Delmar’s is too loud.

Too crowded and too hot with summer bodies packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath yellow hanging lights while someone’s record player crackles faint jazz into the room.

The whole neighborhood showed up for the send-off. Brooklyn boys in freshly pressed uniforms get clapped on the back and handed drinks while mothers dab at their eyes pretending they aren’t terrified. Girls dance too close to soldiers trying hard to make tonight feel normal and worth remembering. Dum Dum is already halfway drunk, Morita’s winning money off somebody in cards while Jones keeps trying to drag everyone onto the dance floor.

And Bucky keeps looking at the door.

“Barnes!”

A hand slams against his shoulder hard enough to jolt him from his thoughts as he turns automatically, plastering on an easy grin for the older man standing there.

“Mr. Delmar.”

The man beams proudly while shoving another beer into his hand.

“Look at you, huh? Sergeant now.” He shakes his head. “Your ma would’ve been proud.”

Bucky swallows around something uncomfortable in his throat.

“Thanks.”

More people pull him away before the conversation can linger. Another handshake, another “good luck overseas.” Another smiling girl asking for one dance before he ships out. Bucky gives everyone exactly what they expect, the grin and the charm.

Because that’s what they need tonight. What they deserve.

But every few minutes his eyes drift back toward the entrance anyway, still waiting. Steve notices first, obviously, because Steve Rogers has always looked at Bucky like he can read the wiring in his head.

“You’re gonna wear a hole through the door,” Steve mutters beside him while accepting two drinks from the bartender.

Bucky tears his gaze away too slowly. “I’m not lookin’ at the door.”

“You checked it four times during one conversation.” Steve stares at him flatly.

“She’s probably just late.”

The words slip out before Bucky can stop them and Steve’s expression softens immediately. Oh. So that’s what this is.

“You told her to come?”

Bucky shrugs too casually.

“Mentioned it.”

“You must really like her.”

“I invited her for the drinks.”

“That’s practically a marriage proposal from you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. Then the door opens again and Bucky looks up immediately.

Not you, just another group filtering in from the street laughing loudly. The hope that sparked in his chest disappears so fast it almost embarrasses him.

Steve notices that too.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

Lie.

Across the room somebody calls Bucky’s name again with ,ore congratulations, more shoulder claps, more promises that he’ll “make Brooklyn proud.” And Bucky tries, God, he tries to stay inside the moment but all he can think about is you.

The way you looked the last time he saw you standing outside the corner store while he told you about deployment papers finally coming through, the party that the block was putting up for him. You’d smiled for him but it never reached your eyes.

Now hours pass and there's still no sign of you. The party keeps moving around him anyway. The music swells and people dance, someone starts singing badly near the bar while Bucky stands in the center of all of it feeling strangely disconnected. Like he’s underwater because deep down, a thought keeps growing uglier and uglier in the back of his mind. Maybe she’s not coming.

The realization settles heavy in his chest until Jones eventually drags him into a celebratory toast near midnight.

“To Sergeant Barnes!” someone yells.

Everyone cheers loudly around him and Bucky lifts his beer automatically, smiles on cue but over the rim of the bottle, his eyes drift one last time toward the door. Still hoping, still waiting.

Nothing. And for the first time all night, his smile finally slips just for a second. Long enough for Steve to see it from across the room, long enough for Bucky to quietly wonder what he did wrong. Or worse—if maybe you saying goodbye would’ve hurt less than not showing up at all.

The phone rings three times before you answer it.

You almost let it keep going.

Almost let the sound echo through your apartment until whoever stood on the other end finally gave up and hung up for good. But something ugly and hopeful twists in your chest when it rings a fourth time, and despite every stubborn thought in your head, your hand reaches for it anyway.

“Hello?”

Static crackles softly through the line before his voice comes warm and rough and achingly familiar.

“Doll?”

Your eyes squeeze shut immediately. Of course. You lean heavily against the kitchen wall, fingers tightening around the receiver.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

There’s a pause, not long, just enough to hear the smile fall from his voice.

“You were supposed to be there.”

The deployment party.

The one at Delmar’s with music too loud and cheap beer and neighborhood girls crying into handkerchiefs while boys barely old enough to shave pretended they weren’t terrified of dying overseas. You couldn't go. Because you knew the second you saw him in uniform smiling like war was just another adventure, something inside you would crack clean open.

“Yeah well,” you mutter quietly, swallowing around the ache climbing your throat, “forgive me if I didn’t feel like celebrating.”

Silence hums between you. Somewhere through the line you hear traffic, distant voices, Brooklyn still moving like the world isn’t changing around it.

Then softer than you'd ever heard before.

“Doll…”

“No, Bucky, don’t do that.”

Your voice comes sharper than intended. You press your hand harder against your forehead, pacing once across the apartment.

“I’m not gonna stand there and watch you ride off to your death, alright?”

The words finally spill loose after being trapped in your chest for days.

“Because you’d smile that stupid smile like everything was okay, and it’s not.” Your breath catches painfully. “I might not ever see you again.”

The line goes quiet enough that for one terrible second you think maybe he hung up.

“You’ll see me again.”

You laugh weakly under your breath.

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” he admits gently. “Guess I can’t.”

The honesty nearly ruins you more than reassurance would’ve. You slide slowly down the kitchen wall until you’re sitting on the floor, phone cord twisted around your wrist.

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I hate the uniform.”

“I know.”

“I hate everybody acting like this is brave and noble when really it’s just—”

You stop yourself before the word terrifying escapes.

Bucky finishes it quietly anyway.

“Scary.”

Your eyes sting. On the other end of the line, his voice lowers like he’s speaking something sacred.

“I’ll always be yours, no matter what.”

The words settle heavily into the silence and your chest aches with them. Then carefully, Bucky almost sounds hesitant for the first time in his life.

“Can I come see you?”

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes before he can somehow hear it.

“…Only if you leave the uniform at home.”

Bucky goes quiet.

“I want Bucky,” you whisper. “Not Sergeant Barnes.”

For the first time since answering the phone, you hear his real smile, small and soft and entirely yours.

“Ma’am, yes ma’am.”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find him standing there in dark slacks, suspenders hanging loose at his hips, hair still damp like he rushed washing the pomade from it before coming over.

Not Sergeant Barnes, just Bucky, and suddenly the air leaves your lungs. Because this, this is the dangerous part. Not the war, not the train he’ll board tomorrow morning to England. It’s this soft, ordinary version of him standing in your hallway looking at you like you’re home already.

Neither of you speaks at first. Bucky’s eyes move slowly over your face, searching for damage. You realize distantly that he probably expected you to still be angry, to scold him some more, instead you step aside quietly.

He walks in like he’s trying not to disturb something fragile, glancing around before landing on you again.

“You been cryin’?”

“No.”

“Doll.”

“Don’t start.”

A faint smile pulls at his mouth despite everything.

“There she is.”

You hate that the sight of it still makes your heart stutter. Bucky takes a slow step closer, then another until your socks nearly touch his shoes, close enough to smell soap and cigarette smoke and the familiar warmth of him.

“You really that mad at me?” he asks softly.

You look up at him then, finally letting him see it. Not anger, but the fear. Pure, ugly fear. And Bucky’s expression breaks instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

His hands settle carefully at your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“I invited you tonight because I didn’t wanna leave things bad between us.”

“They’re not bad,” you whisper shakily. “They’re just… ending too soon.”

That wrecks him a little. You see it happen in real time. Bucky lowers his forehead against yours with a tired exhale, eyes closing briefly.

“I wish I knew how to make it better,” he admits quietly.

You melt a little hearing that. Because Bucky Barnes always acts like he knows exactly what to say, but not now, not when it matters. So instead of answering, you lift your hand to his cheek and he leans into it immediately.

“You come back to me, that'll make it better,” you murmur.

Bucky opens his eyes and there’s something unbearably tender in them now. Something young, frightened and loving. Maybe it was the thought of tomorrow morning, maybe it was the way he looked at you like leaving already hurt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding you both had that there might not be another chance after this one.

Whatever it was, it pulled you toward him before fear could stop you.

The kiss happened softly, your lips brushing his in a way that felt almost disbelieving, like even this was subject to disappearing if you thought about it too long. Bucky exhaled shakily against your mouth as he kissed you back, one hand tightened lightly at your waist while the other slid warm against your jaw.

It wasn’t a practiced kiss, wasn’t smooth or perfect. It felt like relief, like months of almosts finally giving in all at once. When you pulled back, Bucky stayed close enough that his nose brushed yours.

His eyes were still closed.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I’ll try real hard to do that.”

You want to believe him. To know in your heart that his words are true. But it's hard. Loving someone during peacetime already felt terrifying enough, but loving someone marching toward war feels unbearable.

“That wrinkle between your eyebrows means you’re thinkin’ too hard again.” He says with a soft grin.

You huff softly through your nose.

“You say that like it’s avoidable.”

“For you? Probably not.”

“I’m comin’ back for you, you know.”

Your breath catches softly.

“Buck—”

“No, listen to me.”

There’s something steady in him now. He steps closer until the world narrows into the smell of cigarette smoke on his collar, soap, and the warmth of him standing near enough to feel.

“I’m gonna come back,” he says quietly, “and the first day I do, I’m gonna take you to the pictures.”

A laugh escapes you through the ache in your chest.

“The pictures?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re using all your big romantic material tonight, huh?”

Bucky grins softly.

“I’m serious.”

His thumb traces lightly along your cheekbone.

“I’ll get one of those giant buckets of popcorn you like.”

“The overpriced kind?”

“The very overpriced kind.”

“And?”

“And those little chocolate M&M’s you like.”

You smile helplessly and Bucky’s expression softens like he’d do anything just to keep seeing that look on your face.

“We’ll spend the whole day there,” he murmurs. “Movie after movie until you fall asleep on my shoulder.”

Your chest aches so badly it feels beautiful. Because the promise itself isn’t really about popcorn or candy or movie theaters. It’s about a future, small and ordinary and domestic. The kind of life that war keeps trying to steal from boys like Bucky.

You reach for him before thinking too hard about it, fingers curling softly into the front of his shirt.

“You really believe that?” you whisper.

Bucky looks at you like the answer is easy.

“I believe in you.”

The words settle somewhere deep inside you permanently and you think maybe this is what love really is. Not grand speeches or dramatic declarations. Just a boy standing close, promising you a future made of popcorn buckets and shared silence in dark movie theaters because that’s the only way he knows how to say please wait for me, please let me come home to you.

And finally you let yourself lean into him completely. Bucky exhales softly the second you do, arms wrapping around you instinctively, pausing only long enough to look at you, to really look at you.

Like he wants to memorize this version of you beneath the streetlight forever.

Then he kisses you again. His hand slides warm against the back of your neck while yours bunch softly in the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens slowly, unhurried and aching with all the things tomorrow threatens to take from you.

Bucky kisses like he’s trying to promise something impossible, like if he loves you carefully enough, the war won’t touch either of you.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours while both of you breathe the same summer air.

“See?” he murmurs softly, lips brushing near yours again. “Now you got somethin’ to come back to too.”