°*••*°*• kate •*°*••*°

Upon moving to New York, you were put right to work with media training the mess that was the Thunderbolts. They have made your job far from easy, some on purpose, others, like Alexei and Bob were truly trying their best. Bucky had little to say at first and Yelena and Ava eventually grew to like you, once you started helping them prank John. You settled into life in the tower much easier than you thought, although it was vastly different from your life in DC, you finally felt like you had a place in this world. And instead of managing a 65 year old congressman’s tik tok account, you were finally doing real work.

About eleven months in, it was the night of the charity gala you had been working on diligently. Although the team showed improvement, you couldn’t help but worry about their behavior tonight. There would be an open bar and hundreds of wealthy investors looking to donate their money to the cause you were all supporting.

Your heels clacked as you paced in front of the team. They were lined up in the common space of the tower. Bucky was leaning on the couch, arms crossed, Bob stood as straight as a soldier, and the rest lazily looked ahead. “You will be perfect tonight…” you walked slowly, looking at each of them up and down, “no pranks, no weapons,” you stopped in front of Alexei and placed your palm up, he sighed and placed the knife in your hand, you continued walking. “You will wear what I picked out, you will use your flashcards, drink an appropriate amount,” you stopped in front of Yelena and Ava, “if you don’t trust yourself to drink an appropriate amount, hold the same glass of champagne all night.” You stopped walking and took a step back, “any questions?” They responded with mumbled nos and groans. Yelena mock saluted you, “okay, then go get ready, we meet back here and leave in one hour.”

You pulled your iPad up and everyone began filing out of the room. “I think you’re starting to scare everyone,” a deep voice spoke. You smiled without looking up from your iPad, “took them long enough, what about you super soldier, are you scared of me?” You looked up at Bucky with a curious look. He chuckled, “terrified.” He winked before he walked back to his room, leaving you blushing. When you first started working, Bucky was a book you couldn’t quite read. It took the longest for him to warm to you, but after learning you’re both insomniacs, late night kitchen talks became your routine, and you got to know him that way. As you’ve gotten closer, you have even felt him flirting, but you told yourself that’s just because you had a major crush on him and you wanted him to be flirting with you. You let your blush subside and made your way back to your room.

Your black gown was hanging on the frame of your closet, you began working on your makeup and hair, while simultaneously checking your iPad and confirming everything for the event tonight. You reviewed the guest list for the millionth time and took a deep breath, “everything will work out,” you mumbled to yourself, trying to make yourself believe it.

You slipped into your stilettos and smoothed out your dress. You grabbed your ipad, your lipstick, and your clutch before walking back to the common space a full ten minutes early, wanting to beat the team there so you can make sure everyone is wearing their assigned outfit when they walk in. When you turned the corner, Bucky was sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of whiskey in his metal hand. Tux pressed to perfection, hair styled back, he looked like a god. You tried to take a steady breath and rid yourself of the thoughts you were having.

He turned when he heard you walk in and you swear you saw him look you up and down. He cleared his throat. “Starting already?” You asked as you slid into the bar stool next to him. He smiled and looked up at you from his glass, “well considering I cannot physically get drunk, I figured why not,” he shrugged and offered you the glass. You shook your head, “not yet, unfortunately this is work.” He sighed, “well, for what it's worth, you look beautiful.”

Your breath caught and your eyes met his, the softness and sincerity in them catching you by surprise, you opened your mouth to speak when you heard steps entering the room, you peeled your gaze away from him, but he kept his eyes locked on you.

“Let’s do this,” Yelena said excitedly, “we’re going to make you proud, mom,” she said looking at you, you rolled your eyes at the nickname she loved to throw at you, and stood up.

“Lift your dresses,” you said standing in front of Yelena and Ava. They both feigned offense, “gosh, buy me dinner first!” Yelena exclaimed. You put your hand on your hip and raised your brow. They both looked at each other and sighed. Yelena lifted her dress to reveal her combat boots, and Ava lifted her dress to reveal a knife strapped to her ankle. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut.

“All the men, god, even Alexei, were able to get dressed for this.” You opened your eyes and looked at Yelena, “go change into the heels I bought you.” She groaned and turned around. Then, you reached down and unstrapped the knife from Ava’s ankle, who now had her arms crossed around her chest. “Does anyone else have any surprises? Please hand in ALL weapons now.” Bob shook his head with a smile, Alexei took Bucky’s whiskey and knocked it back. John looked annoyed, but was wearing the exact outfit you asked him to and even shaved, so you couldn’t complain.

When Yelena reentered, she dramatically lifted her dress to reveal the correct shoes. “Okay, let’s go.” You lead the team to the elevator and ushered them all in.

“Alright, Alexei, Yelena, Bob limo one. Me, Bucky, John, Ava limo two,” you said looking down at your ipad as the elevator descended to the ground floor, “Valentina is meeting us there.”

‘Why are you separating us?” Yelena whined, referring to her and Ava, you ignored her complaint and looked forward, not giving in to the childishness this early in the night. When you got to the ground floor, you all slid into your assigned limos.

“I feel like Yelena and Alexei should have been separated, they love to try and out drink one another,” John said thinking out loud. You sighed, “But if I switched you with one of them, they would have pissed you off and then you would’ve been in a bad mood by the time we got there,” you said matter of factly. John hummed in response, “well, you could have put Barnes with one of them.” You froze, finally looking up from your phone, Bucky turned his head to look at you with a smirk, “yeah, you could have thrown me in there, but you didn’t.”

You looked at him, eyes wide, “well, Barnes is the only one of you who doesn’t make me feel absolutely insane, besides Bob, which feels like a crucial aspect to the evening.” You hoped that was a good enough answer and did not expose your mega crush on him. John stopped pestering you, but Bucky was still looking at you, smirking, seeing right through you. You ignored his stares and went back to your phone for the remaining few minutes of the drive.

The car came to a stop and you took a shaky breath, “alright remember, tonight is about appearances. We need them to donate, but we also want them to invest in us. They’re all rich and narcissistic so you need to make them think it’s their decision to spend their money on this charity and on us… you’re all smart enough, you got this.”

“Well that was quite the pep talk, mom.” John said sarcastically before sliding out of the limo. Ava followed him and you took another deep breath. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky shift, and then you felt his metal hand right above your knee, the cold cooling you down through your dress. “Everything is going to be fine tonight, I’ll help keep them in check,” he said reassuringly. You nodded in thanks and gave him a small smile. Suddenly your mouth felt dry and all you could focus on was the feeling of his hand on your leg. He smiled at you and slid out of the car, extending his hand to help you. You graciously took it as you made your way into the venue side by side.

The New York Public library looked magical at night. It was exactly as you planned it, the red carpet on the steps leading up the grand entrance, perfectly lit. You smiled at the sight, it was exactly how you imagined it. Getting the library on such short notice was deemed impossible, but Val wanted it, and with the right connections and donations, you made it happen.

Bucky extended his arm, and you slipped your hand through. He guided you up the steps, cameras flashed and when you reached the door, a waiter with champagne was waiting. You thanked him and continued inside. There was a circular bar at the center, a band playing soft music on the steps, and bright florals everywhere, you outdid yourself.

“This looks amazing, I’m not usually impressed by these sort of events but, wow.” Bucky was looking around taking it all in.

“Bucky, I just want to let you know… Sam and Joaquin were invited tonight and they both accepted,” he turned his head and looked at you, “listen it’s a big party, you can easily avoid them, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it's good optics. And maybe even a chance to have a civil conversation,” you continued, hopefully. He sighed, sipping his champagne.

“Are you mad?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried,” he said sincerely, “but, a heads up would have been good.”

You nodded, “I know, I just didn't want you to avoid coming if you found out.”

“I get it,” he said simply, with a small smile.

“Thank you for understanding, now go get em tiger,” you said, ushering Bucky off. He laughed and made his way to the center of the party.

“And the relationship continues to blossom, right in front of our eyes…” a thick Russian accent spoke from behind you. You rolled your eyes and sipped your champagne. Yelena stood next to you, always observing.

“Are you already drunk?”

She shook her head, “just having a little bit of fun… and I think both you and Barnes need to get laid. I think it would benefit you both.”

You fiddled with the champagne glass in your hand and looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, “Yelena.. I- I get.. I definitely get laid,” you stammered, completely unconvincingly, making her laugh.

“Yeah okay… considering you are literally always working I find that hard to believe, but whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You scoffed, “whatever Yelena, we don’t even like each other like that, we’re coworkers, friends maybe.”

She hummed, “well considering he has not stopped staring at you from across the room, I would say definitely…. Friends.”

You looked around and met his eyes, had he really been staring this whole time?

“Hmmm, maybe you got it worse than I thought,” she said watching the interaction.

He winked at you, and you blushed, just like you always did when he winked.

“Right, no crush there,” Yelena said sarcastically before walking away.

The night seemed to carry on smoothly, Valentina gave a speech that was perfectly written, by you, the Thunderbolts stood behind her poised and behaved. You were extremely proud of how the evening was going, and even allowed yourself a few glasses of champagne.

An hour or so in, Bucky found your side again, “you can totally say no to this, but how about a dance?”

Your eyes lit up at the question, “I would love that,” you said, taking his extended hand and following him to the dance floor. He placed his metal hand on your waist softly and grabbed your hand in his. You swayed lightly to the music and sat in the comfortable silence. You have never been this close to him, your chest basically pressed against his. You were hoping he couldn’t feel your heartbeat that was pounding in your chest.

The soft string-section of the band filled the space between the chatter and clinking glasses, and for a moment you felt a rush of nerves that came when he led you in a slow sway. He slipped his arm around your waist, guiding you easily and the world outside seemed to fade.

He looked down at you, his metal hand warm against the fabric of your gown, and he broke the silence, “So I did speak to Sam,” you raised your brow at him, “it went well. I think we’re headed on the right path, even got to talk to Joaquin for a while, who I think has a crush on you by the way.”

You laughed, “okay he does not!”

He nodded, smiling, “does too, kept asking me about your relationship status.”

You laughed again, “and what did you say?”

Bucky took a deep breath in, “told him you were married to your job,” he smiled, hoping you liked the joke.

You laughed again, louder this time, “well, no matter what was said, I’m glad you were able to talk civilly and maybe you guys can start to… move on.”

He smiled again, “yeah me too, thank you for inviting him, you always seem to know what I need.”

You blushed under the praise, “I like to think I’ve gotten to know you pretty well.”

“I’m proud of you, this event is perfect,” he said softly. He gave you a small, genuine smile, and leaned in closer: “And… thank you, for knowing me so well.”

His gaze flickered to your lips, his brow drawing in slightly as if he were measuring the moment. You felt the air shift and his hand tightened around your waist. He whispered your name, quiet enough so only you heard. You leaned in.

Just then, the party’s rhythm stuttered. From across the room, you heard a sharp laugh, a crash on the marble, then the unmistakable clatter of something hitting a cocktail table. You knew exactly what was happening, Yelena Belova and Ava Starr got bored, so they had pulled a prank. Something mean-spirited and brilliantly chaotic, on the team's resident hot head, John Walker. Yelena’s voice rang out: “You should see your face, John!” And John shot back with a shove. Arms flew up, a waiter recoiled, dropping the platter of champagne glasses, one of the socialites gasped. It all exploded at once.

The moment between you and Bucky vanished. He straightened, his eyes flashing concern as he looked at the altercation. Yelena’s heel hit the floor so hard it echoed; John’s jaw clenched. You swallowed, heart sinking, and Bucky muttered, “Stay right here.” He slipped away, towards the chaos, he motioned for the band to continue, so they did.

You stood there, stunned, your lips still parted, your earlier courage draining. You watched John push Yelena back, hard. Yelena’s smirk cracked into something colder and you know it was elevating. You felt tears prick the back of your eyes, but you refused to give them. Bucky made his way between the two, but before you could see how it played out, you turned and walked out of the grand ballroom, past gilded columns and shocked glances, into the silver night of the city, the faint hum of traffic a world away from the gala’s glamor.

Outside, you leaned against the cool stone wall of the entrance, the wind tossing your hair across your face. You hugged your arms around your chest, trying to steady your breath, bitter at how the moment had slipped, how your hope had flickered. The heels you’d so carefully chosen threatened to topple you on the uneven pavement, but you didn’t care. You just needed space.

Minutes passed, standing there with tears running down your face, smudging your makeup. Then Bucky found you. His footsteps were soft on the stone, and when you looked up you saw his eyes, shadowed and uneasy in the ambient streetlight. He didn’t say anything at first, he just slid beside you, his metal hand resting lightly on the wall between you, the hand that had just been around your waist moments ago.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head, voice barely a whisper. “I just worked so hard and I really thought everyone would keep it together tonight I just -” you started, then stopped.

He exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Thank you for handling them, I just couldn’t do it,” you said honestly. He nodded at you in response.

You looked at him, really looked, and something in your heart cracked open. The vulnerability there. The late-night kitchen talks. The way his usual cool had thawed. You realized you weren’t just relieved he was there, you were happy. Happier than you’d let yourself admit.

“Bucky,” you said, “I want—”

He raised his hand, covering yours, firm and sure. “I like you,” he said, plain and true. “More than I ever let myself think. You make this crazy job, this weird life with a weird team feel… like home.” He paused, his breath visible in the cold. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Your brows furrowed, not exactly sure where he was going with all of this. And there, under the soft glow of the street lamps, he closed the distance. His lips found yours, gentle at first, then deeper. The muffled noise of the gala faded; the world narrowed down to you and him. Your arms curled up to his shoulders, and he held you steady. Nothing else mattered in that moment but the truth between you.

When you pulled back, your forehead resting against his, he whispered, “I don’t want to pretend that I see you as a friend anymore, not when I want so much more with you.”

“I want more too,” is all you could say back in the moment.

You both smiled and he kissed you again, deeper this time.

He broke apart and wiped the tears off your cheeks softly, “what do you say we abandon this party, get some ice cream and head home?”

You smiled and slipped your hand into his, “I think I love that idea, but my feet are killing me” you said gesturing to your heels.

“No need to fret, luckily you just kissed a super soldier,” before you could respond, Bucky scooped you up bridal style, making you squeal.

He carried you 6 blocks to the nearest ice cream shop, ordered your favorite, which he had memorized from your late night kitchen raids over the past few months. Then he hailed a cab and took you back to the tower. Your stress from the evening was long forgotten. When you got back, you finally slipped your heels off and followed him to his room.

When the ice cream was discarded, you kissed him again. This time, in his bed, Your hands were roaming freely up and down his body, he slipped his tongue into your mouth and you moaned. You felt needy, like you had been waiting all this time for this exact moment. You moved to unbutton his dress shirt when his hands covered yours.

“As much as I like where this is going,” he started, slightly out of breath, “I really like you, and I would really like to take you on a date first.”

You groaned, making him laugh, “man, I try to be a gentleman and that's your response, sweetheart?”

You smiled up at him and kissed him again, “I can respect it, let’s make that dinner date tomorrow then,” you suggested.

He laughed, “tomorrow night it is.”

He stood up and opened his dresser throwing a tshirt at you. You both changed and got into bed, he immediately pulled you into his chest. You sighed in relief, breathing his lingering cologne in. He kissed your forehead and before you could even say goodnight you were fast asleep listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You woke slowly, sunlight brushing over your face through unfamiliar curtains. For a split second, you didn’t know where you were, the sheets felt softer, the air cooler, the faint hum of the tower quieter than usual. Then you turned your head and realized.

Bucky’s room.

The events of the previous night flickered in and out of your mind like a dream. The gala. The chaos. The argument. The kiss. The icecream. The second kiss. Falling asleep in his shirt.

You sat up quickly, heart pounding. You were still in one of Bucky’s shirts , a soft grey thing that smelled like cedar and whiskey, falling on your thighs. You saw your gown neatly folded on the chair by the window. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, alongside a neatly scribbled note in his distinct handwriting:

“Didn’t want to wake you. You needed rest. See you downstairs.”

— B.

You smiled despite yourself, brushing your thumb over the paper before setting it down. Your pulse fluttered in your chest , that warm, dizzy kind of nervous excitement that you hadn’t felt in a long time.

You slipped out of bed, changed back into your clothes from last night, and tiptoed barefoot out into the hallway. The tower was unusually quiet. That, in itself, was suspicious. You padded into your room to change into sweats, washing your face and brushing your hair.

When you rounded the corner into the common room, the smell hit you first, coffee, pancakes, bacon, and something sweet, like berries, considering you were the only one besides Bob that could cook, you assumed Bob was busying himself in the kitchen. Then you heard it: hushed voices, clattering dishes, and… was that Yelena humming?

You stopped in your tracks.

Every single one of them was there.

Yelena stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. Ava was cutting fruit with frightening precision. Alexei was wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Cook (if you dare)”, John was pouring orange juice like it was an Olympic sport, and Bob was setting the table with almost military precision.

And in the center of it all stood Bucky, his arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with a faint smirk.

Yelena noticed you first. “Oh! Sleeping Beauty lives!” she announced dramatically.

The entire room turned.

You froze. “What—what is happening right now?”

Bucky stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “Apology breakfast,” he said simply.

You blinked. “Apology… breakfast?”

Yelena pointed the spatula at you. “Barnes made us. Said we embarrassed you and ruined your perfect night. Which, for the record, was not entirely our fault.”

“It was entirely your fault,” John muttered.

“Anyway,” Yelena continued, ignoring him, “he gave us the ‘you disappoint me’ speech, and it was terrifying, so here we are.”

You looked at Bucky, and he gave you a small, sheepish smile. “They wanted to say sorry,” he said, “and I figured breakfast was safer than another gala.”

You covered your mouth to hide your smile, but a laugh still escaped. “You made them cook?”

He shrugged. “Team-building exercise.”

Ava snorted. “You mean punishment.”

You crossed your arms, pretending to be stern. “Well, I have to say… I’m impressed.”

Yelena flipped a pancake onto a plate and presented it to you like it was an award. “For our fearless leader,” she said, mock-serious.

You took the plate, and something in your chest softened. The sight of all of them all ,messy, loud, imperfect, but trying, made your throat tighten. “You guys didn’t have to do this,” you said quietly.

Bucky stepped closer, close enough that his voice dropped to just you. “Yeah, we did.” His eyes softened. “You deserved better than how last night ended.”

You looked up at him, searching his expression. He meant it.

Yelena’s voice cut through again. “Oh my god, can you two not make heart eyes while I’m holding a spatula near an open flame?”

You laughed, shaking your head, cheeks warm. “Fine, fine, I’ll sit.”

Bucky pulled out a chair for you and when you sat down, he leaned in, his voice low and teasing, “You slept well?”

“Better than I have in a while,” you admitted softly.

He smiled, that rare, real kind that made his eyes crease at the corners. “Good.”

The rest of the morning unfolded in easy laughter and chaos, pancakes flipping onto the floor, Alexei trying (and failing) to make espresso, Yelena complaining that she wasn’t “built for domesticity,” and Bob accidentally setting off the fire alarm.

When the laughter finally died down, and everyone dispersed, you stayed behind with Bucky, washing dishes side by side.

He handed you a plate to dry. “So,” he said casually, “about last night…”

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, then gave a small grin. “I meant what I said.”

You smiled, feeling that same warmth from the night before. “Good,” you said softly, brushing your hand against his. “Because I did too.”

“So dinner is still on for tonight then?” he asked with a smirk.

You smiled, "absolutely, Barnes.”

He glanced down at where your hands touched, then back up at you, and for a second, everything stilled again. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the morning.

He leaned closer, voice low and teasing, “Think Val would let us expense all this as… team morale development?”

You laughed. “You can try, but I’m not helping you write that report.”

He chuckled, and as you turned to put the last plate away, his hand found yours again, deliberate this time, steady.

“Then maybe we just don’t tell her,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help but smile.

Dinner that night wasn’t anything fancy. Just takeout from the little Thai place around the corner that Bucky swore had “the best dumplings in New York,” eaten on the roof of the tower under string lights Bob had fixed weeks ago. You sat side by side on a picnic blanket, still dressed from the day, him in a Henley and jeans, you in a baggy sweater that hung off your shoulder. The city glowed beneath you, endless and alive, you were completely at peace.

“So,” you said between bites, “this is your idea of a first date?”

Bucky smirked, taking a sip from his beer. “What, you don’t like fine rooftop dining with world-class views and five-star takeout?”

You laughed softly. “It’s perfect, actually.” And it was quiet, warm, and comfortable. After months of chaos and crisis management, it felt like peace.

He watched you for a moment, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “You know,” he said finally, “when Val first told us we were getting a PR manager, I thought you were gonna be another suit trying to make us look less dangerous.”

“Oh, I do wear suits and I am trying to make you look less dangerous,” you teased. “It’s literally my job.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, but you make it feel like it’s more than that. Usually that comes along with making us act like people we aren't. But you see us like we’re not just… weapons. Like maybe we’re actually worth saving.”

You met his gaze then, steady and honest. “You are.”

The words lingered between you, heavier than you expected, truer than either of you probably meant to let on.

He shifted closer, his metal hand brushing against yours. “And you,” he said softly, “you’re something else entirely.”

You smiled, heart fluttering as he leaned in, closing the small space between you until your foreheads touched. “You gonna kiss me again, Barnes?” you whispered.

He grinned, voice low. “That depends. You gonna let me?”

You tilted your chin up in answer, and this time, the kiss was slow, sure, certain. There was no chaos to interrupt, no audience, no mission to run off to. Just him and you and the city stretching out below you.

The next morning, Valentina’s voice echoed through the tower’s intercom.

“Thunderbolts, team meeting in five. And someone tell our PR manager she’s giving the press briefing this afternoon.”

Groans erupted across the floor, making you laugh, there were no groans from Bucky, who was quietly sipping coffee beside you on the couch. He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, “I’ll make sure they behave.”

You gave him a look. “You promise?”

He smiled. “I’ll even confiscate Alexei’s knives before the meeting.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Wow. You must really like me or something.”

He grinned wider. “I guess I’m doing pretty good at this boyfriend thing.”

You froze for a heartbeat, eyes flicking up to his — the word hung between you, daring and soft.

“Boyfriend, huh?” you teased, pretending to be casual.

He smirked. “You objecting?”

You leaned in, stealing a quick kiss before anyone could walk in. “Not even a little.”

By the time the team assembled in the common room, they were half-dressed, half-awake, and already bickering. Bucky’s arm brushed against yours as you stood before them, iPad in hand, ready to do what you did best: make sense of the chaos.

And when Yelena leaned over to whisper, “So, is this a thing now? You and Grandpa Barnes?”

You just smiled and said, “Let’s call it… good publicity.”

Bucky caught your eye across the room, that same small smile tugging at the corner of his lips you adored.

And for the first time since joining the Thunderbolts, you realized you didn’t just manage the team anymore.

“I—I need to resign,” you stammered, “or you need to fire me. I can’t work in politics anymore, I won’t.”

“What are you talking about—you know what, that can wait,” he said as he gently tugged you by the wrist to lead you out of the hallway into the living room. “Let’s get you into dry clothes first.”

You let him help you take your coat off which had blocked most of the rain from seeping into your clothes and thankfully, Bucky had made it a habit to make sure his place was always warm enough for you—even though you were pretty sure it was a bit too high for him— so you knew for sure that your shivering wasn’t because of cold.

It was because of your own anxiety.

“You um—you need to break up with me,” you rasped out, making him frown.

“What?”

“You don’t wanna be with me.” You sniffled. “You shouldn’t be with me.”

“Baby, what are you talking about?”

You shook your head, walking back and forth in the living room before he stopped you, his hands clasping on your shoulders.

“What are you talking about?” he repeated and you wiped your eyes.

“I’m a terrible person.”

He let out a laugh of disbelief. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am!” you insisted. “It’s—it’s in my blood, it has to be.”

“What is?”

“Corruption.”

He tilted his head. “You’re the farthest person from being corrupt.”

You shook your head again. “You don’t understand.”

“Then tell me what’s happening.”

You took a deep breath, your heart slamming against your ribcage.

“My father was, in fact, up to something,” you started. “He diverted my attention so that I would completely focus on what he’s trying to make you do, not me.”

Bucky’s brows pinched into a frown while you motioned outside.

“Today, I found out that Bailey was going to vote no because a lobbyist got to him,” you said. “So do you want to hear what I did? I went to my parents’ place because he told me he would be out of the country, and I sneaked into his office, got every piece of blackmail he had against Bailey and I went to his office to threaten him with.”

Bucky pulled back slightly, a look of realization dawning on his face.

“Just like he would,” you insisted. “I didn’t even hesitate, don’t you see that? I’m just like—I’m worse than him.”

“You’re not.”

“I threatened his children, Bucky.”

He had already opened his mouth to argue but that made him stop, his eyes snapping to yours in surprise. You could feel your heart sinking, a bitter taste coating your tongue.

“I told him I’d drag his wife into it, so their children wouldn’t even recognize them by the time he got out of prison,” you said. “Not even my father threatens children, he said it himself.”

Bucky let out a noise of disagreement.

“Okay, that’s—technically, that’s not threatening his children.”

“It is.”

“Would you have dragged his wife into it if he said no?”  

“No!” you said. “Not at the expense of his children, but I told him—”

“That’s a bluff, sweetheart,” he said as if that made a huge difference. “Not a threat.”

“Does it matter?” you asked. “I crossed the line.”

“Birdie…”

“And guess what, my father was behind it,” you told him. “Behind that lobbyist. He did it to see whether I’d turn out like him, and I was so lost in the idea that this bill is going to save lives, I didn’t even pause to think.”

“You’ve had a momentary lapse in judgment,” he told you, his voice calm unlike yours. “It happens.”

 “I can’t work in politics again.” You pressed your palms on your eyes. “I can’t turn into my father.”

“You’re not gonna turn into him.”

You dropped your hands.

“I will,” you said, your throat tightening. “I just don’t—I don’t know what I’m gonna do, but I know I can’t work in politics again. I need to find another job that has nothing to do with politics, which is gonna be so difficult considering my whole education—”

“You don’t have to worry about any of that,” he cut you off, his voice completely calm unlike yours. “I’ll take care of all of it, okay?” 

…Oh.

Oh shit.

The reality of the situation crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, sirens going off in your head as you let out a breath and stepped back.

“Fuck,” you whispered, tears of complete terror rushing to your eyes. “Oh fuck, I didn’t even see it before."

He tilted his head in confusion. “What?”

“I—I was so worried about turning into my dad that I didn’t even think about the possibility of turning into my mom.” You could feel the floor getting wobbly under your feet as the room started spinning around you; a tell-tale sign of the impending panic attack. “I backed myself into a corner, I got my whole education on politics with no back up plan, and now I have—I have only two options, turn into my dad and be corrupt and hurt people, or turn into my mom and just what—stay home and bake pies while waiting for you to come home, and do meaningless shit just to fill the void and go shopping for the rest of my life? I can’t live like one of those tradwives, that’s my worst fucking nightmare!”

He took a step towards you. “Okay, just—Birdie, let’s sit down, okay? Deep breaths, we’re gonna sit on the floor, yeah?”

You nodded your head and slipped down to sit on the floor, then pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them, still trying to focus on your breathing.

“Jesus Christ,” you managed to say. “This is the worst time to be having a panic attack.”

Bucky gave you an apologetic smile as he crouched down to get to your eye level.

“I don’t think there’s any right time to have a panic attack,” he muttered. “Come on. Five things you can see.”

                                     *

At least this one turned out to be easier to recover from once it passed, which you suspected had something to do with Bucky’s help, or his presence in general. Eventually, once you were ready to get off the floor he carried you to bed so that you could rest but despite being tired as hell, you couldn’t sleep.

Alpine was happy about you not sleeping though, judging by the way she was curled up between you two, purring as you ran your fingers through her fur. The room was quiet except for her purring and your and Bucky’s soft breathing, and your body felt way too heavy, like if you tried to get up from the bed you’d collapse to the floor.

“Are you sleeping?” you rasped out and Bucky hummed.

“Nope.”

You raised your head to rest your chin on his chest. “Hey.”

“Hi,” he whispered. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” you admitted. “You?”

“Not as tired as you. You hungry?”

You thought for a second, then shrugged your shoulders.

“Maybe something sweet.”

A teasing smile twitched his lips. “I’m guessing not pie?”

You poked him in the ribs, making him let out a laugh.

“Sorry, too soon,” he said and got up from the bed while you pulled yourself to sit up, Alpine making herself comfortable in your lap in a second. Bucky pressed a kiss on your temple.

“I got those chocolates you like the other day, wait here,” he said and walked out of the bedroom. You ran a hand over your forehead like it could help with the headache, then leaned down to hold Alpine’s little face in your palms and pressed a kiss on top of her head.

“You’re so cute,” you whispered, burying your face into her fur. “Aren’t you? And you smell like a baby!”

Alpine meowed and rolled over, looking up at you.

“Is that a trick, ma’am?” you asked her, holding one of her paws between your thumb and pointer. “Is that a trap?”

She meowed again and you giggled, then turned your head when Bucky entered the room, carrying a bottle of water and your favorite chocolate. He handed you the two pills in his palm and you raised your brows.

“How did you…?”

He shot you a look as if the answer was obvious and you smiled at him, then downed the pills and took a huge gulp of water.

“Thanks.”

“Of course,” he said and sat on the bed again while you unwrapped the chocolate, then offered it to him. He shook his head.

“I still have no idea how you eat that, it feels like eating pure sugar.”

“That’s the best part of it,” you said and bit into chocolate, humming in happiness. “Anyways, more for me.”

“I stocked those things yesterday, there are like ten more in the coffee cabinet.”

You smiled at him and leaned in to peck him on the lips. “You’re the best boyfriend in the entire world, have I ever told you that?”

“Once or twice,” he said with a proud grin. “Happy to hear it though.”

You balled the package paper into a ball and held it over Alpine’s head, and Bucky cleared his throat.

“Birdie, can we talk?”

You turned to look at him better as Alpine headbutted your hand.

“Sure.” You tossed the paper ball to the other side of the bed and Alpine went over there to investigate. “What’s up?”

“Is that a real concern for you?”

“What?”

“Ending up leaving work?”

You bit into the chocolate just to get some time to think, then shrugged your shoulders while you chewed.

“Duh.”

“I’m gonna rephrase that,” he said. “Ending up leaving work because of me?”

That made your head shoot up and you heaved a sigh.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“I get that,” he said. “But you know that me wanting to help you doesn’t mean it’ll somehow lead to you being locked away in some kind of white picket fence? I’m not trying to trap you.”

You rubbed your eyes and nodded. “I know.”

“Do you?” he insisted and you nodded again.

“It’s just that, the idea of…” you trailed off and licked your lips. “Of not having my own money or career horrifies me.”

 “I’m well aware of it,” he said with a small smile. “That’s not something you should worry about though.”

You took another bite of the chocolate and let yourself fall back to the bed, fixing your eyes on the ceiling.

“Yeah well,” you murmured. “I still have zero idea what I’m gonna do, so I’ll get back to you on that.”

That made Bucky pause for a moment, then he patted your leg.

“Up.”

“Hm?”

“Get up, we’re gonna strategize,” he said. “We haven’t done that in a long time.”

“Strategize about what?”

“About where you go from here,” he said and pulled you up by the arm while you let out a whine.

“Bucky!”

“Come on,” he said. “We’re really good at that. Let’s.”

“Let’s what?” you grumbled. “There’s nothing to strategize. I’m not gonna work in Congress, and I can’t work anywhere else because I need to give up on my career because apparently power corrupts me. All this time I thought I was Aragorn, turns out I was Boromir all along.”

“He turned out to be good in the end.”

“Fine, I’m Saruman. Like father, like daughter.”

“You’re not—nope.” He grabbed your arm before you could let yourself fall back again. “I’m serious. Let’s say I quit Congress, what are my options?”

You rolled your eyes.

“You are a war hero slash ex Avenger with superpowers, and you use them for good and everyone knows that,” you told him. “Possibilities are endless.”

“Fine,” he said. “Strategically speaking, what would you advise someone who has second thoughts about being in politics but also wants to help people?”

You dragged the tip of your tongue on your lip.

“I mean, technically speaking, politics in Congress is not the same as politics in local,” you said. “I guess they would try going local.”

“Like New York?”

“Maybe.”

“Doing what there?”

“I mean you can go anywhere from local,” you said, almost forgetting you were strategizing this whole thing for your hypothetical career options. “You can help others get elected. Raise money for people in the city, like a non-profit. Hell, you could even be a councilmember if you decide to go back to politics at any point, and from there you can climb up to mayor, even governor. Away from Congress, still has a shit ton of options to help people.”

He raised his brows and gave you a smug smile, making your eyes widen before you let out a laugh.

“Nope,” you said. “That’s for a hypothetical person, not me.”

“Why not?”

“Do you hear yourself?” you asked. “I can’t be a councilmember, let alone mayor or governor.”

“Why not?”

“Because that’s impossible!” you insisted. “I help others get there, I don’t do it myself.”

“I still have no idea why you’re not actively running for anything.”

“Because I’m not a politician.”

“You do realize that both of us have to talk to politicians on a daily basis?” he asked you. “And we both know that you’re smarter than all of them.”

You took another bite of the chocolate. “And ready to be corrupt at the first opportunity like the rest of them.”

“I know you don’t believe this, but you threatening a corrupt politician to pass a bill that’s going to make a lot of people’s lives easier does not fall under the category of corrupt,” he said. “Besides, it’ll give you the time and space to figure out what you want to do in politics while helping people in a more direct way in the meantime. What better way to navigate through it than being actually in it?”

That made you fall quiet and you took a sip of your water, still deep in thought.

“I don’t know,” you ended up saying. “I mean either way, I need to get my finances in check and find a job there, and a place. It’d take some time.”

“Or not,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You remember my place in Brooklyn? I kept it just in case things didn’t work out here.”

You frowned. “You had that little faith in Congress?”

“Call it a back-up plan,” he said. “But hear me out, what if we don’t wait for my term to be over to do all that stuff you said? You don’t want to be in Congress, fine. You can stay there all you want and see if you want to do anything local.”

“I can’t just stay in your place—”

“We’ve been over this five minutes ago,” he cut you off. “Baby, that apartment is just there, okay? Besides, I’m doing this for selfish reasons if it makes you feel any better.”

You snorted a laugh. “Selfish reasons?”

“This way, we don’t have to wait until after my term is finished,” he said. “To go public. Technically we’d be in different cities, but I’d come there every night—”

“Every night?”

“It’s not that far away with the bike,” he said, making you giggle. “I ride fast. So yeah, it’s for my own selfish reasons. It’s been my uh…my secret plan all along, for us to go public.”

You made a face.

“It’s not your secret plan, Bucky. I came up with that and told you about it.”

“Let’s not get caught up in details,” he told you with a boyish smirk and you let out another giggle.

“I don’t know…”

“Okay, how about this?” he said. “I know you want to resign, but how about you wait a week and just take some time off? We’ll tell everyone you’re sick or something, and in the meantime you’ll decide. How does that sound?”

You popped the rest of the chocolate in your mouth and nodded your head after a pause.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeated and pecked you on the lips. “See? We’re good at this.”

You heaved a sigh and dropped your head on his shoulder while he pulled you into his lap, nuzzling into your hair.

“Do you need anything?” he asked and you hummed.

“Just you.”

“I’m here,” he said softly. “Not going anywhere unless you want me to, today or ever.”

“And if I never want you to?” you whispered, coaxing a chuckle out of him.

“Then I stay where you stay.”

“Even if it’s not a white-picket fence?”

“Especially if it’s not a white picket fence,” he corrected you, his smile apparent in his voice even if you couldn’t see his face. “That sounds a bit old fashioned. I mean what do you think this is, 1940s?”  

That made you huff out a laugh and you pulled back to look at him, the softness in his eyes making your heart melt.

“And if I am evil, deep down?”

“You’re not evil,” he said, amusement twitching his lips. “Deep down or on the surface. Trust me.”

You tried to smile as he cupped your cheek in his palm, and you wrapped your fingers over his wrist to squeeze it gently before you leaned in to rest your forehead on his shoulder again, peaceful silence surrounding you.

                                             *

You decided to skip work for the very first time in your life the next day. After filling Kelsey and Caleb in about what had happened, you had spent the entirety of the morning watching TV and eating snacks, considering you couldn’t be seen leaving Bucky’s place. You scratched Alpine’s head who kept purring beside you on the couch while you changed the channels until you found a news channel that was talking about the veteran bill.

“You know,” you told Alpine, “All these political reporters don’t really know what the fuck they’re talking about. Like, they’re making the people think they know what they’re talking about and yet…”

Alpine headbutted your hand when you stopped petting her.

“Okay, okay,” you muttered. “Anyways, it’s all optics. If you seem confident enough, people will just believe whatever the fuck you’re saying. It’s the same with the reporters, or the journalists, or the politicians, and—”

You were cut off when your phone started vibrating and you checked the screen, then licked your lips and answered the call.

“Hey Lucas.”

“Hey,” he said. “You okay? Kels said you’re coming down with something.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Disgrace.”

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” You cleared your throat. “Yeah, it might be contagious, so I figured I’d skip work today.”

“The veteran bill is being voted tomorrow,” he said while you put your hand into the candy package, then checked inside when you realized it was empty. “Don’t tell me you won’t be here tomorrow. It’s your baby.”

You rolled your eyes and got up from the couch, then made your way to the kitchen.

“Yeah well…”

“People say Bailey changed his mind.”

“Do they?”

“Yeah but he looks pissed off about it,” he muttered. “You should see his face.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, he snaps at anyone and everyone,” he told you while you rummaged through the coffee cabinet, then pulled out the chocolate Bucky had bought for you. “Anyways, do you need anything?”

You walked back to the living room and put the TV on mute before changing the channel again. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like, soup?”

You scoffed a laugh. “Soup? You’re gonna make me soup?”

“No, Hurricane. I’m gonna buy it and drop it off at your place.”

You winced, slipping a little on the couch.

“Uh…nope,” you said. “No thank you. Like I said, might be contagious so you should stay away from me and my germs. But hey, what else is everyone doing?”

“Brian is working with me today,” he said. “Gray really liked his input, so he’s pretty happy about it.”

You tilted your head at the screen when you saw the baker who was putting some delicious looking cookies onto a plate.

“That’s great,” you said. “Anything else?”

“Are you asking me if the work is still going on while you’re not here?” he asked with a chuckle. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but it kind of has been the case for a couple of centuries.”  

You let out a laugh. “Oh shut it.”

“I can ask them to go on recess until you come back though.”

You bit at your tongue and heaved a sigh.

“Yeah, you do that,” you said. “Hey, tell everyone I said hi, okay?”

“Sure thing, let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.” You hung up and stole a look at the cookies on the screen, then turned to Alpine.

“Should we make cookies?” you asked. “Yeah, right? We have some chocolate and everything.”

Alpine meowed at you and you nodded.

“Come on,” you said and got up from the couch, typing on your phone before scrolling down. “I’m sure we can find a recipe or something.”

                                               *

By the time you heard the jingle of the keys at the door, it was already dark outside and you were nibbling on the cookies you had baked while binge watching the TV series you had discovered early today. You turned your head, and grabbed the remote to pause your show.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he called out and you grinned, then jumped on your feet as you heard the approaching footsteps. “Jesus, it smells amazing here.”

“Well, I—” You gasped when he entered the living room, carrying a bouquet of flowers in his arm. “Oh my God!”

He winked at you. “Hi sweetheart.”

“For me?” You felt the need to ask, motioning at the flowers and he chuckled.

“Yes, for you.” He kissed you on the lips, making you giggle before he pulled back to look down at Alpine who was trying to climb up his leg. “Hello to you too, little demon.”

“Bucky!” you reprimanded him while he picked Alpine up to put her on his shoulder. “She’s a tiny little angel!”

He let out a noise of disagreement as he followed you to the kitchen so that you could unwrap the flowers to cut off the steams.

“Why does it smell like cookies?”

“Because I made cookies.”

He raised his brows as Alpine jumped down from his shoulder. “Really?”

“Yep.” You pointed at the plate on the kitchen island, and Bucky grabbed one to bite into it.

“Holy sh—wow.” He changed directions mid-sentence, making you laugh. “This is amazing.”

You wiggled your brows. “It’s good, right?”

“More than just good.”

You gave him a smug grin and filled a vase with water, then put the flowers in it. Bucky popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and you placed the vase in the middle of the kitchen island, then stopped dead in your tracks, your heart skipping a beat.

“Bucky.”

“Hm?”

“Uh…” You cleared your throat, looking from the flowers to the cookies. “I need you to replay the last five minutes in your head.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

He pulled his brows together and thought for a moment before a look of realization dawned on his face.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Cookies and flowers and you coming home while I’m here. Let’s pump the breaks.”

“No, I see it,” he muttered, “I half expect a random kid to pop up out of nowhere and ask me to play baseball in the yard. Or Frisbee.”

If it were any other time, you would have spiraled but the fact that he was also making fun of the situation somehow put your mind at ease so you couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah so, I’m gonna go send some emails,” you said, pointing at the living room. “While you order dinner. We’re breaking this thing, whatever the fuck it is, before I start wearing hoop skirts and you’re wearing suspenders.”

He nodded fervently.

“Do you mind also going over the bill with me for tomorrow?” he asked. “I gotta run a couple of things by you.”

“Sure.”

“We don’t have to throw the cookies away right?”

“No, but we can never talk about the cookies ever again unless I made them after coming home from work or at the weekend after a week of work.”

“That’s a reasonable compromise,” he said solemnly before he grinned, then kissed the top of your head. “You go send your emails and decide what you want to eat, I’ll take a quick shower and then order?”

“Okay.” You pecked him on the lips before he walked out of the kitchen, and you let out a breath, then grabbed your phone.

The drive back would be short, but an unending few minutes at that until her house pulled back into view. Your bike had been moved from the driveway, pulled up to lean against the house. No doubt done by Mr. Barnes after finding it thrown in a pile behind his car.

As quickly as he parked, Becky was pushed from her seat, ready to leave the truck and run through the rain towards the front door, your arm tightly held in her grasp. You’re pulled, the socket of your shoulder creaking as she dragged you forward with her, and you’re met with another shower of rain. Cold and unforgiving.

She’s laughing, amused by the whole predicament. Although her spirits were now heightened by a weight having left her shoulder, yet your chest still felt so heavy, dragged down further by the drench of the rain.

Becky let you borrow some clothes, letting you bag your wet ones to take home and clean. A big t-shirt, being a hand-me-down from her dad, and an old pair of gym shorts kept you warm and dry.

You sat back on Becky’s untidy bed, holding your stomach as she excused herself to the bathroom. It was something you’d done a thousand times before, but now being in this space felt sickly foreign.

This time you can’t run away from it, not unless you want the world to collapse on top of you all over again.

He would be nearby, and you could only imagine whether his mind was racing as well. Whether he was gripping the arm of his old sofa and gritting his teeth while you were lying in the other room.

Becky reemerges from the bathroom, flopping onto the bed beside you and tapping an unseen message onto her phone. “There’s a horror movie marathon tonight; can you stay and hang out?”

“I don’t think my mom would like me to be out that late.” A very true statement on your part. She'll be home tonight, and if you weren’t home before her, you’d have to explain where you’d spent your day.

“Is it because you think my dad is still mad at you?” She lamented.

“What, no. Becky, don’t be like that.” You swat at her arm before grabbing at a towel in her outstretched hand to dry your head off.

“How late is the marathon on, anyway?” Again, you crumble to her whims; if not to avoid disappointing her, then better to change the subject entirely.

You didn’t make it far in the night last time you agreed to stay. Having run off, one thing hadn’t gone as you hoped.

You couldn’t evade this any longer, and you wanted things to be normal again too. But, a few other thoughts clawed through your stomach. A need to shake any further suspicion after what you’d told her today and a desire to see him again. No more lingering glances giving only a feeling of shame. You wanted to actually talk about what happened and how it made you feel, what it made you want.

You didn’t want to run away again.

Becky was able to steal back your attention, answering you about the movie. “Stay till like 9 or something; I won’t keep you too late.”

“Alright, but I have to go home, like, right after.”

“Deal,” she shouts in triumph, grabbing you by the elbow and kicking off the bed towards the living room.

She leaves you by the couch as she trots off towards the kitchen, calling at you from behind, “I’ll make some popcorn if you want to pull up channel 34.”

“Ok…” you call after her meekly, walking slowly behind until breaking your stride away from hers to enter the living room.

Her father sat at the edge of the couch, hand wracked through his hair, fingers nearly tugging at the root as his head was turned towards the floor.

The low light glowed a dull orange and yellow over the scene, glossing over the small patch of sweaty skin at his shoulders on either side of his tank top.

The thatch of old black fabric framed the back of his neck as he held his head in his other hand, as if to nurse some ache that rattled within it.

You try not to disturb him, reaching for the remote that sat by his thigh only to see his bushy head of brown hair turn. The thatch of stubble that ran along his chin and jaw came into view, his cheeks catching the light with a thin sheen of perspiration from the humid atmosphere of the room, and then there was his gaze. It caught you, bent at the waist with your arms outstretched and your fingers barely grazing the necessary chunk of plastic. A dark, dim azure pool that swept you under its paralyzing current.

You stared back, waiting for the moment his soft pink lips parted to address you and break this short spell.

But, his voice never came. You stood stock still, knees locked and back arched in an uncomfortable position, a wriggle of warmth and embarrassment crawling along your skin as you mustered the courage to speak.

“I…I’m just grabbing the remote…” a soft, barely audible squeak like a mouse squished under a tire.

He never spoke back, slowly pulling his hands from his face to place them beside him on the couch, the muscles of his arms giving a partial flex as he pushed himself up from his seat to leave you still standing like a slumped fool reaching for the clicker.

You stoop back upright, a small crack sounding from your back with the quick motion. You watched the flutter of his pajama pants as he lumbered towards the kitchen, a subtle moment. Of red and black plaid disappearing behind a wall of beige.

You fell back with little grace, slumping towards the sofa, hoping to be swallowed up in the scratchy orange upholstery.

Rebecca emerged from the same door that had swallowed Mr. Barnes, a bowl of popcorn hugged against her body as she approached to sit down beside you.

“You forgot to turn the TV on.” She said nonchalantly, calling you out of your stupor.

“Oh shit, right.” You snatch up the remote and switch on the TV, watching as the big black box buzzes to life with a soft sound of static breaking off dry wool.

The hours drag through one movie and out to the next, an 80s horror slopfest of Hellraiser antics. By the time 9pm rolled around, Rebecca was already sound asleep beside you on the couch, your own eyes fighting to stay open against the soft glow of the television screen.

You looked at the clock to see the final hour, pushing Becky on the shoulder to wake her up a bit, if only to say goodbye for the night.

“Becky, I have to go home,” you said, stifling a yawn.

She rolled to the side, arm holding the throw blanket you had tossed over top of her tightly to her chest. “Seeya later… thank you for staying.”

I smile at her sentiment, content to see her happy. “It’s no problem. Seeya”

I waved, pushing up from the couch to grab my bag. I sling the old backpack over one shoulder as I walk towards the front door. I grab a shoe, slipping it onto one of my feet before following suit with the other.

The door was within reach, a beaten brass handle easily turned to open the house to the outside world once again.

Just as your hand had reached the cold metal, you heard him.

“Need-a lift home?” His voice was soft, yet still startling. You hadn’t heard him leave his bedroom nor a single footstep leading him to the living room in such a short amount of time.

“I was just going to take my bike.” You answered back, another mousy inflection to your voice.

“You can’t go out in the dark by yourself.” He waved your statement away, uninterested in letting you wander the darkened streets on nothing but a bicycle.

You turned the knob, eager to leap away from a much-needed heart-to-heart like a coward. “I don’t live far. I…” but, as the door fell open, the full picture came into view. The road ahead of the driveway was a total washout, a heavy sheet of rain pouring out from a black night sky to flood overtop of it.

Your house wasn’t close enough to bike home in this, and as if on cue, a tired voice behind you called out.

“I’m driving you.” He said, standing closer now. He pushed his bare feet into his slippers just beside your toes.

You took a second to breathe before coughing out an answer. “Uh…I can just walk my bike home; it has to let up at some point...”

You looked out at the wet night with melancholy as you spoke, and he answered you back with, “Just get in the car, Doll.”

The exasperation in his voice wasn’t subtle; the last word billowed out with a tired sigh as he reached for his keys on one of the hooks by the door.

You relented, accepting the defeat with a mild sense of shame as you stepped out onto his concrete porch. You watched, waiting for him to pull on a jacket before walking past you to his truck, a small, meek little you following behind him.

You pick the passenger seat beside his as he positions himself behind the wheel.

The ride is slow and painfully quiet. Until, unfortunately, the silence is broken.

“You and Rebecca have been friends for a long time, and I know how much you mean to her.” His voice seemed pained, but not entirely for his daughter's sake.

“But, you know you don’t always have to do what Becky says.”

“I know.” You answer back curtly.

There are another few beats of silence as the truck rolls over a small pothole. The cab shakes as the tire thumps in and out of the crack of broken asphalt.

His breathing falters, a heavy inhale coupled with a ragged puff of breath. It was weighing on him, something sharp and unyielding, until he finally let it go, dropping that same heaviness into your lap instead.

“I am more sorry than you can imagine for what I did that night. It’s something… It will never happen again, and I don’t want you to be afraid of visiting Becky.”

You feel your pulse quicken, thumping along your veins sloppily.

“I’m not afraid.”

“I’m just worried about you. I know that you can take care of yourself, but you’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want to be one of those things that makes your life difficult.” Adult-esque conversations were always hard, making your tummy flutter as you spoke. You turned your head, taking in the profile of his face as he stared out at the road.

Finally you see the wet smudges under his own eyes and right above the line of his beard. The faint wet lines of tears staining his perfect skin.

“You have never made anything difficult, Doll.” He takes another unsteady breath, bracing his hands against the wheel as the truck dips into another uneven chunk of road.

“You’d always been such a good girl.” He says, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his steering wheel so hard you almost thought it might crumble.

He slowly came to a stop at a red light before turning towards you to meet your gaze. It gave you a moment to take in the finer details of his face with him so close, just a center console away.

His rough-cut jaw was hidden by a thatch of dark facial hair, more prominent when you saw him clench it. Then there were his eyes, two deep pools of a dark, sad blue. They stared right into yours, and something in you wanted to drown in their icy water.

You hadn’t noticed your hand had moved towards his cheek, seeking to softly caress the prickly skin of his short beard. When your fingers came into view, he already had a hold of your wrist to pull it away.

“Ah, I’m sorry… That was…" wrong? Inappropriate?

You couldn’t hide the way you were admiring him, the flush of your skin at his close proximity, and the quickening pulse of your heart that thrummed under his thumb as he held your wrist.

“Why are you doing this to me?” He spoke so softly with a heavy breath, like he was pulling a weight from his chest as he spoke.

“What?..” you tried to ask before the blare of a horn pulled you from the moment.

The light had turned green without either of you noticing, angering the one driver behind him.

He pulled his eyes from you to steady them back on the road, blinking away a single tear before wiping it up.

You still had more questions, but as he brought his hand up to grab at the center console, no doubt in search of a quick cigarette to calm his nerves, you stopped him from opening it. You placed your fingers tightly over his, pushing down so the lid closed again.

You sat there for a second in silence; he didn’t pull away from you. In fact, you could feel his muscles actually starting to relax. It began with his knuckles going slack under your fingers, then his wrist falling flat, and the stiffness in his elbow and the lock in his shoulder all came undone.

Chapter 6

Bucky sighs and rakes a hand through his wet hair. "It's silly—just a thing I did with Emily on our honeymoon. She got a blue moon, but I think she had it removed a long time ago."

"Oh, where did you guys go on your honeymoon?" You ask, watching him pull a pair of boxers on, covering the ink.

"Hawaii."

"I bet that was fun," you say softly, pulling at a loose thread on the comforter.

He finishes getting dressed and looks at you. "You okay, honey?"

You nod. "I guess I'm just realizing that you've had all of your firsts already."

He sits down on the bed next to you and holds your hand. "Sometimes firsts are just practice rounds for something better. Now, c'mon, let's go! This is the first time you and I are going to go to bar together."

You smile and hop off the bed, following him downstairs. He grabs his keys from the hook by the door and stops short before opening it, saying your name authoritatively.

"What?"

"You mean a lot to me, honey."

You feel your heart skip a beat, and you swallow, processing, before you reply. "You mean a lot to me too, Buck. You have for a long time."

"I just know a lot of things can go unsaid sometimes, but I want you to know that."

"I know, Bucky."

"Well, let's rock and roll then!"

The drive to the small town bar is relaxing, and you scoot over the bench seat to sit right next to him. Bucky can't put his arm around you because the truck is a manual transmission, but he still nudges you with his arm playfully.

"So, have you taken other girls to this bar?" You ask, ribbing him in the side.

"Technically no," he says with a bashful smile.

"Technically, huh? Care to elaborate, old man?"

"I've met someone there, but didn't take her, per se."

"Bucky Barnes has game, even at his ripe old age," you tease some more, winking at him.

"You saw the expired condoms, honey. You know that's not true," he adds, shaking his head. "I don't have game, nor do I want to have it."

"Why not?"

"I'm more of a romantic, I guess—not into the whole hook-up thing."

Your legs tense at this. "So, what are we doing then?"

He looks at you briefly before turning his eyes back to the road. "I guess… uh, is that what you want then? Something casual?"

"No."

"Okay, good. That's not what I want either," he says softly, touching your thigh reassuringly.

"What do you want?" You press.

"I want to go to this bar with you," he starts. "And then I want to bring you back home with me."

"And what will we do when we get back to your house?" You ask cheekily.

Bucky laughs. "That depends on how well you handle your liquor, lightweight."

You giggle and settle back into the seat, looking out at the trees and other cars passing by. Bucky turns the radio on and cranks his window down. You scoot over to your side and do the same, letting the wind rifle through your hair. You lean against the door, sprawling your legs across the bench seat into his lap, your shoes left on the floorboard.

"You should wear your seatbelt," he rasps with a smirk.

"Yeah, but then I can't do this," you say, wiggling your toes in his lap. You're thankful you painted them a few nights ago.

Bucky sighs and shakes his head. "C'mon, I told your dad I'd keep you safe, honey. Put your seatbelt on, would ya?"

"Fine," you grumble, shifting and putting the seatbelt on with a dramatic click.

"Thank you," he singsongs.

The bar is off of a gravel road with a neon sign above the front door that simply says "Cold Beer".

"I hope I'm not underdressed," you joke, peeping the row of motorcycles and trucks similar to Bucky's in the parking lot.

He laughs and pulls you close once he's parked. "You look perfect. You'll probably turn a few heads in this place, but stick by me and I'll let 'em know who ya belong to."

Oh. Who you belong to?

He gets out of the truck first and walks around to open your door. You hop down with his help and a little laugh. "You ready, honey?"

"Let's go, big guy!"

Bucky blushes and laughs at your silly nickname, and you swat him on the ass on the way into the bar.

"You're ornery already," he whispers into your ear as you walk in.

He's right—heads do indeed turn as you both walk in. The bartender waves and gestures to two open stools at the other end of the bar. You pop a squat on the stool next to Bucky and put your elbows on the bar, leaning forward.

"What'll it be?" The older male bartender asks. "And you'd better get that ID out, little lady."

You dig through your purse for your ID and show it to him. "Rum and Coke with extra cherries please," you say with a smile.

"Miller Lite," Bucky adds, shaking his head with a smirk.

"What?" You ask, nudging his knee with your own.

"Oh, he probably thinks I'm here with my daughter," Bucky admits, embarrassed.

You side eye him and scoff before leaning over a planting one on him. "There. Problem solved."

"You're in a good mood," he muses, putting his warm hand on your bare knee and squeezing.

"I'm just enjoying this… enjoying you," you explain.

Bucky blushes as the bartender sets your drinks down. A slow, older song plays on the speakers, and you hear the click of someone playing pool in the back of the bar. Bucky takes a long sip of his beer. You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. You sip your drink and wince. It's a bit stronger than the ones he made you at his place, but by your second drink you don't notice as much.

The bar has filled up, and the music has gotten louder. Thankfully, you haven't seen anyone you know, and neither has he. You've been talking about his work and your school and stealing kisses.

"I love this song," you mutter, swaying back and forth on the bar stool. Bucky offers his hand as he steps down from his seat. You take it and smile.

"Dance with me," he says softly, throwing some cash on the bar top and waving at the bartender.

"Here?" You ask shyly, looking at the room full of mostly blue-collar guys and some bikers in the back.

"No, not here," he chuckles. "Let's go."

You walk back to the truck. It's still fairly light outside, but by the time you get home you assume it'll be dark. Bucky pulls out onto the main road, but drives in the opposite direction.

"Where are we going?" You ask, kissing his arm and definitely not wearing your seatbelt.

"I want to dance with you," he says. "I'm taking us someplace we can dance."

"Okay," you whisper, kissing his neck now.

"Put your seatbelt on," he rasps. "I'm not kidding."

You whine, but comply. The summer breeze feels heavenly hitting your face and you close your eyes, letting the buzz from the alcohol settle over you.

Before too long, he's pulling into a long dirt driveway. You crank up your window, not wanting to get dust in the cab of the truck. A small white house comes into view, clearly empty.

"Where are we?"

"This," he starts, looking out your side window as he puts the truck in park, cranking the radio up, "is my parent's old place."

You know from conversations with Heather that her grandparents had passed away, so you're guessing they were Bucky's parents.

"Are they…" you start.

"They've both passed away, yeah."

You both get out of the truck and walk up to the old wraparound porch. Bucky leaves the driver's side door open so you can hear the music from the radio playing. The front door of the house, however, is padlocked shut.

"So this is your property, then? If they're gone?" You ask, starting to get nervous that you're trespassing.

"Yeah, it's mine."

A pair of deer startle in the field off in the distance and you both watch them run off into a thicket of trees.

"Why'd you bring me here, Bucky?" You ask, feeling your stomach tense.

He reaches for you and leads you up the few steps onto the porch. You turn around and look at the view down the driveway to the road. There's not another house in sight. It's peaceful. His arms wrap around your shoulders from the back and you press into him as he kisses the crown of your head.

"Because I want to dance with you," he whispers as a slow song comes on the radio. A few lightning bugs fly by and you hear crickets chirping as Fade Into You by Mazzy Star plays over the truck speakers. You turn and let him hold you close, swaying softly to the music. He kisses your forehead, each eyelid, your nose, and finally your lips. You taste his beer from earlier and smile into the kiss, opening your mouth to run your tongue across his bottom lip. He hums contentedly and brings his hand up to your face, cradling it gently, and deepening the kiss.

"You taste sweet," he mumbles into your mouth before breaking away to spin you around as the song crescendos. "So damn sweet."

"Bucky?"

"Yeah, honey?"

"Really, why'd you bring me here?"

He sighs. "I'm selling the house in town. I haven't told Heather yet. I waited it out—I always wanted her to have the place that she grew up in to come home to during breaks, but now she's going to graduate in the Spring, and I'm ready to fix this place up. I'm ready to go home, ya know? And I wanted to show you."

"You wanted to show me?"

"Well, yeah," he says, like the reason is obvious, as he pulls you close again. "Do you like it?"

"Do I like it?" You repeat, nuzzling into him. "Of course. It's so nice out here. It's beautiful. I mean, look. You can see all the stars. When do you think you'll be all settled?"

"Probably late Spring."

"That's great, Bucky. I'm so happy for you, but I'll miss your old brick house. There's a lot of memories there," you say, reminiscing.

"Yeah, but we can make new memories here," he whispers, his breath brushing across your neck.

"We?"

"Yeah, you and me, honey," he rasps, biting your earlobe.

"Mmm, Buck, don't tease me," you whine.

"But it's so fun," he says. "I love the little sounds you make."

"Buck… baby, you're getting me all worked up."

"Maybe that's the point," he groans, leading you back to the truck with hunger in his eyes. You hop into the cab and he gets in behind you—one beat passes as you look at each other with lust in your eyes before you're straddling his lap and kissing him like you'll never see him again. His hands make their way up your dress with ease, and you relax down into his lap, feeling his growing bulge. You rock on the seam of his zipper and whimper.

"Oh, you're so desperate for it, aren't you, honey?" He says huskily into your ear.

"Bucky, please—" you whine, unzipping his jeans and tugging them down with his boxers just enough to free his dick. You ride it through your panties which grow wetter by the second.

"Please what?" He asks with genuine concern, no more teasing in his voice. He stills your hips and looks at you.

"I want you," you mutter, blushing, missing the friction between your legs.

"Honey, I didn't bring anything with me," he says.

"Can we just… go without? Just this once?" You whine, clenching around nothing.

"That's a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly.

"I've never done it without one," you beg. "I want to do it with you."

"You haven't?" He asks, surprised.

You shake your head and he loosens his grip on your hips slightly, letting you rock back and forth on him. His eyes flit from your face to where you're grinding down on him, and you watch him make his decision in real time.

"Okay, just this once, but only because I don't think I'll make it home," he rasps, kissing you. You slip your panties to the side and sink down on him as soon as the words leave his mouth. An unholy moan escapes his lips and your eyes roll back. He helps you take your dress off over your head and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. He feels bigger this way—hotter, and you feel yourself squeeze him just knowing that there's no barrier between your bodies.

"Oh my God, baby girl, I can't—" he moans, gripping your hips tigher as you bounce on him, taking all of it. You've never felt sexier and safer simultaneously. He looks at you like he's worshipping you—eyes alight, mouth slightly open, truly in awe. "You gotta slow down, honey."

You giggle and slow down to a halt, just sitting on him. "That better, old man?"

"This old man is gonna make you come," he grunts, moving you off of him and across the seat so you're on your hands and knees. He lines himself up and pushes into your wet heat in one thrust. "There we go," he says as you cry out.

You let out a small gasp at each thrust. He's never had you like this before—his hands grabbing a handful of your ass as he drives himself forward. One hand starts rubbing your clit and you know if he keeps it up, this won't take long. The windows of the truck start to fog over from your collected heavy breathing and the heat you're emitting. At one point all you hear are Bucky's grunts combined with the crickets outside—what a glorious combination. "Come for me, honey," he begs as you're on the edge. It doesn't take long before you're pushing back into him, gripping the arm of the truck door for dear life as you come around him, sighing out his name.

"Good job," he praises you, bending forward to plant a kiss to the middle of your back. "I'm close, honey. Where do you want me to—"

You turn around before he can finish his question and guide him to sit back down in the driver's seat. "Hold my hair back?" You ask sweetly as you bend over his cock slick with your arousal.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters, gathering your hair in one hand and holding it out of your face. You kiss his mouth softly before sucking the tip into your mouth gently. He whimpers—like a broken cry, as you take more of him into your mouth. "Honey, I'm-I'm…

You sit back with a pop as you take your mouth off of his dick. "Cum in my mouth, Bucky. I want to taste it."

"Holy fuck," he whispers under his breath, watching you take him down your throat like a champ. "I'm gonna cum," he grunts, rutting up into your mouth. You feel his dick twitch before you taste it paint the walls of your cheeks and the back of your throat. You swallow quickly and suck the tip clean with a moan before sitting back in the passenger seat. Bucky's eyes are wide and his chest is heaving.

"What?" You ask, wiping your mouth.

"You mentioned not having any firsts together earlier. Baby girl, that was a first."

You giggle and buckle your seat belt as he pulls his jeans back up, buttoning them. "Take me home, Buck. Let's go to bed."

"You got it, my baby girl."

He announced, shouting through the house like it was an information worth being in international news, but it was just every day reality that repeated again and again.

“Sure, thanks for lettin’ me know,” you responded as your fingers reached for the TV remote that was laying on the table in the middle of the room, too far for you liking, “Is he stayin’ over?”

The question came out of your mouth before you realized what you’ve just asked, but your father didn’t pay much attention to it as he was used to having you and Bucky around pretty much always when he was home.

That was the problem, over the years—you’ve grown to notice him more.

His bread that was often too long, because he didn’t pay enought attention to it, or his veins that popped out aggressively when he lifted pounds of hay when helping you out with the stables.

You father had always claimed that you were a family, not a blood related one, but a chosen one, and said that it was sometimes more than anything, because the people you picked became a part of your heart for your whole life, through tough and easy times.

You’ve agreed with his stupid and life-teaching advice most of the time, too unbothered to reply with a sarcastic remark or an exaggerated sigh—settling for a nod with a teasing smile plastered on your face.

And that was how it always was, you, him and Bucky, always Bucky.

“Yeah, we’re goin’ to the rodeo tomorrow,” He said, making sure you heard him before moving back to the stove, cooking whatever meal he craved at the moment.

With that, you padded over to him in the kitchen, leaning against the kitchen island innocently almost, “Can I bring Kayla with me?” The puppy eyes you flashed him seemed to soften him, leaving him with no choice but to chuckle.

His smile widened, “You can meet her there, sweetie—I’m not driving her.” He argued, mixing what seemed like burned rice with his wooden spoon and acting like he was Gordon Ramsay.

You didn’t let him argue before snatching the tools out of his hands, saving his food efficiently and replacing the now black as smoke pan for a new one, opening a new pack of rice and spilling it inside.

“Fine with me!” He nodded, sitting on one of the stools that were aesthetically placed in your kitchen, too modern looking for a ranch and your old-fashioned father.

He was glad you were staying with him, here at the farm and not in NYC—where you originally got an ideal job, but rejected the place because you couldn’t imagine not spending your time with the animals, nor not waking up because of a stupid rooster that chose to interrupt the peaceful mornings every day.

This place had it’s charms, one of them being the brooding cowboy that stumbled through the door without a care in the world, greeting your dad as if it was normal to basically intrude into the house when he wanted to.

When you spotted him, he was wearing his usual brown and worn out cowboy boots, pants that were too tight and a shirt that clung to his biceps with any move that he made, unintentionally making your mouth water as you turned back to the food before you.

Sitting down beside your father cockily, acting like he owned the place, they almost looked like brothers—same frown and beard shaped, although Bucky’s was more full, not that you were supposted to notice those details.

You were suddenly aware of your oversized shirt and shorts that weren’t visible, shifting under his burning gaze uncomfortably.

His eyes were a constant that you learned to live under over the years—his gaze lingering on your bare thighs that he imagined squeezing his head between.

Do not go there, you asshole.

You turned off the flame carefully, dividing the rice and chicken into equal portions, your actions steady and practised as you set the plates in front of them smoothly.

The other man spoke first, "And what about ya?" His southern accent peeking out between his sentence, making your knees shake unwillingly.

As the words left his mouth, you turned around to face them fully—now noticing the cowboy hat that lay motionlessly on the kitchen island, almost calling your name by how gorgeous it looked under the afternoon sun.

"Well—you walzed into here without warning, so I was feeling generous enough to give my food to you," You paused, noticing your dad's disapproving look for a second before continuing, "You should learn how to do that sometimes."

Despite your parent's look, he just shook his head in amusement before diving in to the meal without a word. It was a casual banter between you and Bucky, you'd tease him and you'd tease him back, showing him the sharp tongue you inherited from your father.

His eye twitched, but the tilt of his lips betrayed him, secretly finding you witty, "It'd be a shame for you not to eat, no?" His words held a silent challenge, daring you to charge back at him immediately.

"I'll surviv—" His voice interrupted you quickly, "Would feel awful if that ruined your chances of growing into the good girl you’re supposted to be."

Widening your eyes, you choked on your own spit, noticing the look in his eyes that screamed ‘Try to say a word’, as he maliciously smiled, digging into the food without saying anything else.

And he didn't need to.

Maybe the joke seemed completely ordinary to your dad, but to you it was a mocking gesture that his ego probably appreciated and liked, however yours didn't.

Of course he knew how old you were. To him, the expression that stuck on your face was priceless—excusing yourself from the room, you walked back into your bedroom, but not before shoving Bucky's shoulder just enough to make him wince dramatically.

The warm temparatures dropped lower than the previous nights, making you shiver as you stepped onto the front porch quietly.

You couldn't sleep, again.

1:54am. The alarm clock on your bedside table quietly making fun of you, flipping it over with a loud noise you groaned and got out of bed, your steps aiming for the front door.

As you curled into the swing that made a sound of protest, the metal that was attached to the wooden ceiling was probably older than you judging by the rusting on it, but you couldn't care less.

It was your safe place—where no one interrupted you, the cicadas quietly buzzed in the grass somewhere and the stars shone brightly, anchoring the sky during the night.

Living at a ranch had it's perks, one of them being moments like this, that you could spend with yourself, letting your mind spiral just for enough time and voice your worries or achievements into the silence.

You've made a habit out of it since that day, believing that she was there somewhere, listening intently to your sweet and sometimes cracked and hesitant voice.

That was one of the many reasons you didn't and couldn't leave your father here, because he lost someone too—the guilt being too suffocating for you to move away into another state.

"Couldn't sleep?" His voice came out rough, as if he spent the previous hours silent, which he most likely did.

Turning your head carefully, you found him there, leaning against the uneven wall easily—looking relaxed as ever, "You shouldn't be here." Was the first thing that you came up with, averting your gaze from him to the space before you.

His presence was enough to make your mind cloud itself, despite your best efforts at acting casually around him, nothing about it was casual.

The swing dipped and creaked again under his weight as he leaned back, following your gaze into the lake that reflected the light of the moon.

"I could say the same about you, doll." And there it was, that nickname he used when you were a teenager, it made you smile back then, but it nothing to you now—or at least you pretended it didn't, "What? Are you here to play hero?"

You asked, still not turning to him and shifting slightly from his body, trying to find space that just wasn't there thanks to his figure, "You know I'm not."

That made the smallest smile appear on your lips, "Good, I'm too old for these jokes anyway." You responded softly, finally meeting his gaze that was on you.

He didn't realize when it switched to you, but it settled on your face that was now gently enlightened by the moon streaks, softening your features.

Neither of you spoke, you didn't need to.

His fingers itched to reach out, to touch your skin and prove to himself that it was just as smooth as it looked, run his fingers through your hair and press his body against yours.

Don’t go there, she’s your best friend’s daughter, this is so wrong. You can’t be seriously thinking like this right now, man.

The words kept replaying in his mind as he sat there beside you, his knee gently brushing against yours, being the only physical contact between you two.

Your eyes didn’t leave his—and you didn’t know when, or how, but you leaned in just slightly, enough to make his control shake at the edges.

All of this was out of the line, you grew up around him, and he basically helped you with everything when your father was busy or had to take care of the farm.

Alarming signs and warnings flashed through you repeatedly, but you were like a deer in the lights—completely ignoring them, too caught-up in his proximity.

“We shouldn’t.” He choked out, ignoring the desire that burned up his throat, swallowing him whole slowly, “Bucky, ple—“ You tried to speak, but his thumb pressed against your lips, sealing them shut.

“Don’t beg for somethin’ you can’t handle, doll,” His warning was clear, pull back, walk inside, shut yourself in the bedroom and preferably lock the door.

But you didn’t flinch, leaning in as his lips touched yours. It wasn’t a kiss, it was just a brush of his mouth against yours in a moment of utter weakness, “Go back to sleep,”

And with that, the intimacy of the minute was gone, as if someone snapped their fingers and pulled you back into the reality, realizing how close you were—how his palm now cradled your cheek gently despite the roughness of it.

He never should’ve let you get this close, hell, he shouldn’t have gone out after you in the first place for his own sake, but he did and now he fucked it all up by the blink of an eye.

His eyes stayed on you as you reluctantly stood up and disappeared back into the house, where your father—his best friend was peacefully sleeping without knowing any of what was happening, or the turmoil that was brewing inside his head.

It wasn’t right, he was almost twenty years older than you. You were his closest friend’s daughter for fuck’s sake.

But he still found himself thinking and imagining what your hands would feel on him or how your body would fit against his when he bent you over the kitchen counter.

The rodeo buzzed with pent-up tension and high stakes that were slowly rising into thousands of dollars per one cowboy.

Growing up it was what you've been looking forward to all year, and that never eally changed, not when your favourite cowboy fell or the year's rodeo was more stranded than the last.

This year, it was packed with people from the neighboring villages that you knew from a young age, sipping beer and making smoothly flowing conversations.

You've arrived with your dad, but he noticed your fidgeting, "Everythin' good?" He'd ask on your way there, breaking the silence and the quiet humm of the radio.

Nodding, you averted your eyes to the road, suddenly being more interested in the bumps that littered the path than chatting with your father.

He didn't push, didn't ask—he knew you had your days, just like any other person, so he was used to it, but he didn't know just how deep the thoughts ran.

Bucky's hand against your cheek, his lips on yours, it all happened so fast, however it made you wonder what would've happened if he didn't pull back, if he wouldn't realize that what he was doing was wrong.

But it was if, always.

And even when he left in the morning, long before you were awake, he lingered in your mind and veins—spreading like a wildfire.

"So," Kayla began, raising her glass of beer above her head, swinging a little already, "To hot cowboys and great rodeo." She shouted over the music, making the group of girls you were currently talking to laugh and giggle not-so-elegantly.

She was already intoxicated by the alcoholic liquid, lessening her guard and clouding her mind.

The girl beside you downed the goblet easily, leaving you amused—sure, you drank too, but always watched how many drinks you consumed, not being the one who'd get black out drunk.

Although in situations like this, it was harder to listen to the logical part of your, the reckless mostly taking over.

With that in mind, you reached for another glass, sipping from it faster than usually, hoping on losing yourself in it.

You were almost certain that Bucky should've been here tonight too, but even if he was, you were sure that he'd ignore you, like an immature boy.

Why does that bother you? Get a grip on yourself, he's old. Well, he's old—er than you, he could be your dad, he's almost your dad already.

Being deep in your self-doubts and scolding, Kayla's voice rung through, bringing you back to reality, "You here? You look like you've seen a ghost, girl." She laughed, others joining her.

Maybe if she knew what was going on, she'd know better than to say that—but she was partially right, even if she wasn't aware of that fact, "Better than ever."

The smile you gave her was far away from a genuine one, but she smiled and carried on with whatever she was saying.

Where was he? He should've arrived with you and your father, but he wasn't anywhere, "Oh! It's already starting, let's go!" One of the blondes exclaimed hurriedly, already walking away towards the outdoor rink.

Kayla mindlessly tugged you with her, not letting you get pushed or squeezed between the eager people that wanted to find their seats as soon as possible.

Your group stood at the top of the stairs, as the organizer's voice started playing through the speakers loudly—silencing the crowd softly.

Spotting your father with his buddies on the other side of the arena, you relaxed a bit after seeing the familiar face in the jam of people, but still, he was nowhere to be seen.

No one seemed to have his features, you didn't spot anyone with the beard of his, the irritatingly attractive cowboy hat perched on their head, no one cared.

With that, the first competitor got ready.

Despite the crowd cheering him on, you couldn't care less about a random man on a bull right now—maybe it was utterly ridiculous, or it was your heart speaking louder than your head in that moment.

Four seconds, then he fell to the ground as people around him encouraged him not to think anything of it, claiming that it was ust a bad day after all.

Of course you knew it wasn't just a bad day, you scoffed and leaned into your friend's ear swiftly, "He had a shitty technique." The whisper made her laugh escape, turning to you with wide eyes as she smacked your arm playfully.

"You can't say that! That's mean!" The warmth in her veins loosened her up, making her more dramatic than ever.

Joining her in her chuckling, you waited for another guy to take his turn at the bull, eventually falling off too before the timer hit eight seconds.

They're shitty tonight, the judgment popped up in your mind before you could stop it, but silently scanning the bull riders.

All of them were young—younger than they should've been, risking their bones and health in such and early stage of their lives.

You've seen it before, they slowly became addicted to the feeling of the thrill and kick of the bull, drowning in it like a drug that they couldn't let go of.

Sipping from the almost empty bottle, you tilted it to pour the remaining liquid into your mouth, "Ooooh, he's fine." You heard Kayla's voice clearly, rolling your eyes.

"And you're blind, or?" Teasing her, you watched as her eyes brightened up, not letting her gaze drift from the suppostedly fine cowboy, "I'm serious, look."

Out of nowhere, your body tilted to where the next competitor was standing scanning him with your eyes without interest.

That was until you noticed it.

Same beard.

Same hat.

Same checkered shirt.

Fuck.

Her snap of fingers brought you back to life, "I have to go," Your words were rushed, stumbling over them as you took off towards the bottom seats.

You were sure that you knocked some bodies over, but you didn't care, not when he was there, getting ready for something he never was supposted to do.

Bucky was chatting with his friend all while getting ready for his opportunity to get on the furious bull tonight, it’s mouth basically spitting flames out of it.

He’s noticed it—the angry behaviour of the animal with his previous rivals, but all that got out of him was a malicious grin that basically said ‘You’re a bunch of assholes’ without letting out a single word.

The idea was spontaneous, his neighbour casually walking up to his house earlier in the day and throwing a barely there, “Broke his leg, can’t ride tonight,” At him, silently nudging him into the idea of performing and showing his skill that night, “They don’t have anyone who’d be there instead of him.”

With that, he agreed and shook the man’s hand—sealing the deal between them. He wasn’t a stranger to bull riding, but as he got busier with the ranch, he slowly drifted back from it.

Listening to his friend's advice, he nodded while taking off his cowboy hat and looking for a safe space to leave it while he was out there aiming for the best score of the night.

His confidence and chances were high, only one man crossed the eight second line, leaving him in a good position to get onto the bull.

"What the fuck do you think you're doin'?" Came from behind him suddenly, the female voice ringing through the crowd and stables like a warning.

He'd recognize that tone anywhere, and it didn't matter if you whispered, yelled or talked like any other person, it'd always find it's way into his head—he remembered it like a movie he'd watch again and again until he got sick of it.

Turning around, there you were, all angry and fuming, almost looking like the animal that was the main attraction of the rodeo.

As you stormed over to him, somehow jumping over the fences to get closer to him, his mood lifted and lightened up like an idiot's face would.

Maybe it was amusing to him, but it wasn't for you.

How dare he not say a thing and then smile like that all while having his hair so beautifully messed up like he ran his hand through it too much?

Finally approaching him, you shoved his chest hard, hoping he'd stumble back, but he didn't budge—staying still like a statue, "Someone's mad, huh?"

The words were meant to tease you, not flare you up even more, he told himself, but really, he didn't care as long as you showed an interest in his actions.

He understood that it was completely selfish for him to feel like that, but he enoyed the idea and now reality of being cared about.

Especially if it was by his you.

You scoffed, frustrated, “Answer me, damn it!” The anger was radiating off you in waves that threatened to turn into a tsunami, warning him to think about his words.

His friend—or whoever it was that was standing there before was nowhere to be seen now, probably running off before you snapped his neck in half.

Bucky's smug expression never faltered, laying his palm against your cheek mockingly almost, "Scared I'll fall off, doll?" You tried to interrupt him, "Don't worry, I won't do you such a favor."

It didn't help with your wrath, rising it even more by his stupid words that came out of his mouth.

Deep down, you felt the urge to slap him, or punch him square in the face just for him to realize what he was actually doing, but you couldn't get yourself to actually do it.

Slapping his hand away, your legs took a step back—trying to push him away without directly touching him, "You're such an asshole," The words came out sharper than you intended them to, but they seemed to work.

He shook his head in disbelief, "What's your problem?" He shot back without flinching, his tone now matching yours, trying to intimidate you.

That made you pause.

After everything he's done, he's asking stupid questions? You were beyond your limits, "Maybe you could've told me that you were going to fucking ride a bull, no? Or are you too proud for that?"

Venom coated each sentence, seeping into him like air he didn't want to breathe but had no choice, "Does this have something to do with what happened yesterday? Because if—"

His thumb found it's way to your lips again, just like the night before that you couldn't forget no matter how hard you tried to.

Damn him and his calloused finger that settled against your mouth, silencing you without protest, "Let me get out there, do what I do the best and then you can yell at me, yeah, babygirl?"

And despite the fire behind your eyes, your knees buckled at his promising words and sweet pet names, using that voice that made you subject to him faster than you'd like.

Reluctantly, you nodded, still holding his gaze as he stepped back without another word, leaving you speechless and furious at the same time.

You weren’t usually the one to back away from an argument, but something in his voice made you back away immediately.

Keeping your gaze on him, he walked back to the rusted railing—where his a little too worn out leather cowboy hat rest, grabbing it, the veins in his arm popping and basically speaking to you, daring you to trail them with your fingertips.

As he grabbed it, he turned back to you and sent a wink into your direction, approaching you like a hunter letting it’s prey wait curiously, “Wait f’me, I’ll be right back, doll.”

His whisper seemed to be the only thing that you focused on, ignoring the shouts of the crowd in the background—looking at him with trust in your eyes, the hat slowly settled on your head, fitting you like a glove despite the size difference.

The smile that appeared on his face was a genuine one, his hand running down the side of your neck before retreating back, walking away without another word, leaving you speechless.

Still, bits of the anger directed at him lingered, and he was certain you wouldn’t let it go later.

Walking back into the stables quietly, he noticed you propped against the railing nonchalantly, already having your eyes on him.

He didn’t die—thankfully.

You were sure his ego raised too much after completing the whole eight seconds on the angered animal, swiftly keeping himself upright.

The score he received was almost perfect, sending him onto the top of the leaderboard of the night, and you were proud, but still had the urge to yell at him, curse him out in ways he hasn’t experienced in his life yet.

"See? As fresh as a fis—" Your palm against his cheek caught him absolutely off-guard, turning his head to the side because of the impact of the slap.

Those were your impulsive thoughts acting, but damn, if you didn't want to do that for a while now.

When he looked back at you, you were already invading his space with your body that pressed against his, "Do you know how reckless that was?"

Yelling wasn't a solution, so you settled for a calmer but sharper tone, indicating the frustration that coursed through you in waves.

Tipping your head slightly back, due to the hat that still hasn't left your head you looked at him—really looked at him.

His sharp jaw that seemed to be seconds way from popping was slick with remaining sweat, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, "You shouldn't have done that, babygirl."

And there was that nickname again, effecting you more than any other stupid pet name that he used in previous sentences.

You refused to back away, scoffing your voice dropped into a taunting one, "Oh yeah? You'll do somethin', Mr. Barnes?" Smiling now, you pouted mockingly, "How unfortunate."

With that spilling from your mouth, he grabbed your throat—gently but firmly, just enough to cut your air slightly off from you.

That name was something you used when you were little, making fun of him in the backyard for being too big to fit into the doorframe, laughing.

He wasn't playing fair, but neither were you. He always got what he wanted with those eyes of his, and right now that was you, in any form.

The rough hand against your neck made you shudder, sending shivers down your spine as you held his gaze strong willingly.

Feeling dizzy—from his scent, from his grip on your sking, your eyes unfocused and he eased the hold he had you in, never really letting go of it.

"Y'think that you've got power, huh?" He whispered, pressing the tip of his nose under your ear, "Gotta appreciate the confidence." As he said that, he adjusted the cowboy hat on your head, tilting it so your face was now exposed to the warm light of the stables.

Slowly pulling back he smiled, his teeth showing for the first time that day, "Let me make this clear," The air shifted into something deeper, daring you to walk into it.

Maybe it was the tension, or the dim lighting and minimal chances of somebody stumbling over the two of you in this far end of the place.

You didn't try to speak, couldn't when he looked at you with so much lust in his ice blue orbs, "The cowboy hat rule," He stopped for a second before continuing smoothly, "You got the hat, you gotta ride the cowboy, babygirl."

His thumb swiped across your lips, “So?” He taunted, smiling as your wrath slowly turned into real want.

This was wrong, you couldn’t kiss him while your father was out there drinking with his friends, absolutely clueless to what was going on—

Not letting yourself think further, ignoring the consequences and focusing on what you wanted, what you wanted for months.

Leaning into him, your lips pressing against his, finally feeling his mouth on yours could be compared to being in heaven—it was delicate but aggressive at the same time, leaving you to get used to his pace.

Your mind short-circuated when he swiped his tongue against the entrance of your lips, seeking the permission to invade it and claim as his.

Utterly and completely wrecked, you mindlessly allowed him to lick into your mouth as he pressed your body against the railing, hiding you from the light of the warm night.

Caging you with his body, you let out a barely there moan into him—making him grin against you as he slowly pressed another kiss on your jaw, moving onto your neck, then your delicate collarbones.

With that, you arched into him with need the hat forgotten about, sliding off your head and into the dirt without a care in the world.

As you felt the bulge in his jeans more clearly now, your hips grinded against him, “Please—Buck.” You pleaded, scrunching your nose out of habit that stuck with you from a young age.

“Not here,” He suddenly pulled back, never taking his hands off you, “Can’t let ya get drunk on my cock in fuckin’ mud, doll.” He said quietly into the air, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.

“We can’t—My dad’s still here, I—“ Pressing a finger against your mouth, again, he reassured you with a smile on his face in the low light, “He knows you’re leavin’ with me, already told him that.”

The smirk that made an appearance was filled with satisfaction, tugging you along and swiftly leading you out through the almost nonvisible back exit.

You were glad the ride was over, it was filled with tension—neither of you daring to speak or move closer, keeping your distance and avoiding each other like it would cause a new war in the country.

His place wasn’t something new to you, spending more days there over the holidays than any time of the year—it was mostly because of his friendship with your father, but you knew it like the back of your hand already.

When the doors shut, it was an another story.

Immediately reaching for you, his fingers tilted your head back, adjusting you as he wanted—making it easier for him to smash his soft skin against yours, throughoutly bruising your lips and them slowly turning a pretty shade of pink.

His hands found their home on the back of your thighs, lifting you up into his arms with ease as he carried you through the house without turning the light on, focusing on kissing you back like a man starved.

He set—threw you onto the bed, the soft white sheets enveloping your body softly as he discarded his shirt in the mean time.

You sat back up, running your fingertips across his abs, feeling the skin carefully as he was made out of glass. His hard work around the ranch and constantly hitting the gym when he had nothing to do showed in his physique and body.

The innocent and absentminded touch turned him on, restraining your wrists with one of his hands, “You’ll have enough time to do that later, babygirl,” He said it like a quietly plead, tugging on your shirt impatiently.

Now, he sounded like a small kid begging for a treat—either way, you didn't complain, rising your arms and feeling the sudden cold air in the room against your torso.

The shirt was forgotten on the ground, unclasping your bra with ease, it joined the make-shift pile of clothing too.

The noise that you let out was somewhere between a whine and a groan as his hands pushed you down onto the soft mattress, immediately hovering over you and pressing wet kisses down your neck.

Suddenly, he was everywhere, on your body, in your head, in the heat that started being evident betweeen your thighs, and you couldn't get enough of him, his touch.

His tongue made an appearance on your breast, savoring your nipple like a delicious dessert that he got served.

And with that, all the worries and responsibilities that lingered in your head were long gone, overwhelmed by his movements and man-handling you through the whole night.

Going from licking to sucking the other nipple, he let out a moan that he failed in suppressing, mirroring your own actions, you whispered, "Fuck me, please—Need ya."

As he registered the words, he smiled against your skin and pressed one last peck on your breasts, as if saying goodbye to them, making it hard for you to concentrate on anything else in the room.

Just him.

"Didn't raise you to be impatient," He said while unbuckling his belt swiftly, making his jeans fall down his legs and make a quiet thump as they hit the ground.

"But when you beg so beautifully," He fidgeted with the hem of his boxers, that so clearly hugged the bulge he was hiding, making your mouth water in seconds, "Can't have my girl waitin' then."

With that, his cock sprung out of under the fabric, revealing him to the dim lightning that came from the street's lamp that witnessed the sin you were about to make.

You cursed under your breath, completely losing control of what came out of your mouth and what on the other side didn't.

Precum was already coating the slightly pink tip of his cock, glistening as he spread it out with his palm along the whole length of it slowly.

It felt like he was putting on a show—and despite always somehow knowing he'd be big, but seeing him bare didn't compare to any of the images you made up in your mind.

Now he was standing there like a trophy you earned, waiting to be touched and silently daring you to do so just with his eyes that traveled across your partly exposed body.

Bucky climbed back over you, enveloping you in a rough kiss that made your head spin in satisfaction, his hard cock pressing against the fabric of your jeans, making your squirm under his hold.

"Should we get rid of these, babygirl, yeah?" He asked between the kiss, never letting you get away from under him even for a heartbeat.

Eagerly nodding, you lifted your hips for him, obeying silently as his fingers undid the zipper, hooking in the straps of them and sliding them over your thighs, killing you with the soft and slow tempo he set.

Your lace panties that already had an obnoxious wet patch on the centre of them were immediately discarded too, laying your cunt out before him.

"So wet already?" He questioned just to mock you while making you wait, taking in your body and engraving the sight before him into his mind for later.

You rocked your hips into him greedily, needing him to fill you and take you completely, already losing your mind in the procces.

Finally, he set his palms on your waist, only to throw you on top of him without any struggles, setting you across his lap while his back pressed against the wooden headboard that made a sound in protest.

Feeling overwhelmed, you shook your head, "Please—don't wanna be on top," Your complaints were left unheard as he smiled wickledly, enjoying your squirming.

His cock rubbed across your abdomen teasingly, wetting it with ease and leaving your skin coated in him too.

"Should've realized that before you willingly let my hat on you, babygirl," His mouth pressed against the shell of your ear, pausing for a beat before continuing, "Such a dumb girl, f'me."

You should've been frustrated, maybe even scared off by his words, but they only made the ache between your legs more urgent, almost unbearable.

Before you could breathe again, he set the tip of his cock against your folds, letting the wetness of both of you collide, making you whine as you couldn't keep your eyes off the sight before you.

When his cock entered you, your head fell back with your mouth forming into an o, moving your hips into his in need of him to enter you fully—he slid into you without resistance due to the natural lube, settling in you, his cock felt inside you like it belonged there, rearranging your insides.

And before you knew it, you were keenly rocking back and forth on his lap, heightening the pleasure for the both of you. In this position, you could feel every vein of him, burying him in you to the halt, almost tearing you apart.

He squeezed your chest, making you let out a loud wail, and you were sure that if someone walked by the house, he would've heard you so clearly, probably thinking you were being hurt.

But instead, you were experiencing the best sex so far, with your dad's bestfriend, and despite the issues with it, the situation you were in made it incredibly hard to focus on it, getting lost in how good he fit you.

"Stretchin' me out so good," He praised, speaking into the room that was only filled with grunts, the bed creaking and filthy skin slapping over and over again, " Gonna come for me, huh?"

Doubling your efforts, you slid up and down, panting already—your knees beginning to burn and the knot in your stomach threatening to snap any second.

He seemed to notice that, placing one of his hands on your thigh, his thumb reaching out to stimulate your already too sensitive clit, helping you to reach your climax.

"That feel good, babygirl?" He asked, swiping on your folds with more pressure, barely touching the spot where you were connected, your pussy stretching out for him.

The ability to talk left you, the waves of pleasure overtaking your body as the low words left his mouth, soaking his cock and the sheets under you too.

He grinned, muttering low praises under his breath as he let out one final grunt, spilling inside you—the warmth of him enveloping you and mixing his cum with yours as he pulled out.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, his fluids now leaking out of you and coating your thighs, "Keep it inside," He muttered, swiping the wetness with one of his fingers before burying it inside your cunt, overstimulating it.

Not daring to protest, you moaned as your forehead fell against his shoulder, the sweat sliding down your body as his digit gently caressed your inside walls, making sure it stuck.

"What would your daddy say if he saw his girl begging for my cock?" Oh, how wrong was that to say, your pussy clenched, sucking his finger deeper inside of you with doubled want, "Takin' me so good,"

Once he pulled out completely, your body felt the adrenaline slowly subside from your vein as he set you down onto the bed before kissing your forehead and disappearing into the bathroom.

Bucky returned with a wet cloth, spreading your thighs again as he partly wiped the mess up, making you groan from how sensitive you were still.

Pressing a kiss against your pussy teasingly, he smiled and pulled back, and despite being spent—you smiled back softly at him, slowly falling into the darkness.

You were sure maybe Kayla wondered where you vanished off to, or maybe your father wondered what you were doing with Bucky, but you couldn't care less.

You were in the middle of going over the day’s reading lesson with your 3rd graders when the principal knocked on the door and asked that you step into the hall quickly.

“Alright, Mrs. Morgan needs to see me in the hall, I need you all to work on page 24 of your reader’s workbook until I come back in, please.” You tell them before walking to the door and stepping out into the hall. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Y/N,” She said gently, “There’s a call for you in the office from the hospital on the Naval Air Base. Go on down and take the call, I’ll stay with the kids.”

Your heart started to race as soon as the words left her mouth. Your thoughts immediately flew to your boyfriend, who was a Naval aviator. Without a word you took off down the hall towards the office, thankful that your classroom wasn’t overly far away. 

The secretary motioned for you to take the call in the nurse’s office which was currently empty. You nodded, going in and grabbing the phone, pressing the button for the line. 

“This is Y/N.” You said, your voice slightly shaky. 

“Ma’am, I’m calling from the hospital on the Naval air base.” The woman on the other end said, “You’re listed as the emergency contact for Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Is he ok?” You asked, your heart in your throat, “What happened?”

“There was an accident in training and he had to eject.” She said, “He was recovered and brought in for assessment. He was conscious and stable when brought in. He’s currently getting a CT scan. Are you able to come down to the hospital, ma’am?”

“Yes.” You said, a sick feeling in your stomach, “I’ll be right there. I’ll leave work now… it’ll take me about twenty minutes to get there.”

“You’re fine, drive safely.” She said, kindly, “I believe his CO is with him and another pilot as well.”

“Thank you.” You replied, pretty sure she was referring to Mav, and one of the Daggers would be with him. “Do I need anything to get on base? I’ve always been with Bradley…”

“No ma’am.” She replied, “You’ll just stop by the gate and show your ID. You’re cleared as you’re his emergency contact.” 

“Ok, thank you.” You said. 

You took a minute to take a few deep breaths before leaving the nurse’s office. 

“I need to leave.” You told the secretary. “Bradley is in the hospital…there was an accident….” You started to feel yourself choke up. 

“Go, sweetie.” The secretary said, “Tell Mrs. Morgan I’ll call in a sub. She’ll stay in there until someone comes… the kids will be fine. I’m going to go ahead and put you down to be out tomorrow as well. Call us when you know anything and we’ll go from there, ok?”

“Thank you.” You said softly, giving her a small smile. 

You headed back to your classroom almost as quickly as you’d left. Your principal was going over the workbook page with your class. They looked up as you walked in, their little faces worried. You tried not to show the sheer panic you were feeling as you walked to your desk. 

You grabbed the lesson they were working on, handing it to your boss. She gave you a soft smile as she took it. 

“Cindy is looking for a sub.” You told her softly, trying to keep your voice calm. “Bradley’s hurt and I have to go. I’ll probably be out tomorrow too. I’ll text Nora my subplans for tomorrow. Everything they need for the rest of the day’s lessons is all on my desk.”

“We’ve got it, Y/N.” She replied gently, “Go. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“Thank you.” You said, relieved to be able to just get out of there and get to Bradley. You turned to the kids, “Alright, Kiddos, Mrs. Morgan is going to be in here with you until they find a sub. I have to go… I’ll see you all on Monday. Have a nice weekend, make good choices!” 

They all said goodbye and continued to look worried as you rushed to get your things together and then head out. Many of them had parents in the Navy and knew those calls sometimes meant very bad news.

You made it out to your car, tossing your things into the back before getting in. You were running on adrenaline now, your mind coming up with a million different scenarios of what you’d encounter when you finally reached the hospital. 

Bradley and you had been together for nearly a year.. Although 3 months of that he’d been deployed in the middle of the ocean. It didn’t take long into the relationship before both of you were head over heels in love with one another. You’d spent countless hours together talking about anything and everything, getting to know each other’s friends and family… which for both of you was pretty small. Another thing you had in common…you’d both lost parents really young. What you hadn’t talked about apparently was the fact that at some point in that time, Bradley had made you his emergency contact…and forgot to tell you. 

You were halfway to the hospital when your phone rang. Looking at the ID you saw it was Phoenix and quickly answered. 

“Please tell me he’s ok, Nix.” You said as soon as the call connected. 

“All we can get out of the doctors and nurses is that he’s stable, but in and out of consciousness.” She replied, “They won’t go into detail because we’re not family and not his emergency contacts.”

“I’m so sorry.” You said, “I’m almost there. I’m about 5 more minutes out. And that’s bullshit. You all are his family.”

“It’s ok, Y/N.” She replied, gently, “We’re all here when you get here. They let Mav back in by him finally after he threatened to have someone court martialed. And also because he said he was his uncle… which, I guess is true… kinda.”

“I had no idea he’d even made me his emergency contact…” You told her, “That call took ten years off my life.”

“That idiot.” She chuckled, “He changed it right when we got back from that last deployment…I guess we all just assumed you knew.”

“I love that idiot.” You sniffled, the tears you’d been holding back threatening to break loose.

“He’ll be just fine, Y/N.” She assured you, “He’s too stubborn to be anything else. Just get here safely so you can yell at him… and tell him you love his idiotic ass.”

“Ok.” You replied, your voice quiet, “I’m about to pull onto the base now. I should be at the hospital in a couple minutes.”

“I’ll wait out front for you.” She promised. 

You pulled up to the guard gate and showed your ID to the officer on duty. He directed you towards the hospital and lifted the guard rails to allow you to pass. You followed the directions to the hospital, thankful it was well marked as you weren’t exactly in a calm state. You finally pulled into the parking area of the hospital and found a spot. 

Phoenix was standing at the entrance like she said she would be with Jake by her side. He looked nothing like the normal upbeat, life of the party, aviator you were used to. His hair was tousled as if he’d been running his hands through it nonstop. He looked worried… which wasn’t helping you feel any better. 

“Y/N” Jake said, his voice rough with emotion, “I’m so sorry. I should have been closer… done something… I..”

“Hangman… breathe.” Phoenix said, looking over at him, “There was nothing you could have done. There was a malfunction in the engine. Any one of us could have been flying with him. You did everything you could.”

“I need to see him.” You said, “Will they let me in by him?”

“Yeah, they’ll let you in.” Phoenix assured you, “Come on.”

Before moving, you could see Jake was beating himself up and despite Nix telling him otherwise, he still clearly was blaming himself for Bradley being hurt. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly. He melted into your embrace, hugging you back just as tightly. 

“I know Bradley enough to know he’s too stubborn to be anything other than perfectly fine.” You said, trying to assure him…and yourself. “And you and I both know that he wouldn’t want to be blaming yourself.”

“Thank you, Y/N.” He replied, his voice raspy. He pulled back a bit and looked down at you with a small smile, “Come on, let’s get you inside to Rooster.”

Phoenix led the way into the hospital. You followed behind her with Jake by your side. She took you to the front desk where a nurse looked up, and recognizing the pilots, smiled. 

“There’s no change, I promise, I’d try to let you know if I heard any more.” She said gently, knowing how worried they were. 

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N, I was called about Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw.” You said, your voice shaky with worry, “Can I see him, please?”

“Ms. Y/L/N, we spoke on the phone.” She gave you a warm smile, “Lieutenant Bradshaw was just brought back to his room. They had him in a CT scan and was just given some more pain meds so he may be in and out of consciousness still. The doctor will be in to fill you in shortly. Captain Mitchell is in there now.” 

“Is there any way to add Lieutenant Trace and Lieutenant Seresin to the list of approved visitors for him?” You asked, “They are, for all intents and purposes, his family.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She said gently, “In the meantime, let’s get you back to him. I’m sure when he wakes up you’ll be the one he wants to see first. The emergency flight crew that brought him in said he kept asking for you every time he was conscious.”

Your heart squeezed at the thought of him being hurt and out of it but still asking for you. You turned to Nix and Jake and gave them a small smile. 

“I’ll send Mav out with updates or text as soon as I know anything…” You said, “And I’ll keep trying to get them to let you back there.”

“Don’t worry about us, just go be with Rooster.” Nix said, hugging you. You hugged her back, then followed as the nurse led you back to the man you loved more than anything else in the world. 

The hospital wasn’t much different than a civilian hospital except there were Naval uniforms everywhere rather than people in street clothes. It was run pretty much the same, but perhaps with stricter rules and regulations. The nurse opened the door to a room and led you in. You saw Mav sitting in a chair looking like he’d aged twenty years since you’d last seen him. He was pale and his eyes were suspiciously red around the rims when he glanced up at you. He offered a weary smile, stood up and came over to hug you. 

“I’m glad they were able to get a hold of you.” He said, his voice gravely, “He was asking for you before he knocked out again.”

“Helluva way to find out you’re someone’s emergency contact.” You said softly, hugging him back. “But I won’t be leaving his side until I’m able to take him home.”

“Well, depending on the results of the CT and what the doctor wants to do, that could be a few days, Sweetheart.” The nurse said gently, “But, you’re welcome to stay with him as long as you want. Let us know if you need anything. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”

“Thank you.” You replied, moving to the bed to look down at Bradley. He had some minor cuts and bruises on his face and neck. You assumed he had more bruises from the ejection and landing, depending on how hard he hit or if the ejection itself had been bad. He wasn’t wearing a neck brace so you relaxed a little knowing they weren’t worried about him having broken his neck or anything horrible like that. He was hooked up to an IV that was supplying fluids and pain meds to him for the time being, and he had a bandage on his arm that looked like he’d needed to be stitched up. 

You gently ran your hand over him, in part to reassure yourself he was really alive and there, but also checking for more injuries you might have missed. 

“I’m going to step out and talk to the squad.” Mav said, “I know they’ve been on edge wanting an update… and you need time with Bradley.”

“Thanks, Mav.” You whispered, finding it hard to speak past the lump forming in your throat, “Thank you for insisting that you be allowed in here with him… for not letting him be alone.”

“Of course.” He said, offering a small, sad smile, “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

After he left you pulled the chair over and sat down next to the bed. You carefully intertwined your fingers with Bradley’s, needing the contact but not wanting to hurt him either. 

“B, I need you to wake up for me.” You said softly, “I’m here… and I’m not going anywhere. I love you so so much…” You had to pause, getting choked up. You could feel tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at him laying in the bed. Your normally full of life, boisterous boyfriend, looked so pale… still. “Baby, please open those beautiful eyes for me.”

He remained unconscious, knocked out, no doubt from the heavy painkillers the doctors had given him. 

You sat there, holding his hand, resting your head on the side of the bed while you sat in the chair, not taking your eyes off of him. 

The doctor came in a short while later. He was an older man, and despite looking a little stern upon first glance, was actually quite soft spoken. He pulled a chair up next to where you were seated and gave you a soft, sympathetic smile. 

“Ms. Y/LN, I’m Dr. Sanchez.” He said, his voice quiet so as to disturb Bradley, “I wanted to come in and bring you up to speed on Lieutenant Bradshaw’s injuries and give you a rundown on what we expect in terms of recovery. But first, I want to reassure you that this young man is going to be just fine. He’s knocked out right now on some good stuff. We wanted to keep him comfortable and allow him to rest a bit, but when he came in he was bound and determined he was going to stay awake to talk to you.” He paused to smile gently at you. “His uncle actually convinced him to let us give him some pain meds until you got here and promised we’d wake him as soon as you were here. It’s a good sign that he was alert enough and stubborn.”

“That’s Bradley’s default.” You smiled, your voice almost breaking when you looked over at him. “He’s stubborn, determined… full of life…”

“That’ll make his recovery that much easier.” He assured you. “The good news is, he didn’t sustain any major injuries that required surgical intervention. We did have to put a few stitches in his arm, he has some bruising and minor cuts to his face and neck that you can see. He’s got some bruising to his ribs, whether that’s from the ejection or landing is unclear. The worst of the injuries is he does have a concussion, which means we’re going to keep him at least overnight for further evaluation and observation. He’ll have a neuro consult tomorrow and we’ll go from there.”

“So the pain meds… “ You said, feeling some relief, “That’s what’s keeping him unconscious… not his injuries?”

“It’s 100% the pain meds.” He confirmed, smiling gently, “We can go ahead and ease off some so he starts to wake. Like I said, we were mainly concerned with keeping him comfortable so his body could rest and come down off the adrenaline high. It also gave us the chance to evaluate his injuries without him fighting us. I’ll put in the order to reduce the med and he should start to come around. He’ll be groggy and he might be a little disorientated.”

“Will he remember what happened?” You asked, worried he could have more injury to the brain they don’t know about yet.

“He might be confused at first when he comes out of the pain meds but there was nothing on the CT to suggest that he has any kind of brain injury, and the concussion isn’t severe enough to trigger amnesia I wouldn’t think.” He assured you. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to hit the call button.”

“Dr. Sanchez?” You asked, looking over at him, “I know the policy is family only… but his squadron… They're more than just friends and pilots he flies with… they are Bradley’s family. Can you please make an exception and allow them to see him? Lieutenant Seresin especially… he feels responsible… which is dumb… but… I think seeing Bradley might help.”

“Of course.” He smiled softly, “I got the impression just from Captain Mitchell that Lieutenant Bradshaw’s family was quite large… and it’s not up to us to check DNA or family trees… afterall, that’s not what makes a family.” He sends a wink and then heads out of the room, leaving you alone once more with Bradley. 

You returned to your earlier position, your hand in his and your head resting on the chair, as close to the bed and Bradley as you could get. A few minutes passed and a nurse came in. She smiled and checked vitals, entering them on a chart and then she let you know she was going to ease off on the painkillers for him. 

After she left the room was mostly silent again except for the sounds of the monitor keeping track of his vitals. 

“Alright, B… they’ve backed off the meds, Baby.” You whispered, gently squeezing his hand, “Please wake up for me… let me see your gorgeous eyes, and that smile that stole my heart.”

You continued to watch him, the steady rise and fall of his chest with his breathing, waiting for any signs of him waking up. 

There was a soft knock a while later, then the door opened. Jake peeked his head in.

“Is it ok if I come in?” He asked softly. 

“Yeah, of course, Jake.” You replied, giving him a soft smile. 

He came in and stood next to you for a moment, looking at Bradley. 

“He’s going to be just fine,” You said, “Dr. Sanchez said he has some bruising and cuts that are obvious. He has some bruising to his ribs. His arm needed stitches…. The worst of his injuries is a concussion.”

“Is that why he’s still out?” Jake asked, looking worried. 

“No… that’s only the pain meds according to the doctor.” You assured him softly, “The nurse just decreased them a bit ago so he should start to wake up soon. They just wanted to keep him sedated to give his body a chance to come off the adrenaline a bit…and because he was fighting to stay conscious and was doing more harm to himself in the process.”

Jake looks pale as he takes in the sight of Bradley. You can tell there’s more to his reaction to Bradley going down. 

“Jake…” You looked up at him, your voice gentle, “Grab that chair and sit. Talk to me.”

He carefully pulled the chair the doctor had sat in over to you and sat down. He kept his eyes on Bradley, as if making sure the man wouldn’t stop breathing. You had a pretty good idea what was going on, but waited patiently for Jake to start talking. 

“I still have nightmares… from the mission.” He admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes it’s that I’m not fast enough… and I get there just in time to see Mav and Rooster get hit… others… I’m there and I’m just not good enough… I miss and I have to watch them die. Watching today as one engine blew… then the other one… and he just started falling… Y/N I couldn’t breathe. I … hesitated. I…”

“Sweetheart…” You said softly, “Today… there was nothing you could have done. Today wasn’t your fault. But you did everything you could do. You landed and got to him as soon as you could.” You lean in closer, making sure you have his attention “And Jake Seresin, you saved his life on that mission. You  were fast enough… good enough. He is alive… and I got to meet him and fall in love with him because of it.”

He had to look away, wiping his eyes. You carefully pulled your hand from Bradley’s and shifted to pull Jake into a hug. He was stiff at first but then melted against you, hugging you back. 

“Thank you.” He whispered when he pulled back. You smiled warmly at him.  

“Jake… have you talked to someone?” You asked, “Like a therapist?”

“I talked to the Navy appointed one right after the mission.” He admitted, “But beyond that… no. I… know I probably should. I just…”

“It doesn’t have to be official or anyone affiliated with the Navy.” You said, “Just.. think about it?”

“I will.” He promised. He looked over at Bradley again and you could see some of the color had come back to his face. Seeing Bradley had been good for him. “Thank you for talking to the doctor…getting us allowed on the visitors list.”

“I just told him you’re his family.” You smiled, “The hospital doesn’t need to know bloodlines.”

“You’re amazing Y/N.” Jake said, giving you a ghost of a smile. “I’m glad Rooster found you. You’re good for him… for all of us.”

“I’m glad we found one another too.” I said, smiling as I looked over at Bradley, “I found the man I love more than anything… and gained a whole family along with him.” 

“Let us know if you need anything.” Jake said gently, “We can all be here within minutes.”

“I will.” You promised, “I’m hoping they only keep us overnight and I can take him home tomorrow… but it will depend on him…”

“We’re all here for both of you.” He promised. “Phoenix and the others said they’d wait and come in to visit later. They were going to go get cleaned up first. I’m going to go shower and change, but I can come back at any time if you need me.”

“Go get something to eat and rest.” You smiled, “You’ve earned it. I’ll call if anything changes.” 

After Jake left you settled back into the chair, once more holding Bradley’s hand. You got comfortable, resting your head against the chair, leaning as close to Bradley as possible. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, emotional and mental exhaustion starting to hit you. Your eyes drift closed and your breathing starts to even out as you are pulled into a light sleep. 

Unsure of how much time has passed you’re pulled from sleep awhile later. You blink your eyes open and it takes a moment to get your bearings. You feel a light squeezing of your hand and you’re instantly alert, your head shoots up again and you turn to see Bradley’s eyes open and a small, sleepy smile on his face. You feel a sob well up in your throat, tears instantly fill your eyes, spilling over. 

“You’re awake…” You whispered, “B, you scared me… I got a call at work… and I….” You pause to swallow the lump in your throat. “God, I love you so damn much, Bradley.” 

“Sorry, Beautiful.” He rasped, his voice raw, “Love you too… Baby don’t cry.”

You wipe the tears from your eyes, giving him a small smile. 

“I’m just so happy you’re awake… and I get to look into those gorgeous eyes of yours… hear your voice… see that smile” You told him.

“You’re all I thought about, Baby.” He whispered, his hand tightening on yours. 

You carefully move so you can lean over and press a gentle kiss to his lips, mindful of his cuts and bruises, you continue to press tender kisses over his face. When you pull back, you look down at him and give him a soft smile.

“You made me your emergency contact.” You said, your eyes on his. He focused his whiskey colored gaze on yours and gave you a tired smile. It was the most beautiful smile you’d ever seen. 

“I wanna make you my wife.” He whispered. Your heart skipped a beat and butterflies took flight in your belly. 

“Is that the pain meds talking?” You smiled, teasing him, trying not to get your hopes up knowing it could very well be the meds being pumped into him right now.

“No, Beautiful.” He smiled, his eyes focused on yours, “I already have a ring.”

You lean over, kissing him softly, smiling when you pull back a little.

“Is this you asking me to marry you, Handsome?” You asked him, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“I had a better plan… but I don’t want to wait.” He admitted, a soft smile pulling at his lips. “So if you don’t mind a hospital bed proposal…then yes. This is me..asking you. Y/N, Baby, I love you more than anything else in this world.” He shifted as best as he could, wincing when it pulled at his ribs. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” You whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks as you smiled at the man you love beyond anything else. “Yes, I will absolutely marry you, Bradley.” 

“We have to wait until they spring me so you can take me home and I can get your ring.” He smiled, “But in the meantime, bring your beautiful face over here and kiss me.”

“With pleasure.” You replied, leaning forward and gently pressing your lips to his, kissing him gently. He brings his arm over to slip into your hair, holding you to him at the back of your neck. 

“Come lay with me.” He asked, his eyes pleading when you pulled back. “I need to feel you close, Beautiful.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, B.” You said, your eyes looking him over, “Your ribs are bruised and you’re covered in cuts and bruises.”

“Having you in my arms will be the best thing for me.” He argued, “I promise you won’t hurt me, Baby.”

“If you so much as flinch once, I’m getting right back up.” You warned, moving to lower the bed rail, careful not to bump him in the process. Thankfully his IV and all the wires were attached to him on the same arm they’d had to stitch so you would be relatively safe you hoped cuddling with him on the other side. You help him shift a little in the bed to make room, again careful not to jostle him or aggravate the already sore ribs. Once he’s moved over, you slide into the bed with him. He insists on pulling you close with his good arm and holding you as best he can. You gingerly trace your fingers over his chest and torso before wrapping around his lower waist and settling there. 

For the first time since you’d gotten the call at work you can feel your body fully relaxing. The sound of his steady heartbeat doing wonders to soothe you. You feel him press a soft kiss to the top of your head. You smile, nuzzling in closer. 

“I love you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You whispered, “Don’t ever scare me like this again.”

“I love you too, Beautiful.” He replied, his voice sounding sleepy again. “I can’t promise you’ll never get a call again, Baby… but I promise to always do everything I can to be as safe as possible and come back to you.”

“I’ll take it.” You sighed, feeling your eyes get heavy. “I’ll be your forever emergency contact.”

The two of you drifted off together, both feeling safe and content. Neither heard the door open or saw Mav peek in a while later. He smiled softly at the sight of you both curled up together. He left Bradley's change of clothes from his base locker in a duffle on the chair and quietly let himself out, leaving you both asleep and at peace.  

***

A/N: Thoughts? This one started with just the lines "You made me your emergency contact" and "I wanna make you my wife" and the rest filled in.... Hope you like it!!!

***

Taglist: 

@friendly-neighborhood-peter​

@oneelleandaneye​

@super-btstrash-posts​

@mygyn​

@emma8895eb​

@kitty-moonflower-blog

@awesomebooklover17

@krismdavis

@jayniebop

@hisredheadedgoddess28

@jstarr86

@cherrycola27​, 

@harrysgothicbitch​ , 

@caidi-paris​

@senjoritanana​ 

@bethabear12, 

@flyinlove

@fulla02

@sophham​ 

@itsdesiree86​

@shanimallina87​ 

@brooke-stinson

@kmc1989​

@djs8891​

@chaoticassidy​

@football1921

@sebastianstangirl01​

@hisredheadedgoddess28​

@callsignharper​

@thewackywriter​

@mazzbarnes​

@callsignartemis​

@CallSign-Vesta

@xoxabs88xox​

@avengersfan25​

@eternallyvenus​

@mptalitylustt     

@m-rae23​

@inthestars-underthesun​

@scrollsofkelio  

@itsyassbitch

@angelbabyange

@midnightmagpiemama

@tngrace

@roosterforme

@beyondthesefourwalls

@waywardodysseys

@mynameismckenziemae

@jessicab1991

@rosedurin

@cheyrenee

@aki-ham

@poppetbaby02

@avengersfan25

@smoothdogsgirl

@caitsymichelle13

@nerdy-in-all-things

@els-marvelvsp

@erospecies

@butterfly-skinnylegend

@dempy

@mariaenchanted

@lostinwonderland0314

@eloquentdreamer

@temptressofthetarrot

@petersunderoos96

@scarletmeii

@sbdunksblog

@lemmons98

@topgunlover222

@flannelshirts-and-fingerguns

@nerdgirljen

@lonelysoul504

@midnightmagpiemama

@dagerspare-standingby

@khouse712

@freyathehuntress

@winelover27

Even your parents - they phone the Mulholland Drive house before the lot. It’s a situation you don’t think your father is too happy with, but your mother makes a point of referring to Bradley as a lovely young man each time you get on the phone with her.

Generally, people are calling to congratulate Bradley, with you being the afterthought - but you don’t mind. There had been a time where you didn’t think the film would ever make it to theatres, never mind be the most nominated picture of 1934.

It takes a full week for things to die down a little, and by that point, preparations for the Academy Awards are in full swing. You’ve had meetings with designers about your dress, and you’ve been told that the Academy are sitting you, Bradley and Bob in the front row.

Between that and Little Women filming, you’re exhausted. Bradley’s back working at Paramount, his rates having skyrocketed after Pride and Prejudice, but he makes the drive to pick you up at Warner Brothers each day.

“How do you feel about Perino’s tonight? Mav’s down from the vineyard - I was thinking we could have dinner with him and Penny.”

Without meaning to, your back stiffens a little. It’s been almost six months since you and Bradley got together properly, and you’ve managed to avoid meeting his godfather so far. While Penny’s an actress, she doesn’t like living in LA. She and Maverick have a vineyard in Palm Springs, and she stays near the lots whenever she’s in town for work.

You know Bradley adores them both. His dad died before Bradley even made it to pre-school, and while you know he treasures the memories he has of him - all of his paternal memories are with Maverick. Learning to tie a tie, drive a car - ever since a falling out and reconciliation in his twenties, he and Maverick have been near inseparable.

It’s desperately important to you that they both like you. After all the media scrutiny, you’re not sure you’d be able to take it if Bradley’s own godfather didn’t think you were fit for him.

“Tonight?”

You’re standing in Bradley’s closet, at the rack where some of your dresses now hang, after Bradley had made you some space a few weeks ago. They suddenly all seem far too childish for the occasion. Far closer to something a teenager would wear than a full grown woman. The ones that don’t seem childish, on the other hand, are too risqué. Lowered necklines, higher hems - maybe you’d have time to run to Rodeo, try and pick something else up.

A glance at the clock. 6pm. No luck.

“You don’t want to?” Bradley’s stretched out on the bed, book in head. Les Liaisons Dangereuses, for the third time.

“N-no, of course I do,” You reply, a slight stutter in your voice. “I just wasn’t expecting it today, you know? Feels like a big step.”

“We don’t have to-”

“I want to,” You reply, emerging from the closet with as big a smile as you can muster, despite the pit in your stomach. “Promise.”

“Great. I’ll make the reservation for eight?”

You nod, and get to work on trying to make something work. Eventually, you settle on a plaid number. It’s a little frumpy, but Bradley insists that green is your colour, and he’s complimented it before.

“You look stunning, sweetheart,” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he leads you out to the Rolls-Royce. You had made a point of being ready half an hour earlier than you knew you’d need to leave. Tardiness is not the first impression you want to give.

Nonetheless, Bradley still manages to run over, and you end up leaving Mulholland Drive five minutes before eight.

You’re ushered into the restaurant, and your eyes immediately land on Penelope Benjamin Mitchell. You’re a little awestruck - you’ve been watching her pictures for even longer than you have Bradley’s. They both stand, and you get your first look at Pete Mitchell.

You’re expecting them to address Bradley first, and then get to you. Instead, Penny’s reaching for you, her eyes sparkling. “You must be the girl we’ve heard so much about - it’s so lovely to finally meet you.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr and Mrs Mitchell-”

“Please - Pete and Penny,” Maverick interjects, pulling Bradley in for a quick hug. You take your seats, Bradley’s hand settling on your thigh.

“Firstly - congrats you both on the Academy Award Nominations. That’s so exciting!”

Maverick nods, reaching for the glass of wine in the centre of the table. He pours for each of you. “We loved the picture. Really. You were both great. Excellent chemistry-”

He shoots a wink over the table, and Bradley groans. “Come on, Mav.”

“What? Am I not allowed to make jokes?”

“I’d really prefer you didn’t-”

“It’s what your dad would have wanted-”

While Maverick and Bradley bicker, Penny turns to you. “How’s show business treating you?”

You pause, mulling over the question. No one’s ever actually asked you that. Bradley makes sure you’re alright in all of his actions, but everyone else seems too preoccupied with the glitz and glamour.

“The work is really great,” You reply. “I’m not quite used to people wanting to take my picture all the time, or waiting outside my apartment at the studio.”

Penny’s brow furrows a little. “You’re really too famous to be staying in those crummy little places - it’s not safe. Have they not let you out of your contract yet?”

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. “Still got two months on the lease. But it’s fine - I’ve been staying with Bradley a lot.”

She nods, satisfied with your answer. “I can’t comment on the paparazzi, I’m still not used to them. That’s why we live in Pasadena. Keeps the intrusion at a minimum.”

“You’re not used to them?” Maverick interjects. “Try me! Nobody knew my name until my late 40s, and now there’s cameras everywhere I go, desperate to catch Mr Penelope Benjamin.”

“Mav’s a complainer,” Bradley explains, ignoring Maverick’s eyeroll. “If people didn’t want his picture he’d be mad about that too.”

Bradley’s arm drapes around the back of your chair, casual as ever as he leans in. “Did you guys know Lizzie’s doing Little Women? She’s only got a few weeks left of shooting.”

Penny’s eyes light up. “Oh, I used to love that book when I was a little girl. You’ll be wonderful. Let me guess… Amy?”

That’s the first time anyone has ever assumed you’re playing Amy March, instead of jumping to the more obvious Jo. You smile widely. “Yeah. I’m having a really good time. Still kind of in shock that any of this is happening at all, but I’m just trying to take each day as it comes.”

“That sounds like Bradley’s brand of advice,” Maverick says.

“Well, he’s way better at all of this stuff than me-”

“Not acting-”

“Hey!” Bradley objects, and you let out a laugh. Before he can reply, the waiter appears to take everybody’s order.

You leave the restaurant feeling a lot lighter than when you entered. Turns out Penny and Maverick are not nearly as scary as the image you’d managed to build up in your head. Penny makes you promise to call if you ever need anything, while Maverick assures you he’s more than happy to get violent with Bradley if you ever need him to.

It’s nice, being around a family unit, however unconventional.

Makes you miss your own parents on the East Coast.

*****

“Good that dinner went well, no?” Reuben asks, while you wait for production to set up the shot around you. “That they liked you.”

“They were really nice,” You nod, as makeup fix your wig. “It’s just scary, you know? They’ll have known Ruthie and Catherine really well. Penny especially, was lovely - I think it helps that she knows the business, understands what LA is like.”

“Well, I’m glad you get on with your mother-in-law,” Reuben replies, before dodging a swat from you. “What?”

“Bradley and I aren’t getting married!” You protest. It almost feels like some kind of jinx, to be talking about it this early. As if the universe will somehow be able to sense your enthusiasm, your hope, and send some kind of cosmic attack to destroy the relationship before it even really gets going.

“Yet,” He argues. “I give it a few months.”

“I’m barely twenty-three-”

“Honey, that’s practically geriatric in this town. Most people are on their second marriage by your age.”

“Yeah, well… we’ll see. No point in speaking too soon.”

Reuben’s eyebrow arches. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. He’s been kind of moody recently. Not wanting to go out, sleeping a lot. And I get it - it’s his dad’s birthday next week - Natasha says he always gets a little down. I just don’t know how to help him through it.” You sigh. “Remember the piano I told you about?”

“The Steinway, yeah,” Reuben nods.

“Well, I tried to reach out to his ex-wife - thought it would be nice to get it back for him, you know? I offered to pay way over the asking price, and she just flat-out refused. At first, I couldn’t even get on the line to her. I wrote her a note a few weeks ago, that went totally unanswered. But then when I got her, she basically called me a whore and hung up.”

It really made you appreciate Cat. While a little disarming, and kind of scary, at least she wasn’t downright hostile. You can handle dinner with her occasionally. Currently, you’re hoping to never have to interact with Ruthie again.

“Yikes. I wouldn’t have pegged Ruth Bradshaw for a witch - she’s so good at playing the ingenue. Did you ever see Cold Cat?”

You shake your head, lip between your teeth. “It came out when I’d started working on Pride and Prejudice. Didn’t really want to watch Bradley’s gorgeous ex-wife dancing about onscreen. It’s just- it’s so annoying. I was asking around about it - she and Callie share a maid, and she said that she’s talking about selling the piano anyway? She’s moving to Bel Air, and can’t be bothered with the hassle.”

“So she just doesn’t want to sell it to you.”

“Exactly.”

Reuben goes to reply, but is cut off by the director, calling for you both.

When the piano is delivered to your dressing room the next day, your jaw drops. You’re immediately knocking on Reuben’s door.

“Yes?” He grins, opening it wide.

“How- how did you…?” You trail off, unable to form the words.

“You said she didn’t want to sell it to you. I, however, have no association to Bradley Bradshaw, and she was more than happy for me to take it off her hands.”

You let out a delighted laugh, pulling him in for a hug. “You’re insane. God, how much did she sell it to you for?”

“Don’t worry about it-”

“Reuben, I’m going to pay you back.”

“Make this film a smash hit, and consider us even.”

Of course, you do pay him back. You leave the cash in his dressing room, and start to plan how you’re going to break the news to Bradley.

*****

It’s a Herculean effort to keep him out of the house for long enough to get the piano delivered. You’d been told that you couldn’t have him back before nine, and he’s been trying to head home since seven.

Not even Perino’s can really cheer him up. Tomorrow’s his dad’s birthday, what would have been his sixtieth. You don’t think you’d want to be out either, but needs must.

You’ve had to go to all kinds of extremes. Sitting on his lap, begging him to go dancing - at various points you think you may be pushing too far. But it’s almost nine, and you finally allow him to make the drive home.

Letting out a heavy sigh as he gets out of the car, he still moves to get your door for you. You take his hand, pressing a quick kiss to his knuckles, and he shoots you a look. “What’s gotten into you today?”

You don’t answer, instead opting to pull him towards the house. When the front door is opened, you’re incredibly relieved to see the piano right where it’s always been, ever since Bradley moved here.

His brow furrows a little, before he steps forward, hand running over the piano. He glances at the underside, obviously checking for something, before stepping back, still silent.

Suddenly feeling a little sick, you wonder if you crossed a boundary. If perhaps seeking out Bradley’s ex-wife was not the romantic gesture you thought it was. “Do you like it?” You ask, voice quieter than usual. “I didn’t mean to overstep, or anything-”

When Bradley lets out a sob, your expression drops. Immediately at his side, he’s burying his face into your shoulder, arms wrapping round your waist. “Thank you.”

It’s barely audible, just above a whisper.

One hand tangles in his hair, holding his head close against you. You’ve never been like this with him before. It’s always the other way around - Bradley looking after you.

“How did you even get it back? What did she want from you?”

Moving slowly, you guide him backwards towards the couch. He sits first, hand tugging at your wrist to pull you onto his lap.

“Reuben pretended he was interested, and she sold it to him for pennies,” You murmur, thumb reaching out to wipe the tear running down his cheek. “I gave him the money - they were delivering it tonight, and that’s why I had to keep you out.”

Bradley laughs, voice still thick with emotion. “You’re insane.”

“In a good way?”

“In the best way. That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever done for me. I… I never thought I’d see that piano again.” He’s kissing you, soft and slow, and you sigh into his touch.

“You’ll have to play for me at some point.” You mumble, nose brushing his.

“Kid, I’ll play for you whenever you want. It’s the least I can do.” He’s suddenly twisting, manoeuvring so that he’s braced over you on the couch. “I love you, sweet girl.”

You hum happily, pushing a stray hair from his forehead. “Love you too.”

*****

You’re on your third glass of champagne when Bradley cuts you off.

“What?” You frown, as Bradley’s hairstylist fusses over a curl that isn’t sitting quite right.

“You’re going to be handed champagne all night, sweetheart. You can’t get too far ahead before we even arrive.”

You stick your tongue out at him, but you know he’s right. You’re just nervous. It’s your first ever Academy Awards - Grapes of Wrath had been nominated for two smaller awards, but you hadn’t made the cut for the guest list.

Everyone that matters in Hollywood will be there tonight.

That’s why you have the ever-growing compulsion to reach for the alcohol.

“You’ll be fine. If I can get through these things, you can.”

You scoff. “You’re Mr. Movies. King of Hollywood. I’ve been in two pictures my entire life.”

“No, you’re everybody’s favourite newcomer. Soon-to-be Academy Award darling.” He reaches out for you, excusing the stylist. “Besides, I’ll be by your side the entire time.”

“Promise?” You dip your head to press your lips to his.

“Promise.”

“I’m holding you to that, Bradshaw. Now, let’s get going before I really start to panic.”

Bradley drives there - according to him, the press love the Rolls. You think he loves it, and misconstrues other people’s excitement for him as excitement for the car.

Either way, you’re the talk of the red carpet. It’s ridiculously overwhelming. To your right stands Cary Grant, and your left Claudette Colbert. You shouldn’t even be breathing the same air as these people, much less standing amongst them.

Compliments are thrown your way, pictures are taken, and through it all, Bradley remains by your side.

It’s a perfect start to the night - reuniting with Bob, Callie and Jake, and all taking your seats in the front row.

The ceremony’s due to start any minute now, when a figure appears at Bradley’s side.

Cat Kelly.

“Hi, guys,” She smiles, and you take in her dress. It’s a deep green velvet, just a few shades darker than your own. It looks like it was tailor-made to fit her every curve. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Swallowing slightly, you take Bradley’s hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright, all things considered,” Bradley replies. “How are you? How’s Bill?”

“Not here. We’re getting divorced-”

“Oh, Cat, that’s shit. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” She dismisses. “You guys must be excited! Pity Best Actress is so tough this year. Actor and Director you’ve got a far better shot at. Gable’s a little washed up this year, if you ask me.”

“The kid’ll pull it out of the bag.” Bradley’s hand squeezes your own, and he turns to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “Mark my words.”

A heat rushes to your face, and an immense love for Bradley Bradshaw.

*****

It’s time for the final two categories of the night. Best Actress, and then Best Picture. It’s been a mixed night for Pride and Prejudice - Bob had won, earning much glee from you all. None of the bookies had predicted a win for him, so you’re glad he defied expectations.

But Bradley was leaving empty-handed tonight. The ‘washed-up’ Clark Gable took the win, and Bradley became a two-time nominee. He’d smiled it off, insisted it didn’t matter to him.

It probably doesn’t. Not really. Accolades have never been Bradley’s thing. He’s much more interested in the deeper connection with fans.

You think you wanted it for him more.

They’re reading out the Best Actress nominees, and you think you might be sick. Bradley’s leaning in one last time, a murmur so soft, meant only for your ears. “You’ll always be my winner, Lizzie.”

Then the presenter says your name.

It doesn’t register at first. A millisecond of silence, before the theatre erupts into applause. Hands trembling, you get to your feet, as Bradley pulls you into the tightest hug of your life. “I’m so proud of you.”

A quick kiss, and then he’s guiding you towards the stairs, congratulations flying in from the rest of the Pride and Prejudice crew.

You’re not quite sure how you make it to the podium without tripping, or without dropping the Oscar. It’s heavier than you expect.

The lights flash bright against your eyes, and you can just barely make out Bradley, still standing even once everyone has else has sat down.

“Wow, I uh, I certainly wasn’t expecting this,” You stammer, wishing you’d written some kind of speech beforehand. Even just a list of people to thank. “Thank you very much to the Academy - Pride and Prejudice was the second film set I ever stepped foot on, so it’s truly an honour to receive this so early on. T-To the other nominees, it’s an honour to even be in your presence. Truly. I’m in awe of all the work that was done this year.”

Clearing your throat, you stumble on. Nobody likes it when people drag their speeches on, endlessly thanking everybody from their agent to their cat. “To my parents, thank you for everything. And to Warner Brothers and Bob Floyd - thank you endlessly for seeing something in me, however small it may have been.”

Fifteen seconds to go. You can do this.

“And Bradley,” You finish, eyes misting a little. How can you possibly put into words the depth of your feelings for him? The childhood infatuation, to the deep conflict, to the beautiful relationship you’ve come to share. “I love you. Most ardently.”

Applause erupts once more, and you’re led offstage. Pride and Prejudice doesn’t win Best Picture, but you’re flying too high to even care. It’s only after the ceremony you’re able to reunite with Bradley, throwing your arms around his neck as he embraces you again.

Kisses are peppered across your face, and the two of you laugh like children. “Told you, I told you!”

You greet people patiently while they engrave the Oscar, before it all gets a little too much. Grabbing Bradley’s hand, you’re dragging him away from the crowds.

As soon as you're round the corner, you pull him in by his tux to kiss him, deepening it as he sighs into your mouth. Hands dropping to his shirt buttons, it's harder than you anticipated with one hand.

“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” He breathes, pulling back slightly.

One arm drapes over his shoulder, the other still holding the Oscar tight to your chest. “You're hard. Wanna take care of you.”

“Course I'm hard. You're the best fuckin’ actress in the world, and everyone knows what I know now. But this is your moment, Lizzie. Don't want to take anything away from you.”

You let out a small laugh. “I can't believe it.”

“What?”

“I just won an Oscar, and you're denying me sex.”

He arches an eyebrow, considering his options. “You’re sure? Now?”

You nod, lip between your teeth.

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll find us a place.”

*****

“My beautiful girl-”

A snap of his hips.

“-so talented, so good at everything she does, huh?”

Your nails are digging into his shoulders, trying desperately to stay grounded as he rocks against you. Out of the corner of your eyes you spot the Oscar, discarded (albeit carefully) by the door.

It’s funny. Tonight might be the highlight of your professional career, the only time you’re ever able to step on that stage and thank your peers for such an honour, and all you can think about is Bradley, and how you think you might split open if he keeps going the way he is. How you’re practically seeing stars, all while the entirety of the Hollywood elite are milling about outside, just a few steps from the bathroom door.

Your lips meet his neck, pressing soft butterfly kisses to the scar that runs just below his jaw. Your dress is bunched around your waist - god, you hope it doesn’t look too crumpled. The way your hair is tumbling from its clasps, and your lipstick is smudged across Bradley’s cheek - everyone’s already going to know exactly what you’ve been up to.

The thought would normally embarrass you - the small town roots taking hold, filling you with shame and embarrassment. Instead, all you feel is a warmth. That everyone’s going to know that you’re his, and he’s yours.

"P-please Bradley," You manage, chest heaving as he continues his pace, bracing you against the mirror.

One of his hands moves, tucking under your chin to pull you up to his level. He kisses you deeply, sloppy with the urgency of little time. "I know, sweetheart. Gonna get you there. Promise.”

It's almost lewd, the noises that are escaping from your lips. You're very grateful for the forty-piece orchestra stationed just across from the bathroom. Makes it far easier to mask the sound of skin slapping, the heavy breathing as Bradley drives into you harder with each thrust.

“Everybody out there would kill to see you like this, kid. So pretty-”

A cry, swallowed by his kiss.

“-so perfect for me.”

“J-just want to be good for you, Brad,” You manage, desperately trying to stay focused, stay present - not like how it sometimes feels with Bradley, floating above yourself in a daze.

But when he hooks your leg just a little bit higher on his waist, and sinks just a little further into you, it pushes you over the edge.

It's nearly blinding, your knees trembling as Bradley follows suit, lips pressed to your temple.

Chest heaving, you lean back against the mirror, not trusting your legs to be able to hold your weight. A quiet falls over you both, as Bradley grabs some tissues - not ideal, but better than nothing, and begins to dab softly at your thighs.

When he finishes up, moving to discard the tissues, you whimper slightly at the loss of contact. Still not fully back in your body yet, all you can do is reach for him, humming happily when he slots back between your legs. Your chin tucks into his shoulder, letting out a breath as his hands rest on your hips.

“You still with me, honey?”

“Mm,” You murmur, head nestled in the crook of his neck. “Tired. Just need a minute.”

Suddenly, the idea of hitting party after party for the next four hours seems incredibly unappealing.

Speaking to people you don't know, making awkward small talk, probably being pulled away from Bradley at every given moment - when actually, all you want is to spend tonight with him.

A knock sounds on the door, startling you from your daze.

“Give us a minute!” Bradley calls, retracting from you slightly. “You ready to head back out?”

You nod, getting to your feet and retrieving the Oscar. You reach out to open the door, but Bradley’s hand wraps round your wrist, spinning you back round to face him.

“Hey,” He breathes, as he kisses you once more. “I love you. And I'm so proud of you, kid.”

“Love you too,” You smile, allowing him to loop his arm round your waist.

When he finally unlocks the door, he throws the man waiting an apologetic smile. “Sorry, buddy - my girl was feeling a little sick. Wanted to make sure we weren't going to have an incident outside.”

It's a terrible lie. One that anyone with half a brain wouldn't believe. But you don't even care.

You return to the masses, diligently answering question after question, having to pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders to hide the blooming marks, left behind by Bradley.

*****

Even at 3am, when the afterparties are winding down and people are dispersing to their own homes - on the arms of strangers and hookups - the paparazzi still linger.

Stepping out of the Beverly Hills Hotel, Bradley's immediately positioning himself in front, hand laced through yours tightly.

You had hit the champagne harder than he did - a rare occasion for Bradley. But when he’s still riding the high of the bathroom escapade earlier, nothing compares.

Besides, when everyone’s trying to get your attention, trying to get something from you, he’d rather be in control. Just in case.

The walk to the car is longer than he would've liked, twisting through thrums of reporters, each one pushier than the last.

“Mr Bradshaw!”

“How do you feel about the film’s success tonight?”

“Does losing a second Oscar feel worse than losing the first?”

Much to his surprise, the calls of his name far outnumber yours. Sure, there are a couple - but given you'd just won an Academy Award, he'd been expecting to be treated as your date and nothing more.

Not that he has a problem with that - in fact, he figures it might be quite nice to just be a plus one. No further expectations than just being by your side, making sure you have a good night.

“Why are you asking me questions when she’s the one with the Academy Award?” He frowns, directing his question to the nearest reporter. The swarm only grows as the two of you pass, your hand tightening around his in your tell-tale nervous tic. He thought this place was meant to have some kind of security. “Hey! Watch it!” He snaps, when one treads on your dress, sending you stumbling.

Trying another tactic, he ushers you ahead, arm looping around your waist to keep you close to him as you approach the car. Opening the door, he presses a kiss to your shoulder as you step inside, camera bulbs continuing to flash from all directions.

“Does it bother you to miss out on another Academy Award, when your co-stars have far less experience in the industry?”

He’s just about to climb in after you when he pauses his movement, brow furrowing. “The kid’s the best actor I’ve ever worked with. I don’t know where this jealousy bullshit has come from, but I can promise you it isn’t true. I’m happier for her than just about anybody, I’d reckon.”

Leaving them no time to respond, Bradley slips into the backseat of the car, letting out a sigh as the door closes, enveloping you in relative quiet. Manny starts driving, pulling away from the insanity on Sunset.

Lids heavy, you lean into his side, humming happily as you curl your hand around his forearm. “I had a really nice night,” You murmur softly.

“Yeah? Glad to hear it, sweetheart. You deserve it.”

“But ‘m ready to go home now.”

He knows you don’t mean the Warner Brothers lot. The tiny apartment, stifling and exposed, isn’t your home anymore. His heart swells slightly at the thought.

Yet the urge to tease shines through. “Well, I'm sure Manny wouldn't mind dropping you off-”

“Bradley,” You whine, voice almost petulant. You're past tired, exhaustion making you near delirious. Paired with an alcohol comedown, comedy is not appreciated right now. “Don't be mean.”

When the car slows to a stop in the driveway, Bradley bundles you into his arms, and carries you into the house.

Your Oscar is given pride of place on the piano, before you both make your way to the master bedroom. His hands are gentle as he removes the pins from your hair, before taking a cloth to your heavily-shadowed lids.

Your first night as an Oscar winner is spent as any other - curled into Bradley Bradshaw’s chest.

You already knew the troubles a girl, or it should be said a Lady, would face being here at such an hour— the hour of the owl to be exact. But all of your duties had been undertaken, precisely day in and day out, everything asked of you without a moment of peace until now. So you knelt, shins pressed into the cold flooring without a care in the world, your skirts bunched up around you as you placed your elbows upon the altar. Your eyes pressed tightly together, only the flickering of orange behind your eyelids except the darkness and you began to say prayer, well, you tried. Word spoken only between you and the Gods, one for the fallen, one for the sick, one for the lesser noble and another for your mother, ‘may she rest.’

But other thoughts crept in, the ones of the Lord your father is pushing you against, ever since she’d been gone and since you reached your eighteenth nameday, marriage was the only answer. “For your house, for your honour, and for your family.” He had told you many times over, much to your protest, and now it has gone on long enough, you are without choice. 

A Tully boy of your age, sweet and boyish enough but he was immature, ‘dumb as a pike’ as you’d called him, earning a few laughs from your chambermaids and a squire, but your father had had enough. “Many young ladies of your age would already be with child by now, you can do your house the grace of accepting this union.”

“But he is-“, you began to protest as he stood across from you. “But he is nothing, and to be your husband no less. A young, fine boy which will solidify our rank with the Riverlands. I have known Lord Tully since I myself was a boy, I have no doubt this will be reasonable.” He argued, eyes burning into yours as you looked away, before snapping your head up.

“You are to have me married off over war matters, this is madness.” You barked, standing beside your bed as he dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand, and he came closer, standing before you, holding your hands in his. Reaching one hand to cup at your cheek, “These things are not always so simple, my dear girl, but this is how we survive in this world, very few find such happiness so easily. Not even the Queens nor commoners lead such simplicity, but with this union, you will be safe, perhaps find your own happiness, love.” Love. The last word let a bitter taste in your mouth, questions running around your head beyond just the anger, the fear— “Did you find that with mother?” It seemed to leave your lips without another thought, and his face hardened, eyes flicking down between you at the floor and back to you before smiling softly, 

“In time, very much..” This was no lie, but something in his voice pushed duty over any concept of love, of something worth fighting for more than just arrangement. “And you will too.” “Father-“ You called back as he pulled away, the soft moment forgotten. “Father nothing, it is already settled.”

The creak of the door went on deaf ears as a cough rang out through your chambers, “My Lord, you have been called upon in the council.” That familiar voice made you look, as you hung onto your bedpost, creeping around the corner as your father gave you a final look before turning away, uncovering the face. Ser Gwayne Hightower. The knight, the warrior that had manned your gates and guarded your city’s walls from the horror that creep in in the night, the soft smile that would always greet you in the halls and the boy at only a few years older who would hold you at every upset, proclaiming with his shield and sword he would protect you.

Those same eyes met yours across the space of the room—older now, wearier, but still holding that same quiet sympathy. That same yearning, barely veiled, the one you’d always sensed but never dared name. You two hadn’t been close, not really, not long enough to talk as you’d liked to. But you’d known him long enough to read the shift in his stance—the way time had leaned heavier into his bones, how even stillness sat like a burden on him now. He stood taller than you remembered, more solid, yet worn in the way a knight grows worn—not broken, but tempered. His armor caught the light in sharp angles, muscles shifting beneath the steel like a memory of youth.

He was handsome. You’d known that from the start, you had even once joked—boldly, perhaps too boldly—that he was far too pretty to waste behind a helm, that noble sons weren’t meant to bleed. He'd overheard, of course. Said nothing, but smiled in that way that betrayed more than words. You hadn’t known what it meant then, but in this time you believe you do.

He may have stepped in where he shouldn’t have—drawn attention, made himself part of a fight that wasn’t his. You were mid-argument with your father, when he pressed his ear beside the wood, slyly listening to your voices raised over the marriage he was arranging, and when he heard you— you said no—twice, then louder. And then and only the had Gwayne had moved through the doors, not a word spoken, not a challenge issued but just the sharp clatter of his armour as he announced himself.

It wasn’t for pride. Not even for honor. But because he knew—knew you didn’t want this, knew they were pushing too hard, too far. He didn’t speak another word to you as your father used past him, but he didn’t need to. You felt the truth in his silence, the weight of it, knowing that he’d been watching. Listening. Wanting.

And you knew, even then, that he didn’t want that fate for you any more than you did.

You’d come to the sept for silence, but it offers none, not tonight, even with your head bowed and hands steepled, your thoughts refuse to settle. You try to summon reverence, gratitude—something holy—but all that comes is the dull throb of resentment. Weeks. Maybe months, if you're lucky and then it’s over. A marriage sealed in parchment and gold, to a boy with empty eyes and no words of his own. And freedom—your freedom—slips further from reach with every nod of your father’s head.

If only they’d given you time, a little more time to patch your wounds, to shape your own path and maybe you’d have found a lover—someone with sharp wit and slower hands. Someone who read poetry or rode recklessly or kissed you like he meant it, and perhaps he wouldn’t be noble, maybe he’d be a knight, one you could trust your secrets to in the dark.

And maybe… maybe it’s foolish to be kneeling in a sept praying for another fate, foolish to long for someone not written into the path the gods laid for you. But you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t one man you’ve thought of more than the others.

Gwayne.

Charming, disciplined, maddeningly polite Gwayne Hightower. Always standing just far enough away, always watching. Always choosing silence when you wished he’d just speak. And still—when he looked at you, it burned. No words, no gestures, just those eyes, as if he already knew the shape of your longing.

Your thighs press together as you shift slightly on the cushion, half on the warmth and half on the hardened floor. It’s unseemly—blasphemous, maybe, but you don’t stop. Because when your mind drifts now, it isn’t to holy vows or golden rings, it’s to Gwayne’s hands braced against the altar. His mouth at your throat, the sheen of those rosy lips against yours. His armor cold against your bare skin.. If he touched you here, would the gods forgive it?

Or would they watch?

He took the stairs two at a time, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Steel clanked at his side with each step, the weight of his sword more irritating than reassuring. The sept loomed ahead, lit by thin, flickering lines of candlelight leaking through its tall windows, and still he climbed—like absolution waited for him at the top.

It didn’t, and he knew that.

He was cursing himself quietly, rhythmically. Not in the way soldiers did, not brash or loud, but tight and quiet, the way his father might’ve done when politics went sour. His boots struck stone harder than they needed to and his hands itched to curl into fists.

The council had been intolerable. Old men in silk arguing over troop placements and taxation with not a single ounce of understanding for what war cost in blood, in bone. And when he’d tried to speak sense—when he’d dared to voice concern for you, for the marriage being forced upon Lady Y/N—they’d dismissed it as sentiment. “A knight ought not concern himself with maiden woes,” one of them had said, smug behind his wine cup. And there and then he’d nearly broken that goblet over the bastard’s head.

Training only made things worse, nothing worked today, not when his blade felt heavy and his thoughts felt heavier, swinging at his opponent with too much force and not enough form. The younger squires noticed—he could feel their eyes. And he let them. Let them think him unhinged, because he was. He hadn’t meant to go to the sept, not really, but he’d found himself walking that way anyway, as if his body had made the choice for him. And maybe it had. Maybe the only place quiet enough for what clawed in his chest was a place where the gods would judge him for it.

Or forgive him.

And still he climbed.

Each step felt heavier than the last, not from the weight of his armor but from the thoughts he couldn’t shake. He huffed through clenched teeth, jaw tight, every breath a curse spat under his breath—not just at the day, but at the council, the kingdom, the way they’d all spoken of you like you were a pawn to pass, and not a person to protect.

They talked down to you in that chamber, voices like knives masked as reason. Dismissed your voice. Laughed when you walked out. And when he tried to speak—tried to defend you—his words were waved away like smoke.

“The girl needs a match, not a sword at her side.” “Too soft on her, Hightower. Mind your place.”

He should’ve struck someone. Would’ve, if it wouldn’t have turned the council into chaos. And still… still it wasn't just rage in him.

It was you.

The memory of your voice still rang in his ears—low, sharp, velvet-lined with fury. The way you held your chin high even when your father shouted, the flash of your eyes when you dared him to speak, and the way your lips pressed together when he did. And worse than that…The way you’d looked days ago—laughing in the gardens, sunlight on your throat. The way your bodice shifted when you leaned too close over the council table, the curve of your spine when you turned from him. The way his hands burned just thinking of touching you there, right where silk met skin.

Gods forgive him, but he wanted you.

Not gently. Not chastely. He wanted you bent over something sacred. Wanted to ruin the pretty way you spoke his name. Wanted to rip open your perfect courtly life and give you something real. Someone real.

And fuck, he wanted it to be him.

He reached the giant wooden doors of the sept then, heart thudding like a drum in his chest. Somewhere between salvation and hell, that strange place only men with shaking hands and bad intentions find themselves. He wasn’t looking for prayer, just some sort of stillness.

He just needed a moment to forget— And when he opened the door, there you were.

Your eyes drifted shut again, following the flickering light of candles behind them, letting your thoughts scatter. You sat still, unmoving, lost between prayers and wishes that the Gods would never grant you. But something shifted.

The silence cracked.

A low creak, the groan of weight against the sept’s wooden doors and your eyes shot open. Hand braced against the wax-slicked stone, your spine straightened but you didn’t turn. No one ever came this late. Only you. The wind slipped through the stained-glass slits, curling the cold against your exposed back with a heavy breath. Then came the dull thud of the doors shutting once more, not in a hurry—slow, deliberate, almost cautious.

A shadow moved. Long limbs, squared shoulders and a cloak trailing behind like spilled ink, all you could make out, a deep shade of green. You turned your head, just barely. Enough to confirm what your heart already knew.

Gwayne.

He stopped as though struck, frozen mid-step with one boot still lingering on the stone behind. His brows drew in, squinting at you through the dark, “Gods—“ he muttered low, not even sure if he’d said it aloud or just in his mind. "I didn’t mean to—“ He swallowed the rest. And you turned fully, facing him with your body still folded low near the altar. He looked away quickly—out of courtesy or control, you couldn’t tell, maybe both.

"I didn't think anyone would be here," he added, voice rougher than usual. Tired from training, from the noise of council, from the ache in his arms and the deeper ache gnawing in his chest. He wanted to say more, but instead you offered a soft smile—mysterious, perhaps even merciful. "Neither did I."

There was a beat. A pause that wasn’t quite silence, heavy and warm and pulsing like a held breath between them.Your gaze lingered on him, how his chest rose and fell like he’d been running. His hair was messy, lips parted, the faintest shadow of a bruise along his jaw. Whatever had riled him today, it clung to him still—like dust from a battlefield.

"Would you sit with me?" you asked, voice low, a whisper carved from soft stone.

His eyes finally met yours, then dipped lower. Slowly. With reverence and something else… something darker. They trailed over your face, your mouth, your bare shoulders where your nightgown hung low, down to where your hands rested in your lap. He nodded, eyes flicking back up to your own, though his legs didn’t quite obey at first. And when he did move, it was cautious. Careful. As though getting too close might undo him completely.

He lowered himself beside you, bending at the knees as he settled on the floor, just close enough to feel. The coolness of the steel grazed your thigh and you gasped, and Gwayne pulled back slightly.

You laughed lightly, covering your bare skin with the silk, “Must you wear that all the time?” He only hung his head chuckling just enough it rumbled beside you. “It is duty my Lady, if it were choice, mayhaps not.” The smile on his face crept into a smirk, tilting his head as he looked at you, the light bouncing off of his face and his eyes narrowed. Contemplating for a moment, “Though if I can ask, what brings you here at this hour. If you would like I could escort you back to your chambers?” You rocked your head back, slumping a bit where you sat as you let out a loud sigh, shaking your head a little, “It won’t be needed, I only came here to breathe.”

“You cannot breathe in your chambers?” He remarked, a certain cheek in his tone still, seemingly already knowing your reason, the meaning behind your escape, and you knew he did. Even in passing, he’d been just as against this whole ordeal as you, perhaps even more. Your hand slung out to gently push at his chest in protest, only meaning to be playful. But when you did, he winced slightly through his chuckle, and you notice— the way he rotates his shoulder like it aches, the way his jaw flexes and eyes stay forward. He’s trying to be still. Proper. Holy.

But the air has already shifted and the light hits his chest plate just right.

“You’re bleeding.”  You murmur, catching sight of the thin line across his arm, just where the steel reveals his tunic.

“Just a scrape my Lady, nothing more.” He replies brushing it off as he runs a shaky hand through his hair, like he does with most things. Though he turns then, meeting your gaze and seeing your almost concerned expression his face softens, tightening again.

“A long day?" you ask, half knowing.

He huffs a bitter laugh, looking down at his gauntlets, “You could say that. I got paired with a fool twice my size and half my discipline, swung like an ox. Took it all out on me.” His hands twitch as he starts to undo the leather bindings of his forearm guards, rambling as he does so, contemplating of doing such a thing in front of you, let alone here of all places. And you catch the way his fingers tremble—not from pain, but something else, something you can’t quite read. 

“Here,” you offer, cutting in as you see him falter a little, kneeling slightly behind him, hands already moving to the straps at his shoulder.

He flinches under your touch, and his breath quickens—just barely—but then leans into it like a man who’s carried too much too long.

“You don’t have to-“ 

“You came here for peace did you not,” you interrupt gently. “Then let me help.”

You work in silence. Strap by strap. Piece by piece. The pauldrons come first, your fingers grazing the hot metal where it meets his skin, then the chest plate, heavy and reluctant, slipping away to reveal the thin linen beneath—damp with sweat, clinging to muscle, stained faint with bruises earned in the yard.

Your fingers linger a moment too long, tracing the lines along his chest where the shirt opens.

And he feels it.

He doesn’t dare look at you—not yet—but his breath stills all the same. Your touch ghosts over the edge of his collar, innocent only by inches but his mind twists—prayer unraveling into want. You’re too close. You’ve always been too close. And now, the scent of you is tangled with incense and smoke, your breath soft near his ear as you shift.

He swallows hard. Steel and cedar—that’s what they say he smells like. But if you asked him now, he’d say he smells like sin. Like something barely held back. You notice him watching, you’ve noticed before. In the yard. In the quiet. In the press of his hand against yours for a breath too long. You’ve imagined it—fantasised, even. The way his body moves, the strength in his hands, the tension in his jaw when he’s holding something back. The way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips when he's deep in thought. You’ve seen it all. And maybe you’ve wanted him to see you too.

Now, in the hush between words, his neck is craned at you, sitting there, more bare than before. You continue to face him, your voice quiet but unflinching.

“I know you’ve looked,” you say. “So have I.”

His breath catches, but he doesn't deny it. “I’ve felt it,” you edge onwards, “something like fire beneath my skin. I’ve prayed it away. Washed it clean. And yet…” You reach for him, let your fingers ghost over his shoulder carefully, dangerous as a curse.

“I used to wonder,” you whisper. "Wonder what?” he asks, voice low—darker now, as if part of him already knows. Your mouth is dry, but you say it anyway, beyond your pride.

“What it would be like. If you ever touched me… like I wasn’t a nobleman's burden.”

His hands twitch and his jaw clenches, yet he still doesn’t move. Gwayne’s eyes darken, raking over you with a hunger he’s tried so hard to bury under oaths and armor and obedience. But that armor between you—it’s scattered, cast aside on the floor.

“Gods,” he breathes, the word falling from his lips like a plea, not a prayer. His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—until it cradles your cheek, his thumb grazing the softness beneath your eye. You feel how hard he’s trying not to tremble, as though touching you might break the last thread of restraint he clings to.

“I’ve thought of you,” he admits, voice raw. “Here… in this very place.” He swallows, jaw clenched. “Every time I’ve tried not to.” You don’t speak or move, just breathing in tandem with him, feeling his forehead brush yours, hot and damp with want and guilt and all the weight of him. He lingers like that, caught in the torment of it, his nose brushing yours. And then—his hand slides down. Over the line of your neck, the shape of your shoulder, toward the hem of your gown, fingers hesitating as they ghost over the curve.

“Do you know what it’s like…” His voice is a whisper now, cracking under the weight of confession. “To kneel in prayer, so hard, because you smiled at me the night before?” A quiet gasp escapes you, but you don’t retreat, you only draw nearer pushing back into his touch ever so slightly.

His thumb moves to your mouth, dragging along your lips as though blessing them.“I’m not holy,” he murmurs, looking down to them. “Not with you.”

You look up at him, eyes shining in the candlelight. “Then don’t be.”

That breaks him.

With a sound caught between a curse and a groan, his hands grip your waist. The gentleness doesn’t vanish—it sharpens, becoming focused. Reverent still, but no longer afraid. He lifts you with surprising ease, hooking his hands up underneath your legs, bringing you chest to chest, setting you atop the cold stone altar. No words now, just breath, just movement. Your legs part slightly, and he steps between them, his hands bracing either side of your hips.

“Gwayne—” Your gasp cuts the quiet. But his mouth is already on your neck, desperate and warm. His hands press into your thighs, pulling you to him. He kisses you— dropping his head to the crook of your collarbone. Leaving a trail of kisses along the delicate skin there, the kind of kisses that make your back arch and your hands grip his shoulders. He grumbles something you don’t catch, something low against your skin as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing your gown slowly upward, inch by inch, as though revealing sacred ground. His lips follow downward, at your shoulder and down to your breast, meeting his hands at the round of your waist.

His prayers have turned carnal. And now—he worships you.

The neck of your nightgown falls revealing your chest as his hands work behind you, beginning to unlace the top with delicate fingers, before stopping himself, eyes flicking up to yours, parting from your skin. “Are you certain you want this?” He asks, the look in his eyes hungry but enamoured, as if, had he made the wrong move he’d lose you entirely. You nod, pulling him closer, arms wrapping around his middle as your legs push onto the backs of his own, the cold metal of his leg armour hitting your soft calves. “More than anything..” And thats all he needs, and he is tugging at the back of the silk in one swift motion, down and down until it pools at your hips. 

Gwayne stands before you, his eyes roaming over your body greedily, naked and bare in front of him, the cool air hits your skin and your cheeks flush, darting your eyes away suddenly.

 "You are beautiful," he breathes, reaching out to trail a finger along your jawline, tilting your chin just enough to meet his eyes once more. And without protest, he leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delves into your mouth, tasting you deeply. Slowly, reverently, he slides the straps of your dress down your hips and past your legs, letting it hit the floor atop his discarded chest plate. His hands trace your collarbones, thumbs brushing the tops of your breasts.

"Perfect," he rasps, cupping your breasts in his large hands. He kneads the soft flesh, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch. Leaning down, he takes one into his mouth, suckling gently and you arch into him, a moan escaping your lips.

His hands roam lower, and he groans at your moan vibrating your skin just enough, skimming over your stomach and coming to rest on your hips. He grips them firmly, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, closer to him. Your hands go up to the opening of his shirt, undoing the worn buttons with ease, your fingertips gracing over the hard muscle and he stutters, pinching your thigh. Once it falls open, you push it off his shoulders, letting it rest at his feet. His torso is on full display, trousers hanging low on his hips, and the outline of his cock pushing at the seam. The blush on your face grows darker, and hands move without a thought tracing the defined lines of his abs. He shivers under your touch, a soft growl escaping his throat.

Gwayne's fingers dip between your legs, brushing against your slick folds through your underskirt, removing it gently, the mix of silk on steel, the only things between you, now gone. You gasp, hips jerking forward. "Soaked already, sweet girl?” he croaks, running a finger along your slit. "And ready for me."

He drags his fingers lower, slow and taunting, tracing the slick heat between your thighs until he finds your clit. A teasing, featherlight circle. Once. Twice. Just enough to make your breath catch and your hips twitch, chasing him. But he pulls back just slightly, his breath trembling against your neck as he watches you unravel. "Already," he mutters like a confession, like a man on the edge of something holy and wicked all at once. "You're already aching for me, aren't you sweet girl?"

Your only answer is a whimper—soft, helpless—and he groans, the sound pulled from his throat like it hurts. Then he slides a finger into you. Slow, and deliberate. He curses under his breath at how tight you are—“Seven hells”—his voice ragged with restraint, and his jaw clenches like fighting off every thread of control. He begins to move it—gently at first, stroking that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and your head tips back, lips parted, the air thick with the sound of your breathing and the distant flicker of candles.

Your hips rock forward, seeking more, desperate, and he listens. Oh, he listens. He adds a second finger with a hiss between his teeth, and this time he curls them just right. "That's it," he murmurs, voice low and reverent, like he's praising you, and he is. "Take it, my girl. Let me hear you."

And gods, do you.

"Oh god," you moan, gripping the edge of the altar, one hand bracing his uninjured arm.  He picks up the pace, fingers plunging deep and fast, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles. Pants come from your mouth as he holds you, pleasure coiling tight in your core.

"That's it, let me hear you," Gwayne growls, fingers moving relentlessly. Your moans echo off the stone walls, mixing with the wet sounds of him finger-fucking you. It's filthy and erotic, stoking the flames of your desire higher. He keeps curling his fingers just so, stroking deep, slow, rhythmic—like he knows your body better than you do. His palm grinds against your clit in maddening little presses, never rushed, never sloppy. He's watching you like you're a vision he was never meant to touch, and yet here you are—wet and open and pulsing around his fingers.

“That's it,” he coaxes, lips brushing your jaw. “I can feel you fluttering, trying to pull me deeper. Gods, you’re everything.” You try to answer—try to say his name, beg for more, anything—but the words dissolve into moans as your stomach tightens, that electric wave building fast and hard.

His voice drops to a growl as he leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t fight it. Let go for me. Come on my fingers dearest.”

And that’s it—that’s what snaps the last thread of restraint. You cry out, body clenching around him as your climax rips through you. Your thighs tremble and your hands clutch his chest, fingernails biting into his shoulder where the armor has fallen away. Your walls pulse wildly around his fingers, drawing him in as he groans low and long, mesmerised by the sight of you undone. When your hips finally still and you collapse back against the furs, panting and trembling, he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth without breaking your gaze—sucking them clean with slow, deliberate reverence.

“Sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, voice rough and ruined, all nobility long gone. And he’s still hard, still hungry. Still watching you like he's only just begun. The only sound is your breathing—ragged and high—only his eyes roaming your body, taking in the way you shake, the flush painting your chest, the way your thighs still twitch in aftershocks.

“You’re not done with me,” you whisper, voice wrecked but daring, his gaze snaps back to yours. “No,” he rasps, eyes dark and dilated, possessive. “Not even close.” Your fingers wrap around his neck, your voice lowering to a whisper, “Then stop holding back, Gwayne.” His jaw ticks at that, and you can see him fighting it—see the knight warring with the man—but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open again, and his mouth crashes to yours, messy and hungry and real.

“I’ve waited,” he says against your lips, voice low and shaking. “Gods, I’ve waited for this. Thought of it every time you smiled at me. Every time you walked away, “ Forehead against your own, your noses knock together and his eyes flutter shut, “But I don’t think I can be gentle anymore.”

“Then don’t,” you breathe, abandoning every repercussion, just as he abandons duty, abandons his own oath. “I don’t want gentle.”

With a choked sound, he guides himself to your entrance, pressing the head of his cock against your slick heat. The stretch is slow but then he grips your waist and pushes in with one firm, fluid motion. Your mouth falls open—no words, just a sharp gasp as he fills you, all of him, deep and claiming, your head resting at his jaw as it hangs low. “Fuck—” he grits, buried to the hilt, voice barely human. “Made for me.”

And he lets go. He thrusts, deep and hard, knocking the breath from your lungs, swallowing your moan with a kiss so desperate it borders on violent. There’s no distance anymore. No restraint. Just Gwayne, skin against skin, body pounding into yours like he means to etch himself into your bones. “I’ll never let anyone else have you,” he groans, voice hot against your neck, teeth bearing and messy. “You’re mine—mine.”

“Yes,” you sob, body trembling. “Yours—please—don’t stop—” He doesn’t. He fucks you like it’s a vow, like its sacred, like he’s finally found heaven and he’s never leaving it again.

His thrusts are steady but brutal, dragging along every swollen, soaked inch of you like it’s familiar—not soft, but worshipful in the filthiest way. Every time he pushes in, it’s like he’s sinking deeper into devotion, losing himself between your legs, in your cries, in the sacred ruin of your body under him. He pants against your mouth, words breaking apart like his restraint, knees pushing against the hard stone without a care in the world. 

“This— this is what I wanted,” he grits through clenched teeth, fucking you int you, starved. “Not the throne. Not the title. Just you. Spread open and mine.” You whimper, hands clawing into his back, your body arching for more—greedy, like him. Your walls flutter tight around him, and he feels it—his hips stuttering, his rhythm briefly faltering before he slams back in with a growl, brow knit in absolute, trembling desperation.

“Don’t do that unless you want me to come,” he warns lowly, shaking, forehead pressed to yours. You cry out his name, not in warning, but in challenge. And he bites down on your shoulder as he fucks up into you harder, no finesse left now—just raw, maddened need. You can feel him unraveling—every muscle straining, every breath hitching, trying to last, trying to give you every drop of what he’s denied himself for so long. But the rhythm gets sloppy, the only thing holding it together is the way he grits, “Come with me—Y/N, love, please—I need—”

One more thrust.

One more drag against that sweet spot inside.

And you're both gone.

The sound of them echoes through the room—low, ragged cries tangled with skin meeting skin, a frantic chorus of breath and the whispers of your name. The air is thick with it, humid and golden like honey under candlelight. He doesn’t stop when he comes, he stays buried deep, shuddering, his whole body locked over yours like he’s shielding you. Not war, not fire, not gods or men—just the truth of what you've done. What you are.

His forehead rests against yours once more, slick with sweat. His breath trembles as he exhales a broken sound, not a moan, not a word. Just a huff. Some soft, splintered echo of a man who’s tried to be noble for too long and failed, at last, beautifully. You’re trembling too, not just from aftershock, but from the sheer gravity of it. Your cunt clenches around him, feeling every twitch of him as you rest against his chest, his arm hooked around your back keeping you up. The weight of his body leans against you, the stubble burning you collarbone where his mouth pressed, the damp linen crushed under you hips. It all feels lived in. Not like a tryst. Not like a mistake.

Like home you weren’t supposed to find, but did anyway.

“I should stop,” he whispers. Not moving, not pulling out. Still sheathed so deep in you his voice cracks. “I should let you go. I should’ve walked away before I—before I took you like this.” But he still doesn’t move, his arms only tighten, and his mouth finds the side of your throat, fervently. “You should’ve,” you breathe, fingers in his hair, anchoring him. “But you didn’t, and I didn’t want you to.”

And that’s the truth of it, that continues to undo him because he knows it’s true.

He moves again. Not sharply—not chasing a second high. Just slow rolls of his hips, like he’s trying to feel everything.Like he can’t bear the thought of leaving your body yet. His lips drag across your jaw. “I love you,” he says, so low you almost don’t catch it. “Fuck, I love you, Y/N.” And you break. Not just from his words, but from the way he says them, like it’s the only honest thing he's said in years. Your hands clutch his back, pressing your mouth against his temple, and maybe you gasp something back that might’ve been “I love you too,” or maybe it was just his name.

Either way, it’s all Gwayne needs, because here? Here, he has you.

He begins to move with more purpose now, delicately through the shocks, but fierce. Like relearning your body after all these years of watching, waiting, aching.

“Look at me,” he groans, pulling back just enough to see your face. “I want to see it—I want to see you when you fall apart.” Your eyes are locked, pupils blown, and neither you look away, dragging every thrust into your g-spot so much it burns, the coil in your stomach reaching it’s edge. His hands smooth over your thighs dragging them around his waist, and he groans into your mouth. The tension in you coils like a bowstring, drawn so taut it quivers. He grinds deeper, harder, and your spine arches off the altar.

“Gwayne—”

“I’ve got you,” he growls, cupping the back of your neck, lips brushing yours as he thrusts again. “Come on, sweet girl. Take it. Take all of me.” And you do—with a cry that tears from your throat, broken and raw, your climax washing through you like a tidal wave as your nails rake his back. Your walls flutter and clench around him, pulsing, demanding. He chokes on a sound, lost in the tight heat of you, buried so deep he forgets how to breathe. “Fucking… gods—” he gasps, stammering into his release, shuddering hard as he spills inside you, rutting through it like he’s worshipping at the altar of your body, not the one beneath you.

For a long moment, neither of you move—just the sound of your mingled breath, the faint echo of moans still trapped in the stones above, like a secret the gods were never meant to hear. His weight is still on you, heavy and perfect, chest heaving against yours. Gwayne’s brow rests to your temple, his lips brushing just beneath your ear like a benediction.

“…Are you alright?” he murmurs, barely audible.

Your fingers twitch, still curled against his damp back and you nod, a soft noise escaping—more breath than word. “Yes. Yes, I just—” You give a breathless laugh, dazed. “I think you broke me.” His head lifts to look at you properly, eyes glowing like a knight kissed by sin, and reverence, and something close to forever. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life putting you back together.”

Your throat tightens and his words settle in your chest like something eternal, something vowed. You cradle his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing his cheek.

“I love you, Gwayne,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to, not like this—not all at once, not this much. But it’s already too late.” His mouth finds yours in a kiss that doesn’t try to start anything—it only holds. It's soaked in devotion.

“I loved you the moment I saw you dancing at court,” he says, voice thick. “And I hated it. Hated that you looked like sunlight and moved like a promise. I knew I’d never get free of you.”

You smile and your eyes glow with softened heat “Good.”

He laughs under his breath, nudging his nose along your jaw. “You ruin me.”

You hum. “And you ruin me right back.”

His arms gather you close, both of you still half-dressed, your body a mess beneath him, filled and flushed and fragile. But it’s quiet now. Still. Sacred.

Outside, the stained glass throws wild colors over the pews. Inside, the altar has been christened by bodies that know nothing of restraint when it comes to each other.

And for a little while longer, you just lay there. Breathing together. Holding each other like salvation, leaving one thing on your breath.

“The gods will never forgive us.” “Then let them watch.”

Your actual tweet really isn't even that scathing, in your opinion:

“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”

You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”

By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.

The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:

@RepBarnes:

Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?

You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.

Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.

Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.

You reread it. 

Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.

You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:

NINA

DUDE DUDE HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???

You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.

You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.

This time it’s not public.

@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.

If you’re interested, I could use someone like you. NY/DC split. Health benefits included. Let me know.

You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.

You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.

You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:

are u joking?

His reply comes five minutes later.

No. You’re good. And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.

You stare at your screen.

You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”

But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.

And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?

You exhale. Then type,

i'll clear my schedule. when and where?

A beat.

Meet me in D.C. I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.

You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.

You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.

.

Once upon a time, you had hopes.

Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.

Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.

You had dreams. Now you have bills.

Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay. 

And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:

bucky barnes political platform site:gov

Then:

bucky barnes cat

And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:

bucky barnes shirtless

For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.

(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)

It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”

You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.

You click out of the tab. Open another. 

Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse. 

You hate how much you want to fix it.

Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:

Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.

You stare at it.

It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”

You breathe out a laugh.

You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush. 

Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.

You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.

Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.

In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:

She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.

Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.

.

You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.

Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.

You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.

By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.

The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something. 

You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.

Five minutes later, he walks in.

And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.

James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.

God. This is so unfair.

His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.

He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.

“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.

“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.

“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”

He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.

“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”

A pause.

“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”

He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.

Then he says testingly, like he’s still feeling out the words in between his teeth: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”

And you blink. “You thought I didn’t?”

He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”

You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”

His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”

You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”

And just like that—you’re in it.

You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)

But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”

You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”

“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”

He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”

You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”

You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”

You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”

“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”

You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”

He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.

You put your coffee down. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”

He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”

It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway. 

That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.

Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps. 

But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.

And you hate how that pulls at you.

You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access—messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”

He nods. “Understood.”

“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”

“I was hoping you would.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”

A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”

“Of course you did.”

A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”

It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.

You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”

He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”

“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”

There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.

You’re in. Actually.

God help you.

.

Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.

Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.

You’re not. But it’s touch and go.

Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:

REP. JAMES BARNES

New York’s 9th District

Inside, it’s… chaos.

Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.

Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.

“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.

“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.

He gives you the tour, if you can call it that. 

There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.

You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.

“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.

“Yes,” he replies.

The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield. 

You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.

By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.

Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.

The next week is only slightly less chaotic.

Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.

When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.

“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”

“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.

You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.

“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.

“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

You almost smile.

The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.

Then he starts to speak.

And damn.

Okay.

You hadn’t expected this.

It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.

But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.

And it’s good.

It’s honest.

He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.

You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.

You feel it, too.

By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”

When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales fully, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.

You hand him a bottle of water.

He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”

You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”

“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”

He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”

“But you like the mission.”

He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.

“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”

You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.

You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”

He tilts his head. “You buying?”

“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”

“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”

You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.

“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”

“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”

He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”

You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”

He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before. 

You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”

He waits.

You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”

There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.

When he does speak, his voice is low, ragged at the edges. “You were honest.”

You blink. “About what?”

“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”

You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”

A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”

Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”

His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”

“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.

His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”

It lands heavier than expected.

You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”

He huffs. “That helped.”

You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.

“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.

It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”

He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”

“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”

And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.

.

Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.

Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.

The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right. They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.

You write back:

it’s missing caps and grammar and polish …it’s also perfect. i hate you a little

He replies ten minutes later:

Good. Keep hating me. Makes your edits stronger.

You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there. 

In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.

One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.

You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”

“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.

You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.

“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”

You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.

.

Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.

He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”

“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”

You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.

He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”

You freeze. “And now?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”

Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.

The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.

He always says it like it matters.

One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.

You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”

You pretend not to hear her.

One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.

“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”

You laugh. He looks over, soft.

And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”

You blink. “You mean… as staff?”

He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.

He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.

Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.

Which is how it builds.

Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.

Not really.

.

It’s a Tuesday night.

Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”

The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.

Your phone buzzes.

BUCKY

Are you awake

No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.

You call him.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.

“You okay?” you ask, softly.

A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”

You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Not really.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”

You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”

Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”

He exhales.

“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”

You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.

“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”

A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”

“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”

It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

There’s a beat.

Then he says, “You want to come over?”

Your heart stumbles. “Now?”

“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.

“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”

.

Which is—not fair.

He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.

“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low.

He steps back. You step in.

You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.

Neither of you says much at first.

You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.

“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”

“And now?”

He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.

“I trust you."

The silence sharpens.

You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.

He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.

You say his name. Soft.

“Bucky.”

He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

And then—

He stops.

You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

Close enough to break.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.

You nod. You understand.

.

You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.

Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.

You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.

It hasn’t.

So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.

You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.

No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.

You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.

You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”

“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.

Your fingers still on the steering wheel.

“I—what?”

They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”

You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.

The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.

You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.

And there it is.

Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?

It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?

There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:

“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”

The rest of the article is worse.

It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.

The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.

You call him. He doesn’t answer.

You call again. Still nothing.

So you go to his apartment.

Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.

He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.

The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch. 

“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”

“It’s bad.”

He nods.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”

“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”

He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.

“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. “Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”

His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.

“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”

You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.

“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”

“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.

You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.

But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.

So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.

“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”

His brow furrows.

“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”

You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.

His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."

You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.

Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.

Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.

“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.

“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”

That last part is barely above a whisper.

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.

“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”

That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.

“You always come when I need you,” he says.

It’s a simple sentence.

But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.

You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.

You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.

“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”

“What’s your favorite?”

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly: “You.”

You blink.

“You,” he says, a dangerous edge to his voice, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”

Your throat goes tight.

He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.

“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.

You can’t stop looking.

“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.

“Wouldn’t get attached.”

The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.

He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.

“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”

“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.

“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”

You’re already turning. Reaching for him.

His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.

And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t want him to.

So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.

His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.

When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.

“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”

He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.

You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.

The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.

Then restraint snaps.

​​He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.

You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.

Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.

His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.

The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:

“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.

“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”

You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.

Somehow, you make it upstairs.

It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”

By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.

And Bucky?

He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.

You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.

“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.

You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”

He freezes. “Processing what?”

“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”

His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”

“What? You set yourself up for that.”

He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”

You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”

“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”

That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.

Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time. 

"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."

He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.

The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.

"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."

You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."

"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers.  "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"

He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"

"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"

You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—

Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.

And who were you to resist?

For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."

Those four words cause something in you to snap.

His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation. 

It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"

A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.

When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.

"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"

"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."

Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."

There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.

His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."

Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, so you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.

"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."

And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.

"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."

"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"

It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.

And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."

You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.

.

You go viral again.

Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.

The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.

The caption?

sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.

You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:

call me when you’re up

You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.

“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”

You blink. “The—job?”

“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”

You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”

“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”

“Mom.”

In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”

The line goes dead.

You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”

You shoot him a look. He grins.

Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”

Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.

But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.

Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.

It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.

“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”

He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”

“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”

“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”

You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.

You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”

You grin into your mug.

God help you, you’re in so deep.

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it aimlessly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod in reluctant agreement, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, chest pounding and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft stubble between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost worshipful. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his head, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t cautious enough. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, apprehensive and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're the person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod, never been more sure of anything in your life. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Need you to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw mindless, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.