up and drag him out of the room, into the elevator. Bob lets you all leave, the look of regret evident on his face, which made your heart pang for him, because you knew that look.

You’d basked in that feeling for too long, the emptiness and the loneliness that devoured you whole; you could see it all on his face even as the elevator doors closed. 

Staring at the Buckys' arm in Ava's hand, you couldn't help but think about when you had done the same to him. You gulp as you step away from him, hand clutched over your mouth with effort, just as the doors opened and Bucky began to stir awake.

Stomach twisting in knots as his detached arm brings you back. You look to Yelena, stepping out of the elevator before anyone else,

"I shouldn't be here when he's awake again." 

She briefly met your eyes, her own teetering on the edge of disdain for herself and for Valentina for turning Bob into this. But she knew what you meant and gave you a tight nod. 

You brush past the rest of them, walking fast and panting harder, memories flooding back in full force. Unable to stop yourself from dry heaving into your palm, anxiety peaked and caused you to breathe harder. Once you were far enough, you turned into an alleyway and threw up, clutching the brick wall for something, anything to ground you. Hacking up the shame and the guilt, despite not knowing when you had last eaten.

Bucky slips out of John's grip and mutters a quiet thanks as his eyes immediately begin scanning around— for you. 

He walks over to Ava, taking his arm from her and clicking it back into place, swinging his arm and recalibrating it. He says your name, "Where did she go?"

Ava shrugged, "Not sure, but she seemed kind of out of it before she walked off." Bucky frowns, and she continues, "She said something to Yelena before leaving, maybe ask her?" 

"Right, thanks," but Ava stops him from leaving too quickly.

"You two used to date, right?" she asks softly, like she wanted to coax the answer from him. But Bucky didn't need any coaxing. 

He nods and smiles fondly, "Yeah, we used to be together. Why do you ask?" 

She smiles at his admission, as though she knew something he didn't, "Oh, no reason." Bucky narrows his eyes but drops it, giving her another thanks before starting after Yelena and Alexei. 

He jogs into the street, finding civilians running around aimlessly. He ushers some of them quickly, yelling to get inside. He moves further into the crowds to find you and Yelena, helping a family up and inside another building. Multiple crashes shift his focus again. A helicopter strikes a nearby apartment building and sends debris flying towards a young girl. Alexei runs fast, getting to her and shielding her with his body. Alexei crouched over, standing once the debris broke over his broad shoulders. Alexei helps the girl up just as a dark shadow looms over the streets of New York and people begin disappearing. The little girl next to Alexei also disappears. The thought of you also getting engulfed in the darkness suddenly sends him into a panic, and he runs toward you and Yelena, yelling your names. 

"We need to get inside, come on," he rasps, urging you both. You nod at him, pulling Yelenas arm along, but she stays standing there, staring up at Bob. 

Your eyes shift to Alexei, dangerously close to being in the darkness as well, "Okay, look, you get him, Bucky, I will bring her," letting out a shaky breath, he doesn't move yet, so you try again, "I will be right behind you." 

He hesitates and then reluctantly nods because you were right and you were more than capable, he knew that. He starts towards Alexei and from the corner of his eye, Ava hauls John up onto his feet, and sprints towards the nearest building where the darkness hadn't reached quite yet.

In seconds, Bucky is pulling Alexei up, who was still trying to wrap his head around the little girl flickering out as well. They reach the arch of the building, panting and overexerted. Ava and John are already there, hands holding the wall as they try to catch their breath.

Bucky glances around, turning over, scanning and searching for you.

But you still weren't there yet. 

Alexei pipes up from next to him, glancing over to John, then to Bucky, "Where is Yelena?"

Ava points toward the dark shadows looming beneath the Void—Bob.

There was Yelena, walking closer and closer to it, and you, inches behind her. It looks like you’re saying something to her, but she doesn’t run. You keep following. Moments later, Yelena disappears, shifting from physical form into a shadow. Milliseconds later, you follow her, drowned out and turned into a shadow of yourself.

Alexei screams, moving out of the arch to get to her, but John holds him back tightly, not letting him go.

And Bucky nearly folds in on himself, breathlessly leaning forwards like the sight of you disappearing had punched him in the gut. He had just gotten you back, even if it was glimpses. He was breathing the same air as you just like before, and he refused to lose it again. You didn’t have enough time yet—he had to right his wrongs this time.

Bucky's body moves before his mind does, starting after you when John calls his name, "Bucky, you can't!" 

His chest heaves, "Why the hell not?" 

"It makes you relive things,” giving Bucky a solemn, knowing look, “it’s like a shame room that loops your worst mistakes. It's gonna make you— wait!, Bucky, hold on!” 

Bucky knew you must've been eating yourself alive for what happened back then. He knew you already had demons before he even met you, that kept you from being entirely honest with him, and that was enough for him. He doesn’t wait for another reason, running into the shadows of his past life and aching for his future to emerge—you.

Bucky crashes through mirrors and drowns in baths of blood in his shame rooms. He relives the worst things he'd ever done and has to feel the weight of the lives he'd taken as the Winter Soldier. Memories of the training he had done in the Red Room, where he had trained countless Widows and ultimately led them to their demise. 

He gets out of it, out of all of it, because he had made his peace and found the closure he needed years ago, because of you. 

While it hurt and he hated himself for those things he had done, he shook the you had already helped him through all of this and brought him to the conclusion that it was not his fault. This was forced onto him, and he was weaponized for this. 

That's what gets him through his shame rooms. 

In a blink, Bucky finds himself in the old Avengers tower in an all too familiar room — your old bedroom. Under the morning light, shining and glittering against your soft, bare skin, there you were, smiling at a past version of him. The two of you were lying under the sheets, naked and tangled together. He was asleep there, which was rare for him until he had met you. He watched as your eyes scanned over his sleeping form, running your fingers softly through his dishevelled hair and grazing his scalp, pulling a soft hum from him. he didn't understand why this was part of your shame room. He didn't understand why this moment could have been so shameful for you if this was all it was, since it felt domestic. 

That was until you kissed his cheek lightly, like waking him was a sin. Your expression shifted to a pained one as you scanned over his sleeping face, burning it into your memory. You spoke softly, careful not to startle him awake,

"I love you, James," tears prickling your pretty eyes as you lay your head on his chest, "I am so sorry that I love you because this is gonna hurt so much more. And it's my fault." Wet droplets touch his sleeping form as he stirs and grips you tighter amid his dreams. 

He furrows his brows at the scene before him. The thought that you loved him enough to be ashamed of it, confusing him all over again. His stomach backflips when he recounts your words. It dawns on him that you really did care for him and didn't mean to fall in love with him. At least it was real to both of you. He steps closer to the bed to watch you there, resting on his chest, eyes closed and eyelashes wet, when the memory reloops itself. 

You weren't in this memory, so that meant you got out of it.

This wasn't your worst. 

He leaves the bedroom and that memory behind, starting down the hallway of the tower. The sound of distant yelling pulls him in that direction, and he jogs faster, reaching the lab and pushing the door open. There you were, the past version of you that he had been pained over for so long that it started to numb itself. You were beneath the past version of him, wide-eyed as Steve held Tony's gunshot wound to keep him from bleeding out. 

You writhe from under his weight, bucking your hips up to get him off of you. He watched you closer, not missing the desperation in your attempts and the pain in your eyes this time. He watches as a single tear slips down your face, as though in preparation for what you had to do, while the past Bucky adjusted himself over you, gripping one of your hands tight to stop your pounding at his chest.

"Please, baby, I don't wanna hurt you," he pleads. 

He watches as regret begins to flood your face and you reach up his arm, grazing up it like practiced movements. because you had done it dozens of times before, showing him that you loved him despite all of the odds and all of the things he had been forced to do. Showing him that you loved him, despite his past. He knows what's going to come next, and he hears your voice crack like it wounded you to say it this time around.

"But I need to hurt you, James," you admit before a mechanical click shifts from beneath your fingertips and his arm dismounts his body, clattering to the floor. 

The past version of him backs off from you and stares at the metal, hitting the ground, not taking in the look on your face. The past version of him didn't see the immediate regret plastered on your expression and the way you shut your eyes before moving and getting up. 

Then the memory loops. 

The pieces he had missed years ago were falling into place, and he was understanding you better now. With a heavier heart, Bucky looks around the room, looking for the next memory you might be stuck in. He stops at a reflective surface beneath a computer when he sees a glimpse of you—the real you.

The room was dark and only illuminated by the dark street lights. But there you were, sitting on the twin-sized bed, hunched over and looking towards another person. A younger girl with the same colour of hair and skin sat by the window, still, looking outside. The girl was maybe ten or eleven years old, and her back was facing him. Bucky couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her. He calls your name, and nothing happens. He tries again, and the lab darkens, mimicking the memory you were stuck in. He turns around to find you closer and himself in the room with you. He hesitates to reach out and touch you when a distant gunshot rips through the air, and he sees you flinch, retracting his hands. Deciding to watch and try to understand what you could never tell him, he sits next to you quietly, your eyes still trained on the younger version of you.

He watches the scene before him just as the memory reloops itself. 

A ten-year-old version of you sat by your window, reading from a book: The Giver. The spine was cracked, and you had a finger in your mouth, biting your nail like the story was keeping you on the edge of your seat. Before his brows could furrow, the doorbell rang, and you perked up. You called out your parents' names—no response. Placing your book carefully upside down to keep your page open, you stood up and walked out of your room and past your father's study. He was on the phone, looking angry and completely busy, your mother asleep in her bedroom after a long day at work. You thought you were being helpful. 

The young you rubbed at her eyes and walked to the front door, undoing the latch and unlocking it. When you opened the door, a tall man wearing a suit and tie peered down at the young you, grinning wickedly. 

"Are your parents home, sweetheart?" the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets. 

"Yeah, who are you?" you asked. 

He said your father's full name and his workplace, easing the tension on your face. You thought you could trust him.

"I have a meeting with him, hmm? Would you let me inside to see him?" his eyes were dark with malicious intentions that a child would never understand.

You nodded and let him inside, pointing him toward his study. You were so young, so naive. You thought you were doing them a favour by allowing him inside the house. You thought that this was your father's friend, or his business partner or something. A horrible gut feeling pulled at Bucky as he was forced to watch what he already felt was coming. 

"Dad?" you called out, pushing your father's study open, the man inches behind you. 

Your father looked up at you, his expression quickly falling at the man standing there, holding a gun just low enough that you couldn't even see, but your father could.

"Be a dear, go get your mother too," the man said. 

You turned to ask him why when you saw it, the weapon in his hands. The white gun aimed towards you, bearing the symbol of the enormous building situated in New York.

The unmistakable name etched on the barrel of the gun—Stark Industries. 

You stared at it a moment too long, focused on the name and sealing it in your core memories. Encoding the name and wondering where you recognized it from, when the man nudged you.

"Get your mother. Now." 

Panic set in, and you turned to your father, a similar look painted over his. He nodded for you to listen and gave you a smile that was meant to soothe you. Even the young version of you understood, something was wrong.

You left the room, walking as quickly as your little legs could take you to the master bedroom and pushing the door open. 

She sat up, calling your name and asking if everything was alright. You told her everything, stuttering at parts because it was happening so fast. She calmed you down, sat you in her lap. She asked you to describe the man, and when you did, you saw the colour drain from her face. Now you knew you really had messed up, and you started to cry. She sat you on the bed alone, moving to her closet to the safe you were never allowed to touch and unlocked it. 

When she came back to you, she pressed a heavy gun to your hand and whispered your name, hurried in her actions. 

"I want you to lock the door after we leave. When you do that, go to your room and stay there. Do not open the door for anyone," you were crying as you listened to her. You protested, trying to put the gun down, but she held it in your hands, "If someone comes upstairs, you use this." 

You were shaking with fear and guilt for letting the man into the house, crying for your mother not to leave when she stood up. She kissed and hugged you tightly, and you knew what it meant. She left the room and walked towards your father's study. After a minute, you heard arguing about money, about a debt. The man laughed while you heard your mother cry. Suddenly, the study door opened, and hurried footsteps went through the front door. You ran after them, doing as your mother said and closing the door, locking both bolts. 

You sprinted back up to your room, sitting by the window still and knocking the book you had been reading earlier to the ground, letting it shut. Distant pleading bled through the glass of your bedroom window as the man dragged them out back, exactly where your room was facing. He lined them up, facing towards the house, on their knees. The man held the gun to the back of your father's head first, before turning it on your mother's. The gunshot rang through the air and through Bucky's ears, and instinctively, his eyes shut. The man in the suit left them there, bloodied and horrific, just below where you were, and purposefully met your eyes. The bastard knew you were watching, giving you the same wicked smile as before as he waved his gun at you and walked away. 

The young you watched the whole scene, hand pressed over your mouth to muffle your cries, as the real you remained slumped next to him, letting the scene replay all over again. Bucky didn't even realize his face was wet with tears until he looked back at you, watching your expression. He says your name softly, touching your shoulder. 

A shudder leaves you at the contact, finally looking up into his eyes, 

"I killed them, Bucky. Not Tony, not his fucking father. It was me."

He shook his head, turning you to look at him, "No, you didn't kill them. That man did. He pulled the damn trigger." When you shook your head and tears rolled faster, he cupped your cheek, concern etched over his face, "You can't blame yourself for this, sweetheart."

The distant chatter of the younger you leading the man up the stairs, letting him go to your dad's study, it was all too much. You had been in this room for so long, you couldn't recall when you weren't anymore. You gasped for air through your tears, trying to inflate your lungs fully but you couldn't do it. 

The air felt thicker—it felt wrong. 

It felt like the air that was filling your lungs was solidifying as it sat there, weighing you down. Bucky saw it; he always caught it. He says your name again, but it dilutes itself between your ears, echoing off the thumping of your heart. The sound is an echo in the cave between your chest cavity. 

You rasped through your tears, "Their blood is on me, James. I let him inside," pulse pounding through your ears. You're ripping at your chest as breaths come too short and words too fast, "It was me all along and I blamed Tony, and now he's dead and I can't take it back—"

Bucky recognizes the signs of a panic attack, having had many himself. 

His face shifts and his eyes grow warmer, "Hey, don't do that," pulling your hand off your chest and taking it in his, "You gotta breathe for me." 

He takes deep breaths, encouraging you to copy him. You do, but are continually unable to calm yourself down. He kneels on the ground, his hands still holding yours as he situates himself between your knees. For a few minutes, he just stays there, breathing with you. The warmth of his hands grounded you amidst the cold storm that threatened to pull you under again. Wiping the tears as they flowed down your face. You couldn't help but lean into his familiar touch, seeking his reassurance.

He spoke softly, squeezing your hand gently, "You were a child then, sweetheart. You couldn't have known." You couldn't tell where reality began and the past ended, but his voice, his grip, grounded you. You began breathing more evenly. He waited for you to calm down enough to squeeze his hands back before pulling them to his lips and kissing them softly, "It's not your fault, you hear me? You did what you thought you had to."

Your breath still stuttered, but your stomach twists, "Why are you in here, Buck?" 

Bucky doesn't look at you for a moment, and he doesn't answer right away. Then he looks up with his gaze of something too raw to name, "you. I came for you." 

You feel your throat tighten at his confession; you want to say something, but you're at a loss. The gunshot echoes through the air again, and you squeezed your eyes shut before the memory started to loop once again. 

He stands, pulling you up with him and steadying you next to him with a hand around your waist, "We gotta go, okay?" 

You nod. He lets you stay silent, giving you time to gather it all and find your peace in the quiet. Without disturbing your sobered tranquillity, he leads the way out. 

Back at the Watchtower, you were bundled up in an old blanket you found in the closet. Thickly knit and cozy, it faintly smelled of antiseptics. You knew it must have been one of Bruce's he'd kept in the lab for when he would work too late in the evening and sleep there. Vaguely, you wondered if Bruce came by this tower anymore or if he and Clint even spoke. 

The television was on and snapped your attention just as it showed a rerun of an important announcement. Valentina had announced the New Avengers, featuring you, Yelena, Alexei, Ava, John, and Bucky. The crowd oohs and ahs as the group of you steps forward. You watch as Yelena leans forward to whisper in Valentina's ear, and her face pales. 

Bucky walks in, holding a stack of paper in his hands and reading it like he had a personal vendetta. He was focused muttering to himself about his distaste for the people he works with. You sit up straighter, pulling the blanket off you slightly,

"Hey."

His eyes meet yours and he gives a slow, warm smile, "Hey."

You catch his eyes scanning over you, fondly like he remembered something.

Bucky crosses the room, setting his paperwork down on the table. He glances over at the television, "You were there, remember? What are you watching this for?" 

Glad that he didn't start with unpacking the heaviness in the room, you shrug, "I just turned it on, and I don't mind watching Valentina realize she's fucked herself over with us."

Bucky snorts, scooching himself closer to you. You're not sure how well you hid your surprise when he lifted the blanket and situated himself underneath with you, the domestication of the action making your heart skip. The warmth of his skin radiated off the shell of his thin shirt, even though he isn't touching you, just hovering close enough. You sigh softly, shifting your back against the couch to create some distance. 

"Thank you," and his eyes snap to yours, expression turning more serious. 

"Don't thank me," shifting in his seat and tugging the blanket, "I did what I had to." 

You frown a little, brows knitting as you turn your head back at the television. He was being serious, or he was just flat out lying to you now, right? 

You murmur your words, "You didn't have to come in after me. Especially not after everything I put you through." 

From the corner of your eye, you see his lips curl into a smile. 

"I think if you did try to kill me, I might thank you at this point," he turns to face you fully, tulting his head so he could see your whole face, "I mean, as long as you don't leave again. Or try to kill someone on the team. Actually, forget that last part, I can excuse it.”

You shake your head in disbelief, "You don't mean that." 

Squinting at you, he takes your hands off your lap and leans over, closing the distance between you, dropping his head in your lap. You freeze with your hands lingering just over his head as he situates himself, ocean eyes staring up at you like you'd hung the stars. The feelings, the memories, the love, all of it came flooding back like a dam that had been straining against itself, the current overwhelming. 

"You need to stop telling me what I do and don't mean." his hand comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear, "This would've all been solved a lot quicker if you would quit doing that, sweetheart." 

His fingers linger a moment longer than necessary over your ear, moving over to cup your cheek. Alleviated from his touch alone—you don't know how to trust it or yourself not to ruin things again. His eyes shone as they looked into yours and through you, as though he alone could grasp your thoughts. 

"If you told me you wanted Stark dead, I would've listened to you." Bucky quietly admits, his head still in your lap. 

"W—what?" You look down at him, not sure you heard him right. 

"I would've followed you anywhere, I would've loved you even after you did all of that." he slowly sits up, "You and Steve were the only ones who saw me beyond the things I’ve done. I know it’s wrong and I know it wasn’t his fault but for you…” he trails off before finding other words, “you just had to say the word.”

The sincerity in his tone felt like it had seized time, and you swore you could hear a pin drop.

How do you even respond to that?

Here you were thinking he hated you for all of this, and he's telling you he just wanted the truth from you. Mindlessly, your hands ran through his hair, calming your nerves and earning a soft hum from him.

With Bucky, you had been the one who first uncovered the mush of a man he always was behind that hardened armor—but he did the same to you.

Your guard was always down at his touch. He says your name like honey on his tongue, the sound familiar to your starved ears.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, but you can't tear your gaze from wanting to smooth the lines around his eyes when he’s deep in thought or touching the stubble he’d grown in your absence. 

"I'm thinking of how to apologize," your voice soft, hands even softer as you massaged his scalp for what felt the first time in an eternity, "and I don't know where to begin with it, and you're being too nice about it, like I didn't treat you badly." 

He laughs, hands dropping in surrender, "Being nice is a problem now?" 

"It is when you've fucked up and hurt the people you care about as many times as I have, James," and he laughs again but you can’t help but crack a smile back, "what the hell is so funny?" 

"I just realized you only call me James when you get worked up about something," you sigh, and he continues, "and you know I am not exactly the most innocent person in the world. I have definitely fucked up plenty more than you, and I will continue to fuck up cause that's just life." 

"You make it sound so simple," 

"And you make it harder than it needs to be. Redemption isn't erasing the blood that's been spilt to stop the bleeding; that's just counterintuitive. You're the one who helped me come to terms with that.” He touches your hand, “Let me help you do the same, hmm?"

You ponder it, not sure what to say. With a heavy sigh, you let it soak in the self-doubt and confusion that deluded you. When the weight feels like it has condensed, he sits up next to you. 

"When did you get so wise, Mr. Barnes?" 

"Oof," clutching his chest dramatically, "I was born in the 40's, pretty girl. I know a thing or two about life and having regrets.”

You laugh a little and he smiles at the victory, "But really, I am sorry for, you know, taking your arm and not telling you what I was really feeling."

He coos, "Yeah, that was a low blow, babe, hitting a man while he's already broken-hearted by taking his metal arm? You're a menace.”

His expression shifts into something more serious as he is more intentional with his words. Running a hand through his hair he sighs,

“Truthfully, you have haunted me for years. And that version of myself. What I said to you…” he trails off.

You let the air fill with uncertainty and unease as he tries to find the words; you didn’t have anything to say and ease the quiet with. When he sighs deeply, your eyes briefly meet his and his brows lift as the words finally find him.

“—When I told you to leave that day, I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to stay, and I have nightmares of the last time we spoke often. Every waking moment we have been apart has felt like I couldn't breathe freely."

"James," you breathe like the rug might get pulled from under you. You don’t miss the quiver of his lips as his gaze falters.

"—I thought you might've been the bane of my existence, but after I saw you again, that weight was lifted and I could breathe. I can't sleep without you near me. No, I haven't slept without you. I went to morgues, I called hospitals, I became a fucking Congressman to get access to more government documents, just in case you were mentioned in something, anything—"

The gasp that left you was soft and surprised. You couldn't help how your hands trailed up his arms while he continued pouring his heart out as though he just couldn't stop. 

"—I knew I’d fucked up as soon as I closed that door behind me. I should've let you explain, and I shouldn't have told you to go," but you're moving over him, starting to straddle him as he spirals in his own doubt, "I wanted you to stay so badly but you seemed so hellbent on leaving, I thought saying that might've made you stay, or helped me cope with it—" 

"James, I love you too," snapping his attention to you, holding his face in your palms.

He lets out a shaky breath, hands resting on your thighs in uncertainty and barely concealed restraint, “you do?”

You nod as his hands wrap around your torso, finally. Holding you tightly like he needed you to ground him in this moment to believe it. The feeling familiar but something still felt far away. You sigh deeply, trying to revel in the feelings of him, trying to hide the exasperation in your tone.

"You don't have to say it back, but you said it in the lab, and I should've said it back then." 

He shakes his head quickly, "but I do. Fuck, I do. I love you, I—I, God, I have always loved you, and it has been consuming me." 

You pull back just to look at him, and he immediately closes the distance, crushing his lips into yours. It was hurried, exhausted and hungry all at once. it was the kind of kiss you’d wanted from him for so long, the press of his soft lips threatened inhibitions. The taste of him could get you addicted all over, like a drug you’d long forgotten. You craved him and he was already here. You couldn’t have enough of him and you just got it back.

This feeling could drowned you with ecstasy but it be worth every second, as long as you felt it this vividly. The promise of his permanence could make you a religious person. The threat of not touching him like this again, it could end your sanity.

He breathes you in as you scrape your nails up into the nape of his neck, laughing into his mouth as he moans into yours. 

"You have no idea how long I have been dreaming of this," pressing quick, wet kisses, “of you.”

His hands tangling softly through your hair as though he couldn't possibly let go. Pecking sweet kisses as if he couldn't believe this were real and he needed to touch you just to know it was really happening.

He drops his hands to trail down your sides and graze the curves he had memorized so fondly. Trailing to your hips and gripping them tight, he bucks his instinctively up into yours, coaxing a moan to let his tongue slide inside. He sucks on your tongue, persuading another gasp and making you say his name. you try to pull away for some semblance but he follows your candied lips, entirely feral. 

“Down boy,” You say as you try to pull away again, putting a hand on his chest in between you. But he won’t let you, chest pressed flush against yours like he couldn’t bear being further.

"I'm not letting you go again," your back arches as you lean backward, laughing as you try to create space.

Bucky has that same charm, smiling against your lips to make all reason disappear as you kiss him with the same reverence. You whimper into him as he drags your hips back and forth, just the way he knows you always liked.

He moans as you give in, almost whining when you follow his hips, "missed you baby. I’m never leaving you alone now yeah? Better get used to this sweetheart." 

You’re about to say something when a voice from the doorway startles both of you, "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to this, ugh."

You nearly jump out of his lap as you turn to face John, looking at you in disgust. Ava, Yelena, and Bob snickering next to him, Alexei striding in past them, headed straight for the fridge. Yelena walks past the couch to get to the kitchen, Bob and Ava following behind her and shooting you smiles like they knew this was coming. You mutter quiet apologies as Bucky rolls his eyes, not sorry at all.

They stop at the kitchen island just as Bucky reluctantly lets you hop off of his lap to sit next to him, adjusting your top and dishevelled hair. You reach over to fix Buckys, and he smiles at you almost drunkenly, his lips swollen from ferociously attacking yours. 

You don't have to look at Bob to hear the smile in his voice, "I think you guys are perfect for each other." 

Yelena snorts, "Yes, both are broody and try to kill people, so perfect."

"That is what all good relationships have, Lena, passion! That means they love each other, eh?" Alexei winks at you. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks as you look over to Bucky, who's already staring at you, smiling sheepishly when you catch him. He can't help the need to be closer to you, and he tugs you closer to his chest. You let him, humming in content as he pulls the blanket over both of you once again.

Everyone else is already lost in their own conversations, the sounds of utensils and pans clanking—you're distracted by the sounds that prove Bucky is alive.

Drowning out everything that isn't the sound of his heart thumping under your ear and the rumble in his voice when he talks. You're shutting your eyes and smiling when he catches you basking in the feeling of him. He kisses the top of your head as he changes the news channel to something else that you couldn’t care less about.

The weight of the world rolled off your shoulders like raindrops and everything that had been done felt fleeting and utterly unimportant. You drift asleep for the first time in a long time and, with photo evidence that Yelena showed you the next day, so does he.

In his strong arms, forgiveness came easy and adoration could’ve consumed you whole. You were smitten but he was infatuated.

Unconditionally, undeniably, and terribly in love.

tag, you’re it: @herejustforbuckybarnes @thewitchhofoz @sebastians-love @onlyjunisworld @houseofhyde @letterstoangel @your-everyday-weirdo @flockoff-featherface @bratsoldier @wandanatissuperior @glorpalicious @little-letti @metal-armed-muse @emmaiscool22 @yyiikes @mamacocha9 @taylordaughter @heldbybarnes @mfstargrll @sakiigami @ultrahoney @skitwantstaste @winterdvil @himikoquack @dansplayboy

Natasha looked up. “You’re laying it on a little thick.”

“She hasn’t told him to shut up in three days,” Tony muttered. “That’s practically a love letter from her.”

Bucky just smiled to himself, then the elevator chimed. Everyone turned as Peter stepped out, wearing a backpack and a hopeful smile, a small, oddly-shaped gift bag in one hand. “Hey, Mr. Stark! Miss Romanoff! Uh—everyone.”

Clint grinned. “Spider-kid.”

“Hey, Peter,” Sam said, raising a brow. “You on delivery duty or just here to raid the fridge?”

Peter shook his head, walking further into the room. “Actually, I came to see Y/N. She helped me with some Stark code a while back, and, uh… I found something I thought she might like.”

There was a collective pause. “You… came to see her?” Natasha asked.

Peter nodded brightly. “Yeah. She’s always cool. Kind of quiet, but not in, like, a weird way.”

Sam looked at Tony. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

Tony smirked. “Kid’s still pure.”

Peter looked confused. “What?”

“She talks to you?” Clint asked, like he’d just seen a ghost.

Peter blinked. “Yeah? We talk all the time. She helped me fix my web fluid formula. And gave me recommendations for horror books. And she—uh…” You walked in, right on cue, hoodie sleeves pushed up, tablet under your arm. You stopped at the edge of the room, eyebrows raising slightly at the sudden silence. Peter perked up immediately. “Hi! Uh—I brought you something.”

He held out the bag. You eyed it for a second, then stepped forward and took it carefully. Inside was a small plush—some weirdly adorable hybrid of a bat and a black cat, with little stitched wings and glow-in-the-dark eyes. “I saw it at a weird pop-up shop and it just seemed like something you’d like,” Peter said quickly. “Because it’s like, spooky but cute? But not too cute. I wasn’t sure.”

You looked at it, blinked once, then… nodded. “It’s good.”

Peter grinned, looking relieved. “Oh good. I was kind of worried you’d think it was lame.”

You sat on the edge of the coffee table and placed the plush beside you like it belonged there. “Thanks.”

Bucky, from the couch, watched the entire interaction unfold like he’d just witnessed you perform sorcery. Peter plopped down in the chair beside you. “Did you get a chance to read that link I sent? About the deep-sea cryptid theories?”

You nodded once. “The Kharis Trench ones were mostly fake. But the stuff from Murmansk? That had more credible sources.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Right?! I thought so too! Like, there’s no way they just imagined the mass sonar distortions.”

Sam leaned toward Clint, whispering, “she’s been talking to him for five minutes. Straight. No death glare. Nothing.”

“She likes him?” Clint whispered back. “That’s not fair. That plush was probably cursed or something.”

Tony leaned on the counter, sipping his drink. “She never even threatened him. I’m officially terrified.”

Bucky crossed his arms, lips twitching into the smallest grin. “Told you she talks. You just have to not be an idiot.”

Wanda walked in from the hall, glanced around at the stunned silence and your completely calm conversation with Peter, then turned to Natasha. “Did someone die?” she asked.

Natasha shook her head slowly. “No. Worse. Y/N has a soft spot.”

Wanda blinked. “…Peter?”

Peter, mid-sentence about sonar anomalies and sea monsters, looked up. “Wait, am I in trouble?”

You looked at him. “No.” And that, apparently, was enough to end all further discussion. Even Bucky didn’t try to hide his grin this time.

---

You were seated in the corner of the lounge, hood pulled up, legs crossed with a blanket over your lap, the little plush Peter gave you now quietly stationed next to you like some kind of tiny, chaotic bodyguard. You were reading again—tablet in one hand, a pen tucked behind your ear. Bucky walked in from the hallway, hair still slightly damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up. He spotted you immediately and made a beeline toward your spot, dropping down on the couch beside you with a lazy exhale. He didn’t say anything at first—just leaned back, relaxed, glanced at the plush with a raised brow. “Bat-cat’s still alive,” he murmured.

You didn’t look up. “Peter named it Vlad.”

Bucky grinned. “Of course he did.”

Across the room, Sam nudged Natasha. “Okay, but you saw that, right? She let him sit next to her.”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Natasha muttered, watching from the kitchen with narrowed eyes.

“She talked to him yesterday and now he gets the couch spot?” Clint whispered like it was sacrilege.

Steve looked up from a mission file. “You know you’re all ridiculous, right?”

“No, this is an investigation,” Sam replied.

“She’s just quiet,” Steve added. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Tony snorted. “Quiet is one thing. Bucky could trip and fall into lava, and she wouldn’t blink. But spider-boy shows up with a demon plush and suddenly she’s emotionally available?”

“She’s not emotionally available,” Wanda chimed in from behind her tea. “She’s just less… murderous.”

Back on the couch, Bucky glanced sideways at you. “You want to go downstairs later? New weapons shipment came in. I think Stark’s hiding the good stuff.”

“Always does,” you muttered, flipping a page.

“I say we find it.”

You looked at him over the top of the tablet. “And break into his private inventory.”

Bucky smirked. “Would be fun.”

You paused. “You’re an idiot.”

“That’s a maybe?”

A long beat passed. “…Yeah,” you said finally, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Fine.”

“Victory,” Bucky whispered, kicking his feet up on the table.

Tony, from across the room, stood up abruptly. “Okay, I’m done pretending I’m not watching this. I have to know—are they together or not?”

“Absolutely not,” Sam said. “That would involve mutual vulnerability.”

“They’re both emotionally stunted,” Clint added. “There’d be paperwork.”

“They could be in love and we’d never know,” Wanda muttered.

Natasha stared for another second, then turned away. “Whatever it is, I’m betting it’s already happened.”

“Define ‘it,’” Tony asked. Natasha didn’t answer. Meanwhile, on the couch, you turned a page, and Bucky smiled a little too wide.

---

The sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the common room, bouncing off the polished surfaces and blinding anyone unlucky enough to sit directly in its path. Clint was already squinting behind sunglasses. Sam was asleep with his head tilted back on the couch, mouth slightly open. Wanda sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, quietly organizing cards for some obscure Sokovian game no one else understood.

You walked in holding a mug—black coffee, no cream, no sugar—and Vlad the bat-cat plush tucked under one arm like a silent, spooky purse dog. Peter sat at the bar in the kitchen with Bucky, who was nursing a protein shake and looking way too smug for someone who’d just come back from sparring. “Morning,” Peter chirped, waving at you.

You nodded once, sat in the chair next to him, and set Vlad carefully on the counter like he had rights. Then you took a sip from your mug and didn’t say a word. Sam cracked one eye open from across the room. “She’s carrying the demon again.”

“Vlad,” Peter corrected without looking up.

Tony walked in, scrolling through something on a tablet. He glanced up at the group, then did a slow double take when he saw you. “Okay. No. I’m not doing this today.”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

Tony pointed between you and the plush. “That thing? Again? You’re attached now?”

You said nothing. Peter frowned. “She likes him. He doesn’t talk. That’s the appeal.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “She’s got a type.”

You sipped your coffee. “Silence and small, manageable chaos.”

Natasha walked in, immediately sensed the conversation, and grabbed a seat. “We’re talking about Vlad again?”

“We never stopped,” Clint muttered.

Sam sat up, groggy. “You two have been weird since that mission. Like… subtly weird.”

Bucky raised a brow. “You’re imagining things.”

Wanda nodded toward you. “She let you sit next to her again yesterday. During lunch. She shared fries.”

Tony held up a hand. “That’s it. Nope. I’m calling it—either something happened, or Bucky’s running the slowest, most terrifying long con in history.”

You finally looked up from your coffee. “You're all very dramatic for people who’ve seen actual aliens.”

“Don’t deflect,” Sam said, pointing. “I saw him bump your shoulder yesterday. And you didn’t react. Not even a flinch.”

Clint crossed his arms. “You flinched when Steve opened a granola bar too loud last week.”

Bucky, trying hard not to grin, leaned into the counter. “Maybe she likes me.”

Tony deadpanned. “Not unless she’s having a stroke.”

Peter glanced between all of them, confused. “Wait… do you guys think she doesn’t like Bucky?”

Everyone turned to him slowly. “She doesn’t,” Natasha said immediately.

“She didn’t,” Wanda corrected.

“She might now,” Clint added, cautious.

Peter frowned. “But… she laughs at his jokes sometimes.”

More silence. “She what?” Sam asked, horrified.

Peter blinked. “Yeah. Like, small ones. But I’ve seen it.”

Tony leaned back, utterly scandalized. “I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting,” Steve said, walking in.

Tony just muttered, “not emotionally.”

Across the room, you stood up, picked up Vlad with one hand, and said simply, “You’re all insufferable.” Then, to no one in particular, you added, “I’m going to the range.”

“You want company?” Bucky asked, standing too.

You paused, then nodded. “Bring extra rounds.”

He followed you out, both of you disappearing down the hallway without a glance back. The moment the door shut, the room exploded. “They’re together. I know it now,” Sam said.

Tony nodded solemnly. “God, I love espionage romance.”

---

You strolled into the lounge, Vlad tucked under one arm, a small black purse over the other. Everyone glanced up. Tony was on the couch with a tablet, Sam and Clint were arguing over brackets again, and Bucky leaned against the wall sipping water. “Stark,” you said, “I’m taking your Audi and your credit card.”

Tony barked a laugh. “Absolutely not. Keys are in my—” You pulled his key fob from your purse, and dangled it, then the platinum StarkCard. Tony sat up. “How—”

“It’s impressive you still ask that,” Natasha said.

Sam whistled. “Identity theft is real, kids.”

You ignored the commentary. “I’m picking Peter up from Midtown and taking him, MJ, and Ned to the American Museum of Natural History. They have a new cryptid exhibit.”

Steve blinked. “During school hours?”

“I’m on Peter’s authorized pick-up list,” you replied. “May signed it. Stark, you’re on it too, but you never answer the phone.”

Tony frowned. “That form was for emergencies, not field trips.”

“This is educational. Deal with it.” You pocketed the fob.

Bucky pushed off the wall. “Need backup?”

“Field trip, not black-op.” You eyed him. “But you can ride shotgun if you promise not to play 40’s music.”

He smirked. “I’ll survive.”

Clint raised a hand. “Can I come? I love museums.”

“No,” you and Bucky said in unison.

Wanda hid a smile behind her mug. “They’ll be fine, Clint.”

Tony sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just—no scratches, okay? And fill the tank.”

You turned for the door. “Already did.”

Sam shook his head. “She siphoned your gas too?”

You paused, glanced back. “Had to test the new syphon pump you left unlocked in the lab.” Then you were gone, Bucky in tow.

Tony flopped back on the couch. “I’m changing my locks.”

Natasha snorted. “She’ll just pick them again.”

Clint shrugged. “At least the kid’s having a good day.”

Steve smiled into his coffee. “And so is Bucky, apparently.”

Tony groaned. “Somebody keep an eye on my mileage tracker.”

---

The receptionist checked the clipboard twice, eyes flicking between your ID and the form. “You’re… Y/N,” she said slowly. “Authorized pickup. And Mr. Barnes is…?”

“Chauffeur.” Bucky raised a brow but said nothing.

The receptionist sighed, buzzed the classroom. A minute later Peter hurried in with MJ and Ned. Peter beamed. “Hey! You really came.”

MJ smirked. “I told you she’s punctual. Unlike Stark.”

“You got us out of chem,” Ned whispered, awestruck.

You nodded toward the door. “Let’s go. Traffic sucks.”

Peter rode in the back with MJ and Ned, chattering nonstop about sonar anomalies while MJ recorded voice notes for the school paper, and Ned munched on emergency gummy bears. Bucky drove because you allegedly “drive like an assassin.”

Peter paused mid-rant. “So, Mr. Barnes—”

“Bucky,” he corrected.

“Right. Bucky. How’d you convince her to let you come?”

Bucky smirked. “Begged.”

You side-eyed him. “He carried the museum bag.”

Ned leaned forward. “What’s in the bag?”

“Flashlights, notebooks, snacks,” Bucky said. “And one very small plush.”

MJ grinned. “Vlad?” You tossed Vlad over your shoulder and Ned caught it with a squeak.

---

The museum exhibit had dim lighting, creepy ambient sounds, and life-size cryptid models. Peter darted from display to display as Ned followed, narrating into his phone, while MJ snapped photos of everything, including you—arms folded, silently scanning exits. Bucky nudged your shoulder. “Enjoying yourself?”

“This place is crawling with tourists.”

“Good for cover.”

Peter called, “Y/N! They have an entire section on the Murmansk distortions!” You actually smiled—tiny, but it happened—and joined him, pointing out data flaws in one of the interactive screens.

---

You sat at a corner table as the kids devoured fries and Bucky placed a coffee in front of you. Peter leaned over. “Thank you for today.”

You shrugged. “Educational.”

Ned wiped ketchup off Vlad’s wing. “Best unofficial field trip ever.”

MJ raised her phone. “Group selfie or it didn’t happen.” You started to decline, but Peter already dragged you into frame, with Bucky leaning over your shoulder as MJ snapped the photo.

---

You and Bucky walked back into the common room. You had dropped the kids at their places before making the drive back to the compound. Tony looked up from the holo-display. “Mileage tracker says you added a hundred and four miles.”

“Rounded trip,” Bucky said, tossing him the fob.

“And you—” Tony pointed at you, “—spent one hundred and eighty-three dollars at the museum gift shop.”

You set a plain white bag on the counter. “Educational materials.”

Clint peeked inside. “Glow-in-the-dark squid socks?”

“Bioluminescence demo,” you replied, deadpan.

Sam grinned. “How were the ankle-biters?”

“Didn’t bite,” Bucky answered, grabbing a bottle of water. “Ned tried to feed Vlad nachos, though.”

You flicked a crumb off Vlad’s wing. “We corrected him.”

Wanda walked over, phone in hand. “MJ already posted pictures. You smiled in two of them.”

Natasha’s eyes widened. “Proof?”

Wanda turned the screen: you, Peter, Ned, MJ, and Bucky, all shoulder-to-shoulder. Your smile was small—barely there—but real. Sam whistled. “Look at that personal growth.”

Steve gave a satisfied nod. “Looks like the trip went well.”

Tony sighed theatrically. “Fine. Car’s intact, kids survived, you’re off the hook. Next time schedule it, though—press keeps asking why my car was parked in Midtown for twenty minutes.”

“Tell them I stole it,” you said, heading for the hallway.

“They’d believe it,” Rhodey muttered.

Bucky followed a step, then paused. “Oh—Stark, trunk’s full of boxes. Exhibit hand-outs and… souvenir jars.”

Tony blinked. “Souvenir what?”

“Pickled cryptid gummies,” Bucky said. “Peter insisted.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “Unload them before they ferment.”

You kept walking. “Already stored in Lab C freezer. Teachable moment on polymer shrinkage.”

Steve chuckled. “She plans everything.”

Natasha leaned toward Tony. “They’re fine, boss. Let it go.”

Tony watched Bucky jog to catch up with you down the corridor. “I’m letting it go,” he muttered, then added under his breath, “but I’m checking Lab C.”

---

The main lights were off. Only the emergency strip along the ceiling glowed faint blue. You knelt by a locked storage cage, small pick set in hand, while Bucky kept watch at the door—half-serious, half-amused. He leaned close. “Timer says one minute till Friday’s sweep.”

You answered without looking up. “Thirty seconds is all I need.”

Click. The cage door slid open. Bucky grinned. “Show-off.”

You slipped inside, grabbing a slim black case from the middle shelf. “Stark’s been hiding the new suppressors. Thought I’d borrow one.”

Bucky whistled low. “That come in my size?”

You handed him a second case. “Happy early birthday.”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Both of you froze. Voices—Steve’s steady, Sam’s louder. You shut the cage, locked it again, and slipped the picks away. Bucky snagged your wrist, pulling you into the adjacent equipment closet just as the armory door opened. Inside the cramped space, you both held still—shoulders brushing. Your breath even, his slower. In the armory, Steve said, “Tony swears someone’s skimming gear.”

Sam scoffed. “My money’s on Barton.”

Steve chuckled. “Seems too organized for Clint.”

Sam’s boots shuffled farther in. “I’m telling you, Barnes has sticky fingers. He’s way too calm lately.” Your eyes flicked up at Bucky’s—he mouthed sticky fingers and tried not to laugh. You narrowed your eyes at him, daring him to make a noise. Outside, Sam’s voice got louder. “Barnes definitely swiped something. Guy’s got that ‘mission accomplished’ strut.”

Bucky smirked in the dim light—one breath away from losing it. You grabbed the collar of his hoodie, pulled him down, and kissed him. Any protest he might’ve had dissolved the second your lips met his. He went perfectly still then melted, hands finding your waist. The closet suddenly felt even smaller and warmer. You kept it slow but firm, keeping him occupied while Steve’s calm baritone drifted closer. “Sam, check the racks on the left,” Steve said. “Inventory tags look untouched.”

Bucky’s fingers tightened when Sam’s footsteps creaked just outside the door. You deepened the kiss, tongue brushing his, swallowing the soft sound that escaped him. Sam huffed. “Everything looks fine—wait, was this cage always locked?”

Steve answered, “It’s on the log. Probably Tony’s upgrade.”

Bucky’s hand slid beneath your jacket as you nipped his bottom lip as a warning. He exhaled, nodding against your mouth, but didn’t back off.

Sam’s boots scuffed right past the door. “Man, I’m telling you, something’s missing.”

“We’ll re-scan in the morning,” Steve said. Footsteps receded. “Come on.”

The armory door shut with a dull thud. You pulled back first, breathing steady. “Quiet means quiet.”

Bucky’s grin was lazy, satisfied. “You have an interesting method of crowd control.”

You adjusted your jacket, grabbed the two hard cases from the shelf, and cracked the door. “It worked.”

He followed you out, lips still parted like he might start trouble again. You handed him one case. “Stash these in the vent behind Bay 3. Tony won’t scan there until next month.”

Bucky took it, still a little dazed. “Yes, ma’am.”

You walked off without looking back. “And don’t strut,” you called over your shoulder. “Sam’s onto you.” Behind you, Bucky laughed—quietly this time—then disappeared down the hall with the contraband, footsteps as silent as yours.

---

The smell of coffee and burnt toast filled the air. Clint was perched on the counter, poking at a toaster while Natasha sipped tea, Steve scrolled on a tablet, and Sam rummaged through cabinets like a raccoon in sweatpants. Tony stormed in, hair askew, waving a datapad. “Someone skimmed two prototype suppressors from my private inventory.”

Sam looked up. “Told you. Theft.”

Natasha lifted a brow. “Any suspects?”

Tony eyed them all. “You. All of you.”

Steve sighed. “Tony—”

“Nope,” Tony cut him off. “This is a shakedown.” He pointed at Sam. “You. Soldier boy said you suspected Barnes. Got proof?”

Sam shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

Tony pivoted to Clint. “Legolas?”

Clint pointed at the toaster. “Can we fix this first? It’s gumming the bread.”

Tony ignored him, turned to Natasha, opened his mouth, then froze as you walked in, hoodie up, mug already in hand. You stepped around Tony like he was a floor lamp, poured coffee, and leaned against the fridge silently. Vlad peeked out of your hoodie pocket—apparently promoted to lookout. Bucky strolled in a beat later, looking too casual in a Henley and sweatpants. He reached past you for a mug. “Morning.” You grunted a greeting, expression empty.

Tony narrowed his eyes at both of you. “Suppressors?”

Bucky blinked. “Bless you?”

Sam snorted and Clint tried not to laugh. Tony scrolled his pad. “Last scan shows the cage sealed. My locks untouched. Yet the gear is gone.”

You took a slow sip. “Maybe your scan’s wrong.”

Tony scoffed. “My tech isn’t wrong.”

“Then maybe your memory is,” you said. Natasha hid a smile behind her cup while Steve bit his tongue.

Tony glared at Bucky. “Care to weigh in?”

Bucky shrugged. “I’m just here for coffee, Stark.”

Tony turned the datapad, brandishing a red alert screen. “Fine. Inventory audit at 1300. Everyone present, including the resident cryptid wrangler.” He nodded at Vlad.

You patted Vlad’s head. “He’s classified.”

Tony huffed and left. Clint slid off the counter, whispering to Sam, “they definitely took the suppressors.”

Sam whispered back, “Yeah, but do you really want to know where they hid them?” Steve cleared his throat pointedly. Both fell silent.

Bucky leaned against the island near you, speaking low. “Audit, huh?”

You took another sip. “Lab C freezer’s off-grid.”

He smirked. “Told you I’d survive.”

You didn’t look at him. “You’re still an idiot.”

“Your idiot, apparently.” You elbowed him—lightly, but enough—and walked out, Vlad bobbing along in your pocket.

Natasha watched you leave and shook her head. “Absolutely something happened.”

Steve just smiled into his coffee. “Let it breathe.”

Sam sighed, eyeing the toaster Clint was still mauling. “We’re all gonna die.”

Clint shrugged. “At least it’ll be quiet.”

---

Steve was halfway through a cup of coffee when Clint stormed in, dramatically holding a tablet. “Okay, no one panic—but I think they’re sleeping together.”

Sam didn’t look up from the TV. “You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

“Barnes and Y/N,” Clint hissed. “They’ve been disappearing at the same times. Last week during weapons inventory, they both vanished for exactly 47 minutes.”

“That could be a coincidence,” Steve offered, clearly not convinced.

Clint jabbed the screen. “They both came back with matching dirt smudges on their knees. Matching.”

Wanda glanced up from the book she was reading on the couch. “Maybe they were sparring.”

“Or rolling around in a broom closet,” Clint muttered.

Natasha walked in holding a protein shake, raised an eyebrow. “Is this still about them?”

Sam snorted. “You’ve been quiet. What’s your theory?”

Natasha leaned against the wall. “My theory is that you all have too much free time and no concept of subtlety. You think they’re stupid enough to get caught?”

Tony strolled in from the hall, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and wearing mismatched socks. “Caught doing what, exactly?”

“Each other,” Clint said.

Tony paused. “...Gross. First of all, phrasing. Second, define evidence.”

Wanda sat up straighter. “They sync their moods now. When she’s irritated, he’s irritated. When she’s calm, he’s calm. It’s unnatural.”

“They used to exist like separate weather systems,” Clint added. “Now they’re like matching barometers.”

Sam leaned forward. “Okay, but here’s the kicker—last night, during game night? Y/N let Bucky sit next to her. Voluntarily.”

Steve raised a brow. “And?”

“She didn’t stab him when he stole a chip off her plate.”

Tony made a face. “She let him eat off her plate? That’s basically a marriage proposal.”

Natasha smirked faintly. “Still no proof.”

Clint threw his hands up. “You want proof? I set up a motion sensor near the training corridor. It caught them both leaving the gym at 3 a.m. last night.”

Sam blinked. “Wait. You bugged the hallway?”

“Just one hallway,” Clint said. “A small hallway. For science.”

Tony looked intrigued. “...How small?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Okay, but wait,” Wanda said, lowering her voice. “I saw Bucky sneak into the kitchen two nights ago. He was cooking something. When I walked in, he shoved it into a container and labeled it Y/N’s lunch – DO NOT TOUCH.”

Sam whistled. “Okay, that’s intimate.”

Nat shrugged. “Or suicidal. No one touches her food.”

Steve sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Maybe they’re just getting along.”

“Please,” Tony said. “Bucky smiles like an idiot every time she walks into a room now. That man has the emotional range of drywall and suddenly he’s glowing?”

Clint crossed his arms. “They’re sneaking around. I know it.”

Natasha drained the last of her shake. “Even if they are, they’re clearly better at hiding it than any of you are at noticing.”

There was a long pause. Tony leaned against the wall, thinking. “Okay. New plan. We test them.”

Sam groaned. “Oh god.”

“No, no, listen,” Tony said, eyes gleaming. “We separate them during missions, assign weird team pairings, move their gear, change common room times. Mess with their habits. If they’re not secretly a couple, they won’t notice. If they are—”

“They’ll break routine,” Wanda finished.

Clint looked excited. “It’s genius.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s childish.”

“It's science,” Tony corrected.

Just then, the lounge door opened. You walked in, hoodie on, carrying your tablet and a half-full mug. Bucky followed a step behind, wearing his usual black henley and an annoyingly calm expression. You both said nothing as you passed the group. Bucky glanced at Clint. “Morning.”

Clint watched like he was analyzing a crime scene. “Yeah. Morning.” You took a seat in the far corner. Bucky dropped into the armchair next to you, casual as ever. He said something too quiet to hear. You answered. Your expression didn’t change—but you did pass him your mug. He took a sip and passed it back. Clint gaped. “...She shared her coffee.”

Natasha just shook her head, grabbed Clint’s tablet, and deleted the surveillance footage. “You’re never going to catch them, you know.”

Tony crossed his arms. “Oh, we will. Everyone slips eventually.”

Wanda smirked. “Place your bets.” And across the room, you and Bucky sat in comfortable silence—two matching barometers, completely unreadable.

---

The thud of gloves hitting a heavy bag echoed through the mostly empty gym. Sam was spotting Steve across the room while Vision floated lazily overhead, reading something holographic. Clint lounged on a bench, allegedly stretching but really just watching you. You were working the bag in steady rhythm, hoodie sleeves rolled up, knuckles taped tight, sweat dripping down your temple. Bucky leaned against the wall by the dumbbell rack, arms crossed, pretending he wasn’t watching you. Which meant, of course, he absolutely was.

You didn’t acknowledge him.

Clint leaned toward Sam. “Okay. Day ten. Observation: still no concrete proof.”

Sam grunted. “She hasn’t stabbed anyone. That’s the strongest evidence we’ve got.”

Steve finished his set and sat up. “They could just be friends. Teammates. You know—adults.”

Clint gave him a look. “Steve, you’ve seen the way she reacts to everyone else touching her coffee mug. She nearly broke Vision’s wrist last month. Bucky drank from it yesterday. Voluntarily. And lived.”

Steve hesitated. “…Okay, that was weird.”

Bucky pushed off the wall and walked over, tossing you a water bottle. “Left side’s dropping when you pivot.”

You caught the bottle without looking. “Observation. Not critique.”

“Just saying.” He smirked, grabbed the bag to steady it. “Try again.” You reset. Jab, jab—then a clean right hook. “Better,” Bucky said. “Still a little off, though.”

You stepped back and wiped your face with the bottom of your shirt. “Want to get in here and show me, Barnes?”

He raised a brow. “You offering?”

You tossed the gloves down, stepping aside. “Bag’s all yours.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you as he moved in. “I’m more of a hands-on teacher.”

“Tragic,” you said, walking away to grab a towel. “I’m not much of a student.”

Behind you, Clint’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. “That was flirting, right? That was totally flirting.”

Natasha appeared out of nowhere beside him. “They’ve been like this for weeks. You’re just slow.”

Sam pointed at Bucky. “Look at him. He’s smiling. Smiling while working out. That’s not normal.”

Steve stood, towel slung over his shoulder. “So what? Even if they are together, they clearly don’t want anyone involved.”

Tony’s voice came from the intercom above. “I’m involved whether they like it or not.”

Clint jumped. “Jesus, Stark. Are you watching the gym feeds?”

Tony replied, “No comment. But for legal reasons, yes.”

Vision finally looked up from his book. “Would now be an appropriate time to ask what ‘shipping’ means?”

---

You sat on the floor, cross-legged, rifling through a crate of old SHIELD gear Tony had dumped in the armory. Bucky was sprawled on his bed, shirt half-on, arms behind his head. “I think Steve’s starting to catch on,” he said casually.

You held up a black combat knife. “Only took him ten days.”

“I give Clint another week before he bursts in here trying to take photos.”

You looked up. “He tries that, he loses a finger.”

Bucky grinned. “See, that’s why I like you.”

You tossed the knife into your bag and stood. “You like me because I’m violent.”

“That’s just a bonus.”

You crossed the room, leaned down to kiss him quick, light, barely more than a press of lips. “You should lock your door.”

“I did,” he said. “You picked it.”

You smiled—barely—and before you could stand upright again, Bucky’s vibranium arm came around your waist, pulling you down on top of him. You let him, falling into the dip of his chest with a quiet thud. "Barnes."

He didn’t say anything at first. Just slid his hand beneath the hem of your hoodie, dragging slow across the bare skin of your back. His fingers were warm. His palm, heavy. You shifted your hips once—deliberate—and his hand stopped. "You do that on purpose?" he asked, voice low, already thick.

You pushed up just enough to look down at him. "Do what?"

That look he gave you—half suspicion, half hunger. All trouble. His hand curved around your side, thumb brushing just beneath your ribs. "You trying to start something?" You rolled your hips again, slower this time. Precise. His breath hitched. Just barely. But it was there. "That's what I thought," he muttered, then sat up in one clean motion, dragging you into his lap. His legs shifted under you, knees spreading until you were caged in, straddling his thighs. Your hoodie bunched around your waist. His hands gripped your hips tight, fingers digging in through the thin cotton of your shorts. "You've been lookin’ at me like that all week," he said, voice low against your throat.

You tilted your head. "Like what?"

"Like you wanted me to fuckin’ snap."

"Maybe I do." His mouth was on you before the last word finished leaving your lips—hard, urgent, no hesitation. His kiss was all teeth and heat and breath, pulling you under fast. Your fingers tangled in his hair, dragging him closer as he bit your bottom lip, then sucked it between his teeth. You gasped. "Shhh," he muttered against your mouth. "You wanna get caught?"

You didn’t answer. You grabbed the hem of your hoodie and yanked it off in one motion, baring skin to the dim light filtering in through the blinds. His hands were on you instantly, palms splaying across your ribs, sliding up to cup your tits. "No bra?" he muttered, eyes locked on you. "You’re gonna kill me."

"Stop stalling." Bucky's groan was muffled against your collarbone. He kissed down your chest—slow, wet, open-mouthed—while his thumbs rolled across your nipples, coaxing tight little sounds from your throat you barely recognized as your own. Your hips rocked without thinking. He bucked up in return—fuck, he was already hard. "Bucky."

He growled, biting down gently on the swell of your breast. "Say that again."

"Bucky," you breathed, this time with teeth behind it. One hand reached between you, palming the thick line of him through his sweats. "You gonna fuck me or just keep talking about it?"

He shifted so fast your head spun—flattening you onto the mattress, stripping you out of your shorts, then shoving his own down just enough to free his cock. You barely had time to blink before he was dragging his fingers between your legs, two quick passes to coat them, then lining up and pushing in. You bit your wrist to keep the sound in.

"Fuck," he hissed through gritted teeth. "You’re so fuckin’ wet." Your legs wrapped around him on instinct. His pace was brutal from the start—deep, rhythmic thrusts, hips snapping hard against yours. Every push forced a breath out of you, every drag of him inside made your back arch off the bed.

"Bucky—"

"I got you," he panted, gripping your thigh and hauling it higher on his hip. "Fuck, baby, you feel—goddamn—" You reached up, fingers clawing at his back, anchoring yourself as he slammed into you. Every sound you made was swallowed into his shoulder, your mouth pressed to the curve of muscle there. "Shit—look at you," he groaned. "Quiet little thing all day, but now? Can’t shut up, huh?" You bit his neck in retaliation. His hips stuttered. Then he laughed—low, wrecked. "You tryin’ to make me lose it?"

You didn’t answer. You were too close. Too fucking close. Bucky shifted—hooked one arm under your knee and angled deeper. The next thrust nearly broke you. Your mouth dropped open, soundless, back bowing so hard the sheets bunched under you. "There it is," he said, voice shaking. "C'mon, doll. Let me feel it."

You snapped. The orgasm hit sharp and sudden, your whole body going tight before breaking apart under him. You dragged him down with you, pulling him by the neck, biting his jaw as you came around his cock. "Fuckfuckfuck," he groaned, pace faltering. "God—you feel so good like this—fuck—"

You clenched around him once, hard, and that did it. He buried himself deep, hips jerking as he spilled inside you with a broken noise. Hot. Heavy. Too much. Perfect. For a second, neither of you moved. Then Bucky exhaled, long and low, head dropping to your chest. You ran a hand down his back. "You’re heavy."

"Yeah, yeah." He rolled off you, dragging you with him. "You’re lucky I like you."

You snorted. "You’re lucky I didn’t kick you when you pulled me down."

He grinned, eyes still half-lidded, lips bruised. "Worth the risk."

---

The conference room lights dimmed as Tony flicked the holo-display on. Lines of Madripoor schematics rotated above the table. Tony clapped once. “Alright, children—eyes up. We’ve got a lead on stolen Stark prototypes moving through Lowtown’s black market. Stealth recon, tech retrieval, zero fireworks.” He tapped the screen. “Team of two.”

Clint perked up. “Me and Nat? Classic combo.”

“Not today, Legolas.” Tony zoomed in on the map. “Barnes and Y/N.”

Sam dropped his forehead to the table. “Come on, Stark, we just got the dents out of Madripoor.”

Steve sighed. “Any reason you keep pairing them?”

Tony shrugged. “They don’t complain. Also, Barnes speaks enough Hokkien to fake a conversation, and Y/N can hot-wire a vending machine. Perfect skill set.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow. “You sure it isn’t because they vanish without needing babysitters?”

Natasha smirked. “Or because they don’t trash half the city like you two.” She nodded toward Sam and Clint.

Clint pointed at Bucky. “Fine. But if he comes back with another mystery bruise, I’m calling HR.”

“No one’s calling HR,” you said flatly.

Bucky lounged in his chair, expression neutral. “It’s recon, Barton. I’ll be fine.”

Rhodey folded his arms. “Timeline?”

“Wheels up in forty-eight,” Tony answered. “Gear’s being prepped. Quiet in, quiet out. We tag the crates, FRIDAY triggers the pickup drone, Barnes grabs local security feeds, Y/N wipes every camera. Done.”

Vision looked thoughtful. “Probability of non-lethal outcome?”

Tony shrugged. “With them? Sixty-forty.”

Sam groaned again. “Great.”

Steve closed the briefing file. “You two good with the plan?”

Bucky’s gaze slid to you—calm, unreadable. “Good.”

You nodded once. “Standard infil. No problems.”

Clint muttered, “Famous last words.”

Tony snapped the lights back on. “Briefing over. Everyone else, logistics in twenty. Barnes, Y/N—grab your alias packets and play nice.”

You stood, sliding the dossier under your arm. “Always.”

Bucky rose beside you, voice low. “See you in the range at 1900?”

“Bring silencers,” you murmured, already turning for the door.

Sam watched you both leave, then leaned toward Natasha. “They’re definitely hiding something.”

Natasha smirked. “Obviously.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “As long as they hide the stolen tech, I don’t care what else they hide.”

---

Bucky’s arm slung loose around your waist as you weaved through stalls. “Smile, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips near your ear. “We’re newlyweds smuggling microchips, remember?”

You managed half a smirk. “Keep your hand south and I’ll break a finger, darling.”

He chuckled, tightening his grip just enough to sell it. At a folding table cluttered with dodgy Stark knock-offs, a broker in mirrored shades waved you closer. “Got your trackers.” The broker tapped a crate. “Ten grand, cash.”

Bucky leaned in, voice lazy. “Five. And you throw in the drive clusters.”

The broker scoffed. “You think I bargain?”

You stepped forward, resting a palm on Bucky’s chest. “Baby, let me handle this.” Then, to the broker, “five, or your next shipment gets flagged by Customs. I wrote their search algos.”

The broker’s jaw twitched. “Seven.”

You shrugged. “Six, we’re friends. Take it or call Customs now.”

He muttered a curse and slid a data stick across. You pocketed it, tapping twice on the crate’s side—signal for FRIDAY’s drone. Bucky’s mouth brushed your temple. “You’re hot when you extort people.”

“Stay in character,” you muttered, but your fingers laced with his as you moved on.

“You two lost?” a new voice asked. Five men stepped from the alley, tiger patches on their jackets—Brass Tiger enforcers. One pointed at Bucky. “Saw you tag that crate. Who you working for?”

You eased a knife from your sleeve. “Tourists.”

Leader sneered. “Hand over the stick.”

Bucky’s grin turned feral. “Can’t. Anniversary present.”

The first swing came fast. You ducked, slammed an elbow into a goon’s ribs while Bucky blocked a knife strike with his metal arm. “Left!” you called.

He spun, catching the attacker’s wrist, flipping him into a stack of crates—crash. You kicked another in the knee, knife flicking out to slice his belt and drop his pistol. Bucky pivoted back-to-back with you. “Three left.”

“Two,” you corrected, launching a heel into one throat—gurgle, down.

A baton cracked across Bucky’s shoulder but he barely flinched before grabbing, and yanking the guy forward so you could knee his face. The last one bolted. Bucky let him run. “He’ll spread the story. Cover works.”

You wiped your blade on a fallen jacket. “We good?”

He glanced skyward—drone lights zipped past, snatching the tagged crate. “Package away. Extraction point?”

“South pier.”

He offered his hand, still breathing hard. You took it, letting him pull you close for appearance’s sake—and maybe because adrenaline felt good between you. He smirked. “Told you stealth would be fun.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t step back. “Buy me noodles before we exfil and I might forgive the ‘newlywed’ line.”

His thumb stroked your knuckles. “Anything for the wife.”

---

Steam curled off the street-side noodle cart, thick with ginger and soy. You leaned against the counter, slurping from a plastic bowl while Bucky paid the vendor. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Two tails at six o’clock—same jackets as before.”

You sucked a noodle, deadpan. “Tell them we’re on a date.”

Bucky slid in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, feeding you a bite with his chopsticks. “Open up, sweetheart.”

You bit down, chewing slowly while your other hand fished a flash-bang marble from your pocket. “Left tail’s got a sidearm.”

“I’ll handle right,” he murmured, brushing stray broth from your lip with his thumb—too intimate for strangers, perfectly on brand for the cover. You swallowed and dropped the marble into the noodle pot’s trash bucket. Fssst—pop! Steam whooshed as the vendor yelped and the crowd scattered.

Bucky moved first—hooked the armed tail’s wrist, twisting the gun free, jabbed him in the gut. You clotheslined the second with the cart’s bamboo pole. Both went down fast, lost in the chaos. You set your bowl back on the cart. “Shame. Good broth.”

Bucky handed the vendor an extra bill. “Emergency tip.” The old man blinked gratefully as you melted into the fleeing crowd.

The south pier had rusted trawlers bobbed against warped pylons. FRIDAY’s unmarked skiff idled in dark water. Bucky held your hand while you hopped from dock to deck. “Ladies first.”

“You just want the stern rifle,” you muttered, but let him steady you anyway. Once aboard, he keyed the pilot-drive, engines whispering to life. The city lights receded before Madripoor’s skyline became shards of neon in the mist. You perched on a crate, checking the recovered data stick under a red utility lamp. “Clean pull. Prototype schematics intact.”

Bucky dropped beside you, thigh pressed to yours. “Told Stark we’d babysit his toys.”

You nudged him. “He owes us hazard pay.”

He leaned in, voice low. “And a weekend off-grid.”

“In your dreams, Barnes.”

He smirked. “You’re in my dreams, doll.”

You pretended to study the holo-readout while warmth crept up your neck. “Focus on piloting.”

He tapped the console for autopilot, then draped an arm over your shoulders. “Handled.” The deck rocked gently, night air salt-sharp and quiet. You let your head rest against his shoulder—just for a minute. Bucky’s thumb traced circles on your arm. “Mission success, no witnesses, great noodles. Not bad for a date night.”

You snorted. “Your definition of romance is skewed.”

He tipped your chin, meeting your eyes. “Still works.”

You huffed—but didn’t pull away. “Next time? Real restaurant. No ambushes.”

He grinned. “Deal.” You pocketed the stick, closed your eyes, and listened to the low hum of the engines—and the steady heartbeat under his shirt. For once, Madripoor felt almost calm.

---

The quinjet’s ramp hissed open. You descended first—duffel slung over one shoulder, expression locked in neutral. Bucky followed a step behind, rolling his shoulders like the flight meant nothing. The welcoming committee waited on the tarmac: Tony, Sam, Clint, Wanda, Vision, Rhodey, Steve—every single one trying, and failing, not to stare. Tony spoke first. “Prototype’s intact?”

You held up the insulated case. “Untouched.”

Bucky tossed Tony a thumb-drive. “Black-market ledger. Compliments of Lowtown.”

Tony whistled, pocketing it. “Look at you two—efficient.”

Sam folded his arms. “Any trouble?”

“Minor,” Bucky said.

Clint eyed the faint bruise on Bucky’s jaw. “Define minor.”

Bucky smirked. “You should see the other guys.”

Steve nodded—half approval, half curiosity. “Debrief in an hour?”

“Fine,” you said.

As the group dispersed, Natasha fell into step beside you, silent until the hallway cleared. Near the equipment lockers, she blocked the doorway, one brow arching. “Spill.”

You blinked. “On?”

“Madripoor. You and Barnes. The bruise. The smug walk.” She crossed her arms. “We’re not amateurs here.”

You slid the case onto a shelf. “Mission went as planned.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You met her gaze, face blank. “Nothing to report, Romanoff.”

A beat of silence. Natasha’s eyes narrowed. “You know I’ll find out.”

“Then you don’t need me to tell you,” you said, stepping past her.

She turned, following a pace. “Just be careful.”

You paused, glanced back. “Always am.” No heat, no smile—nothing but that cold, steady calm.

Natasha exhaled, half-smirked. “Right. See you at debrief.” You walked off without another word, boots echoing down the corridor. Behind you, she shook her head, muttering, “they’re definitely hiding something.”

---

You found yourselves hidden in corners and hallways, stolen kisses in empty conference rooms, gentle hands in darkened spaces. But always careful. Always quiet. Then, one night after a mission debrief stretched too long and you’d practically been asleep at the table, Bucky had silently followed you to your quarters. You didn’t question when he walked in behind you, and he didn’t offer an explanation when you climbed into your bed, motioning for him to join. He simply climbed in beside you, your head settling comfortably against his chest, his arm draping easily around your back.

“You’re warm,” you muttered quietly, voice thick with sleep.

“Not complaining, are you?” he replied softly, fingers tracing gentle circles between your shoulder blades.

You hummed quietly, already drifting. He listened as your breathing slowed, steadied, and he realized—for the first time in what felt like forever—he didn’t feel tense. Didn’t feel on guard. Just… calm. His eyelids grew heavier, and for once, the nightmares stayed away.

Early sunlight spilled across the blankets, and Bucky stirred first, blinking slowly awake to find you still curled at his side. He carefully slipped from beneath your arm, pausing to watch your peaceful expression just a moment before quietly padding to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, you wandered in, hair tousled, eyes sleepy. You froze in the doorway, taking in the sight of Bucky standing at the stove, flipping eggs onto a plate. He glanced over his shoulder. “Morning.”

“Are you cooking?” You raised a skeptical brow.

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “It’s therapeutic.”

“For who, Barnes?”

“Definitely not you,” he deadpanned, sliding the plate closer. “But if you’re hungry…”

You stared at the plate, then took a slow step closer. “I’m not.”

“Right,” he smirked faintly, already turning away. “Guess I’ll eat it myself.”

You snatched the plate before he could pull it back. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just hungry enough to tolerate your cooking.”

He watched you sit down, barely suppressing his grin as you took a bite. “You’re smiling,” you said flatly, not looking up.

“Am not.”

“You are.”

He shook his head, grabbing his own plate and sliding into the seat beside you. “You’re imagining things.”

“Mm-hm.” You continued eating quietly, and after a pause, added, “Thank you.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, voice gentle. “It’s just eggs.”

You glanced at him sideways. “I didn’t mean for breakfast.”

He stared at you for a beat, something warm flickering in his expression before it melted into a familiar smirk. “Careful. That almost sounded sentimental.”

“Don’t ruin it,” you murmured, nudging him lightly with your elbow. And for once, he didn’t argue—just smiled softly into his coffee and let the silence speak for itself.

---

Peter had been at the compound all of five minutes before he accidentally pulled the pin on the grenade no one knew was loaded. You were sitting on the arm of the couch, silently scrolling through your tablet, while Bucky stood across the room, leaning against the kitchen island, calmly sipping coffee. The rest of the team was scattered around, mid-lunch or mid-conversation, paying half-attention. Peter plopped down beside Wanda, chatting enthusiastically about his latest school project and the cryptid exhibit you’d taken him to a month ago. He paused abruptly mid-ramble, glancing between you and Bucky. “Wait—are you and Bucky seriously still not officially a thing?”

There was a choking noise came from Sam. Tony dropped his sandwich. Clint looked genuinely horrified. And Natasha froze with a cup halfway to her lips. You raised your eyes slowly from your screen. Bucky lowered his coffee mug, head turning carefully toward Peter. A beat of absolute silence passed, thick and awkward. You exchanged a glance with Bucky, expression unreadable. Then, calmly, you replied, “define ‘official.’”

The room collectively exploded. “I knew it!” Clint shouted triumphantly, pointing a finger. “They’ve been lying for months!”

Tony stood up dramatically, sandwich forgotten. “Timeline! Now. When, where, how—I want details.”

Steve rubbed a hand over his eyes, resigned. “We’re not doing this.”

“Yes, we are,” Sam argued, already pulling out his phone. “I’m texting Rhodey.”

“You had bets?” Bucky asked flatly.

“You didn’t?” Clint shot back.

Peter, completely oblivious, blinked. “Wait, did everyone seriously not know?”

You stared Peter down. “It was classified.”

Tony jabbed an accusing finger at Bucky. “You—cyborg Casanova. I trusted you.”

“Did you?” Bucky deadpanned. “Really?”

Wanda leaned forward, barely containing a grin. “So how long exactly have you two been lying?”

“Not lying,” you clarified evenly. “Avoiding.”

“That’s a fancy word for lying,” Natasha pointed out smoothly, lips curving.

Bucky gave her an irritated look. “Whose side are you on?”

“Hers,” Natasha replied instantly.

Sam waved his phone. “Rhodey wants photographic evidence.”

Tony crossed his arms, glaring at you both dramatically. “Someone better start explaining before I have FRIDAY pull security footage.”

“No,” you said firmly. “And also, don’t.”

Clint narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Wait—was that why you two vanished after inventory last week?”

Bucky gave an innocent shrug. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god,” Tony groaned, rubbing his temples. “They’ve been hooking up during missions.”

“Hey,” Bucky said sharply. “We’re professionals.”

“You’re professionals at lying,” Tony shot back.

You glanced at Bucky, expression carefully neutral. He tilted his head slightly, eyes softening with amusement. “You wanna handle this, or should I?”

You gave a slow blink. “Feel free.” Without another word, Bucky set down his coffee, crossed the room in two strides, and slipped his hand gently along your jaw, guiding your face toward his. Before you could even fully register what he was doing, his lips pressed firmly, confidently, against yours. The room fell dead silent again. Tony made a muffled choking sound. Clint’s jaw dropped. Peter covered his eyes, muttering a flustered apology. Wanda just smiled smugly into her tea.

When Bucky finally pulled back, he stayed close, voice barely above a whisper. “That clear enough for everyone?”

You blinked slowly, recovering. “Subtle.”

“You know me,” he murmured. “Master of subtlety.”

Tony threw up his hands. “All right. Officially traumatized.”

Sam shook his head slowly. “I need therapy.”

Peter, still covering his eyes, muttered quietly, “oh god, I’m sorry I asked.”

You leaned back slightly, catching Bucky’s gaze. A tiny, faint smirk pulled at the corner of your mouth. “Congratulations,” you said softly. “We broke the Avengers.”

Intimacy had always felt like a stranger to you. Something you couldn't quite grasp, even alone, no matter how hard you tried. Lights off and under covers not nearly enough to quiet your mind and just feel. To stop thinking about all the ways you might be too much. Or, not enough.

By the time you met Bucky, you were already convinced it just wasn't in the cards for you. Destined to spend the rest of your life always wondering 'what if.' Constantly reviewing the endless list of things you probably needed change about yourself.

And then he walked into your life and had the nerve to offer you the most dangerous thing of all.

Hope.

It started small. Slow. Two people learning how to trust again. How to be present. How to want without worrying about doing the wrong thing.

Bucky seemed to catch on much quicker. Kisses growing confident, words spilling out unchecked during heated moments. But never pushing. Always content with whatever pace you seemed comfortable with.

Inside you've been dying for more. More than just the heavy make-out sessions you'd find yourselves in. His body pressing you into the couch cushions, thigh slotted between yours, careful hands roaming over frustrating layers of clothing.

The words always seemed to die before they could ever fully form. Pleas for more getting lost in the ruminating thoughts that would inevitably take root. A constant battle of being silenced by your own insecurities until one day - suddenly - Bucky manages to coax it out of you.

"God, sweetheart," he groans against your neck, hips rocking gently. "Feel so good." One hand grips your thigh, squeezing the generous give of it. "So soft."

Your shuddering moan only seems to set him off more. Fingers readjusting, sliding higher, easily finding that spot on the back of your thigh that elicits some of the most needy noises you've ever made.

"Yeah?" he pants, kisses following a trail back to your lips, tongue delving deep. Teeth clashing in a frenzy that leaves you dizzy. Grasping at him, shirt bunched between your fingers, body seeking more friction.

It's the harsh gasp of his name that breaks the spell. Mouths reluctantly separating so he can check in. Gaze sweeping over your fluttering lashes, the heat radiating off your skin, your perfect, swollen lips parted in an effort to take in more oxygen.

"Doin' so good for me," he murmurs, pulse stuttering at the effect the simple praise has on you. Thighs tensing. Back arching. Another shuddering gasp that almost makes him forget he's a gentleman.

Dropping his head again, he noses along your jaw to breathe you in. His firm grip on your thigh encouraging you to keep moving. To keep taking. To stop worrying that he's thinking about anything other than how perfect you fit against him.

"Swear you were made just for me."

He says it with such conviction - such awe - that it's impossible not to believe it. To not let it sink deep and twist around all the ugly fears usually holding you back. Making room for one single thought.

"Please."

Such a simple word.

And yet, it has Bucky's brain short-circuiting. Cock twitching, his strained erection digging into your thigh. Leaving no doubt what you're doing to him.

"Please what, sweet girl?" he breathes, restraint warring with desire.

A pathetic whimper bubbles up, hands dropping to the cushions. Just long enough for him to start suckling a bruise over your pulse, wet tongue pulling your focus. Your grip immediately returns to his waist, nails digging in through the cotton. Eliciting a growl that has you once again forgetting about everything but him.

"What do you need, hmm?" Soft words muttered against your throat, his sure hand hitching a millimeter higher. Testing the waters without throwing you off balance. "Need me to touch more of you? Make you feel good?"

Heavy panting answers him. Your thigh inching up his side, letting him settle deeper against you. Letting him feel how fucking warm you already are.

"Christ."

His sharp inhale unlocks something inside of you. Giving way to a newfound confidence that has you taking a step all on your own, fingers dipping underneath the hem of his shirt, seeking out his feverish skin.

"Shit," he hisses, body locking up, weight dropping to his vibranium forearm, resisting the urge to rut against you like some animal in heat. Muffled laughter follows, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he apologizes, "was almost over before we even got started."

Warmth settles low in your belly, electricity radiating out from where he's grinding against you. Your hips setting the pace without you even realizing it.

It's never been like this for you. Not just the bursts of pleasure, but how he's able to get you to relax. To breathe. To just fucking feel for once in your life.

"Yes." It almost comes out as a sob. Your palms sliding over the strong muscles of his back, each flex grounding you deeper in the moment. "Please."

A slow shift and he's suddenly there. Flush against you. The fly of his jeans providing exquisite friction that has your legs squeezing his hips.

"Oh god," you gasp, a tremor running through you, limbs clinging to him like you're on the verge of losing yourself.

"Shhh," Bucky soothes, wasting no time in pulling you back from the brink, "open those pretty eyes for me."

The moment you do, he's leaning over you, intense gaze holding you hostage, taking you in like you're a work of art.

"There you are," he smiles, drawing out more needy gasps, your hips starting to find a quicker rhythm. "Love watching you... this little scrunch right here -" a kiss to the bridge of your nose, "when it starts to feel really good."

A deliberate roll of his hips and he kisses the spot again, grinning against your skin. Beard tickling your nose, a soft giggle pouring out of you like it's second nature.

"Already addicted to you, sweetheart, ya know that?"

Your answering moan has him reaching for your thigh, hooking it higher up his waist, opening you up until your crying out for him again.

"God, you're perfect," he groans, palm cradling the back of your skull to keep you looking up at him. Forcing you to rewrite your entire narrative. "So damn responsive for me."

You can feel it. The heat, the pressure, the hard line of his erection coaxing you to heights you've never experienced. Panties growing damp. Nipples pebbling inside your bra. An overwhelming ache for more.

"Please," as if it's the only word in your vocabulary. Nails leaving pink trails down his back, your other hand reaching down to grab his ass, using it for leverage to chase the pleasure coursing through you.

All because he hasn't taken his eyes off you. Showing you, clear as day, how fucking turned on he is. Just from seeing you like this.

So when you sense the shift - his breathing turning harsh, the tension building in his muscles, the way he keeps saying your name like it's the only thing he remembers - you're finally capable of asking for what you want.

"Please, I... can we- can we go to bed?"

Bucky'd throw you over his damn shoulder if he wasn't worried about scaring you off.

Instead, he takes his time. Kisses you nice and slow, easing you up so you're sitting for him. Giving you a chance to change your mind once you're no longer clouded by the heat spreading between you.

There's no second guessing this. No pausing. You just reach for his hand and allow him to pull you up, his steady feet guiding you towards the bedroom. Assuring gaze carrying you until you're both standing at the side of the bed. The low light of the lamp hiding nothing from either of you.

"Can I take this off-," he starts to ask, hands resting on your hips, fingers dipped under the hem of your shirt.

"Can we turn off the light-," you ask at the same time, your head turned towards the offending source.

Shy laughter vibrates against his chest where you bury your face, his arms banding around you, his warm chuckle shaking you both.

And then the moment threatens to turn sour, Bucky placing a kiss on the top of your head with a murmured, "tryin' not to hide in the shadows anymore."

It shouldn't shock you. Shouldn't freeze you in place. Shouldn't have you tensing in his arms like he's done something wrong.

"Sorry." The reflexive apology tastes bitter on your tongue, but it's the only olive branch that makes sense.

"Hey." That soothing tone again that has you melting, his hands coming up to frame your face, flesh and metal holding you like you're something precious. "None o' that. We don't gotta do anything, okay? Could just lay here, if you wanted."

Your fingers encircle his wrists, the contrast reminding you of everything he's been through. What he's capable of. How incredibly safe you are in his arms.

You start with the slow shake of your head, then you're offering him, "I'm just... scared. I don't... I'm not good at... this. At... being seen."

"Yeah, you are."

The words cut through the haze, a confused laugh passing between you before you're shaking your head again. Ready to prove him wrong.

"You are," he grins, turning to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his bent knees. "You don't think you are. You've somehow convinced yourself you're incapable of it."

It's not criticism. Or a complaint. Just an observation that he's bringing into the light.

Thumb tracing the seam of your lips, he tilts his head, refusing to let you drop his gaze. "But you like it. You want me to see you. Want me to prove you wrong."

You swallow the lump forming, words getting lost in the process, your focus flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Trying to figure out where to go from here. How to-

"Ya gotta stop thinkin' so much, sweetheart," he grins, hands sliding around your hips, pulling you even closer. Cutting off your response with a teasing kiss. "Not expecting miracles, here. Just need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

It's an impossible task actually - stop thinking so much - but trusting Bucky? That comes easy.

"Yeah," you nod, hands toying with the cuffs of his sleeve, thumbs stroking his biceps. "Might still make it awkward."

"Awkward I can do," he promises with a playful smile, fingers starting to guide your shirt up. "Hiding's what scares me."

His confession catches you off guard, knees threatening to buckle, the vulnerability in his voice leaving you breathless.

"Know it makes you feel safe," he continues, eyes darkening when your shirt rides up just enough to give him access to the soft skin above the waistband of your pants. "Wanna figure out how to make you feel safe with me. Like this."

Each word dismantling another layer of armor until you're trembling in his arms, skin prickling with excitement, arousal building from the sheer thought of being taken care of.

"Can I try?" he asks, hands moving up along the curve of your waist, shirt bunching higher until cool air meets heated flesh.

He doesn't demand any more of you. He just sits there, looking up, patient as the day is long. Waiting for you to decide if this is something you're ready for.

If not-

"Yeah."

This time it resembles an actual syllable instead of a gust of air. The effort sending heat licking up Bucky's spine. Spurring him on to help you take the first leap, he rises to his full height the same time he gently instructs you to lift your arms. Shedding you of the material in one careful swoop, leaving no time for you to get lost in the tempting darkness.

"All you gotta do is stay right here with me," he reminds you, your shirt tossed onto the dresser behind you.

Then he's looking at you, hungry gaze taking in the swell of your breasts, cleavage on display, the delicate trim of your bra making him have to remind himself to behave.

For now, anyway.

When he finds you looking down too, he steps closer, catching your attention with a playful, "Knew I was lucky. Didn't realize how lucky until just now."

You forget how to breathe again when his hand makes contact with your bare waist, thumb resting just below dangerous territory.

"What else you got hidin' under there, doll?"

The question cuts through the noise starting to surface, an appreciative laugh getting swallowed when you take the initiative to kiss him. Arms draped over his shoulders, fingers combing through his hair, the tip of your tongue teasing along his parted lips.

That's all it takes for Bucky to take matters into his own hands. Literally. Palms effortlessly scooping you up, wrapping your legs around his waist before you can overthink it. He doesn't even turn towards the bed yet.

He just stands there, kissing you like his life depends on it. The solid weight of you igniting filthy scenarios he's desperate to act out with you.

By the time he has you on the bed, writhing underneath him, your shirt still the only barrier that's been removed, you've become someone you don't even recognize.

Desperate and needy. Holding onto him while he takes you apart.

His mouth leaving a trail of messy kisses down your throat, across your collarbones, tongue dipping between your breasts until your arching up. Offering yourself up to him, leaving him no choice but to devour you.

Wet heat closing over your nipple through the thin barrier of your bra, sending sparks straight to your clit. Your hips finding that rhythm again, grinding against his jeans until you forget that you never knew how to do this.

It doesn't even register once his hands slip underneath you, fingers unhooking your bra with ease that belies his recent experience. Once it's slipping free, he's kissing you again, distracting you with growling praise of, "so goddamn perfect," and "can't believe you're mine," and "love you so much."

Until you're dizzy again. Lost in the sea of sensation and intimacy. Brain quieting long enough for you to reach for his shirt, silently begging him to join you. To feel his skin against yours. Hard planes meeting soft curves that have you both moaning.

Then he's back to giving your nipples more attention, large hands cupping your breasts, fingers tugging at one neglected bud before switching sides. Lips and teeth working them into stiff peaks. All the while working you higher and higher with consistent pressure between your thighs.

Making you believe that something life-altering is coming.

Because it is.

Just, not yet.

When he pulls back, one hand slipping between your bodies to start working you free of your pants, the whine that erupts has your hands scrambling, covering your face to avoid Bucky's reaction. As if it'd be anything other than devoted amusement.

Smug satisfaction that he's able to bring out those kinds of noises even through layers of clothing. It leaves no doubt that this is headed exactly where he thinks it is.

As long as he can help keep you anchored.

"Gonna ask for a favor," he says, leaning in kiss the corner of your mouth. "If things get too loud up here," another kiss to your temple, "just let me know." Fingers hook into your waistband, pausing long enough to add, "doesn't even gotta be words, sweetheart. Could tap me. Get my attention if I don't notice, okay?"

He probably will. Always does. But it gives you an out. A way to break the tension before it can shatter the connection.

It doesn't take long. Once he's helping you wiggle out of your pants, the clumsy movement drawing attention to the parts you long to hide, you're reaching out. Trembling fingers brushing his shoulder.

He's already pausing, your pants pushed down to your knees, Bucky refusing to let the swirling thoughts take hold.

"I've got you," he murmurs, leaning in to press a deliberate kiss to your belly. Beard tickling along your side until your squirming for him, a beautiful giggle breaking free. Your pants getting kicked off in a haste to pull him closer.

Rough jeans meeting the thin cotton barrier of your soaked underwear, his hard erection trapped between you, begging for relief. He ignores it in favor of watching you lose yourself to the pleasure.

Head thrown back, eyes fluttering, nails digging into his skin every time he reminds you he's exactly where he wants to be. Heated groans of, "didn't think it could feel this good," and "you're so hot, sweetheart," and "can fucking smell you, wanna taste you so bad."

It should throw you for a loop. Should send you fleeing under the covers. But all it does is make you whine. Pussy pulsing, a gush of arousal that's sure to leave a wet spot on his pants.

"That a yes?" It comes out more desperate than he intends, fingers cupping your jaw, thumb guiding your chin down so he can lock eyes with you. Needing the verbal confirmation this time. "Want me to taste you? Eat your pretty pussy?"

"Oh god." Another whine. Eyes snapping closed. Thighs gripping him tight as your entire body reacts as if you've been electrified.

The growl he makes against your neck, teeth nipping at your dewy skin, has you confessing in record time. Gasping pleas of, "Yes... want that... please, oh my god."

"Fuck," Bucky grunts, forgetting himself for a moment as he thrusts against you, the fly of his jeans catching on your swollen clit, making you keen. Making the pleasure spike until you're begging for him to take pity on you.

It takes everything in him not to give in. Not to slide down and lick you clean, have your thighs wrapped around his ears as you scream his name.

Hips maintaining the direct pressure you seem to crave, he catches your gaze again, offering you that same smile that got you to agree to go on that first date.

"Same rules apply, sweet girl," he reminds you, nose kissing yours. "You let me know if anything doesn't feel good. However you can." A mischievous smile ticking up the corner of his mouth, "Otherwise, all you gotta do is lay here, okay?"

No expectations. No need for performance or overthinking. Just two people in love, exploring. Learning each other.

Bucky only moves once you fully relax, hands mapping your body as he trails kisses down your sternum. Tongue poking out to tease the side of your breast before dipping lower. Open mouth kisses across your tummy while the pads of his fingers tease along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

Giving you no relief to the ache building inside of you. But at least he's all you're thinking about. How good it feels. How much you need him to just tear your fucking panties off so he can make good on his promise.

Watching him have to unzip his jeans and reach in to adjust himself only sets more fire to your veins, nails digging into his shoulder while you tug at his hair.

"Fuck. Please, I can't..."

"Okay," he soothes, smiling against your skin, fingers sliding to catch the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down until you're completely bare for him. The scent of you hitting him like a tidal wave. Making his mouth water, his trembling hands coaxing your knees back, spreading you open.

"Bucky," you breathe, hands resting on the curve of your stomach, itching to hide yourself from his intense gaze.

"You're so fucking gorgeous, holy shit," he gasps, pupils blown, palms inching closer, thumbs meeting the slick heat coating your skin. "Jesus, you're so wet for me, baby."

That's all it takes, apparently. Some teasing, some filthy praise, and you're resting back against the pillows, thighs spread, hips already moving towards his mouth. Your hand never loosening its grip on his hair the moment he makes contact.

Lips and tongue leaving a wet trail along your thigh until his nose bumps your swollen pussy, the taste of you exploding on his tongue. Your scent filling his lungs. Making him never want come up for air.

"Knew you'd taste good, but fuckin' hell, sweetheart."

Nearly coming right then and there.

Tongue lapping at your folds, collecting more of your wetness, thumbs keeping you spread so he can drink you down. Never once letting you start to doubt this is anything other than worship.

For once in your life, time loses all meaning. Zero thoughts other than how much Bucky is enjoying this. Allowing you to focus on his mouth finding your clit, tongue swirling, groans vibrating that have you seeing stars.

"Like that," you manage between gasping breaths, sweat starting to collect between your breasts, your free hand wrapped around your ankle. Helping to keep you exactly where he wants you.

Where you're more than happy to be.

The pressure building again. Sharp zaps of pleasure radiating out from your clit. Juices drenching his beard. Your greedy walls pulsing around nothing. Aching to be filled.

"Oh god, fuck me," you plead, toes curling. "Please - please, fuck me."

Your demand for more is met with the pad of his finger breaching your entrance, slick digit slipping in without any resistance, knuckles curling to make you grind against his mouth.

Encouraging you to chase your pleasure, another finger stretching you open when your legs starts to quiver around his head. His hips humping the air while he devours you. The sounds you're making going straight to his leaking dick. Steel-hard and leaving a mess because he can't get enough of you.

You're almost there. Teetering on the edge of something attainable, eyelids shut tight, dry mouth left open in a permanent O, muscles starting to protest from exertion.

Reminding you how long you've been like this. While he's still-

Harder suction has you crying out, vibranium arm pinning your thigh to the mattress, your other dropping to mirror the relaxed pose. Heels digging into the covers so you can fuck yourself. Use his mouth to make yourself come. His fingers never ceasing their relentless assault, your fluttering walls starting to tighten.

"Oh sh- I'm gon- gonna - don't- fuck- fuck- fuck - don't stop, please- don't fucking stop, please."

Bucky couldn't even if he wanted to. He's too far gone. Lost in his new favorite place. Where he intends to spend as much fucking time as you'll let him.

Especially if this is where it leads. To you coming all over his face, pussy trying to milk his fingers, the hoarse scream of his name making him spill his load like some green cadet.

He doesn't stop until you're tugging at his hair, sobbing from overload, his fingers continuing to draw several more shuddering gasps before he finally relents. Letting you breathe, kissing his way back up until he's wrapping his arms around your shaking body.

Welcoming the onslaught of emotions sweeping you under.

"Shh, I've got you," he promises, soothing you with tender caresses along your sweaty back. "Did so good for me." Grazes of his lips over your jaw. "So proud of you. Takin' what you needed. Lettin' me love you like that."

Slowly bringing you back down to earth.

"Holy shit." The first words you're capable of, followed by tearful laughter. And endless admiration. "Can't believe you just did that."

Bucky's breath fans over your face, his laughter meeting with yours during a lingering kiss.

"We did that," he counters, fingertips stroking lower, tracing the swell of your ass. "You did that. And it was so fucking hot."

A squealing laugh erupts when he grabs a handful of your asscheek, rolling over until you're sprawled across him. Nipples scraping against his chest, thigh draped over his, one confident hand following an invisible trail to his open fly.

"Made a mess," he warns, abs clenching under your teasing touch, cock already twitching back to life.

"Should I stop?"

A hint of playfulness that has him grinning against your lips, tongue slipping into your mouth in answer. Hips arching towards your hand. Silently encouraging you to keep exploring.

The boldness wavers when your hand reaches his underwear, fingers hooking in the waistband to tug them down, only to realize you've reached the awkward one-handed stage. Your other elbow digging into the mattress to keep most of your weight off of him.

"You're overthinkin' again," he teases, whispering the words like a secret. "How 'bout you lay back for me? Let me do all the work?"

"Pretty sure you just did," you whisper back, hand stalling at his fly.

Soft laughter fills the space between you, Bucky's nose nudging yours, encouraging you to look at him, "So? Make me earn it, sweet girl."

Like he's craving it.

Pillow back under your head and his gaze stays targeted on you. Pants and underwear getting pushed down, clumsy attempts knocking him over before he's surging upright with a sheepish grin, the material finally getting kicked off his feet.

Your own relaxed laughter fades as soon as you lay eyes on him. Thick and heavy, growing by the second, leaving you torn between wanting him in your mouth and your pussy. Tongue peaking out to wet dry lips, thighs opening wider to invite him in. Unabashedly giving him the final choice.

It's no contest.

The thought of having your lips wrapped around him has a pearl of pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock, but it's the thought of sinking into you - feeling your walls squeeze him when you come again - that turns him rock-hard. Balls drawing up tight as he shuffles forward.

Resisting the urge to sink into you - a super-human fucking feat, given the tilt of your hips - Bucky places both hands to the mattress, right next to your head, effectively caging you in, pelvis flush against yours, the engorged head of his cock rocking against your clit. Creating a lewd, schlick sound.

Waiting until your fluttering lashes open to meet his gaze, he leans close, stilling your quick nod with a growly reminder, "Gonna give you whatever you need." Body aligning with yours, thick head nudging your entrance, he pauses again. Heavy breaths mixing with yours. "All you gotta do is lay there and take it."

The first exquisite stretch cuts off your needy whine. The uncontrolled sound morphing into a keening sob that wracks your whole body. Nails digging into his back, heels flexing towards the ceiling, his cock bottoming out to steal your last breath.

"Oh fuck me," he groans, forehead dropping to your chest, velvet walls pulsing around him, trying to turn him into a liar. Threatening to end this before he can make good on his word. "Gonna need a second."

His breathless confession has the opposite effect of what he's probably hoping for. Back arching, pussy squeezing his cock, nipples seeking out his talented mouth.

"Doll," he growls, body meeting yours in a slap of heated flesh, hips setting the pace you're begging for. Lips close around the aching bud, teeth worrying the sensitive tip, suction soothing the sting every time his cock hits that spot inside of you.

Driving you higher and higher up the bed until his hand shoots out, palm nearly cracking the headboard to protect your head from hitting the wood.

"Ain't gonna last," he grunts, letting your nipple go with a filthy pop. Sitting back to get a better look, eyes roaming from your bouncing tits to his cock disappearing over and over into your tight heat. "Fuck, baby, tell me what you need."

It hits like lightning, a burst of pleasure, a roll of your hips, and then a flash of insecurity. Stomach rolls on full display, thick thighs shaking with each hard thrust.

"Uh uh," he pants, "eyes on me."

Metal hand securing a thigh, the other gripping your soft belly, his twitching cock and gaping mouth all the evidence you need to believe his next rush of praise.

"Hottest fucking thing I've ever seen, holy shit."

Vibranium thumb finds your clit, cool metal warming under the slick, swollen heat, metal starting to vibrate as he picks up the pace. Finding the perfect rhythm you need to start strangling his cock.

"That's it," he tells you, fingers warpped around your waist for leverage, "just let me fuck you. Gonna make you come all over you me, baby."

There's no doubt this time. An exhilarated laugh and you're throwing your head back, once again lost to the pleasure. Bucky fucking every single thought out of you. Leaving you breathless and whining, the intensity building until it hits you like a tsunami.

Wetness gushing around him, triggering his own orgasm, whiting out his vision as he falls on top of you, careful of pressing too hard against your belly, cock filling you up with several more sloppy thrusts. Prolonging the aftershocks until you're both spent, limbs trembling, words reduced to incoherent gasps.

Tears you don't even remember crying track down your temples, Bucky kissing them away once he finds them there, tasting sweat and salt and you.

"Love you," he breathes, pulse thundering in his ears, super-soldier serum having met it's match.

"Love you," you manage, despite being barely conscious, nails scratching lazy patterns down his back, bodies still humming.

Eventually, ears tuned to your steady heartbeat and slowing breaths, he shifts his weight to avoid crushing you, rolling you both over, his softening cock slipping out, severing the precious connection. Your twin moans from the loss creating more laughter. Lightness. A bridge back to reality. Sweaty bodies sticking together. Cum leaking from your sore (satisfied) pussy.

"Gonna get you cleaned up," he announces, hand holding yours against his chest, right over his racing heartbeat. "Right after I remember how to walk." Fingers tracing the soft curve of your back as you snuggle into him.

"You're on your own there," you mumble, "gonna have to carry me everywhere."

A tease that you'd never make before settles deep in his chest. Emotion tightening his throat.

Bucky fights through it, inhaling deeply, watching the way your heavy lids flutter during the exhale. "You got it, sweetheart. Your very own chauffeur service. Ready to spoil you rotten."

Sealing the vow with a soft brush of his lips to your forehead. Wondering how long it's gonna be until you're strutting around his place naked. Comfortable and free.

He gives it a month, tops.

Weeks, if he plays his cards right.

The black SUV idled at the curb, engine humming low like a warning you couldn’t quite name.

Your hand rested over the slight curve of your stomach—barely there to anyone else, but to you it felt like everything. Sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks of quiet excitement, of whispered hopes late at night when Bucky’s world finally went still. Sixteen weeks of imagining a life that didn’t involve blood-stained ledgers and men who never smiled with their eyes.

James “Bucky” Barnes stood beside you, one hand adjusting the cuff of his dark coat. He looked like he owned the city—because in many ways, he did.

You glanced up at him, searching for something soft, something human.

You didn’t find it.

“If it’s not a boy,” he said flatly, not even looking at you, “you’re getting rid of it.”

For a second, you thought you’d misheard him. The world didn’t stop—it just… tilted.

“What?” Your voice came out small, fragile.

Now he looked at you. Cold blue eyes. No hesitation.

“Only boys carry on the Barnes name.” His tone was final. “I’m not raising a daughter in this life.”

Your jaw slackened, words tangling in your throat. “Bucky, it’s our—”

“It’s my legacy,” he cut in. “Don’t forget that.”

The door to the clinic slid open behind you, warm light spilling out onto the pavement. People moved inside—normal people, living normal lives. For a moment, you envied them so fiercely it hurt.

You swallowed, forcing your feet to move. There was no arguing with him here. Not in public. Not when his men were watching from across the street, pretending not to.

Inside, everything smelled sterile. Clean. Safe.

—

You lay back on the examination bed, the paper beneath you crinkling as your fingers clenched the sides. Bucky stood in the corner of the room, arms crossed, silent and imposing. He hadn’t sat down.

He never did.

The technician smiled kindly, unaware—or maybe choosing not to notice—the tension thick enough to choke on.

“Alright,” she said softly, applying gel to your stomach. “Let’s take a look at your baby.”

Your baby.

The screen flickered to life.

There it was—tiny, moving, real.

Your breath caught, eyes stinging. “Hi,” you whispered, barely audible.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that screen. To the small, fluttering life inside you. To something pure in a world that was anything but.

Then the technician hesitated.

Just for a second.

But you felt it.

Bucky stepped forward. “What is it?”

Her smile faltered slightly, professional mask slipping. “Would you like to know the gender?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t want to look at him—but you did.

He was already staring at the screen, jaw tight.

“Yes,” he said.

The room went quiet.

Too quiet.

The technician cleared her throat, glancing at you with something that looked like sympathy.

“It’s a girl.”

Silence.

Your entire body went still, like time had frozen around you.

A girl.

A daughter.

A tiny, beautiful girl.

Your girl.

A fragile, disbelieving smile began to form on your lips—until you remembered.

Slowly, you turned your head.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at the screen like it had betrayed him.

Like you had.

The air shifted—heavy, dangerous.

Your jaw dropped, the weight of everything crashing down at once. “Bucky…” Your voice trembled. “She’s—she’s ours.”

His expression didn’t soften.

Not even a little.

“That’s not what I asked for.”

The words sliced through you, clean and merciless.

Tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone.

You looked back at the screen instead.

At her.

Tiny. Innocent. Unaware of the world she was about to be born into.

Your hand moved instinctively, covering your stomach protectively.

No.

Something in you shifted—quiet, but unshakable.

No.

Bucky could control the city. He could control men, money, fear.

But this?

This was yours.

You lifted your chin, voice steadier than you felt. “I’m not getting rid of her.”

That got his attention.

Slowly, he turned his head.

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his gaze.

“You don’t get to make that decision,” he said.

Your heart pounded, but you didn’t look away.

“I already did.”

For the first time since you’d known him, something flickered in his expression—not softness, not kindness—

But surprise.

And underneath it…

Danger.

The kind that changed everything.

And yet, as you lay there with your hand over your daughter, you realized something just as powerful:

You were no longer afraid of him the way you used to be.

Because now—

It wasn’t just your life on the line.

And you would burn his empire to the ground before you let him take her from you.

⸻⸻⸻

The drive home was suffocating.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even the usual low murmur of his phone calls filling the silence. Just the quiet hum of the engine and the storm building between you, thick and inevitable.

You kept your hand over your stomach the entire time.

Not for comfort.

For protection.

Bucky didn’t look at you once.

⸻⸻⸻

The moment the apartment door slammed shut behind you, everything shattered.

“How could you do this to me?” Bucky’s voice thundered through the penthouse, sharp and explosive, echoing off marble floors and glass walls.

You turned slowly, something wild already bubbling up inside you. “Do what, exactly?”

He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, pacing like a caged animal. “Don’t play stupid. You knew what I wanted.”

And that—that—was the final spark.

You laughed.

Not softly. Not nervously. A full, sharp laugh that cut straight through his anger.

“Oh my God,” you shook your head, staring at him like you were seeing him clearly for the first time. “You cannot be serious.”

His eyes darkened. “Watch your tone.”

“No, you watch yours,” you snapped back instantly. “You don’t get to stand there and act like I did something to you. It takes two people to make a baby, Bucky. Last I checked, you were very involved.”

His jaw clenched, but before he could fire back, your hands were already moving.

You slid the wedding ring off your finger.

The engagement ring followed.

For a split second, they caught the light—symbols of power, of ownership, of a love that now felt like a cage.

Then you threw them.

They hit his chest and clattered to the floor between you.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Dangerous.

Bucky looked down at the rings, then back up at you slowly, something cold and cruel settling into his expression.

Then he laughed.

Low. Mocking.

“You think you’ve got options?” he said, stepping closer. “You think you walk out on me and just… what? Start over?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t move.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something far more sinister.

“If you won’t give me a son,” he continued, “one of my goomahs will. And when she does?” His lips curved into a smile that made your stomach twist. “You’ll be nothing. No allowance. No protection. No name. I’ll throw you away like you never existed.”

For a moment—

Just a moment—

The words hit.

The reality of what he was threatening, the world he controlled, the power he held—

But then something reckless and furious rose up in you, burning away the fear.

And you laughed again.

This time, it was quieter.

Sharper.

Almost unhinged.

“That’s funny,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You’re acting like you have any say in this.”

His smile faltered, just a fraction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You held his gaze.

And lied.

“I don’t even know if it’s yours.”

The words landed like a gunshot.

Everything stopped.

Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

“What?” His voice dropped—deadly quiet now.

You shrugged, like it meant nothing, even as your heart slammed violently against your ribs. “You’re not exactly the only one who hasn’t been faithful.”

The air changed instantly.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

Bucky took a slow step toward you.

Then another.

Each one measured. Controlled.

Terrifying.

“You wanna say that again?” he asked, voice so calm it made your skin prickle.

You forced yourself not to back up.

Not to break.

“You heard me.”

A long pause stretched between you.

Then—

His hand slammed against the wall beside your head, caging you in, the impact making you flinch despite yourself.

“Careful,” he murmured, dangerously close now. “You don’t get to lie to me. Not about this.”

Lie.

The word echoed in your head.

But you didn’t take it back.

Couldn’t.

Because now it wasn’t just about anger anymore.

It was about survival.

You met his gaze, refusing to let him see the truth. “Maybe you shouldn’t have made it so easy.”

For a split second—

Something broke.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But you saw it.

In the way his eyes darkened.

In the way his jaw tightened just a little too much.

In the way his control—his perfect, terrifying control—slipped just enough to reveal what was underneath.

Rage.

Possession.

And something far more dangerous:

Hurt.

“You think this is a game?” he said quietly.

“No,” you whispered back, your voice steady despite everything. “I think this is the first honest thing that’s happened between us in a long time.”

Another long silence.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you backed down.

And standing there, trapped between him and the wall, you realized something irreversible had just happened.

You hadn’t just defied him.

You had challenged him.

In his world-

That didn’t end cleanly.

And deep down, beneath the fear and fury and adrenaline—

You knew.

There was no going back from this.

⸻⸻⸻

You shoved him back as you stormed toward the bedroom, heels clicking sharply against the polished floors. Your hands fumbled over your luxury holdall, tossing in a few carefully chosen outfits—enough to disappear, enough to remind him that you didn’t need him.

Bucky followed, his coat brushing against your arm, voice low and sharp. “If she’s not mine… who is the father?”

You laughed, a bitter, almost maniacal sound that echoed off the walls. “As if I’d tell the don of the biggest drug family in New York who I’ve been fucking behind his back.”

He muttered under his breath, almost a growl, “I’ll kill him.”

Your laugh cut through his menace. “It works two ways, baby. Tell me who the goomahs are—I’ll kill them.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed dangerously. You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. “Don’t think I won’t?”

In one smooth motion, your hand dipped into the bedside drawer on your side of the bed and emerged with the cold weight of a gun. The polished metal gleamed under the dim light.

Bucky froze, his gaze snapping from your eyes to the weapon. For the first time in your life, you saw him falter—not fear, not exactly—but recognition. Recognition that the woman standing in front of him was just as dangerous, just as ruthless, just as unpredictable as he was.

The silence stretched, electric, dangerous, and for the first time, the king of New York’s underground empire realized he wasn’t the only one who could play this game.

“You really shouldn’t have made it personal,” he said finally, voice tight but careful.

You’re used to meeting in more inconspicuous locations for your clients. Those with higher profiles often don’t want to be seen in public at coffee shops or cafes, and you don’t mind it. You weren't surprised when your newest client requested for you to meet at a restaurant. You checked in with the hostess under the reservation of James B. and surprise was still nowhere to be found when you were led into a private room away from prying eyes.

It didn't matter where the first meeting with your client took place anyway. This was a consultation, and your company normally picks up the first bill. It’s to make your client feel less pressured about the fact they’re paying you to find them a life partner.

You check yourself over in the small compact mirror in your hand. There’s no lipstick in your teeth. The mascara you’re wearing hasn’t smudged and your eyeliner hasn’t shifted out of place. Your hair is tamed and will continue to be as long as you had a say in it. You know your posture is impeccable, and you’re dressed professionally, but still chic enough to turn heads.

You had your purse hanging on your seat, phone face down on the table and already set to record so you could take notes later on for your conversation to pick up anything else that you may have missed, and you waited. You were early, but it was your job to be early. 

The door to the private room opened sooner than you thought. You stood, turning to meet your client– pausing when you saw two men walk into the room. Two men that you recognized from news channels, articles you skimmed over, and from your own clients describing their ideal physical types.

You kept the shock off of your face as you held out a hand to introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smiled. “I’m your matchmaker from Ador. I’ll be taking good care of you from this point forth.”

“Bucky,” he introduced himself, his voice stiff as he shook your hand. You take a quick glance at him, eyes scanning his figure as your mind runs numbers over his entire physique. He doesn’t even need to tell you, but you already know.

Six feet or taller. He had pretty, white teeth that you briefly saw when he spoke. His eyes were piercing, but they carried the weight of something that you couldn’t imagine holding yourself. His dark brown hair was carefully done, not a single hair out of place. He wore a suit that only seemed to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and didn’t hide the muscular build of his body. Your eyes caught the dark metal hand that rested by his side.

You turned to the other man, who shook your hand with a lot more enthusiasm. He returned your smile, giving you a toothy grin.

“I’m Sam. Don’t mind him– He’s always like that. Just a grumpy old guy,” he said, patting Bucky’s back to push him further into the room and towards the table. “His age shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

“He’s a very attractive man, I’m sure there are a lot of women in New York that wouldn’t mind,” you replied smoothly, watching Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, but I’m glad the words came from the professionals’ mouth!” Sam exclaimed, clapping a hand over Bucky’s shoulder.

The three of you sat down together, a waiter coming over to bring over a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for the three of you as you all looked over the menu.

“Thank you for making time out of your schedule to come meet with this guy,” Sam continued, clearing his throat. “I actually signed him up for your service. Spoke to your boss and asked for the best of the best at your company, and she said that you were booked and busy, but– I really appreciate you being able to fit him into your clientele.”

You give Sam a well trained smile– one that you have perfected over the years of staring at yourself in the mirror. “Of course. I’m always happy to help someone meet their destined partner.”

Bucky lets out a scoff beside Sam, who elbows his side roughly. The man doesn’t even flinch at the contact. Your smile doesn’t falter at his obvious disapproval of your honeyed words.

“Between you and me,” Sam said, looking back at you, “The reason I got him on this program is because I’m really trying to get this guy on a date. And he’s a Congressman now, you know? He can’t really be swiping on Tinder anymore. It’s not a good look for someone trying to pass government bills.”

“I get it,” you nodded, agreeing with him. “I have a lot of clients that are in the same boat. Many of those who are in more sensitive occupations that can’t be seen in the more… open areas of society. I hold no judgement at all. After all, I’m simply here for him.”

Sam looked satisfied with your answer, and the waiter came back to take your orders. 

This consultation was unlike anything you had before– in your entire five years of matchmaking. Bucky didn’t say a single word, even when you tried to speak to him. He kept his eyes on you, which was slightly unnerving since he refused to speak. 

Sam had to keep swooping in to respond your questions, but you still barely got any answers. You had nothing to work with. No ideal type. Nothing that he was looking forward to in the future. 

You left the restaurant with another handshake to both men, and a promise to call Bucky to meet up with him again to discuss his potential options. 

You even listened to that damn recording over and over again, but you couldn’t even find a single thing that indicated what Congressman James Barnes would want in a woman or man. You looked through the files and consent forms that were submitted to you – that he signed– and found only the vaguest of answers.

Name: James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 1917, March 10 Occupation: Ex-Assassin, Current Congressman

What are your strengths and weaknesses? Left arm is strong. Right arm is slightly less strong.

Does your social media accounts accurately represent you? Please include your handles! Don’t have accounts.

How do you handle conflict? Fists and/or guns.

What does your ideal partner look like? Not part of The Big Three.

What characteristics do you hope to find in a partner? Human.

How do you spend your free time? Work.

What are your core beliefs? Loyalty. 

What are your expectations for a long term relationship? Peace.

Are you seeking marriage, a serious partnership, or something casual? ?

Do you have any deal breakers? Liars.

Why did your last relationship end? I was drafted into WWII and didn’t come home.

You want to slam your head into your desk. You usually received essay answers from your clients. You were beginning to understand why your boss handed you this client without regard for your current workload– she saw the responses he submitted. There was no one in this company that would be able to handle the shit that Bucky gave you to work with. You weren’t even sure that you would be able to work with this. 

You did your research on the congressman in between work of your other clients to try and get a hold of his personality because he wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to pretend that he was a busy man working to pass bills in the government, but deep down you know that he’s trying to avoid you all together. 

He was a mysterious man– that was for sure. He had enough controversy to put a celebrity to shame, but with his looks and his financial state, you were certain that there were enough bachelor women in New York that would be more than willing to throw that behind them. There was also the benefit that he was a soldier. Lots of women enjoyed having a protector in the home, especially in the tough times of impending doom that was constantly looming over the city you lived in.

Bucky was almost the ideal man that everyone was looking for. Handsome. Smart. Strong. He had an edgy vibe to him that was alluring– almost like the bad boy type that girls would chase in high school. He also had the politician’s salary that would definitely make panties drop. He thankfully did not have the politician’s shady background, either. 

You’re still thinking about him when you’re sitting across from your next client, Mel, who’s telling you about her last date. 

“It was okay,” she said with a deep sigh. You know that look on her face. She’s detached. You’ve seen it painted on her features more than once before, and you don’t allow the dread to show up on your own face. 

“I hear a but coming on,” you said, fixing a smile on your face.

“It’s just difficult to date these days,” she admitted, slouching a bit in her seat as her hands clasped over her cup of coffee. “I had to cancel on him three times before we finally went on that date the other day. And it was nice, it really was, but I just… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

“Is it because of work?” you guessed, reaching over the table to place your hand over hers. “I know it’s hard working for the government. Really. I get it. It’s demanding, and you’re the personal assistant to someone that just wants you on your feet twenty-five hours of the day.”

She gives you a sad smile, and nods at your words. “He asked me to go on another date tomorrow night. And I want to, but– there’s this charity gala tomorrow that my boss is throwing. I have to go.”

“You can’t invite him as a plus one?” you offered as a solution.

“God, I wish,” she groaned. “Working for the government like I do– I could explain it to you, but it would be so much easier if I could just show you–”

Mel cut herself off, straightening in her seat as she locked eyes with you. She adjusted both her hands to hold yours in hers. 

“Mel?” you asked, still smiling at her.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, serious. “Can I ask you to be my plus one? Maybe you’ll be able to see the life I live– and it’ll help you figure out the kind of man that will be suitable for the life I live. Trust me, Daniel is great. Amazing guy. He’s just too… free spirited. Too spontaneous. I need structure and plans and I need you to see my life in order to really grasp it.”

You let out a sigh as you weighed the pros and cons. 

This sounded like a bad idea. Getting too involved with a client was never a good thing. In fact, it crossed a lot of boundaries and raised a lot of alarm bells in your head. You may have gone to your client’s weddings– the weddings of matches that you put together– but that was another form of networking. This was a charity gala for a government event. You would be completely out of your own element. 

However, you really didn’t have anything to do tomorrow. You had no appointments with your clients in the evening. You did have enough dresses in your closet that you could go through– and Mel was your favorite client. You had set her up on more than a few dates since she had enlisted your service, and she had turned down more than enough men for you to know that she was struggling. She wasn’t old by any means, but she was still a hopeless romantic that just needed some assistance, and you really wanted to help her out.

“Please?” Mel tried again, pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Okay,” you relented, letting out a small sigh through your nose as you did.

She squealed, excited. “I will text you the details. I’ll let the staff know your name so you don’t have to worry about a single thing. Just show up pretty like you always do!” 

You gave her a smile, one more genuine than the ones that you normally show your clients.

You step up the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thankful that there aren’t any photographers trying to stop you for a quick photo. Around you, you recognize several celebrities here for the charity event along with politicians of varying levels of influence. Your eyes fall on the banners, seeing the past heroes of the Avengers staring right back at you.

A small sense of nostalgia flows through you as you continue your way to the doors, only stopping momentarily to check in with the doormen. 

As you move towards the second floor to get a better view of the entire floor, a server comes by with a tray, offering you a flute of champagne that you gratefully take. You take a small sip as you move through the museum, eyes flitting over the different people in the gala. You rest your elbows against the railing, scanning over the entire crowd. Your eyes can’t help but run numbers over every single person that you see. 

You see the brand of their suits and dresses scream at you. The wear of their purses and shoes let you know exactly how disposable their income is. How tall they hold their head gives you insight on how insecure they are. You watch how each woman communicates with each man. Every gentle touch, flutter of eyelashes, subtle drop of eye contact from the eyes to the lips. 

You can easily tell who is single, who is taken, who is pretending to be single, and who wishes they were anything but single. 

“You made it!” a cheery voice calls your name from behind you. 

You straighten your spine as you turn around, a smile fitting over your lips. Then, you raise an eyebrow at Mel. She’s wearing a blazer and skirt, holding a tablet in hand with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“You texted me that this was a formal event, Mel. What are you wearing?” you teased lightly, looking her up and down. “My plan was to find you a date tonight.”

“I’m working right now,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I saw you from downstairs, so I slipped away to say hello real quick. You look great, by the way. Not that you don’t look amazing usually.”

You let out a small laugh, looking down at yourself briefly. Your dress was simple, a strapless black evening gown that clung effortlessly to you, with a cascading, sheer, flowing hem that moved with each step that you took. You paired it with a simple golden necklace matched with a timeless gold wristwatch. The purse that hung off your shoulder finished off the look, adding to the overall sophistication to the look. 

You didn’t deny her compliment, smile widening at her. “Would’ve loved to see you in something similar.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled back, moving to loop your arm through hers. “We’ll be starting the dinner service soon, so let’s find your seat.”

You allowed her to lead you away, noticing the crowd was also moving towards the banquet hall now. Mel dropped you off at a round table towards the end of the room, though you didn’t necessarily mind. There was a placard with your name on the charge plate. You allowed your purse to hang from the seat as you took your phone out, allowing yourself to rest for a few moments.

Others were still filtering in, finding their seats at the seating chart at the front. You lost sight of Mel the second she left your side. It was becoming increasingly clear that she needed to be matched with someone as busy as her. You let out a sigh as you pulled up profiles on your phone, removing some men that you thought would work with her. 

You didn’t even look up as someone took a seat beside you. 

“I don’t answer your calls, so you come directly to where I work?”

You paused at the voice, looking up. Bucky is sitting beside you, champagne in hand as he flicks away a placard that is definitely not his own. He replaces it with his as you watch the random name get discarded somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You blink at him– it somehow didn’t even cross your mind that he would be here tonight. You curse yourself slightly. For a man that you thought about constantly, you completely missed the mark with this one. Why wouldn’t he be here? 

“I was invited,” you said, placing your phone faced down on the table. You cross one leg over the other, shifting your body to face his. “Though, I am hurt that you don’t answer my calls.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head. You watch as his fingers play with the folded piece of paper with his name written with perfect calligraphy– hands that are slightly calloused from the years of war and battles that he’s fought.

“What business does a matchmaker have at a government charity event?” he finally asked, stormy eyes meeting yours. 

“You would be surprised to find there are many highly influential and single government workers that are looking for my company’s services,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “Call it networking.”

He watched you for a few moments, eyes scanning your figure. If he was anyone else, if you didn’t do prior research to know that he was a former assassin and spy, you would have thought he was checking you out. No– he wasn’t. He was searching for something. 

You didn’t give him any answers. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally settled on your face again, you gave him a polite smile. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes narrowed at you.

“Is something the matter, Congressman Barnes?” you asked, folding your hands in your lap. 

“I don’t need your services. Take me off the list,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson has paid in advance for us to serve you. The contract extends until you have found a match,” you reminded him. “You signed the consent form to allow us to give Mr. Wilson updates on how your dates go as well. We have to continue to at least try to reach out to you, even if you ignore my calls.”

“I will sue your office for harassment,” he threatened.

“You signed consent forms allowing for me to call, text, and email your direct lines of contact as per agreement,” you repeated, smiling at him as you tilted your head. “It would make things so much easier for both of us if we met regularly so I can get you on at least one date a week, Congressman.”

Bucky drags his metal hand down his face as he fights back groaning out loud. You can only keep your smile trained on your face as you watch him. 

“Can I perhaps order you a drink, Congressman? You strike me as a whiskey kind of guy,”  you hummed, raising a hand towards the waiter that was walking by.

“Make it neat,” he muttered beside you, completely defeated as you ordered drinks for the two of you.

Dinner service goes by without another hiccup. The two of you don’t discuss the nature of your relationship as others join your table. You don’t recognize the others at the table, but they recognize Bucky. That’s enough for you to pretend that you don’t know Bucky like that.

However, you do take the chance to spread your business card around the table with a pretty smile and a flutter of your lashes as you give your well rehearsed spiel.

“And you’re responsible for… how many marriages between your matches?” one of the women at your table asks, surprised.

“Goodness..” you sigh dramatically for effect, placing a hand over your chest. “I would say– about eight now? They are all lovely people that I have taken time to connect with. Amazing friends that I have grown to love, and I’m happy to have been able to bring them together for life.”

“Then you’re an expert,” Bucky suddenly said beside you as he picked up his whiskey glass. “What do you think makes a perfect partner?”

“Of course, that depends from person to person,” you respond, smiling at him before looking at the rest of the table. “I’m not here to build a person out of thin air for you. I am here to show you that love exists, and that you are worthy of it. Even if you don’t believe that there is someone out there for you, I believe it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

The women were captivated by your sugared words, sliding over their own business cards to you, asking you to call them on the next business day. You grin as you take each card, sliding them into your purse. You ignore Bucky’s eyes on the side of your face as you continue to chat with everyone else. 

You tune out during the speeches that Mel’s boss has. You don’t necessarily care for it, though you do your best to look like you’re paying attention. You’ll read some reverbed version of this long winded monologue tomorrow morning, and Mel will definitely let you know how she feels about it later. 

When the talking is over and the music turns on, you find yourself being dragged by the other women at your table to be introduced to some other single women attending the gala. At the very least, you didn’t end up lying to Bucky. You ended up doing networking here after all. 

By the time you managed to get out of the hands of single men and women trying to enlist your services, your purse was stuffed to the brim with business cards that weren’t yours, and you would need to order some more cards of your own on Monday. 

You managed to slip out to a secluded hallway, away from the music and festivities. You kept walking, running a hand through your hair as you sighed. You found an open balcony, the cool New York air blowing through it and a bench calling your name.

You rested your aching feet, and decided to look through the cards you got– trying to organize who you would delegate to some of your coworkers and who you would take on as your own from the short conversations that you had. Your workload was already heavy as it was, and you still had a certain man that wasn’t making your life any easier for you. 

“Can I pay you to get me off your list?”

Speak of the devil.

“Maybe if you say please,” you respond, still shuffling the cards into two separate stacks.

The devil doesn’t respond to you. You let out a deep sigh.

You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony door. His hands are tucked in his pocket, looking at you. You close your purse, resting your hands on the cement bench as you let your eyes scan him up and down.

“I have a great match for you. She works in the government as well. She’s a personal assistant, so she understands the kind of work that you do as a Congressman. Just as busy as you are. She has her ideal type as someone taller than 5’10’’. Doesn’t have a preference for age, but has told me that she wants someone with an old soul. She’s cute. Somewhat of a busy-body, but that means that she’s pretty low maintenance, and you don’t have to worry that much about dates,” you said. 

His eyes narrowed at you. “Are you setting me up on a date or selling me a product?”

“Depends on the angle that you look at it,” you shrugged. 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes tight. “If I go on this one date, will you leave me alone?” 

“If it goes well on your end and hers, then yes,” you nodded. “However, the company does assist in setting up the first, second, and third date. From there, it is up to you and her to decide if you two will be an official couple. If you do, you both are obligated to report it to the company. I will then check up on you during the milestones of your relationship.”

“Milestones?” he asked, frowning at you.

“You know, your anniversaries. First month. Six months. One year. If you even need help proposing to her one day, then we can definitely help you with that as well– Mr. Wilson paid for the full Ador Matchmaking Package, so it’s included,” you informed him. 

Bucky stared at you like you had two heads and six pairs of eyes on each head. You continued to smile at him, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I am not here to make your life difficult, Congressman. In fact, I think that finding you a partner can be a wonderful thing. I find that being able to share your life with someone– share your struggles with someone– can relieve a lot of the stress that you may have,” you said, locking eyes with him.

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” he asked, clenching his jaw tight. Your smile faltered for the first time. You quickly fixed it back into place. 

“I have seen and matched many successful couples,” you answered, ignoring the true intentions of his question. “Just trust me.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked to be contemplating his options here.

“I’m not ready for a date. I have my own issues that I just… I have issues,” he admitted to you, lowering his hand. “You left me a voicemail– saying you wanted to discuss more of my… desires with a partner. Let’s start with that.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to hide the giddiness in your chest. Finally. You were getting somewhere with him. “We’ll take this at your pace.”

On your first meeting with him, you had to explain the dating in this century. Bucky still continues to stare at you like you were insane, and you can only sigh as you try to break down the new lingo of the year for him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"Talking stage. Situationship. What is that?"

"Just because you go on dates with someone, doesn't mean that you are dating them, Congressman. Same thing with talking. You can be talking with them, but are you talking with them? It's all in the nuances. Situationships are a bit more... sensual."

Bucky still doesn't get it, and you're worried about sending him off on dates with women- some of your older clients even know about these phrases. You're afraid Bucky might think he's going steady with someone who isn't serious about him at all.

The second meeting included texting etiquette and dating terms. Bucky couldn't wrap his head around why people sent emoticons to each other- he hated phone calls already. He despised having to send those cute emojis to express his emotions over text.

"Ghosting?" he deadpanned at you. "Did you ask me if I have ever been ghosted before?"

"It's a general question, Congressman-"

"No- I don't know what that means," he cut you off. "Did someone fucking die?"

You stare at him like he's crazy, but you clearly slip your mask back into place and remind yourself that he was born in the late 1910s.

"It's when someone that you were previously talking to just randomly disappears. Remember we were talking about the talking stage during our last meeting? Say you thought your date went really well, and you're looking forward to your next date, and you try meeting up with her again, but she just- poof! Disappears. Gone without a trace."

"You can search her up in the database and find her easily."

You almost want to cry at how serious he looks and sounds at this moment.

"Not everyone is an ex-assassin, Congressman."

Your next meeting has you handing in your resignation on the spot. You never thought you would have to explain what a thirst trap is to someone over the age of thirteen, but here you were. It came up during the topic of dating apps, and how he despised every single moment that he was on them.

"I saw girls in tiger outfits," he told you.

"Like... full fur suits?" you asked.

"No, like bikinis."

"Oh. Like a costume?"

"Yeah. Why do they do that?" he asked, frowning at you.

"To look sexy," you shrugged at him. "Some people are attracted to that."

"People are attracted to tigers?"

"No, Congressman. They are attracted to the girl showing the wildly inappropriate amount of skin," you said, fighting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat. He looked utterly disgusted right now.

"Why would anyone put that shit on?"

"Some people enjoy it as a kink," you said, clearing your throat to hide your laughter. "Some see it as an acts of service kind of thing. You know, love languages."

Bucky looked like he was about to combust in his seat. "Love languages? Since when the hell did love have a language?"

"Words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch- just to name a few," you said, nodding at him.

"Isn't that the basics of romance? All of that, combined?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed at you. He almost sounded scandalized.

You gave Bucky a wide grin-- one that wasn't your practiced smile. "That's what I like to hear. Keep that in mind while I try to find you a match, okay?"

It's on your fourth meeting when you officially dub Bucky as your most stubborn client that you've ever had. You are losing patience, and you thought you had an astounding amount of it. You didn’t think that he could be worse than the questionnaire that he filled out.

Bucky spoke a lot, but he didn’t say anything in his words. He talked in circles that had your mind running. 

Over four meetings, you could barely managed to figure out that he wanted a partner that would be able to keep up with his busy schedule, and not get upset with him for being closed off. You could work with that– someone understanding. That was basic level, but that should have been something that he could have said within the first minute of speaking to you. Not over the eighteen hours that you have sat down with him and talked.

You know Bucky is also getting increasingly frustrated as your meetings go along, too. You’re questioning him in different ways that he’s not used to– he’s not used to being on the opposite end of an interrogation, especially not about his desires in a woman.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet like this,” Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told you– the questionnaire that you submitted to us was damn near empty, Congressman,” you stressed. “I have nothing to work with here. I can’t find you a partner if you put a question mark as an answer!’

“I think it’s pretty straight forward,” he grunted in his seat.

“You have to have a physical type that you’re attracted to, at least,” you finally said, exasperated as you dropped rubbed circles into your temples. 

Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you would try to make sense of later, but you knew there was nothing substantial from this latest meeting with your stubborn client. This is your fifth meeting with him and you still have nothing. 

“I… I don’t. Not really,” he answered, looking down at his desk.

 Bucky’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk, an anxious habit you observed he did when he was over the meeting and you knew that it was time for you to wrap it up for the day.

“James,” you said, exasperated. “Everyone has a type. Someone that they see on the street that their eyes linger on just a little more than the next person. Nothing comes to mind? Not even just one feature?”

He stopped bouncing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected contact, and you held it. You watched him just as intently as he watched you, waiting for him to speak as your heart began to uncharacteristically thump in your chest.

“Eyes,” he finally said, never breaking those stormy orbs away from you. “You can tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eyes. I like a person’s eyes.”

You swallowed thickly, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip as you cleared your throat. You tore your eyes away from him to look down at your notes, scribbling the word down, and circling it twice.

“Thank you. That’s progress. Not a lot for me to work off of, but I can find someone with pretty eyes for you,” you replied, giving him a smile of relief. 

“Add smiles to your notes. Pretty smiles are good, too.”

 You pause at his words, eyes narrowing at him for a moment. He smiled back at you before you went ahead and wrote down the word next to ‘eyes.’

“Do you really think there is someone out there that is willing to date an ex-assassin that committed several war crimes?” he asked, leaning back in his seat. “Not to mention, I’m old enough to be a lot of these people’s grandfather’s.”

“Great grandfather’s,” you corrected him.

“Wow,” he scoffed, but a smile fit over his face.

“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You deserve it,” you said, closing your notebook. You shoved it into your tote purse, and stood up to straighten your blazer. Bucky’s eyes followed your figure as you moved. “You may have done things that you’re not proud of, but haven’t we all? What matters now is that you’re doing your best to rectify the things that you didn’t even have control over.”

“It was still me that did it,” he said, sucking in a breath.

“And the man in front of me is a great match for a lot of women out there, if he just allows me to set him up with someone,” you replied. You watched as his eyes fell on your face again, and you smiled at him. “I promise, Congressman. There’s someone for everyone. Including you. Someone that accepts your past, and looks forward to the future that you envision– that you won’t even share with me even though it’s my job to try and find someone that fits that future.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. He straightens in his seat, busying his hands with organizing the manila folders on his desk. 

“I still don’t think I’m ready to just get out there and meet people, sweetheart. That’s not… I haven’t dated in a long time.”

You stared at him for a few moments. He’s avoiding looking at you right now– there’s a sheepish tone in his voice. He’s trying to glide over the vulnerability of his confession by organizing pens that are already color coded, and a calendar that is properly filled. 

“Go on a date with me,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His metal hand closes over a pen, and stops. “What?”

“A trial date,” you clarified, squaring your shoulders off to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time, and I’m the one trying to get you on dates. Let’s see how you are on dates, and once it’s over then I can give you a few pointers. Tell you if there’s anything that you need to work on– or let you know that you’re simply overthinking this whole thing.”

“Is this part of the service Sam bought?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “But it’s my job to help you, and you’re not confident in yourself. I need to build your confidence so you can meet some of my clients. No woman likes an insecure man.”

Bucky’s searching your figure again– doing that same thing he did at the gala. Searching for something in you. Hesitation maybe? Regret, you guess. Maybe he thinks you’ll take back your words. You stare right back at him, unwavering. 

You’re breaking a lot of your own personal rules, and boundaries these days, but you don’t say that out loud. You’re doing a lot to help your clients– starting with Mel’s charity gala, and now offering to do a test run with Bucky. It seems that you just can’t help yourself. 

“When’s your next free night, Congressman?” you asked, taking your phone out from your purse to pull up your calendar. “I’ll clear my evening for you.”

You met him at an upscale restaurant of your choosing, telling him that you would plan the date as is normal by Ador standards when it comes to the matchmaking dates. All he needed to do was show up and look nice. You thought you would be early, just like last time. You’re pleasantly surprised to find him opening the door to your Uber, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hi there,” you smiled at him.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, a bit stiff. You kept your laugh to yourself as he took a few steps back to allow you to get out of the car, and then he shut it behind you. “This is– uh– for you.”

He holds out the bouquet– one that you can tell is on the pricier end of the market. The scent is strong, the buds are young, and the colors are vivid. The bow wrapped tight around it is pristine and sharp as well. Your smile only seemed to grow a bit wider as you took it from his hands, brushing your fingertips against his as you did. 

“They’re beautiful. I love them, thank you,” you told him, truthful.

“Thank God,” he muttered, leading you towards the restaurant. “Sam said something about women in this era not enjoying flowers. I almost didn’t get you any.”

“Women still like flowers,” you said, eyebrows raising at him.

“That’s what I told him, and I’m glad that you agree. I’ll have to tell him that the professional sides with me,” Bucky chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he held the door open for you to enter first. 

You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as he joined behind you, and you made the mental note in your head– he really wasn’t all that closed off. In just a few moments, he proved to be extremely charming. What was his issue with dating?

The two of you were shown to a quieter table towards the back of the restaurant, with Bucky pulling out your seat. You’re getting more impressed by the second here. Maybe it’s the fact he was around during the prime time of men being chivalrous, but you were certain that this would have a lot of your clients sinking their claws into him and never letting him go. You just had to find him someone that he didn’t want to let go of.

The dinner was a set course that you both ate quietly save for small comments on how the fish was cooked perfectly. Otherwise, you didn’t say much until the table was cleared and more wine was poured into your glasses. You both thank the waiter before turning your attention back to each other.

“So, Congressman. Was the last date you really had back in the forties?” you asked, resting your chin in your palm as you stared at him.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Bucky– Just… Bucky is fine for right now. And no. I went on a date a year or so ago.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you said, testing the name on your tongue. You watched as the corners of his lips curled slightly. “How did that date go?”

“Ran out on her,” he recalled, and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. He let out a deep sigh. “Not my best moment, but she said something that kind of… triggered me, I guess. Couldn’t really stay for much longer without having a panic attack.”

You keep your eyes on him for a few moments before you decide to reach for your wine glass and take a slow sip, digesting his words as the liquid runs down your throat. You let out a small hum. 

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”

“I’m sure you’ll show up at my office if I run away from you,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I will. You are notorious for not answering your phone,” you reminded him.

“I honestly hate that thing,” he said with a deep sigh. “I preferred when people sent each other letters. They were much more personal. You could see people’s handwriting, and how they felt with each stroke of their pen.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t expect this. However, it made sense. Bucky did strike you as a guy that would prefer sentimental gifts over expensive, over the top trinkets.

“If I send you a letter or write you a sticky note, will you be more inclined to meet with me again?” you asked.

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your question. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll meet with you again if you send me a heartfelt letter.”

“I’ll spray my perfume and add a kiss mark next to my signature, just for you,” you teased. “Send it straight to your door.”

He shakes his head at your antics, though his smile never falters. His fingers play with the stem of the wine glass, twirling the glass in his flesh hand for a few moments as a comfortable silence fills the air between you two. The live pianist in the restaurant fills in the gaps between your conversation, allowing the two of you a moment of peace as you watch over each other. 

Bucky looks handsome tonight. He’s ditched the usual tie that he wears with his suits, and a couple of the buttons are undone at the top of his shirt. You can see the shining necklace of what you assume is his dog tags hiding against his chest. His blazer is hung at his chair, the material matching the slacks he wears. His hair, which is normally gelled back, is slightly out of place from the day. A few strands are framing his face and you find that you like it better this way. It looks a little fluffy. His beard is well maintained as per usual, a little shorter than you remember seeing it last week. 

He’s scanning you the same way you’re scanning him. This time, you know that he’s not searching your body for answers like he had done previously. You feel oddly exposed under his gaze, but not uncomfortable. A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes continue to drag up and down your figure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is alright with you going on dates like this,” he finally said, your eyes meeting his. “Even if this is supposed to be something that is meant to help a client of yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, finger circling the rim of your wine glass. You wet your lips as you suck in a small breath, preparing for the questions to come after you respond to his statement.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you told him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow at you. He rested his arms on the table, leaning in closer to you. “You’re telling me that my matchmaker that’s supposed to find me a girlfriend isn’t taken? This sounds like a scam, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at his blatant sarcasm, sighing deeply. “I don’t have to be in a relationship to know how relationships work, Bucky.”

“Then, why? What’s the reason that the professional relationship maker doesn’t want to be in a relationship?” he asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the question weighing heavy on your mind. Out of your coworkers, you are the only one that is without a partner. They are all going strong with someone– on the path of getting engaged, or already married. You are the only one alone, and you’re the best employee in the company. You look down at the table for a moment before lifting your eyes to meet his. 

The truth is- you're afraid. You fear allowing someone into your heart, seeing the vulnerability of everything that you are. It's such a small reason that everyone holds close to their heart, a reason that you have coerced others out of their shells... but you still can't seem to get out of your own.

“I haven’t found the right match,” you answered. 

“Who’s the right match for you?”

You sighed, leaning back in your seat for a moment. “I have a deal breaker. I need to watch the guy climb a fence. If they look fucking stupid while doing it, then I’m out.”

“What?” Bucky whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You smiled at him- a pretty smile that you knew he liked.

“I like athletic guys. Ones that can preferably pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And that can carry all the groceries into the house in one trip, or all the bags when I go shopping. I make enough money to sustain myself, and I’ll continue working even after I get married to keep my own income separate from a joint account. A guy that will let me do whatever I want without questioning me or my decisions because he trusts me. I’m not really a homemaker, if you understand what I’m saying. So, it’s a little difficult. My preferences in the bedroom differ from what I enjoy in reality, so the men I seek don’t want to date all of me. They want someone submissive 24/7, and that’s not typically who I am.”

You’re more than certain you gave Bucky more than he asked you for, but you don’t really care. You’re trying to gain his trust so that he opens up to you, tells you more about what he wants in a partner, so that you can find someone for him.

“So,” you continued, picking up your wine glass again. “What are your preferences in the bedroom– or have you not done anything since the forties?”

Bucky’s lips parted, then shut. His mind looked to be short circuiting in real time, still processing your words. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Are all women as forward as you while on dates in this time period?” he finally asked.

“Not all,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the wine. You can’t help but tease him, “I just find myself comfortable enough to speak with you like this. What about you, Congressman? I feel like we’ve known each other long enough for you to talk to me about this kind of thing.”

Bucky downs the rest of the wine in his glass, surprising you with his actions. His eyes are dark when they lock onto yours, and his voice is low. The gravely tone makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and you instinctively straighten in your seat at the commanding presence he’s giving off. You don’t dare look away from him.

“I don’t prefer to talk about my preferences in the bedroom. I'd rather just show you.”

Bucky’s hand is cradling the back of your head, a soft barrier to keep your head safe as he pushes you back against the wall. Your lips are still connected to his, head angled upwards to deepen the kiss with him. Your purse is sliding down your arm, about to hit the floor with a soft thud when he parts from you to grab it, securing it over his own shoulder before returning back to your lips.

He really is a gentleman at heart.

Your moans are swallowed greedily into his throat as if the two of you didn’t just have a five course meal an hour ago, and his hands are moving to your thighs, bunching up your dress to your hips. Once he feels your skin against him, he groans against your lips, a tingle racing down your spine and going straight to your core. 

He tastes like wine, but faintly of cinnamon, too. With him so close to you, you’re overwhelmed and wrapped by the scent of smoke and wood, and you don’t hate it. There’s cologne somewhere in the mix here– something that you can’t detect since it’s so late in the night, but you can smell the smell of him on his neck.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“I got you,” he muttered in response, hands moving to the underside of your thighs to scoop you up. 

Bucky easily shifted to have your legs wrap around his hips, and tilted his head upwards to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, angling your neck to the side to let him have more space to play.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted before nipping at the soft skin at your neck. You let out a soft moan, gripping at the lapels of his blazer.

“What?” you whispered back as his tongue moved to soothe the wound.

“You said you wanted a man that could pick you up like you weigh nothing. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to process his words before you’re being pulled off the wall. He still has you in his arms, and your lips are caught in his again. Bucky moves through his apartment without having to see anything, going straight to his bedroom. He opens the door, holding you with only one arm as he carries you to bed. 

Sitting down, you’re straddling his lap. 

You grab his face in your hands, hungry for him. You can’t get enough. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Not too insecure for you?” he chuckled softly.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you huffed, biting his bottom lip softly. 

Bucky’s hands fall to your hips once more before moving to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He unzips the piece without hesitation, and you briefly part from him to allow him to pull it off of your body. 

“God,” he groaned, taking a moment to look at you. His hands are on your waist, and your body shivered involuntarily at the cool touch of his metal hand. “You were hiding all of this from me, sweetheart?”

You weren’t wearing a bra. You couldn’t– not with the strappy dress that you were wearing. Of course, you had a jacket on earlier, and the material of your dress had one of those built in bras. You didn’t feel the need to explain it to him, not when Bucky was already taking a nipple in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

A moan fell from your lips as you arched your back into him– his free arm going to your back to support you and pull you even closer. You grabbed onto his shoulder, his hair, grounding your hips into his as he hummed into your chest.

You locked eyes with him, watched him as he swirled his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple. Shit– this man was so hot. There was no way he was real. You couldn’t understand why this man was still single– age or lack of confidence aside. You didn’t get it. 

“Sit on my face,” he ordered you, your eyes widening slightly. 

You’re not certain you heard him right. 

“What–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he clicked his tongue, already moving the two of you deeper into his bed. He’s still fully dressed, laid back on the pillows, and you’re still sitting on his lap. He has his metal hand under his head, staring at you as he waits.

“My underwear–” you tried to start, lifting your hips to remove the last garment between what he wanted you to do. 

Bucky’s hands move faster than you can swing your leg over his body. A resounding rip fills the air, and you see the fabric of your underwear get thrown off to the side of his bed. His hands settle over your hips, and you are once again being effortlessly lifted towards him– heart thundering in your chest.

You didn’t have any mental preparation before his tongue met your heat. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place so you couldn’t even attempt to hover over him. No, he had the full weight of you on him, and he was moaning into you. The vibrations alone had your thighs tensing around his head, hands reaching down for his hair for some stability.

His tongue flatted against your core, licking up all the wetness that had seeped through without him touching you earlier. Bucky moaned at the taste, absolutely floored at your excitement. He angled his head just slightly, nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your body flinch. 

He chuckled beneath you at your reaction, pressing harder against you, nuzzling his nose deeper into you– putting more pressure on your clit as he began to piston his tongue in and out of your aching pussy.

“Bucky!” you moaned his name, like it was the only thing you could say.

He groaned in response, eyes opening just briefly to lock on yours– those same piercing eyes were dark, blown out– and you realized he enjoyed eating you out just as much as you enjoyed having his tongue lap against you. 

Bucky liked this. He enjoyed  this– got off on this. You falling apart above him, unable to run from his ministrations as he brought you closer and closer to the edge where he could watch you without any restraint. He could see everything. He could see the way your chest rose and fell erratically, the way your skin flushed, the way you bit your lip, the way your eyes were dilated as you looked down at him.

“Bucky– I’m so close,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

And he lifted you up and away from his mouth.

You felt a sense of loss immediately, panic rushing through your body as he chuckled beneath you. You watched as he licked his lips from your juices, and he pushed you back down to straddle him once again.

“What– why?” you whispered, damn near close to tears. 

Bucky pushed himself up to sit, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. He let out a small hum as he took off the garment, wiping off the last bits of you off of his face and beard before tossing it to the side. Then, he grabbed your face with one hand, yanking you back into a deep kiss. 

You melted into him, pliant, trembling, needy. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he licked into your mouth. The gripping hand that held your face softened, moving to stroke your cheek affectionately moments afterwards. 

“You didn’t say please, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. 

Your eyes widened slightly– oh. You were going to kill him when you got out of this bedroom. He chuckled against your lips, knowing that you knew what he was referencing to. However, your irritation faded away as you heard the clink of his belt against his metal hand– noting that it was being taken off and discarded to the edge of the bed.

In one swift movement, you were on your back with Bucky in between your legs, lips on yours once more. 

You sighed into his mouth, closing your eyes as you felt his bare skin against yours. You could feel the scars of his shoulder under your left hand, the muscles of his right arm– his broad chest. You felt the ripples of his abs as your hands trailed down. 

Then you felt his length slide against your folds, coating itself in your slick. 

Bucky’s head rested in the crook of your neck, both of you letting out a soft moan as the tip of his cock briefly caught on your clit. You could feel the warm bead of precum drip onto your skin, your eyes falling shut at the sensation as a shiver of anticipation rushes through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky muttered, hands running up and down your sides. 

“You,” you responded instantly, a bit breathless. 

He chuckles, shaking his head before moving to press a kiss against your hairline. Bucky’s hands stop at your breasts, and you whine as he rolls both nipples in between his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“Gotta be a little more descriptive than that, doll, because I’m right here. Where do you want me?” he hummed, rutting his hips against yours again.

“Fu–ck,” you gasped, the word coming out broken from your throat. You collect yourself briefly, opening your eyes to look at him. “God, Bucky– you. I need your cock in me– please, I wanna cum all over your cock– I need it so bad, need you so bad–”

Your words die on your lips, cut off by the feeling of being stuffed absolutely full. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, lips parted in a noiseless moan as he slid all the way to the hilt. Neither of you can say or move or breathe for a few moments– you’re both too overwhelmed. You can feel him so deeply inside of you, you’re sure he’s at your cervix.

“It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he finally groaned before pulling out, only leaving the tip of his cock in before thrusting all the way back in, starting a punishing pace. 

You can’t keep up with him, but you don’t even have to. Bucky’s doing all the work for you, his hips snapping into yours in perfect rhythm. When your back arches off the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of him, he scoops his arm underneath you to lock you in place as his other hand grabs both of your wrists to pin overhead to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity of the thrill.

Your first orgasm crept on you without any warning– but you were already wound up, and he knew it. You were a mess beneath him, moaning his name like it was the only thing you knew, hips rising to grind up to meet his, overstimulated by his lips all over your neck and chest.

He whispered pretty praises into your ear when you came around his cock, feeling his hips stutter slightly, and listening to him moan as you clenched around him tightly. Bucky didn’t stop there, though.

You didn’t have time to even come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, him still inside of you. 

Your face was shoved into the pillow, his hand buried into your hair as the other hand grabbed at your hips to pull back into his own. He moaned behind you– and he was hitting you at a deeper, more delicious angle that made you see stars.

“Oh– Bucky– it’s too much,” you whined into the pillow, turning your head to breathe.

“You can take it,” he chuckled, letting out a soft moan after. “Your pussy is swallowing me up, can’t you feel it? She’s so greedy for me.”

You can only moan in response, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You fisted the pillows beside your head for some stability, some purchase– something– and Bucky thought you looked so pretty like this. Back arched, lips parted, trying to hold on for dear life while your walls clamped onto him desperately as moans kept escaping your lips.

He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, and you could feel it with the way his thrusts grew more erratically. 

Bucky’s hand left your hair, moving to hold onto your hips in a way you were sure you would have bruises in the morning that you would admire in the mirror. You could feel pressure building once more– another orgasm as he fucked harder into you– and a moaned out your name as you felt fuller than you thought you could. Your walls spasmed around him a second time, and you heard him let out a soft laugh above you as you struggled to breathe.

His hands moved to either side of your head, lowering himself to press kisses up your spine. You could feel his cock still throbbing inside of you, both of your releases beginning to dribble out of your abused hole and drip onto the sheets beneath you by the time his kisses made its way to your shoulder blades.

“Came a second time, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

“Why the fuck are you still single?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He smiled against your skin. “Waiting for the right match.”

You need to draw the line somewhere. There needs to be a boundary, even though you’ve already crossed every single one there is. You’re certain if someone finds out, you’re fired and blacklisted from the industry without any sort of defense from your side.

You ran the hell out of Bucky’s apartment the morning after. You rejected his offer for breakfast, and his offer for a ride back to your apartment. You wouldn't allow him to do that for you, not when you were in the middle of a crisis in your own head. 

You were trying to find him a girlfriend, but you weren’t sure if you could be his girlfriend, not when you weren’t even certain of love yourself.

You skillfully filled up your calendar for two weeks, apologizing to Bucky and letting him know you had emergency clients that needed your help, and you had a destination wedding to get to. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was also something to help you get your mind off of everything– to help you clear your head. 

It was contradictory– being a matchmaker and preaching for love, but refusing to fall in love yourself. You know that, but you didn’t want to think about it. Being in love meant being vulnerable with someone. It meant showing somebody the softest parts of you. It meant giving Bucky more than what he saw of you that night you spent together, and it terrified you. 

You don’t know if you were ready to give up the façade of control you had over your life, and it was so easy for him to strip it all away from you.

However, you knew you had to face him and your own feelings. You also know yourself better than anyone else.

“Let me get this straight– you want me to go on this date with your other client. After we went on a date, and we slept together?” Bucky asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Technically, you are my client, too. It’s my job to put two clients together,” you responded, nodding.

Bucky is staring at you, and you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with the bouquet of roses that he got you. Your heart is breaking, and you’re trying not to let it show. You’re really trying to be professional here, and you already broke so many rules. You went to a charity gala that wasn’t work related. You went on a date with a client. You slept with said client. 

“So us sleeping together– is that something that you just do with all you clients?” he asked, a scoff escaping his lips.

Your eye twitches just slightly. “I don’t even offer the trial date to any of my clients, Congressman,” you said, your lips in a thin line.

“Then why me?” he demanded. “Because I certainly had a good time. Both on the date and after– or was that just me?”

You bite your lip as you take in a deep breath. You had a great time. An amazing time. In fact– you enjoy a lot of your time with Bucky, as much as you hate to admit it. When you’re not interrogating him, he’s fun to talk to. The date banter was cute. The aftercare was top tier– he drew you a bath and sat in the soapy water with you and washed your hair. 

“You are my client,” you dismissed, ignoring his question. “Mr. Wilson has paid for my services, and we went on the trial date for me to evaluate how you are on the field. You aren’t bad on dates. You’re great. I think you’re ready to meet people– like that girl I told you about at the gala.”

“We slept together,” he said again. 

“And it was nice,” you nodded.

“That’s it? Just… nice? It didn’t mean anything else to you?” he asked. He was doing it again. Searching you for an answer. You hoped that your body didn’t give it away– hoped that he didn’t explore you well enough to know all your tells.

You fixed your smile on your face. “Is there something that you’d like to say, Congressman?”

Bucky’s lips part, as he watches you, eyebrows furrowed. He’s mad, and you know it. Guilt and dread builds up in your stomach, and you, for once, feel small. You watch as he sucks in a breath, and leans back in his seat.

“Fine. Set up the date. Just send me the details,” he said, looking away from you. “I have a meeting to get to, if you’d excuse me.”

He’s lying, and you know it. The windows of time he blocks out for you are usually at least three hours long. You’ve only been here for about thirty minutes. You don’t comment.

You can only manage a tight smile before you turn away from him. You don’t take the flowers with you, as much as you want to. Those flowers did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder. You close the door on your way out, taking your phone out of your purse as you dial a number. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Mel. Found you a date,” you said, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice.

You give her the details of Bucky, and you hate the way she sounds so excited because you know she is– she’s a good girl, and a great match. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got along well, if you were being honest.

You can only go back to the office, set up the date, then email both of them the details after going through their schedule to find the best time for the both of them. You receive a confirmation email back from both parties within minutes, and the dread in your stomach only grows larger.

You try to busy yourself when the date night comes along, staying in your apartment with a cheap beer and shitty romance movies that make you wonder if love exists or if you’re just too stupid to really think properly.

Mel must be having a great time right now, you think. The time of her life, even. You feel ugly with jealousy at this current moment in time, and you’re trying to shove it all away with greasy take out because you like Mel. She’s sweet. Bucky is the best match you could have found for her. Out of all the men in your books– he is the best out of the best.

And you’re so green with envy that you want to scream.

You wonder what flowers he bought her. You wonder if he pulled her chair for her to sit when they got to dinner. Maybe he even draped his fucking blazer over her shoulder if she got cold and didn’t wear a jacket– fuck! You should’ve pretended to forget your jacket so you could’ve pulled that move on him on your date.

You wonder if he decided to take her home. 

You clench your jaw as you pick up your phone, finding no notifications. There are no calls from either of them– no updates on their date. Could be a bad sign, but also could be a good sign. You groan into your hands.

You don’t get any restful sleep that night, and you’re scheduled to meet Mel at a coffee shop the next morning for a debrief on her date.

She looks great, which only seems to piss you off some more. You do your best to hide it. 

“Bucky was very handsome, like you said. I think he was taller than six foot though,” Mel started off with.

You smiled at her, “Sounds like the date went well?”

“He was a gentleman,” she grinned at you. “Very sweet the entire night. Almost too sweet, I think.”

You paused at that, tilting your head slightly. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Um… Not necessarily?” she chuckled slightly. “I don’t know. It just seemed like his mind was somewhere else most of the time. He would answer when I talked– most of his questions to me were generic, but it felt like he was just kinda talking through me, not to me.”

“First dates are generally awkward for some,” you said, mentally kicking Bucky in the shin while kissing his face at the same time. “Did you want to see him again?”

“Actually… at the end of the date, he told me there was someone that he was already interested in,” she said, giving you a small smile as she reached into her purse. “And that he discussed handwritten, sentimental letters with her. He said that you walked away from him last time, but he was certain that I would see you again, so he asked me to give this to you.”

Your eyes widened as Mel slid over the envelope over the table, your lips parting as you saw your name sprawled over the paper in his handwriting. Panic flashed over your face as you looked up at her, and her smile only grew wider.

“Like I said– he was very sweet to me, but he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than with me last night,” Mel said. “And he apologized profusely to me for wasting my time, and told me that I didn’t have to do this if I didn’t have to– but I like you, and I think this is really cute. You don’t see guys write love letters to girls these days. However, I expect a wedding invitation if that happens.”

She leaves you in the coffee shop with the letter that takes you too long to open. When you finally do, you find several pages folded up. Behind the handwritten letter, you find the Ador Matchmaker questionnaire as well. Your eyes widened– he filled it out. Completely. To the brim, with full answers. 

You don’t know how long you spend in the café, rereading both the letter and his answers before you’re booking a ride towards his office

You stand in the hall, his handwritten letter tucked safely in your purse as you try to will your heart to calm down in your chest. The receptionist let you know that he was definitely in the building somewhere. You don't know if he’s in the middle of a meeting or an appointment, but you’re willing to wait. 

Eventually, you hear footsteps against the marble floor, and you hear the chatter of different voices echoing against the walls. Then, it slows, and the voices come to a stop. You look up, finding Bucky in the center of a crowd of other men in suits. They’re all looking at him, waiting– and he dismissed them with a nod and a mutter of a couple words. They disperse immediately.

He fixed his suit with his hands, walking past you and to his door, unlocking the office. He doesn’t say a word, but holds it open for you to step in first. Your heart squeezes at the gesture, and you move. 

Your eyes fall on the wilting roses first. He put them in a vase, in the corner of his office where he can see them from his desk. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. The door shuts as he walks in behind you, and he goes towards his chair. Bucky cleared his throat, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” you said, sitting at the chair opposite from his desk. “I’m here to follow up on your date with Mel.”

You watch as his eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “I see. This couldn’t have been a phone call? An email?”

“You are very infamous for avoiding my phone calls, Congressman. Should I send you a letter for my clients to deliver to you, too?” you asked.

Bucky stared at you for a few moments, before sighing. He relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that this is unprofessional? That you can’t be in a relationship with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is that why you pulled away from me so quickly after the date?”

“Because it was unprofessional,” you argued back. “It shouldn’t have happened the way it did– part of me feels like I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t,” he immediately said, eyes snapping open to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat. “You did not take advantage of me. I wanted you– I want you just as bad as you wanted me.”

“Your letter said that I make you feel human,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. “You mean it?”

“I rewrote that thing five times before I got the proper wording down, sweetheart,” he confessed, sighing. He dragged his hand over his face, shaking his head. “The first four drafts didn’t convey what I wanted it to.”

“And you really think that I can make you happy?” you whispered.

“You said it yourself. You find it easy to talk to me,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I agree with you. You are the easiest person for me to talk to. I think I could tell you everything, and that scares me.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It scares you– but you still want me?”

“I have lived through war upon war,” he said. “I think I know better than anyone than to let fear overtake what I want in life.”

You’re scared, and you know he can see it from the way he’s looking at you. You tried to ignore that look in bed– the way he looked at you like you were precious and gentle beneath him as you came undone. The way his eyes weren’t just full of lust, but affection, too.

“I’ll jump a fence for you,” he added, making you laugh. 

You stood up out of your chair, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you rounded the side of his desk. You placed a hand on the back of his chair, turning it to the side so you could have full access to him.

“I am so scared of love,” you admitted to him, moving to straddle his lap. 

“I figured,” he said, resting his hands on your hips. There’s a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. “We can take this slow. At your own pace.”

“I promise I’m good at my job though,” you murmured, sliding your hands up his chest and linking your fingers behind his neck. Your lips meet his in a sweet kiss, a sigh escaping him as you finally connect.

“Mm… I beg to differ. Can I fire you now, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips barely ghosting over yours, “I don’t need your help planning a second date.”

masterlist

part two (sequel): locked in

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla

Distance is not something that you know when it comes to Bucky. In fact, your first meeting with him was him pretending to be your boyfriend.

You had a particularly rough day at work. You weren’t with your friends or anyone else– you just wanted to spend a night alone at the bar near your apartment before going home for the night. However, men in New York just didn’t enjoy giving you a chance of peace.

You leaned away from the man that was giving you advances that you didn’t want, trying to deny drinks that you were sure he had tampered with. You gave dry responses to the man that you don’t even remember anymore, but you supposed you have to thank him.

A scent of cedarwood and clean soap filled your nostrils as a warm arm gently slipped over your shoulders. A body was beside yours, standing protectively. Someone that you didn’t know. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small smile. His words were spoken loud, as if he was giving a performance. “Thanks for waiting for me. Who’s your friend?”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off. Then, you saw the look in his eyes. He was giving you an out. In a matter of a few seconds, you weighed your options. It was either this man with dangerously striking blue eyes that smelled good, or the drunkard that smelled like throw up and shit. So, you leaned into this stranger’s embrace, gave him a pretty smile, and hummed.

“Didn’t wait for too long, baby,” you sighed. “Missed you.”

You didn’t even answer the question about your “friend,” and the two of you just ignored him until he took the hint, and walked away. Except the hint was your savior glaring at him with murderous intent in his eyes. You didn’t know it at the time, but Bucky was fully capable of committing those kinds of crimes for you. 

When the drunkard was far enough away, his arm slid off your shoulders, his hand moving down your back, but not low enough to make you uncomfortable.

“Can I buy you a drink?” you asked him, grateful. “You kinda saved me back there, handsome.”

He laughed at your words. “I was going to ask you if you wanted a drink since you just went through something traumatizing, pretty girl.” 

“I’ll pay for yours, you pay for mine?” you offered. 

“Deal,” he grinned. 

The two of you introduced yourselves to each other not too long afterwards, toasted, and found out that you were both alone that night. Bucky spent the rest of the night by your side at the bar, the two of you just chatting. 

It was the start of a friendship that you weren’t looking for, but welcomed easily with open arms. Bucky was easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and he was comfortable for you to be around. 

Around the beginning of your friendship, you noticed he would sometimes come to hang out with you with a busted lip or a cut on his face. You were sure there was another injury somewhere under the layers of clothes he was wearing, too. When you finally asked– when you finally felt ready to ask, he was honest with you when he told you what he did for work. At first, you thought he was shitting with you. Then, he told you to look up his name online. 

“You’re ancient,” you said, your eyes falling on the birthdate of the man titled as Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th Infantry Unit in World War II. Then, the name of the Winter Soldier came next on the articles you were reading. 

“Yes, because every man wants a beautiful woman to call them old, sweetheart,” he said, rolling his eyes at you.

“You look good for being over a century old though, handsome,” you grinned.

“I’m like, ninety-something. Don’t age me up.”

Bucky showed you his metal arm that night. He took off the gloves he wore, and took off the jacket that seemed to be glued to his body. You inspected the dark metal in awe– asked if you could touch it.

He was patient with you. Answered all of your questions. You learned that he could feel sensations on the prosthetic– that his friends in Wakanda made sure of it. He told you it was made of vibranium, which was the same material made of Captain America’s shield– his best friend.

You learned a lot about Bucky that night. That night, you became more than just his friend. You became someone important to him. He didn’t know it, but he was already important to you before the confessions of his past. 

He asked you if you were scared of him. If you wanted him to leave. 

“Where would you go if you left?” you asked, frowning at him. “We’re supposed to watch those shitty reality shows tonight. Are you going to leave me to watch them by myself?”

You’ve never felt more relieved to see that smile come back to his face, to watch the tension leave his shoulders. Bucky shifted on the couch, assuming the same position that you two always did. 

Distance was not something that you two were familiar with from the start of your friendship together. Whenever you waited for him at your meeting spots, he would come up behind you like some sort of ghost. You started to get used to it– being randomly held by him.

“Sweetheart,” he would greet you, an arm slipping over your shoulders. “Missed me?”

“Take a lap, Sarge,” you’d tell him, shoving his arm off of you only to loop your arm through his. “Who would miss your face around here?”

“Ouch,” he chuckled, shaking his head at you. “And here I thought– I believed you when you said I was handsome.”

“Oh, you are,” you hummed, tugging him along to get in line for the aquarium– Bucky’s choice for your hangout that day. “I’m trying to keep you humble.”

Most of your time would be spent hanging out in your apartment. The two of you would talk about anything and everything. Well– you were talking. Bucky was listening to you. 

“Sounds a little stressful,” he said, patting his lap once you were finished with your long winded tirade about how your girl friends were horrible on night outs, and you weren’t looking forward to next Saturday night.

“Very,” you agreed, and dropped your head on his thigh, just as he was indicating for you to do.

You closed your eyes, sighing deeply as he started to card his hands through your hair, gently massaging your scalp. To comfort you, maybe. You were certain that he had no idea how to navigate the struggles of a friend group of five women– your four friends– that were trying to get laid, while you were desperately trying to make sure none of them ended up kidnapped or dead by the end of the night. 

“You gonna find someone to spend the night with on Saturday, too?” he murmured to you, and you opened your eyes. 

You raised an eyebrow at him, and smiled teasingly. “Why? You want me to include you in the same girl talk debrief that the other girls get on Sunday mornings?”

“Gross,” he scoffed, clasping his entire hand over your face, making your entire body jolt with surprise. 

“You’re the one that asked,” you huffed. You grabbed his wrist, pulling it away from your face and raising it up in the air. Bucky let you, his limb being pliant under your touch as he allowed you to flail it around like it was made of nothing at all. You watched as his fingers moved like noodles in the air, mildly amused for a few moments. “I’d tell you if you’re really interested, y’know.”

“I’m just asking so I know where you’ll be, doll. You’re stressin’ about your friends, so let me stress about you,” he said, his voice going softer for just a moment. 

You stopped thrashing his hand around the air, and looked at him. He was looking down at you, eyes never leaving your face. There was something unreadable in his gaze that made you pause. Your lips parted, closed, then you gave him a smile. 

“I’ll text you if I go home with someone, handsome. I don’t think I will, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you promised him, dropping his hand to your stomach. 

Bucky hummed, a little noncommittally as he patted your abdomen a few times before resting completely. His other hand continued to run through your hair, sending shivers down your spine. 

“I’m sure it won’t be difficult for you if you do decide for it,” Bucky said. “Guys flirt with you all the time.”

“That was one time, and I was alone at the worst bar on the street, Buck. It wasn’t even flirting. That was harassment,” you corrected him, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugged. “You’re a little oblivious when people flirt with you, pretty girl.”

The rest of the night was spent arguing over the fact that you were not oblivious towards men flirting with you. Bucky was very adamant that you were. You denied all accusations like a politician that had something to hide. 

Neither of you managed to find common ground, and you ended up falling asleep on his lap. Woke up the next morning to find that Bucky didn’t leave. In fact, he didn’t even move you off his lap. He fell asleep, sitting upright, and refused to move in fear of waking you up. He refused to accept any apology from you and swore your couch was comfortable. You disagreed, but quickly shut up when he said that it was better than the hard dirt grounds of World War II. 

You hated it when Bucky pulled that shit on you. Bucky loved doing it. He always had a smug grin on his face.

Other times would include quieter moments. Where you both ended up in your bed. By this point in your friendship, Bucky had a drawer in your dresser of spare, comfortable clothes. He would get changed in pajamas for the night, and you two would be laying in bed. Bucky would be reading one of your more raunchy fantasy novels with confusion all over his face as to why you read these books, but still continued to turn the page. He’d have his head against your shoulder, and you’d scroll through your phone watching videos before falling asleep.

Flirting and touching was his default, you believed. Your assumption was only strengthened when he told you stories about the forties, and how he used to try to get Steve to go out on dates with girls that he set him up with. You managed to get him to admit that he was quite the charmer back in the forties. 

The only time there wasn’t any flirting was when he opened up about himself– when the conversation went serious on both of your ends. Then, the banter would stop and you both would give each other your undivided attention.

The touching wouldn’t stop, though. Even if he was the one leading the conversation, exposing you to the depths of his mind, he would play with your fingers. Touch your hair. You figured it was to busy himself from the fact that he was being so vulnerable with you. You never brought attention to it, allowed him to do what he needed to get through the words that he was forcing out of his throat– to tell you the things that he wanted you to hear.

You generally assumed that Bucky was just a touch starved man once you learned about his past. Coupled with him returning to the world and coming back to his personality, you figured he was just returning to his roots as a charismatic guy. You never thought anything of it, if you were being honest. Until you did. 

You should’ve realized it when you started taking pictures of him during your outings together. Your camera that only shot still life or animals gravitated towards him without even noticing. Your very first photo of him was a candid shot.

Bucky wasn’t looking at you. He was smiling at the cat that you both had taken interest in, that was at the park that you two were strolling through. He had crouched down, holding a hand out for the cat to come to him if it wanted to. And it did. Came and sniffed his palm, then nuzzled the warmth of his hand. Bucky smiled. A soft, gentle smile that took your breath away– and you took the picture without thinking.

It started your collection of photos of Bucky.

Bucky, the only person you had ever taken pictures of. The only person you wanted to take pictures of. He became your subject matter overnight. Your phone camera roll was filled with photos of him from your apartment— pictures of him on your couch, in your kitchen cooking, asleep in your bed. 

Your favorite picture of him right now was when the two of you went out to a bookstore together. He was walking down the aisles in front of you, and you meant to take a picture of his back. Another candid photo, another photo where he was unknowing. Except, he turned around. He was going to point out something to you, but stopped when he saw you had your camera in hand. You were caught. 

“What are you doing, pretty girl?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Smile. You’re looking exceptionally handsome right now,” you said, lifting your camera to your eye, so you could see him through the viewfinder. 

Bucky let out a small laugh, shaking his head at your words. However, he didn’t argue. Didn’t fight back. His hands found their way naturally into his pockets. He tilted his head at you in a kind of boyish way that reminded you of the old photos you saw at the Smithsonian when the two of you went together. 

And just like you asked him to, he smiled. Not at your camera, but at you. Your heart stuttered for a few moments, your finger froze over the button, and you had to remind yourself to take the picture. 

You were forever glad that you did. 

You stared at the photo for a long time, smiling to yourself– smiling back at Bucky’s face caught in time. You had the picture printed out on a mini Polaroid printer, and attached it to the back of your phone, but turned around so only you would know what was there. That was enough for you. You simply wanted to carry his smile with you wherever you went.

“What does it mean when your closest guy friend is always touching you, but doesn’t seem to like… make a move?” you brought up one day during a Sunday brunch with the girls. 

Your friends looked up at you, raising an eyebrow. It was only the three out of the five of your group– you’d known the two of them since the beginning of high school. The three of you were generally closer since the other two had joined your little circle during the last couple years of university. 

“Is this about your mysterious best friend that you won’t tell us anything about?” Leah teased you, a fat grin on her face. “What was his name again? Jamie?”

“James,” you corrected, clearing your throat. “And there’s nothing to tell about him. Just answer the question.”

“Well,” Mel hummed, picking up her mimosa. “What kind of touches are we talking about? Like just accidental hand brushing or…?”

You were thankful that Mel was taking you seriously at least. 

“Like… Cuddling on the couch during movies. Head on each other’s lap when we talk. He has a drawer at my place because he sleeps over sometimes– not intentionally. It just gets late, and I tell him it’s fine and to just stay over. So I told him to just bring a change of clothes, and I just wash his stuff whenever he uses them.”

“He sleeps… on your couch?” Leah asked slowly.

“No, we sleep in my bed together. Like when you guys come over…” you trailed off, voice dying down, looking down at your breakfast. 

“Like when we— when all of us cuddle in your fucking bed? Like when we were in college cramped onto a twin bed?” Leah demanded, eyebrows shooting to her hairline.

You don’t answer her. You stab a fork into your pancakes, and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue awkwardly. You can’t look at either of them in the eyes right now. They’re a little too judgmental for your taste.

“How does he talk to you? Like sweetly or?” Mel asked, frowning at you.

“I mean– he calls me all these pet names. All the time. Calls me pretty and beautiful.”

“So you sleep next to the guy in the same bed, he’s always touching you, calls you all these sweet and cute things– never popped a boner or anything? Never tried to get a little handsy with you?” Leah asked.

“Leah!” you hissed, looking around at the other patrons in the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “We are in public. Can you keep your voice down?”

“No, but she’s right though,” Mel said quickly, placing a hand down on the table. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she leans in, “Is he gay?”

You’re taken aback for a moment. “Uh– I… I don’t know. It never came up. I don’t think so? He’s had girlfriends before.”

You’re suddenly brought back to memories of your conversations with Bucky where he talks about Steve and Sam very fondly. 

He has plenty of memories with Steve that he speaks of with nostalgia. There are times when he talks about not Captain America, but Steve Rogers with so much pride in his voice that you can’t help but smile. At this point, you were certain that you could meet Steve on the street at any time, and you would know him like he was your own childhood friend.

Then there’s Sam. Bucky swears he hates the man, but you can hear the smile trying to crack through his words. Like he’s trying to hide how he really feels for a long winded bit that he’s doing. Despite all his sharp words, Bucky still talks about Sam. That has to count for something. 

“He might swing both ways, maybe leaning towards men,” Leah hummed, leaning back in her seat like the code was just cracked. “I mean, has to be, right? You’ve known him for almost what, an entire year now and nothing’s happened? Men don’t just befriend women at this age just to be friends.”

“I disagree with that last statement, but I do think that you’re reading too much into him,” Mel quickly said, nodding. “Men and women can definitely be friends without expecting anything from each other.”

You drown out the rest of their talk– the debate of whether or not men and women can just be friends. You’re spiraling. The polaroid hidden in the back of your phone case is weighing your purse down exponentially as the realization hits you. 

You were in the perpetual friendzone. Bucky didn’t bat an eye at you. He flirted with you, touched you without flinching, and laid down next to you in your own bed without his gaze lingering.

This was a man that was raised in the forties, and if you were correct in the little that you knew about that time period, anything premarital was some sort of sin. People were shamed. Disowned. Stoned. Excommunicated from the church.

And here Bucky was– doing just that. Doing all that and much more.

Yeah.

You were fucked. 

A light buzz within your purse caught your attention. You reached for your phone, eyes falling onto the notification of the man you were just talking about. 

You read the message over and over again, unable to believe what you were seeing for a few moments. 

Handsome [11:32am]: Stark’s throwing a party next Friday night. Do you want to come meet everyone?

The jet landed down, and the sound of the decompressors of the jet doors opening signaled the end of a successful mission. 

While the others clambered off with ease, good moods, and joy, Bucky couldn’t help but feel a wave of irritation wash through his body. The mission wasn’t difficult by any means, but the load of missions was what pissed him off. 

It’d been two weeks since he last saw you.

Bucky was simply surviving off of stupid images that he learned were called ‘memes’ that you sent him every day. That, and your cute good morning! and sleep well :) text messages which never failed to truly make him have a great morning and a well rested sleep.

Sometimes, if he got lucky, you sent him a picture of yourself. The first time that you did, he had to Google how to save images to his camera roll. After that, it was over for you. It didn’t matter what kind of picture that you sent. Even if you weren’t the full subject, he saved it. 

There was a picture where you were only partially in it, and you were trying to show off the matcha lavender drink that you bought. Another photo where your face was cut off at the top because you were cuddling with Mel’s puppy at her house. Some more stupidly angled photos of just your eyes— Bucky learned those ones being sent to him meant you wanted his attention. 

He also had pictures that he took of you. None of which, you were aware that he took. It was easy to hide. You often walked ahead of him when you were together, or your attention was focused on something else. It wasn’t difficult for a trained assassin to steal a photo or two.

Besides that, you slept like the dead next to him. Slept on his shoulder, and his lap like you owned the space. Bucky had a collection of you sleeping, though he wouldn’t admit it. It sounds creepy, but he found it endearing. 

The first time he was in your bed, and you sleeping beside him— he couldn’t fucking close his eyes. 

Were you stupid? That oblivious?

Bucky knew that you were comfortable with him, but to invite him into your bed without assuming anything? Yes, he was your friend, yes he was respectful, but he’d also been flirting with you for months on end waiting for you to pick up on the hints. 

Obviously, he wasn’t going to do anything. With each repeated time, it got a little bit easier. He found himself being able to take a small nap beside you in your bed. 

It was a comforting feeling— the warmth radiating off of your body. He was surrounded by the smell of your clean sheets, the scent of the laundry detergent that you used mixing with the shampoo you washed your hair with, and the perfume that stuck to your skin.

You moved in your sleep. Towards him. He would wake up to find you curled up beside him, like you would be if the two of you were cuddling on the couch and watching something. Bucky never pushed you away during these moments, but he never pulled you closer. 

Part of him felt guilty, if he really thought about it.