kiley

The lake house looked like it had always looked—warm… and sticky vibes. The hot air from spring got you grumpy, and the fact that Natasha had spent all the trip talking about Sam and how great they were going to do there made you only feel pathetic. Bucky would probably bring someone new or someone for the week, and you would spend your days with Wanda and Steve.

The wooden lake house was Steve’s parents’, and basically, the friends group had taken advantage of it since you all got your driving license and were able to drive on your own—and more importantly—without parental supervision. But it was always the same since Sam and Nat got together; now the weeks there were more like a couple thing for them, and the rest of you were awkwardly around them.

Then, Bucky and Steve started bringing casual flings, and Wanda and you spent a girl’s weekend basically watching amateur porn being made in front of your eyes.

Natasha was finishing unloading the backseat of the truck while you were starting to unload the trunk when you felt his hand on your shoulder.

“What are you doing, worrying those pretty hands?” Bucky spoke behind you as he took your duffel bag from your hands. “Go inside; I’ll take care of this.”

He kissed your cheek and made you and Natasha walk into the house.

“So… this is finally the weekend?” Natasha hugged you by the shoulder.

“Yes, of course. I’ll tell him after the first quickie with whoever he brought, and he hasn’t promised anything weird to her.” You rolled your eyes.

Natasha scoffed a laugh. “He didn’t bring anyone this time.”

“Of course he didn’t bring anyone, Nat.”

Steve was stocking the fridge with alcohol, with Sam and Wanda helping around—but then, you didn’t see anyone strange around. Not a blonde girl giggling in the kitchen bar, not a redhead wandering around to see the house, not a brunnette sitting on the couch as if she were too superior to do any help.

“No special guests today?” Natasha asked, peeping at you.

“I wanted a free romantic tension weekend for me.” Bucky chimed in with all your bags on his arms.

“What a surprise.”

“But there’s a special guest today…” Pietro, Wanda’s twin, walked from the hallway that led to the rooms.

He had been abroad for years and barely visited the country since his school exchange program had taken all of him. You and Natasha screamed and ran to hug him. You two were just rambling over the other as Pietro hugged you by your waist.

“Why didn’t you tell us?!” You looked at Wanda.

“Kind of a surprise?”

You were still giggling on Pietro’s arms when Bucky nudged you on his way to the rooms—you shrugged it off as accidental. Steve followed him with the rest of your things and sat in the room you had always shared with Wanda, but Bucky noticed Wanda’s stuff wasn’t in the room.

“Where’s Wanda?”

“Oh… She’s staying with me… Pietro asked if he could stay with her for the night…” Steve scratched the back of his neck. He knew Bucky was going to get pissed.

“And couldn’t you tell him to fuck off? This is your fuckin’ house…”

“What was I supposed to say? Sorry, you can’t stay with her because Bucky will rip your balls off?”

“Basically…”

“Bucky… she had seen you for years to parade girls all over this same house; she had probably heard multiple girls moaning your name over here… and you are mad because one time a guy is asking to sleep next to her?”

“He hasn’t even been here for years!”

“Exactly, and they were close… even closer than you two… before he left. He was obviously going to ask to sleep next to her. This is not even something sexual…and even if it was… there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed.

“Well, you’ve got one thing to do if you wanna keep him away.” Bucky looked up at Steve, “Fuckin’ confess.”

Later that night, you were sitting next to Pietro. You had missed him like crazy—he left just after you had realized your feelings towards Bucky, and even in the distance he kept trying to make you tell him how you felt. His hand caressed your back while you had your legs over his lap, and your head resting on your knees.

“So, nothing yet?” He asked, rubbing your back. You shook your head.

“He’s been all over the place with every girl he finds—I’m not gonna come straight up when a girl is still latched to his neck…”

“You know he was super mad earlier, right? He had been giving me the cold shoulder since he learned we’re sharing a room.”

You chuckled. “What if I do it and it turns out that I have read this whole thing completely wrong?”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Look. Do I like him for you? No. Not at all. I can’t believe after all these years you’re still into him, but I know when he likes someone… and he really likes you; he’s just an idiot who hasn’t realized it, yet.”

“Or hasn’t accepted,” Natasha added, sitting in front of you.

“You too?” You tilted your head.

“The only two people who haven’t accepted that you two are in love are… you two…”

You looked over your shoulder just to notice Steve and Bucky bringing some coolers. The show was about to start, and it was the first time you could even wrap your mind around the idea of drinking.

You knew well if this ended badly, the whole group would collapse. It was enough having Steve and Natasha dating to add more to the equation.

You really tried to enjoy yourself, to make yourself treat him as you always did, but every time his hands grazed your skin, it made you feel somehow weaker. Every time he brought you that specific drink you had mentioned weeks earlier, and he remembered you loved, every small detail made you think this could go some way if you were more like the girls he had been screwing the last years.

The night ended with most of your friends passed out drunk as you just sat at the edge of the dock looking at the moon reflecting in the lake. Your head rested on your knees; the air cold from the forest made you squirm from time to time, and you had refused to go inside and put on a sweater after you heard Bucky talking on the phone with someone.

You were about to surrender and just go inside when you saw him walking outside. He was just hanging up the call when he saw you. You heard his footsteps getting closer in the mud and then his pace on the wooden floor; you only hugged your legs a little bit tighter.

“What’ya doing?” He stood next to you.

“Just contemplating the moon. It’s been a minute since we were here, and I realized I missed the sight,” you didn’t look at him.

“Do you remember the first times we came here?” He knelt and took one rock and threw it at the lake.

“We were like fifteen? Joseph and Sarah had to deal hard with all of us wanting to be all over the place.”

He chuckled. Steve’s parents had always been supportive of the friends group and had done more than any other parent to make you all close.

“I remember Joseph rushing from the house through here to save Pietro from drowning.”

Trying not to make a lot of noise, you snorted a laugh. “It was before he started to grow like a weed.”

“You seemed happy earlier to see him.” A hint of jealousy could be heard in his words.

“Of course I was… I missed him so much. He was my best friend even before I met the rest of the group.”

He hummed in response, and you really wanted to take one of the rocks and throw it at his head. How was it possible that he could sense all that but could not notice how much you liked him? He looked at you again, the way you hugged your arms as you tried to bring some warmth to your body.

“Hey,” he tried to bring your attention to him, “What about one midnight swim?”

“Bucky, we’re gonna freeze the fuck out of our bodies.”

“Yeah… That’s kinda the point.” He took off his jersey and, without thinking it through, dove. As soon as he came out of the water, you saw his damp hair falling over his forehead.

This had always been your favorite moment. When he called for a midnight swim with the group and everyone followed him, you used to love seeing him try to swim as he fought not to die from the cold water.

Without thinking about it much, you just dived in too. He caught you in the water and hugged you to his body. Your teeth were clicking from the cold, and his naked chest was paradise, grazing through the thin blouse you were wearing.

“It’s freezing, you’re freezing.” He mumbled in your ear, “We shouldn’t be here.”

“You jumped in first.” You looked up at him.

“Well, you didn’t have to follow me.” He scoffed, and between the cold water making you not think straight and the way he looked at you—something finally snapped.

You pulled him closer by the neck and kissed him slowly, closing your eyes—letting him decide what the next step he was going to take.

And, much to your surprise. He kissed you back.

His lips desperately devouring yours, his hands gripping your waist, roaming through your thighs to make you straddle him as he let the heat of the moment engulf him. Your hands stroked his hair while you tried to make the kiss last longer. And when he finally pulled away just to look at you, the only thing he could notice was the way the moonlight covered your face fully. Making you look like the most beautiful masterpiece he had ever seen.

“If I say something stupid, blame the cold water…” He mumbled before kissing you again.

“We can blame the cold water for everything.” You said between kisses, and he nodded eagerly.

In a matter of seconds, you both were already running carefully, wetting the floor of the house, to reach his bedroom. As soon as you reached his bedroom, he closed the door and held you against the door to start kissing you again.

“Bucky… We shouldn’t… We really shouldn’t be doing this…” Your breath came erratically; a soft moan left your lips between every word.

“We’re not doing anything wrong…” He said, before starting to kiss your neck, his lips finding the most sensitive spot your neck could have. Your head tilted back.

“Then why does it feel like we are?” You keened.

“‘Cause you keep letting your most rational side decide what’s correct and what’s not…”

He started to kiss down while he knelt in front of you. He looked up, and for the first time, all those embarrassingly wet dreams you had had through the years were coming to reality. Carefully, he pulled down your shorts and started to kiss your inner thighs. And, at that point, you weren’t even questioning what was going on. You just knew you loved the way he was taking his sweet time kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

Your mind was racing through all his touching, not completely focused on anything—this until his wet and warm tongue found your slit; he was lifting your leg to rest it on his shoulder while he dived on your core. His hands gripped your waist as you pulled him closer by the hair.

Before you could come to your senses, you were already pinned down on his mattress while he circled your clit and lined to your core.

“Are you sure you want it, sweetheart?” You weren’t thinking straight. You could only nod and pull him with your legs.

He finally bucked his hips and slammed his cock inside you, splitting you open. He noticed you were about to moan and placed his hand in your mouth, “We need to be quiet, baby… We don’t need them to know what we’re doing…”

You cried out in his palm and nodded.

“Fuck… you feel so tight… When was the last time…?” Your eyes widened, and he chuckled. “Too private? C’mon... I’m balls deep in you, and you can’t tell me that?”

“You’re enjoying yourself too much…” You were able to speak when he moved his hand from your mouth.

“Just enjoying what I got in front of me…”

He leaned over you, both his arms on your sides, still rolling his hips to get you to your highest; you were sure you had never felt like this before, and you were sure he knew that.

Clenching around his cock, you finally came, an aching feeling pooling on your lower stomach, fingers digging on his side, and then he pulled out, and warm ropes fell in your pelvis. His cock was still throbbing while he pumped himself to let all out.

When he finally fell over you, both of you started cracking a laugh.

“What did we just do?” You looked at him.

“I think… we just fucked…”

“No shit, Sherlock…” You said, cynically. “Blowing off some steam?”

You didn’t notice, but a hint of disappointment appeared in his eyes.

“Yeah… Blew some steam…”

He knew he should have said something, but then he couldn’t really understand what had just happened—and how he could call it.

You took a quick shower and went back to your room—there, Pietro faked to be asleep, but he noticed you had just arrived and all your clothes were damp… He was then curious to know if tomorrow Bucky would have some clothes drying on the porch rail.

And, unsurprisingly. There it was. Some of Bucky’s clothes drying and a clear… very clear hickey on your neck that you had done everything you could to hide with some makeup.

You tried to avoid Bucky—even when he was trying his best to catch your attention. And he had just been able to do it when everyone was already asleep—you were sitting on a rocking chair on the porch, a beer in your hands and a cigarette in the other.

“You look different out here…” He mumbled from the threshold of the house.

“Huh?”

“You look different… or at least for me…”

“Shut up, Bucky…”

“Shut me up…” He teased, and your cheeks heated.

By the third night out of five, Pietro had kept his mouth shut, even when he noticed you only arrived before dawn and slept there enough that anyone would notice you were sneaking out from Bucky’s bedroom.

This night was no different. You were already riding him as if your life depended on it.

“Fuck… Fuck… Bucky… We shouldn’t…” You moaned.

Your knees side by side, your hands steadying you on his chest—his arms were behind his head, as he looked at you bouncing on him with all the eagerness you have been holding for years.

“You look so good like this.” He husked, and you bit your lip.

You had heard him so many times talking like this to so many girls that listening to it for the first time directed to you felt like a teenage dream—you felt pathetic for the first time.

“Fuck… You have no idea how much I have waited for this…” He muffled a moan and leaned to pull you down into his chest, now pounding from below.

“What?” You tried to speak, but it came more like a cry out.

“You have no idea how much I love you…” He groaned on your ear. “I’ve been wanting this for so long…”

“But… we’re friends…” You mumbled, and he husked a laugh. “Why are you laughing?”

You felt his pace growing faster, your hands now hooked on his neck to help you stay put.

“Say it—” You furrowed, “Say we’re just friends after this...”

“Bucky…” You mewled, and he kissed your temple. “I can still taste your precious juices, and you keep calling us friends… I’ve been fucking you three nights in a row… I just told you I love you… and you keep calling us friends…”

“But what if they know?” You made him stop.

“Huh? Who? Them? Or Pietro?” He teased.

“Stop it with that… He’s nothing more than a friend for me…”

“Well, I’m supposed to be a friend too, Aren’t I?”

You rolled your eyes.

“I mean everyone… Aren’t we going to ruin the group if something happens?”

“Then let’s do it great…” He murmured in your ear and pulled out, making you whine. “I’m being serious…”

He leaned and made you sit on his lap.

“I really wanna do this… And I hate that I’m confessing now… Naked… after three nights of whatever that was… But I’ve been dying to tell you that I love you…” Bucky was stroking your hair while he spoke.

“I love you too, Bucky…”

“Then why is Pietro sleeping with you?”

You snorted a laugh… "Because he wanted you to snap… and look… he hasn’t lost his touch…”

“He wanted what…?” He tilted his head.

“He was sure you loved me and wanted to prove a point.”

“Asshole…”

“But it worked…”

You were always under threat. Your family was constantly on watch—they were kind of merciful. They let you talk to them weekly. You had lied to them, telling them you were on a very secret project that needed all your attention and was out of the States. Not a complete lie if you overthought it. They didn’t really do it out of the heart; they did it because they needed a low-profile situation, and having someone of your profile being missing was not a low-profile thing. They knew your parents got the resources to start a search for you, and they weren’t risking anything.

You hated every part of it. From the mystery behind, the not-even dubious but illegal and unethical things you were part of—the inhuman things you did to people who just wanted to serve their country, and now were used as lab rats.

The Winter Soldier Project was not new. It had been active since World War II—elite people choose carefully. Every one of them was studied, where found and picked. From the first in their clutches to the last recluded. If you could have called recluded to the kidnapping reclusive. They were enhanced with a Super Soldier Zerum that Dr. Arnim Zola replicated, thanks to Johann Schmidt. You learned all about it through conversations people around you held, not because you really wanted to know about it.

People around you always talked about the Prisoner #56898, HYDRA’s fist—their best soldier for decades. The man who was held in a cryostasis.

You knew how it worked. You had helped improve the cryogenic stasis that preserved the bodies of all the subjects involved in the project. But you never really knew him until he was activated again. You were handed his folder and read what you needed to know about him to understand what you were handling.

“James Buchanan Barnes. Prisoner #56898.”

“State: Active.”

He was not seen as a person anymore. None of the soldiers cryoginized were seen as such—but as weapons, assets, not more than living weapons.

You were in charge of “patching” them up. If you could even call it that. You just cleaned up their wounds or bloodstains and sent them back to be preserved.

You analyzed their metrics, saved up on an inner system their body counts, what mission they went through, and how to enhance them for the next mission, and reviewed the way their bodies reacted to different injuries and levels of pain.

You hated it even more.

You hated to stare at people who were clearly suffering, and you just had to analyze how their heart rate raced or how long it took for their bodies to heal from an almost fatal cut, a bullet gone through. And it was worse when Alexander Pierce—a man who you knew for being a very respectable politician—started to be more active. They started to use more The Project Winter Soldier—and with it, they brought back James Buchanan Barnes—The Winter Soldier.

“You need to review his stats. He’s been inactive for a long time, and the last mission was almost lethal.” You walked behind Karpov and Pierce, just nodding and typing on the device you got to keep a record of all your assets, as they called them.

“James Buchanan Barnes. Chronological age, 30. Perfect shape and state. Dr. Zemo’s enhancing. Healing with a time rate of twenty-four to forty-eight hours if not deep enough.” You started reciting the information the device threw at you.

“Great. You gotta record now how much pain the asset handles before breaking down—he hasn’t been wiped out, he might be relentless and erratic, you would be checked up on from afar.”

You knew they were lying. You saw other scientists being told the same, and they were torn apart in a split second before anyone could notice—and you always kept in mind that the probability of you dying because of one of the assets was bigger than being killed by these men in front of you.

You were in a makeshift office—more like a cell—typing on a computer while they talked about the most important mission he would face. He was assigned to kill every kind of person Pierce saw as an enemy, and the only man able to do that was James Buchanan Barnes.

He had just killed a congressman who was stuck up his nose a bit more than what they liked, and he was so well secured that the asset got injured almost fatally. He was tied on a stretcher with a bulky machine surrounding him.

When you were finally in front of him. Your heart clattered in your chest. He had his face completely swollen—but he looked young, maybe in his thirties, when he was first held captive. You learned he was born in 1917, and he was captured during World War II. He was the first man ever enhanced with the first Super Soldier serum that Zola had recreated back in time. He had been active and preserved since then—brainwashed, mind wiped every mission, or every time he got cryoginized.

He was grunting in pain, squirming, restrained under the belts around his body. You took your voice recorder and pressed the button.

“Asset Number five, six, eight, nine, eight.” You were about to say his name—you knew it was useless. You checked the computer connected to the machine. “Asset presents high pain resistance. No pain-killers, no medicine, nor vials in its system.”

You were hiding your teary eyes. His grunting was louder than your thoughts—you could see his cuts bleeding, and his swollen face. He growled like an animal—the belts around him barely restrained his movements, but were enough not to set him free. He never even asked for help. He had probably learned it did nothing.

You spent the next thirty minutes recording on your devices—typing, speaking, analyzing him. And, finally—and sadly—he finally broke down. He shut down, and his head tilted forward. Sweat and blood mixed, running down his face, droplets falling to the floor.

You had seen that kind of reaction before; his voice had surrendered from the pain.

A speaker was turned on, “Good job, doctor. Now, patch it up and send it to the cell.”

“No cryo?” You asked out loud.

“Not yet.” The connection was turned off.

You knew the protocol. They were gone by the moment you saved up your updates. The last person there had already left, and now it was your turn to clean him up. You walked slowly.

“Mr. Barnes, I’m gonna clean you up.”

You barely knew their names, but when you did, you tried to use them. It was useless—they were wiped out almost immediately, so telling them their names didn’t serve any purpose.

He didn’t respond.

You found the cleaning kit and started to clean up his face—even in the swollen state, his beautiful features could be appreciated. The rag came with a crimson, clear liquid. He finally snapped awake and stared at you. Blue bloody eyes locked on you.

“Mr. Barnes, I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just gonna clean you up and send you to your cell.”

Still no response.

After some minutes, you finished your task. He was all cleaned up and ready. “Ready.” You shout.

No answer on the intercom.

They really thought you weren’t going to survive this. They weren’t even there waiting to see it.

You walked to the second floor, where you knew it would be more likely to find a guard.

The asset was already passed out. There was no threat to be careful of.

You knocked on the door for almost five minutes when hurried steps could be heard on the other side of the door.

Rumlow opened the door.

“What a surprise,” Pierce said, smiling with a hint of pride. “Go to your cell, doctor. You did well.”

You nodded and walked away from their sight. After almost five years there, you had some sort of privileges and were able to walk without a watchman by your side.

They didn’t tell you, but after that, you were designated as his personal handler—and that made it worse for you. You couldn’t handle his groanings, the way he didn’t even talk to you when you tried to comfort him. Like he didn’t know what it meant.

Because, for what you had learned at that point, he didn’t know what it was to be comforted. You learned that he was a sergeant back in time, one who excelled at everything—and that’s why they chose him. It was not deliberate. He was a target from the beginning.

And, because of that—he was now basically a hundred-year-old weapon disguised as a human. By the third time you were taken to him to patch him up, your bosses started to become reckless—letting you alone with him, not paying attention to what you did or how you cleaned him up. Why would they need to do that? You had been nothing but complaining to them.

The first time you did something against the rules was small.

You took some painkillers from the infirmary and snuck them into the chamber where they kept him.

You knew you could get killed, and he could be reprimented even worse.

You were patching him up, blocking the view from the window where you knew they should be. They weren’t there, and you knew it. They were never there. But you still wanted to be careful.

“Open up, sergeant.” You mumbled and made him open his mouth. He complied and swallowed what you put in his mouth. “It’s a very strong painkiller. It’s gonna help you.”

He grunted. You took it as a thank you.

After that, it became a habit for you to bring pills or whatever thing you could to ease his pain. You couldn’t do any more without raising suspicion.

You had a routine—arriving at the chamber, preparing what you needed, starting recording, and when you were about to clean him up, you put the pills on his mouth.

But you noticed something.

He was starting to groan and grunt less. Every session, it seemed like it was less painful for him, but that put him into more distress. The more resistant, the more danger he was put into.

In the last session, you noticed he was even more hurt—his cuts and bruises were deeper and getting worse. So you did the math—if your records showed he was resisting more, he would be taken into worst scenarios.

He was being used back-to-back. No resting between missions, no wipeouts, no preps. Just healing him as much as you could and easing his pain.

So, in the last session, you risked it all. You finished your recording and analysis and started your routine. You had brought a vial from the infirmary—this was the strongest thing you knew of. And those injuries were in great need of care.

“Sergeant,” you mumbled, leaning closer. You took out the vial from the waistband of your sweatpants, which you were forced to use, “This is gonna hurt as hell. You gotta pay attention. Blink twice if you understand.”

He blinked twice slowly.

“Thank you.” You put the vial out and looked at him, “If this hurts, please make all the noise you need. Don’t silence it. Please. It’s gonna help as soon as the burning feeling fades away.”

You knew he hated vials and syringes; you had seen how he reacted when someone approached him with one of them. How violent he became as soon as they pinched his skin.

You injected it into his arm as fast as you could, and as soon as you noticed the liquid traveling and burning his veins, he let a groan out and tried to fight back the pain.

“They're putting you in more pain because my metrics showed that you're getting stronger and that you can handle more pain. So I need you to stop doing whatever it is you're doing so you don't show pain on the machine.”

“Ty. Ty—to, chto pomogayet mne.” "You. You are what helps me."

It was the first time he ever spoke back to you. It had been months of you talking, mumbling, ordering, explaining—and he had never spoken back to you. You were taken aback but really tried not to scare him.

“I wish I spoke Russian, sergeant. I’m not that intelligent.” You tried to joke, a twitching smile left your lips unconsciously, but you didn’t see any kind of reaction from him.

But before you could say something, he started to grunt again—the machine behind you was beeping loudly. You didn’t want to, but you smiled.

The man behind all that brainwashing was still fighting.

You stepped back and started recording the spike on his metrics.

That helped for the next missions—he was put in less dangerous missions—not because they cared about him, but because they needed to keep him in his best shape. But, despite him being less in danger, something in the air made you know something was coming. Everyone was being more reckless than you were used to.

After that last time, you refused to refer to him as Asset. You hated it. At least for you, and to keep some sort of humanity on him, mentally, you started to call him James. It was best for your heartache—even when you worked for them, you were not like them. They were not weapons for you, and you wanted to make that difference at least in your heart.

James was sent to more missions than you could keep track of—they didn’t even ask you to keep track of them anymore.

You were waiting for your monthly meeting with Karpov and Pierce when you noticed the door of his office was open. You leaned to eavesdrop.

“… That’s gonna be its last mission—He’s gonna eliminate Fury, then we’re putting it in cryo, and after that we’re gonna forget about it. We don’t need that liability after killing Fury.”

“He’s getting weaker—the last metrics had shown his pain resistance is less and less with each passing mission.”

Your blood ran cold through your veins. Sometimes you would forget they don’t see him—them as humans, they were just that… assets. No more.

You stood still again on your chair as you waited for any of them to come for you. You knew even if you were breaking inside, they couldn’t know you were helping their best asset, their best fits—they couldn’t know you saw him as a human being after all.

The meeting was as common as the hundreds you’d had over time, but for the first time, you noticed they seemed erratic—they were even anxious about something happening. But between the Insight Project and the many missions James had been through, you could understand they could be relentless.

You were in your lab, and there were no new projects to work on, which was not completely out of the routine. From time to time, they needed to test the multiple projects you had worked on, and they needed time before approving them or sending them back.

Rollins stepped in, “Asset needs a clear-up. It’s going on a mission.”

“What happened?”

“He’s erratic. Pierce needs a clear-out before continuing.”

He stood still on the threshold of the lab. You knew what it meant. They had never asked you to do a clear-up before a mission—this could only mean one thing. You were not prepared. This could be the last time you could ever see him, and it made a pain grow in your chest, and it also meant you were not going to be as alone as you were used to when you worked with him.

You walked through the cold hallways of the building, and you arrived at the chamber—he was restrained on his usual stretcher; for the first time, you saw him completely connected to the machine. He was about to be wiped out, and they wanted to be sure it was not going to have any repercussions.

He looked down—he had been so long without his brain being washed out that he started to develop a hint of humanity, but even there, he knew it would be a death sentence to try to engage with you in this situation—if you could even call engaging the russian answer he gave you some weeks ago, and the nods or shakes of his head.

You were in front of him with your device—typing on, checking spikes, heart rate changes, lab test results, everything you were hired to check up on him.

“I’m so sorry.” You mumbled, it was almost inaudible, and he twitched a finger in response. You leaned closer to review some wire connections behind the machine, and with that move, he was able to touch your leg with his finger. It was fast, barely a move, but it made you almost break down.

“Hang tight, Sergeant Barnes.” You mumbled before coming back into your initial position, “Inspection completed. Asset in perfect condition and ready to comply.”

“You can leave the chamber, doctor.” You nodded and gave him a last look.

His gaze was fixed to the front, but he gave you a fast flicker in his eyes that was almost like a silent farewell.

You were putting the papers away with his new records when the rest of the team of scientists and lab techs walked in. Pierce was in front of them.

You were hurried to leave when you heard the last part of the conversation.

“But I knew him…” He mumbled for the first time in English—and your heart clattered once again in your chest. That broken voice shattered your heart into pieces.

“Prep ‘em.”

It was the only thing you heard before you walked out. Then, the machine being turned on, and his growls of pain. You wanted to step in, to ask for mercy, but you knew these people didn’t have a single bone of humanity—you would be dead before you could even reach Pierce's peripheral vision.

That night, you couldn’t sleep—your chest ached, your mind couldn’t stop repeating his finger barely touching the fabric of your sweatpants. All the work done had gone down the drain—he was now gone. Even with your vision clouded, you knew that your kind gestures towards him were not stronger than the machine that washed up his mind.

Days later, the building was tense—it had been like that since James left for the mission. The last thing you knew was that Sitwell was down. James had killed him after betraying HYDRA.

Two days after, you were sitting in your lab pretending you worked on something—until you heard it. Rumlow was talking to his intercom while he walked into your lab.

“You need to seize the asset.” He informed you.

You jumped on your spot. You were internally celebrating he was still alive—hadn’t he accomplished his mission? You walked behind Rumlow and three other men.

He was there, but his mind was not there anymore. The man you had helped to reach out for his humanity again was not there anymore. It was now gone.

You walked in and stood in front of him.

You could see it, you were not crazy, you could see that resemblance of humanity you had been seeding on him for the last few months. It was there. You really wanted to believe it was there.

“Asset Number five, six, eight, nine, eight.” The voice recorder was in your hand, and you left it on the silver table next to the machine.

You noticed he was silent—he hadn’t been injured on the mission. Maybe a successful mission?

The machine analyzing his vitals kept going while you reviewed every movement he made. The machine gave you back some papers—everything normal—but his heart rate. His heart rate spiked from time to time.

“I need to run a few more tests,” You shouted to be heard on the other side of the wall.

“Go ahead, doctor.” A voice you didn’t care to recognize responded.

You ran the machine again—you wanted to prove something, maybe to you, maybe for you.

First test—you stood still on the side of the computer. Out of his main point of view. His heart rate lecture came back normal.

Second test—you started the machine and walked to stand in front of him. Your tablet on your arm to disguise as if you were reviewing his movements and saving up information.

The heart rate spiked as soon as he locked eyes with you.

He was there. Something was there, and this was the only confirmation you needed. You walked towards him and leaned on him to fix some wires that were plugged into some curved pads around his body. “Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes.” You mumbled. His finger twitched on your side, giving you a faint touch.

Walking back to the machine, you responded. “Asset’s inspection done.”

“You can now leave, doctor.” You nodded and gave him a light and fast look.

You were walking through the hallway when you heard Rumlow talking to Rollins.

“Now it’s supposed to find Rogers and Romanoff now—that’s why they are inspecting it.”

He did kill the said Fury. Why was he kept alive just to kill Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff?

This was probably the last time you would see him alive, and you didn’t even realize it.

Radio silence for at least two more days. People had stopped working—everyone was hanging around trying to find ways to escape since most of the leaders were nowhere to be seen. You had no faith. You knew someone new would eventually come and take back the leadership—and then, if you didn’t get killed by the new leaders, you would be asked to do horrid things again.

You had been awake for the last twenty-four hours. You didn’t know what was worse. To be awake waiting for something, or to sleep knowing you could never wake up. Then, you heard a commotion on the other side of the building. It was loud, and it seemed to be getting closer.

“Soldat.” You heard someone yelling. You stood up—had the other prisoner gone free and were on a killing spree?

You hid on a corner—curled up, waiting for something to happen, and then you saw him. James was there. Injured, face swollen, shattered gear suit, he seemed… tired for the first time you had seen him. He ripped open the grid and walked towards you.

You shut your eyes, trying not to look at him when he eventually killed you. You didn’t understand why, but you were sure the man you had been taking care of was not there anymore. But instead, you felt how he pulled you by your wrist.

“Begat'.” “Run.”

He pulled you until you were out of the cell. He gave you a mobkey for a car.

“North wing. No look back. I’ll find you.” He ordered you. You nodded and started running.

You didn’t know this place—where to find anything, what to do—nothing at all. But you knew you needed to escape as fast as you could.

There was not a single soul who was not running; everyone was trying to find their way out, and you did the same. When you were finally on the north wing, you saw the window he had probably broken to get in. You ran towards it and found a door that was almost in pieces.

A car was waiting for you. You didn’t understand why, but you trusted him enough to know the car couldn’t be a kind of tramp or being watched.

You turned the engine on and drove as fast as you could—the place was a disaster, glasses all over the place, somehow smoke and fire was sorrounding the building, screams and people running filled all your senses—but you never stopped until you finally left HYDRA’s land, literally the middle of nowhere was the only thing your eyes could catch—and on the other side of the road, you saw dozens of trucks with “SHIELD” logos on them.

You felt it close. You knew HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, and you weren’t there to find out if those trucks were friends or foes.

A sudden shake in the car made you lose control—your door opened, and James was looking down from the car roof. He tilted his head. You tried to move without leaving the car wheel unattended. Before you noticed it, he was already sitting and steadying the car.

“What did you do?!” You asked, looking back—the place was completely on fire.

“Rest.” He mumbled, gaze fixed on the road. “I’ll wake you up.”

“Sleep?” You sounded astonished.

“Yes. Long trip. Sleep.”

“You’re bleeding. I need to check your injuries.”

“Later.”

You sighed and curled up in your seat. The tiredness of twenty-four hours with no sleep was catching up to you, and you fell asleep immediately.

The adrenaline of the moment hadn’t washed over him—he still needed to take you out of the US before anyone found you had survived the fire. His mind was focused on only one thing—protecting you. You were the only person in seventy years who had shown him a glimpse of mercy, and he needed to give you back the life they had probably taken from you.

Hours later, finally, the hunger and pain woke you up. Your eyes adjusted to the bare light that came through a taped window, and you noticed you were in a safe house—more like a warehouse. James was nowhere to be seen, but you knew he wouldn’t have gone through all this mess just to toss you in whatever place he could have found.

You were trying to stand up, but your body had finally lost the battle. You lied down waiting for him.

Some minutes later, you heard him coming, his heavy boots echoing through the whole building.

“Take this.” He handed you some canned food. He stood there looking at you while you sat painfully on the mattress that you were lying on.

“James, can you sit down?” You looked up at him. He frowned at you. “Just sit, you don’t have to wait for any order. Just sit next to me.”

He knelt in front of you, his hands resting on his lap. His face was still swollen, and some cuts were covered with dried blood. You took some of the food and handed him the can.

“Take some too.” He didn’t move immediately. “Am I gonna have to be repeating myself very often, right?”

He grunted and took the can from your hand. You looked around and saw a black duffel bag. You crawled to it and found a kit aid there. You crawled back, dragging the duffel bag through the floor. He was still kneeling, eating slowly, looking at you, trying to decipher what you were doing. You took out some alcohol and rags to dampen them.

You knelt too in front of him, and you leaned over him, “Can I?”

He furrowed his eyebrows.

“I’m gonna clean you up. Can I do it?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you,” You started cleaning him up, working on his face with the rags; he didn’t even flinch at the burning feeling of the alcohol sanitizing his injuries. “Great.”

He left the empty can on the floor.

“What’s next now, James?”

“Why James?” He finally questioned you.

“That’s your name.” You knitted your brows in the middle, “James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant in World War II.”

“Bucky.” He mumbled back.

“Huh?”

“A man that I saw in the last mission. He kept calling me Bucky.” He tried to remember the whole situation. His mind still tricked him into forgetting things after a while. “I think he knew me… He told me that exact name there.”

“Do you want me to call you like that?” He nodded. You said your name, and he nodded once again. “Bucky would be, then.”

A sepulcral silent filled the space.

“What’s next, Bucky?”

“Take you home.” He admitted.

“No!” You stood still, “Please don’t… My parents… they must be in danger, and they will be even more if I reach out to them…”

He didn’t answer.

“Let me go with you… I don’t care where you go. If you let me, I’ll follow you.”

“Why?” He hoarsed.

“You came back for me, didn’t you?” He nodded, “Well… you must trust me as much as I trust you. That means we should keep each other company. Now, what’s next?”

For the first time, you noticed he didn’t know what to say—his facial expression gave him away.

“What do you know about yourself?”

His eyes showed real fear.

“Not much.”

You remembered that Rumlow had mentioned Rogers—you were sure they meant Steve Rogers.

“The name Rogers rings a bell with you?”

“No.”

“I’m sure finding out about him would give us more information than we think. How much can we stay in the States?”

“We have to leave tomorrow.”

“Enough…” You pursed your lips, “Can you find some cover-ups for both of us?”

He nodded. You were getting tired of his three-word sentences and physical answers, but you also knew these were his first freely spoken words. He tilted his head to the duffel bag—there you found some clothing for males and females.

“How far are we from the Smithsonian?”

“ETA of twenty by car.” He answered immediately—like something was ignited in him.

“And do we have a car?” Another nod. “Let’s get ready, and we can leave this place as soon as we find some more answers.”

You stood up and took the clothes out of the bag. “Where can I get changed?” He tilted his head as if he didn’t understand the answer.

You sighed and closed your eyes. This was going to be the biggest learning curve you were about to face. “Stay here and change, I’m gonna find some spot to change too.”

You were walking with him by your side. He was wearing a black shirt, a flannel, and a denim jacket over it—you had almost the same outfit, he looked almost uncomfortable dressed as a civilian, but it was the only way to not take the spotlight with his metal arm.

“Bucky,” You mumbled, “I’m gonna take your hand, is that alright?” You looked up at him.

“Why?”

“PDA makes people uncomfortable.”

“PDA?”

“Public Display Affection.”

He furrowed, but offered his hand. He trusted you; he was sure you would survive even more than him in a more normal environment. You took his hand, and finally, that finger you had only felt through clothed skin was now tangled with yours. His very calloused hands felt warm—really warm at your touch. You closed your eyes before him just for a second. The warmth of his hand helped you to remind yourself you were now… almost safe. Or at least freed from HYDRA—and he was not being used as a human weapon anymore.

“Where are we going?” He looked down, and for the first time, you could see his blue eyes being enlightened by the sunlight. They were ocean blue. Deep. You could get lost in them even when they didn’t show too much.

“To find out who you are.”

You were now in front of the National Air and Space Museum. You pulled him by his hand and walked directly to Captain America’s exhibition.

You finally found what you needed—his exhibit. A photo of a younger him stared back at you, too. You looked at him, and he looked perplexed. You were mesmerized at the sight—he was full of life in that photo. Guessing by the years, he was at most twenty-seven. He still believed in a country that had never forgotten about him, that had declared him a hero even when he was outside, controlled by HYDRA. But looking at him, now, next to you. You realized you weren’t even sure if he had looked at himself in all these years—or if he could be able to even recognize himself after all.

“Is that me?” He looked at you.

“A younger you, but yes.”

“A fallen comrade. James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes.”

You could hear through the speakers: Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country.

“Something here now rings a bell?” You asked again.

“Barely.”

“We would get to it eventually.” You looked closer at the exhibit.

“1917 - 1944”

“You’re ninety-seven years old.” You murmured.

“What year is it?”

“Two thousand fourteen.” You said, as if it hurt your throat. You hated to display all this information this fast to him. Yes, he had been put out of cryo all these years—but why would someone care to inform a weapon what year it was, or how long he had been frozen?

He sighed. “We are done.”

Walking away from that exhibit, you followed him, trying to match his pace, “Did you remember something?”

He swallowed, “No.”

He was not ready to admit that, since he snapped at the helicarrier, some blurred memories had come back into him—they felt too real to just avoid them, and standing up in front of what seemed his past. Even less, when you were there by his side—when you trusted him to be the person who would keep you alive and safe, when he had taken you out from HYDRA’s facilities. He didn’t have the chance to break down when you depended on him at this moment.

“Now what?” You hurried your steps.

“Leaving for Alaska.”

That was the last thing he told you until you arrived at the warehouse. You had to understand from time to time that he was getting accustomed to being free. To speak even if he was not spoken to or ordered to speak. You were looking through the window while Bucky drove back to the warehouse. When you arrived, the warehouse felt like a strange kind of home between you two.

“Sleep a bit. I’ll wake you up when we need to leave.” You furrowed.

“I don’t wanna sleep, I’m fine.”

“Sleep.” He hoarsed.

“Fine. I’ll sleep.”

You lay down and curled up on the mattress, and the tiredness of days and days fighting for your life finally caught up. During the night, Bucky didn’t sleep at all; his instincts kept him awake, checking that no one had found your traces or that you were sleeping well. He didn’t even sit to rest. And by the first ray of light, he took you in his arms and placed you in the seat. You didn’t even realize you had been moved until your ears were covered with a headset and you were buckled up in the copilot seat. Multiple questions came to your mind, but you knew who he was. He had been the biggest weapon HYDRA had had for decades—he knew all the resources, even the ones that weren’t easily reachable.

“Where are we going?” You mumbled, scratching your eyes carefully.

“Bucharest.” You bit your lip when he answered.

“How the hell are we gonna get there just in this thing?” You looked at him. “Not that I doubt your capacities…”

“We are going to Anchorage, Vladivostok, Moscow, Sochi, and then Bucharest.” He mumbled. “Train, car, sail…”

“Oh.”

Anchorage was the easiest part; a ship took you from there to Vladivostok. You stayed there for a week between safe houses, Bucky not trusting any place he had learned in his active years with HYDRA, and making you rest enough to be ready if you had to run away. He had prepared himself, and you really wanted to ask when he planned this… He even had a safe house there waiting for you in the middle—a place that wouldn’t set off any alarms as soon as you arrived. This was somehow better than the ones you saw in Canada and the States.

“Have to fix something before departure.” He said as soon as you sat in the bed you found.

“Oh… Can’t I… go with you?”

“Sleep. I’ll be back before you even wake up.”

“Bucky, I don’t need that much sleep. How much do you think they let me sleep back there?”

He stared blankly at you.

“Just come back, please.” He nodded and stepped away.

You weren’t even sure why you were following his lead, but you were both the only ones who had shown some humanity back in HYDRA, and maybe both of you were holding onto a string of fate built by traces of mercy, and maybe you could even help him to find answers he needed. At least, you knew who you were before all of this, but the only thing he had had was a name on a museum and some very old and grainy photos.

Hours later, he came back with a new duffel bag. You wanted to know where he was getting all his resources, but you also knew you were not going to have an honest answer even if you asked for it. He opened it in front of you, and some new clothes and a fake ID with your name on it appeared—passports, fake documents that could help you to get wherever he was taking you.

“Thank you, Bucky.” He slightly knitted his eyebrows in the middle. “Can I ask where you get all of this?”

He shook his head. “Best not.”

The train to Moscow was kind of relaxing. He had placed you in a window seat, and he chose one far from you. Security matters, he said. And when you arrived in Moscow, he picked you up thirty minutes away from the train station. It had been almost two weeks after he set you free from HYDRA, and now he was taking you God knew where just to make sure you were going to be safe.

“Another safe house?” You asked when you got into the car. He nodded. “Have you had any memory back?”

“No.” Dryly, he answered.

“When we get to Romania, I’ll find a way for you to communicate with your parents.” He answered without looking at you.

You had surrendered to the idea that they would believe you had died, but the fact was that no one knew you were at HYDRA’s facilities. They had taken care of it in such a way that made everyone believe you had just gotten tired of social media—and now you had been MIA for almost two or three weeks.

“Would it be a good idea?” He didn’t answer.

The house in Moscow was, in fact, a house. A small one, but it had a stove and a real bed.

“We will be here for some days until I find what I need. Two more stops and we will arrive at our destiny.”

“Why that many stops?”

“I needed to be sure no one had followed us.”

“Bucky, can I ask you for something?” He nodded, “Real food. I can even cook… I just… I’m tired of canned food.”

He furrowed. You realized you were asking for something he probably hadn’t even had. You looked over the window and saw a small store just a block away.

“Look. Do you see it? I can buy some food to cook for us.” He gripped your wrist.

“No.” His grip was strong, and you whimpered at the feeling.

“Bucky, you’re hurting me.” You cried out, and he snatched his hand from you as if your skin had burned him. “I don’t have to go on my own. We can go together, I just want real food.”

He moved carefully and found a statch of bills buried in his duffel bag.

And that’s how a play-pretend started. It didn’t last long, but you were happy to have a small, almost normal interaction with him. Something you both could feel like something warm and real.

You could even notice how he was walking more lightly. Like all the weight he carried on his shoulders was getting lighter by the day. Like he was starting to trust you and not just the person who had tried her best not to abuse him, as everyone he knew did.

But Moscow only lasted a week after taking a second train. This time, he sat just behind you and just made you walk for some minutes before meeting him to leave for yet another safe house.

‘Dobro pozhalovat' v Sichi' 'Welcome to Sochi.'

Sochi was small and beautiful. It made you kind of homesick, but it was only a connection to the Black Sea. You needed to ship to Romania, and he was there just to find a connection to take you there as fast as possible. He didn’t even take you to a safe house. The truck he had there was big enough for you to sleep in the back for a night before leaving for the Greater Sochi Area. A costline where he met a man who was bribed to take you directly to Bucharest.

And after what seemed an eternity. You arrived at Bucharest.

The day you arrived at Bucharest, you learned the place you were heading to was Rahova, a small neighborhood located in the southwest part of the city. The man Bucky had hired explained everything to him in Romanian, but you caught some of his words when broken English slipped through their conversation.

When you arrived at a very old and neglected building that could have been a very beautiful hotel back in time. Bucky walked through the reception area and went upstairs. You followed him silently. You knew he was getting tired; you could see it in his eyes. You had seen him months prior, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, finally catching him up.

He carried two duffel bags and a backpack that he had never taken off him. When you finally arrived at a very dusty and old room, he tossed the bags on his side and sighed.

“Are we finally done escaping?” You looked up at him while you locked the door. He finally nodded.

You couldn’t believe it—and the first thing you did was to hug him. Your arms enclosing his neck, tears dampening your cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably. His arms were on his side, confused, giving him away on the fact that he didn’t know how to react.

“I owe you my life, and I’ll spend the rest of it helping you to find who you are. We are going to recover every piece of it, and you will learn who you are.” You were sobbing, and out of instinct, he enclosed your body with a strong grip.

And for the next months, that’s what you did, you kept your word and found everything you could to make him feel like he was someone. He now owned the name “Bucky”. He learned that he was friends with Steve Rogers back in time. Not just a friendly camaraderie, but a strong connection they shared since the last of their days as they knew them. You helped him to learn more about his family. He had three siblings; he was the oldest of them, and he had lost his father when he was young. You explained to him what you learned about his story and how he had been enhanced.

He learned things about himself day by day. He loved plums, and loved music from the forties—he loved to see you dancing through the small room, and loved the way you gave him space when you were falling asleep, just to end up curling up and cuddling him up when you were past asleep. He loved the perfume you had chosen for him, and the clothes you helped him to wear once he felt more comfortable being seen in public.

He learned he loved the way you greeted every person you stumbled upon in the hallways or on the street. The way you made him become part of society and make him realize he was now a citizen, and he would do his best to make you feel proud, even when you told him day by day how proud you were of how far he had gone after everything he went through.

He became someone people trusted, and with the abilities he had learned through the years, he became the man the neighbors would look to when they needed a helping hand. He came in handy when something needed to be fixed, and he loved to think his hands were now used for something kind.

The truth untold was that he fought every day. He fought never to bring the Soldier back. Every time he saw you talking with a neighbor your age, or an older man gave you a small gift to help you two, he fought something darker, something that felt stronger than him from time to time. He felt that way every time he thought he could lose you, every time you felt sad, and someone was rude to you. But he understood that doing so would do nothing but hurt you.

Life was getting easier by his side, and you appreciated every waking moment with him.

He started sleeping while he cuddled you. His arms tugged you into his chest like he knew you were going to disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough. Because life had shown him the worst side of everything, and he wanted to make sure he was going to keep it at all costs.

Money was not tight. He had a good amount of money—you never asked where it came from, but you knew it would eventually run out, so he started making some side gigs while you helped take care of the children in the community. And starting from scratch in a completely new continent where you barely understood half a word they were saying, and Bucky tried, he really tried teaching you the essentials, to make it easy for you to deal with it.

One day, you were cooking when a knock on the door took you out of the act.

“Could you help me?” His voice came strangled. You ran to the door, and when he opened it, he had some appliances that almost covered his whole body piled up on his arms.

“What’s that, Bucky?” You chuckled, trying to take the blender from the top. He shook his head and walked in, putting it on the floor.

“I was working on Mrs. Marinescu’s kitchen when the couple next door came. They told me they were leaving and they saw us checking on the appliances on the talcioc.” A very thick accent could be heard. He was a native English speaker, but after so many years mixing Russian with Romanian and English, he tended to feel more comfortable speaking Russian or Romanian—and his English came broken from time to time.

“Oh my god!” You got excited and hung onto his neck, hugging him, your legs were hanging, and you were giggling, “This is so great, Bucky! Now we can use the money we’ve been saving to paint the room!”

He scoffed a laugh, and it filled up your ears in a soft way. He put you down, and you tiptoed to cup his face.

“Bucky…” He looked down, confused. “Can I do something, and you promise you’re gonna trust me?”

He nodded. You pulled him closer, your thumbs circled his rough cheeks. Your lips found each other halfway. He was petrified, like he didn’t know what to do, and clumsily moved—your hands fell to his ribs, and his hands clutched on his sides, you didn’t notice, but he had closed his eyes, finally letting himself feel completely safe. He grunted in response when you stepped back slightly.

“That was fine?” You mumbled, pulling away and giving him some space.

“Fine. It was fine.” Smiling, you were about to pull away, but he gripped your wrist. “Can you do it again?”

You smiled, and now he was the one holding your waist, but he stood still. You tiptoed once again and kissed his lips softly. You felt the way his fingers dug slightly into your soft skin, and the proximity made you feel his chest heaving rapidly. Your hands rested on his ribs; his skin felt hard through his clothes, but it was comforting to have him so close for the first time.

The last few months, he had gone from not being able to even say more than a two-word sentence to even being able to hold your hand in the street when he needed some reassurance. But old habits die hard, and he never let you go on your own to any place. He was always by your side. He was the only one going outside to earn money, and that’s how you ended up taking care of your neighbor’s children. He felt safer knowing you were there at what you both called home.

And now he felt so comfortable and safe to kiss you—to show you his most sensitive and private side. His movements were clumsy and slow; he just let you make the moves, playing with his lips, making him lose himself in the touch. You didn’t even think he was going to react, but he was there, physically asking for more. When you pulled back, he looked at you. There was no comeback. You were now his sole purpose to be alive. You had been that for months now, but the way your lips had enchanted him.

“Thank you,” He answered, still looking down at you.

“Don’t thank me for this… Just… Do it every time you need it or want it…” You stroked his hair carefully.

“Are you sure?” You smiled and nodded.

He leaned over you, and once again, his lips found yours. He was sure he had found nirvana in the way you kissed him. The way you took care of him in ways he didn’t know he could be helpless—the way you showed him the human side he thought he had lost and was never going to see ever again.

Time flew, and your connection grew stronger. With that, the way he treated you got even more protective. He didn’t trust anyone. Every time you tried to leave the apartment just to breathe, he was there, giving you enough space to not be all over you, but to keep an eye on you. He was just not willing to lose the only thing that kept him sane among all the things that kept him awake at night.

But he also had kept his word through the months; he let you talk to your family every once in a while. Always on burner phones, never more than a couple of minutes, and after that first kiss. One night, after a difficult call full of cries, he even held you tight for the first time while you cried for hours. You were sitting next to him, and his hands covered your whole. You missed them with your whole life, but you knew that going back to the United States or even keeping more frequent communication could mean a death sentence for you.

“I’m so sorry…” He mumbled, stroking your hair while you tried to ease yourself. “I’m gonna find a way. You’ll see them. I promise.”

“No!” You placed your hands on his chest, “No, if it means risking everything we had fought for.”

“But you want to see them.”

“And I also want us both to be happy. You’re barely getting to know yourself now. You get along well with the neighbors. We have this small place we now call home… We have each other… and as much as I miss my family, I’m not gonna risk everything we’ve built.”

“But you love them…”

That sole sentence broke your heart. You had shown him that even after all the dark you both had endured, you still had so much love to spread, and you were willing to teach him how to love and trust again.

“And I love you…” You confessed, looking at him. “And you are the only reason we are here now. That means more than anything else.”

“You… love me.” He repeated, trying to wrap his mind around your words.

“Yes, Bucky. I love you.”

“Why?” He was genuinely curious.

“Love doesn’t really have an explanation, you know?”

You could notice the way his mind raced through all the ways he should answer, and you cupped his cheeks again.

“I’m not asking you to answer anything; I just stated a fact. I love you, you can love me or not, tell me or not, that’s yours to find out.”

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, trying to find an answer in your eyes.

“I’ve already told you that you don’t have to ask.” You scoffed a laugh and leaned to kiss him.

“You always ask.” He said between kisses.

“You deserve it.”

His hands found your waist as you kept your hands on his chest—heavy breathing was all you could hear while the air grew thicker in the room. Since the first kiss, he had grown more confident in the way he touched you. Never touching bare skin, never going further than your waist, always being careful not to bruise or grip harder than he should.

And you were careful, too. You never initiated a kiss without asking first, even when he had stated he didn’t care if you did it.

His breathing was becoming erratic, as his hands found softer spots in your waist, he cradled you in his arms, trying to pull you closer without being too eager in his moves. Your hands found his neck, your fingers tracing paths around the scars that time didn’t heal properly. Teeth clicking, mouths going on and off, trying to catch some air between the messy kiss going on. When you finally came back to your senses, you stopped yourself before you took things further.

“Bucky… I think… We should stop.” You said with a hitched breathing.

He tried to mumble something, “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! You would never… I just… I think it’s not the right thing to do.”

“I thought you wanted to…” You shook tenderly. “It’s fine. We can…”

“Bucky, stop—We can wait as much as we both need.” You stroked his cheek, and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the feeling.

“What’s that?” Scarlotti spoke as he took out some dusty folders. Decker looked down at the open folder.

“These are old records from the facility that James Barnes intervened in.”

They were checking the papers, trying to find something of relevance. The exploration was nothing but a last chance to try to bring HYDRA back in one way or another. While they looked through the papers, a photo caught Scarlotti’s attention.

“Who’s that?” He read your name out loud.

“Oh, a scientist who worked for Pierce in that facility. One of the good ones. Went to waste, the government didn’t even know she was there. Karpov did a great job and made her contact her family to not raise suspicion.”

Scarlotti talked through his intercom. Orlov in the operative offices answered immediately. “Orlov here.”

“I’m gonna send you a photo. Give me all you have ‘bout her.”

He snapped the photo and sent it. Some seconds later, Orlov started reading information from his computer.

“She was one of the good ones. She took care of the Asset number five, six, eight, nine, eight. She was at the facilities when it went down…”

“Yes, yes. I know that. What else?”

“She was not officially there, but she was declared Missing in Action by our intelligence.”

“Not Killed In Action?” Orlov chimed in.

“No. Missing In Action.” He repeated, annoyed. “Her body was never found.”

“And you said she was the one who took care of Barnes?” Orlov hummed. Decker started to connect the ideas.

“I think we might have found something.” Dereck smiled mischievously.

It was not even a different day. At least, Bucky didn’t feel it in his bones. He was finally losing tension, letting you be on your own for more than an hour. Not taking you wherever he was going if he knew he could take more than an hour. You were at home, cooking dinner, a recipe Mrs. Marinescu had shared with you during your last visit. He knew you were safe there. He had researched the whole neighborhood just to be sure no one had found you two at any of your stops. He made sure you were safe. And even then, SHIELD’s intelligence, infiltrated by HYDRA, had found you as soon as they spotted your name in their files.

They concluded that Bucky had come back for you, and with weeks of research, they found a trace that led them to your last spot before Bucharest. And with some HYDRA treatment, they found your now-called home. They kept an eye on you for some more weeks. They studied when Bucky let you on your own, how many times a day you were alone, and for how long. They knew it was going to be difficult to take you from Bucky’s arms, but you were the only way to be able to put hands on him once again.

It was out of nowhere. Someone knocked on your door, and thinking it was one of your neighbors, you opened without even looking through the peephole. Something Bucky had scolded you plenty of times.

“I’m sure that’s how you ended up in HYDRA.” He joked once. He didn’t mean it. But you laughed fully on your belly when you heard him, and he furrowed.

You fought. You did everything you could to not be taken by them. You knew who they were; you didn’t even have to know their faces to know why they were there. But one of them pinched you with a strong sedating.

Before you could even scream for help, you dozed off.

“Target secured.” One of them spoke through his intercom. “Heading to the base.”

Bucky came back one hour later than he thought. One neighbor had asked him to rearrange some furniture, and that earned him some freshly baked sweets. When he saw the door torn down, he didn’t even have to come in. His world was crumbling down as he saw the mess inside the small room. The stove was almost catching fire, and he saw a used vial on the floor. His jaw kept ticking as he assessed the disaster.

He didn’t even think twice. He knew who had done this. And he was not willing to leave you more than necessary in their clutches, but he needed to be careful. They wanted the Winter Soldier back. Oh, and if he was willing to bring him back only to bring you back home safe and sound.

First, he prepared everything. He placed all his neighbors in different places. Even if it cost him all the money he had saved to buy a house for you two. He was not going to put anyone else in danger. It was just two families left at that building—that’s why he had chosen it. It worked; the fewer people involved, the fewer would get hurt if something happened. The rest of the neighborhood could act as if they had never met them, and they would be fine.

In the meantime, you had been chained up in a cell. When you finally woke up, a man in a suit stood in front of you. He said your name with a thick russian accent.

“Doctor, it’s so good to meet you. I’m so sorry for the harsh start. My intention was never to hurt you. I hope you understand that you’re a means to an end. And, of course, our goal is not a scientist who fell in love with a monster.” He chuckled. “So intelligent to end up emotionally imprisoned to a monster of the Winter Soldier’s caliber.”

You were looking around. You knew well this was not the cell you had been kept in years prior. This was somewhere else.

“We expect your pet—My apologies—Your loving partner to arrive more or less in a week or two. If he hasn’t lost his sparkle, he will eventually find us. Unless you’re not that important for him to come back.” He gripped your chin. His eyes were fixed on yours. But, looking at you. It’s hard to believe he’s not coming back.”

You didn’t even respond. You remembered the conversation you had with Bucky.

“You need to pay attention,” Bucky sat you down the first time he got nervous to the point of almost making you two leave the city. It had been just a week after the first kiss. “I don’t want to leave this place either. But if we want to stay, you need to understand something. They are actively or passively searching for me. Therefore, they could find me.”

“Bucky… they won’t. We are too far from there.”

“Yes, they will. And you’re now the most important part of my life.” He sighed and kissed your knuckles, “Therefore, they’ll come for you. So you need to pay attention to my instructions.”

He was dead serious, and that took you by surprise. Anxiety crawled up through your body. He noticed and cupped your chin carefully.

“I’m gonna explain what you've got to do. They will want to tear you down. They are not gonna hurt you. They need you by their side. They need me, but they need that big brain of yours.”

“And what if they hurt me?” He sighed.

“Then, I’m gonna have to kill them all.” He sighed and tilted his head, “But they won’t. You’re the only way they've got to find me… and you better be damn sure I’ll find you and bring you back to our home.”

“And what am I gonna do in the meantime?” Your voice came strangled.

“Nothing. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t tease them. They will try to pick fights with you, they will try to find the rage in you to give them an excuse and hurt you.” He stroked your hair. “Don’t give them a reason to hurt you, and don’t make me kill them for that.”

“How are you so sure that they will come for me?”

“Because I don’t have anything else that I care more about than you.” He leaned and kissed you.

You did as you were told. You never even acknowledge him.

“How rude of me? I never introduced myself. My name’s Daniel Whitehall. This fuckers know me like Kraken. An idiotic name they gave me. I’m not that different from the soldat.”

“Maybe the Asset never told you about me. He was busy killing people and slandering men to even know who gave him orders.” You swallowed. You had forgotten how much it hurt you to hear he was referred to as an asset.

He smiled as soon as he saw the way your throat bobbed with the swallowing movement.

He left the cell, and you hugged your legs when everyone left you alone there. You knew he was coming. You knew he would never leave you there, but if you had taken months to arrive from New York to Bucharest, how long would it take him to come back and find you?

But he found his way back to his armory. It was an old facility HYDRA had abandoned so many years ago. But he knew how to find it. Crossing the borders without you and with a goal in mind was even easier. In less than a week, he was back in the United States. He let himself be seen in places HYDRA had based decades ago. That would give you some faith for his arrival.

That week was a hell—even when they kept you fed and didn’t even raise a finger at you. But knowing they could snap at you at any moment was the actual hell in life. Whitehall never came back; usually, other people came to see you. Never the same men, but they brought you food, water, or took you to a shower regularly.

Almost a week later, Whitehall finally made an appearance.

“Look… I thought the soldat was rusty now. But it seems that you ignite something in him.”

He placed a device in front of you, and the screen showed a grainy surveillance snapshot of him. Black gear suit, long hair covering his sides. He was driving a black armored truck that you had never seen before. Even here, you drove a truck that could blend with the rest. But this one? This one was exactly what he would never use if he really wanted to not be seen. He was giving you a message. He was coming, and we were nearer than they thought, and you just had to wait for him.

You didn’t even flinch. You didn’t let yourself react; you couldn’t give yourself away that easily. But if you knew the monster they had created. This was not going to be cute.

You never really saw him in action, but you had heard the gossip, the ghost stories that revolved around him, you knew he was bloodthirsty, and he had no mercy—stories said he had killed John F. Kennedy back in time—you never really asked. Everything he had done as the Winter Soldier was way past you. You didn’t care; that was not him under your eyes. And the man you were about to see was not the man you loved. It was the man they wanted to see.

Your ankles were already bruised by the chain that restrained you since you had arrived, you could see how your skin was turning pale by the passing days, and you had even forgotten how Bucky smelled, that aroma he left in your skin every time he hugged you. That aroma he left that day before leaving to buy groceries.

It was a mixture of soap and a bergamot and clove scent that Ms. Marinescu had given to you as a gift for him when she was told you were starting from scratch.

“You two seem too protective of each other.” She smiled as she handed you a cup of tea.

“Yeah. We’ve been through a lot together. We kind of only have each other in the world.”

“Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Eugen and I saw the worst of Romania when we were young, and we started from scratch, too.” She smiled, and you responded with a hurt smile. “Just tell me something.”

“Whatever.” You looked up at her.

“You’re not just a pair of civilians, right?” You smiled, pursing your lips.

“I can see it from miles away. My Eugen was a soldier too. He also escaped to be with me.”

You sighed, “It’s a little bit more difficult than that.”

“Well, he seems too fond of you… If I come correct, he’s loyal to you. You seem to be everything he has.”

“And he’s everything I have.” You admitted, more to yourself than her.

“Keep it like that, and you’ll have the world on your feet sooner than later.”

Where was that promised world now? Where was the happy ending you were promised? Now you were here, sitting, chained, waiting for a man you didn’t even know, it would be the same man you had loved the last few months. He was angry, maybe mad crazy, they had done exactly what he said they would do, and he was doing exactly what he told you—he promised you he would do if that were the case.

Infiltrating the base was not difficult. The snipers were expecting a loud entrance. A Winter Soldier-type entrance. Loud, angry. But he knew better. And he was not willing to risk any chance of retrieving you and tore down every trace of you in paper and systems.

They were killed even before they could turn around—the suppressors did the job, and he had gathered enough armory to kill a hundred men, and he was still saving his best gun for the man who had ordered your kidnapping.

Daniel Whitehall was so full of himself that he never thought Bucky would find everything he needed to achieve his goal. He saw The Winter Soldier as just a weapon—but he had been trained to be more than that. He was well-trained in espionage, and many intelligence agencies had been compromised by him since the sixties, but Whitehall failed to learn more about him.

He started from the lowest in the chain—poor souls that thought they were untouchable. Men who believed that he was just a ghost story. He killed each one of them—then he compromised the security to come into the building. There, elite guards didn’t even wait for him. He was really trying to be as stealthy as possible, but he knew that trespassing into the building would set some alarms off and would inform Whitehall he was there.

He walked to the offices. He knew these people were not even informed that you were there. They probably didn’t even know your name—but at this point, everyone was a liability under his eyes. And being as merciful as he could be—he killed them before they even knew he was there. He was not there to save anyone but you.

A killing spree had begun, and it was nowhere to be done.

And like an old memory coming back to your mind. You heard it again, but this time, a hundred times worse. Men screaming muffled by a suppressed gun, there were no pleadings like the last time. He never even gave them a chance. He didn’t care about saving lives. He wanted every living soul in that place dead before they could even touch you.

A muffled whimper was heard through the hallway that led to your cell—a guard guided him to your cell. It was the last living soul on that floor before Whitehall’s chambers.

When the guard finally opened your cell, Bucky aimed at him, and without a hint of hesitation, he shot him in his temple.

“Out.” One-word sentences once again. He took the vest from the last guard and handed it to you. “By my side.”

You nodded, and he walked directly to the stairs—you were one step behind; he was always vigilant of his surroundings. Finally, he reached out to the last floor. He didn’t even hesitate, didn’t even bat an eye at you as he was killing those men. One by one. Not even thinking it twice. When there was not even a single soul there, he took you by the wrist and made you walk to the main doors.

He kicked the door open, and a bullet flew by your side. He then pushed you to the wall, and before you could even stumble against the door, he aimed and shot at Whitehall’s hand. A howl left his throat.

He took you again by the wrist and made you walk towards him. It was not any kind of torture towards you, even when you felt it was.

He walked towards the man, and before him, he sketched a wicked smile. Bucky—or maybe the Winter Soldier—shot him mercilessly. He then made you walk fast—assessing every floor again, making sure no one had stayed alive.

He walked to find a truck and took you out of the place.

You were in shock, everything seemed like a feverish dream—you were sure they had drugged you, and you were now delirious. In the middle of the desert, the same truck you saw in the CCTV days before was waiting for you. He took you by your wrist, and he sat you in the trunk. “Stay put and don’t even say a word.”

You nodded, the truck seemed to fly—you were lying down in the trunk, the vest hurt, but you knew that if he didn’t ask you to take it off, he would have done it on his own. There were some armory boxes there; you were curling up next to them to make yourself smaller. You knew you were safe with him, but you were afraid of what his next step was.

Some hours later, he finally stopped, opened the door, and over one shoulder he placed you, the other hand held the boxes that sat next to you during the drive.

He tossed you in a second car and drove all the way to a new place.

“We’re not leaving this country until I’m sure all HYDRA is down. I’ve done my research, you’ll be staying with the only people I trust enough until I finish what I just started.” He talked from his seat, you were still in the trunk—still confused about what was going on.

“I thought you didn’t trust anyone.”

“I didn’t.” He admitted. “But I need to keep you safe as I finish this. You’re not coming with me, and I’m certainly not leaving you alone anymore.”

Two hours later, he parked in front of a Tower you had seen plenty of times but never really batted an eye at it.

The Stark’s Tower.

“I’m so sorry.” He said before injecting something in your skin, you were already dozing off when you heard him mumbling. “I love you.”

He set off some alarms by shooting as he left the place.

Natasha Romanoff was the one who found you. You were drugged and sitting at the main entrance of the building. A quick face recognition threw at her and Tony your information. Off the radar for years. There was a folder under you. A Folder with words in Russian.

It was all she needed to know what was going on.

“Call Rogers,” Natasha ordered.

“Cap? Why?” Tony cocked an eyebrow, and Natasha closed the folder.

“She was the doctor in charge of The Winter Soldier Project.”

When you woke up, you were hooked to machines that read your vitals. Two guards with “S.W.O.R.D” vests stood in the doorway, and next to you—Steve Rogers himself, crossed arms, eyes fixed on a book. It was the most logical thing you could think of. No, Bucky didn’t trust anyone, but seeing Steve there, you knew he most likely had remembered him back in the Smithsonian.

“Nice to meet you, Captain.” You husked. He looked at his side and smiled.

He said your name and smiled. “Nice to meet you, doctor.”

“Where am I?”

“Right now? At the Metro-General. But you’re currently a guest at Stark’s.”

“At Stark’s? How?” You furrowed.

“Someone took you here, and you were heavily drugged and dehydrated when you arrived. We needed to take care of you.”

“Where’s that someone?”

“I was hoping you knew.” He tilted his head.

“He told me he was going to finish what he had started.”

“He killed everyone in a HYDRA base. Care to tell me why?”

“They took me, and he rescued me from there. The last thing I know it’s he hugged me, and then everything went blank.”

“He drugged you, most likely for you not to chase him.”

“Fair.” You mumbled.

“Rest. We will talk later. You need to rest, and we need to find him.”

Nights were rough after that. Steve asked you to stay fully at the Tower. Bucky seemed to be on a killing spree towards all the HYDRA’s facilities he might have known. And even when he had just done it, by the time the Avengers arrived at the place, he was not there anymore.

You kept walking like a wandering soul. You needed to know that Bucky was going to snap out of the trance he had gotten into. He had been silent for weeks, and you were going crazy. There were only two options in your head—he was either lost in the trance or he had been killed. There was no other single reason you could think of for him not coming back. Tony started to grow worried about you. At first, he thought Bucky would come back some days after his last attack, but when he did not. He called Steve. What were the next steps after this? If you had been targeted twice by HYDRA, you needed some kind of protection, and Bucky being out as the Winter Soldier was not something everyone could be sure of how it was going to end.

You were already falling asleep when you heard it. A thud sound on your floor next to your window.

A black figure stood still there.

“Did you compromise Tony’s surveillance?” You mumbled, still half asleep.

“I killed thousands of men, I compromised at least a dozen of intelligences, I almost tore down an emporium just for you.” He stood hidden in the shadows.

“Why didn’t you come as soon as you finished?”

“I needed to cool down. I was becoming someone I didn’t want you to see.”

“You drugged me, Bucky.”

“You weren’t going to stay here if I had asked you, were you?”

You sighed.

“You did great there. You were so intelligent.” He walked towards you.

“And what’s next?” You asked while sitting on your bed.

“Your extraction.” He offered his hand.

“Can I at least tell Steve we are leaving?” You stood up, “He doesn’t deserve to stay worried.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He sighed as soon as he saw your worried face, he took something out of his pocket and placed it on your bed. “This will tell him all he needs to know.”

You finally closed the distance between you two, and his hands found your wrist. Your chest could explode as soon as he touched you. His lips found yours, and your hands grasped his neck.

“Bucky,” you mumbled between kisses. He hummed in response. “I love you, too.”

He scoffed and shook. “My countdown skills are getting rusty.”

“No, you just were too hurried to say it before you left.” You giggled. “Now let’s leave before Jarvis notices someone else’s here.”

It didn’t take Steve by surprise that you weren’t there for breakfast. Tony had informed him before that you were hidden most of the time in your bed, but when you didn’t appear for your daily check-up, that was what worried him. When he knocked on your door, no one answered. He opened the door, afraid of what he could find.

You were nowhere to be found, and in your bed, Bucky’s dog tags that were displayed at the Smithsonian. He knew if he made one call or two, he would know they were missing from the exhibit.

At the end, he knew this was not a comeback. He knew the Tower and the Avengers were just a safe place for you until he found something safe for you two and until he eradicated most of the only danger you two had faced throughout your lives.

His mother called your name as she hugged you. “We’re so happy you’re here!”

You smiled and hugged her back, “Scott told me you have a lot of plans ahead.”

“You have no idea, this week’s gonna be amazing!”

“Mr. Summers.” You looked at his father, and he hugged you immediately.

“When are you gonna stop calling me that? It’s been years.”

You shrugged your shoulders, “I don’t think I can stop.”

Some kind of tension in the air could be felt. They were explaining the plans for the week while you looked around, only thinking about what Bucky could possibly be doing.

In the middle of the dinner, your phone rang. You peeked and noticed his name lighting up your screen.

“Who’s it?” Scott furrowed, and you shrugged.

“Oh… Uh… Work.” You lied, standing up, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You walked upstairs and hid yourself in your room.

“Hi, sunshine.” His voice came weary through the phone.

“Oh, James. You got me all worried.” You hurried to answer.

“Where are you?” You could hear a hurt tone in his voice.

“How do you know I’m not at home?”

“Do you really think I didn’t ask Banner to take care of you?”

“Fair point. I’m in the Hamptons…”

“Still with Scott, huh?”

“Yeah… this was planned.”

“Honey, you don’t have to excuse yourself with me. I don’t care if you’re with him or not…”

You didn’t want to take it to heart, but his tone came harshly, and you felt guilty. You were trying to find words to answer, but you remained silent.

“No… Fuck… I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t want to make it sound like that.”

“It’s fine… James… Can we talk later? I was in the middle of the dinner.”

He growled.

“I’ll see you when I get back to the city.”

“See you, James.”

You got back to the table, and they were back to talking about business.

“Everything alright, babe?” Scott placed his hand on your leg as you sat.

“All fine. The new girl is still adapting.” You smiled wryly.

“They should be ready for your leaving.” His mother spoke, “It’s gonna be soon. They need to be prepared.”

“Huh?” You tilted your head. “I’m not planning on changing jobs soon.”

Scott coughed, trying to ease the tension.

When the night ended, the words of your mother-in-law were now imprinted on your mind. You have never told anyone you were even thinking about leaving your job. Yes, you hated it with a special heat, but that didn’t mean you wanted to leave.

Scott had blacked out in bed, and you stood up to take a walk in the cottage’s garden. When you crossed his father’s studio, you could hear his voice coming from there. He was talking with his wife.

“Well! I didn’t know she was planning to keep that shitty job after the wedding…” She mumbled through her teeth.

“Maybe she doesn’t know he wants to propose… Maybe he’s not even planning on proposing soon… Maybe we misunderstood.”

Your world fell to your feet immediately.

You were about to break up with him… and he was planning on proposing?

You decided to stop eavesdropping and walked towards the door. The air outside was thick and humid, and your skin felt sticky.

Then, his name showed up again on your screen.

“Hi, James.” You answered immediately.

“Someone’s waiting for you at the back entrance. You got ten minutes before he goes and knocks on the door.”

“What?”

“Ten minutes. The clock is ticking.”

He hung up, and you decided not to waste any minute. You knew him. You knew he was not lying. Now, your short and revealing pajama set felt completely inappropriate as you ran to the back door of the villa, your bare feet hurt from the feeling of the ground and the garden.

When you arrived, a black car waited for you. There, Clint, with a fed-up expression, opened the back door for you to get in.

The gate creaked as you opened it, but it was too far to be heard by anyone in the main house.

“Good night, Clint.”

“Night.” He answered, not even looking at you.

It was partly out of respect, partly out of being mad for having to do this.

“Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer.

“Is he mad?” He growled, “Clint…”

“Not with you if that’s your question.”

“Oh…”

“Is he fine?” You were now worried.

“He will be.”

The drive was short. The cottage was big, not as big as you could think a property of a made man should be.

Clint parked out of the main entrance and walked you through the house to an office in the back of the place.

“He’s there… Just… Be ready…” He opened the door and stepped aside.

“Thank you, Clint.”

You walked in, and your barefoot steps echoed through the room. He was sitting on a chair with his back to the door.

“James?” You mumbled.

He turned around, and you finally noticed his face. His cheekbones were completely shattered, his lips were busted, and some dry blood stained his face.

“What the hell happened to you?”

He drank from a glass, “Occupational hazards…”

“No, those are not…” You grunted and went back to the doors, “Clint?”

He opened the door immediately and looked at you, “Yes?”

“You have something to clean up his wounds?”

He chuckled and nodded.

You were facing the door, waiting for him as he came back with a first aid kit.

“Thank you, Clint.”

You walked towards him, and he had remained silent since you turned your back on him. You sat on the desk in front of him and leaned in to start cleaning his wounds.

He was grunting, gripping the mahogany desk you were sitting at.

“You don’t have to do this,” he mumbled, “Sweetheart, I was an asshole earlier.”

You shook your head and took more alcohol, dampening the cotton.

“This’ gonna hurt, James.”

He chuckled, “Probably not as much as it hurt when it happened.”

“Wanna tell me what happened?”

“Not really.”

“Fair.”

You were looking at his eyes, those blue eyes kept you completely out of your right mind. What were you doing in a mob’s vacation home when you were supposed to be sleeping next to your… apparently future husband?

“Fuck it,” He took you by your waist and made you sit on his lap—you were sitting on just one leg, but something inside made you move your legs to straddle him. His hands gripped your waist, and you turned around to dampen the cotton again.

“Look at this. Tell me the man who did this isn't still alive?” You furrowed when you were finally able to clean a blood stain on his cheek.

“He wishes he were not…”

“Ok… Ok… Stop… I don’t know why I asked that…” He chuckled.

Furrowing and whining, he gripped your waist while you finished cleaning him up.

“And now, look at you. As beautiful as always.”

“James…” The tone in your voice was pathetic.

“Let me do the talk first.” He begged, “I was an asshole, and I’m tired of pretending that I don’t care that you’re still with Scott, and knowing you’re there with him… it’s killing me…”

“That’s why you came all your way here?”

He nodded.

“James…” You sighed, “I think I’m getting married.”

He choked on his own saliva, “The fuck you mean?”

“His parents were talking about me quitting my job, and then I eavesdropped, and they were talking about him proposing or something like that…”

“And do you want that, sunshine?”

You shook your head, “But I think that’s next… Isn’t it?”

“Not necessarily…” His hand found a strand of hair and tucked it behind your ear. “Well, then... If I know you well... This could be one of the last times we see each other, right?”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because I’m about to do this…” His hands cupped your face, and he kissed you like he was starving, like your lips were the last meal he was ever going to have. Your fingers grasped his suit, without realizing that you pulled him incredibly closer, you were panting as his tongue found yours and made you wish this could last forever.

“And a sweetheart like you would never engage in something like this while being married.”

A tear left your eye.

“No… No… Don’t… Fuck… Don’t cry, sweetheart. Don’t do this to me. You’re gonna kill me…”

“I don’t want to get married, James…” You whined.

He stroked your hair and placed you in the crook of his neck, “You know you don’t have to, right?”

A knock on the door startled you both.

“It’s time,” Clint claimed from the other side of the door. You looked at him, tilting your head.

“I knew we weren’t going to be able to decide to bring you back home on time, so I asked Clint to do it for us.”

You pursed your lips and nodded. Carefully, he took you off his lap and walked you to the door.

“When are you coming back?” You turned to face him.

“I’ll be there when you get back if you still wanna see me when you get back.” He ticked his jaw.

You stood on your feet and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t get in too much trouble.”

He scoffed, “Same to you.”

The way back home was silent. When he parked in the same spot where he had picked you up from, you looked at the big house.

“They haven’t woken up. Someone has been checking up.” You nodded.

“Clint, can I ask you something?” You looked at him through the rearview mirror.

“Go ahead.”

“What is this with Bucky and I?” He turned around, looking at you.

“If you are asking me if he’s interested in you, I think you know the answer.”

A note of his perfume still lingered on your clothes, and the earlier kiss still burned your lips.

“And is it real?”

He shrugged. Men in this field didn’t have the privilege of finding a woman like you, who was not interested at all in their money and power, but at the same time, he knew well Bucky at this point, and he knew he was capable of doing anything for you… For the best and the worst.

“It’s time for you to go, they haven’t woken up, and you’re still on time to sleep at least a few hours.”

“Good night, Clint.”

“Night.” He waited for you to walk into the house.

The morning had been hurried—you noticed how Scott kept avoiding you, and the more he did it, the more nervous you got. You didn’t want to get to the point where he was going to ask you to marry him, and now you had on your shoulders the kiss you and Bucky had shared earlier.

You were sitting in front of the mirror while you put your makeup on when Scott arrived and sat on the couch next to you. You noticed he was nervous; he was not even looking you in the eyes as he always had before. His hands kept toying with his fingers.

“It’s everything alright, Scott?” He shook his head.

“Promise me you won’t get mad.”

“Huh?” You put down the brush, “Why would I get mad?”

“I know this is not… the best moment to do it… but… I think this isn't going anywhere anymore.” He hurried to say.

You were trying to wrap your mind around the word that had just come out of his mouth.

“Come again?”

He sighed and stroked his hair. “I know it's a bit impractical to do it this way, but you love these trips, and you were so excited about seeing my parents, and they love you…”

You were seeing red. Your mouth was sealed in a line.

“Why would you invite me to a whole fucking weekend at your parents’ cottage just to break up with me halfway through?!” You shouted.

“I know… But I just realized I don’t feel the same about you anymore… This feels wrong but… I want you to have a good last weekend here… and we could keep it a secret till we go back home!”

You stood up.

“Are you being serious?”

“Yeah… I mean… We can skip the touching… Unless you want it…”

There were not enough words in your dictionary to respond to the nonsense he was saying.

“You know you're a piece of shit, right?”

You grumbled and stood up, starting to pack up your things.

“What… What are you doing?”

“Packing up, don't you see?” You motioned, “I'm not staying to help you keep up your image.”

He chuckled. Cynically. That mocking laugh that always made you mad.

“And how do you think you're leaving?”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about me…”

“My parents are not taking you back home.”

“I’m not saying that.”

Once he noticed he was not receiving any responses he left your shared room. You kept packing up until you had everything in your suitcase. When you finally found your suitcases all done, you took your phone out.

His number was the last in your call log.

Not even a second ring had sounded when he answered.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Bucky seemed busy, “All alright?”

“Not really… But… Did you already leave?”

“Not really. We were getting ready to leave.”

“Could you… Pick me up, too?”

Silence.

“I’ll be there in an hour. Time enough for you to pack up?”

“I’ve already packed up.”

“Back entrance?”

He joked.

“What about a main entrance meeting?”

A small chuckle could be heard on the other side of the line.

“Twenty minutes, I’ll be there for you.”

“See you in a minute, James.”

No one was to be seen, and you took your suitcases to the main entrance. You logged in the PIN to open the gate, and then, a black Audi arrived—ostentatious, pretentious.

Bucky—himself—got out of the car; black suit, face healing, woodsy scent filled up your lungs even from a distance. He stood still and stoic in front of you.

“Morning?” You smiled shyly.

“Is that all?” He tilted his head when he saw the three suitcases.

“It was a full week trip!” You whined. He shook his head and started to load his trunk while you remained silent.

And then, you finally came to a realization.

“James… How did you know where to find me?” You crossed your arms on your chest.

“Are you really asking me that?” He was organizing the suitcases in the truck. You nodded. “Well, one call and I found the address.”

“And why did you come today, and didn’t send Clint again?”

“I thought you needed me more than Clint.”

“Good call.” You smiled.

“Where the fuck do you think you are going?!” Scott's voice came loud from the entrance. Bucky smiled mischievously.

“James. Don’t.” You stopped him by his chest, “Let me take care of it.”

He sighed and kept going with your belongings.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, and who the hell is this idiot?”

Bucky didn’t even bat an eye at him.

“He’s a friend. He’s taking me home.” Bucky chuckled and shut the trunk.

He walked like a gazelle to your side. He didn’t touch you; he just remained by your side, letting you handle the situation.

“You’re not fucking leaving… I told you you were going to wait till the end of the week.” He tried to yank you by the waist, but Bucky was faster and gripped Scott’s waist to push him.

You knew Scott was not an aggressive man, but you also knew he depended on his parents’ money, and he had been on a tight line for months, and he was about to lose everything as soon as they knew you were leaving.

“Scott, it’s for the best.” You pulled Bucky back and put yourself in the middle of them both. “James, go to the car.”

There was no living man who had ordered Bucky to do anything. And there you were, asking him to restrain himself from defending you.

“I prefer to stay.” His gravelly voice made Scott take a step back, “But I’m gonna stay aside.”

“Now, Scott. Your parents are a second away from coming. Do you really want them to know why I left? ‘Cause I’m completely ready to tell them what’s going on.”

“Are you cheating on me with him?” The cynicism in his tone was completely unbelievable.

“He’s just a friend.” You used the exact tone he had used with you every time you confronted him.

Bucky scoffed a laugh. “Sunshine, we need to leave. I have some things to do.”

You nodded and patted Scott’s chest. “If you need to blame me to try to keep your parents happy, just tell them I cheated… Or whatever makes you feel happy. I’m removing my name from the lease, and I’ll be leaving as soon as possible. You won’t see me at the apartment when you come back.”

“Oh, you are gonna leave?” He chuckled, “And how are you gonna do that?”

“Well, as you said, every time your parents removed their help from you, I always find my way to solve problems… So, I’ll find my way again.”

The open door was waiting for you, and Bucky offered his hands to help you get in. Then, he walked directly to his door. “Nice to meet you, Scott. I’m the way.”

Heat crawled to your cheeks when you saw Scott’s jaw drop to the floor.

“James!” You scolded him, and he just laughed.

He was talking on the phone while you typed on yours, trying to contact your landlord. You wanted to solve everything as soon as possible—even more when you thought about going back to him just to keep the peace.

“Yes. That address.” Bucky talked to his phone. “Uh… at least four men, I need that to get done today.”

"Do you have pets?” He talked to you.

“No?” You answered doubtfully.

“No pets. Yeah. I’ll send you the list of things.”

He hung up and handed you his phone.

“Send a text to that last dialed number with the things you need to take.”

“I… don’t… We don’t own too much. Most of the furniture was bought by his parents… Maybe just my clothes? I don’t care for the furniture…”

You started texting them a list of your things. When you finally finished typing everything, you gave him back his phone.

“Now… Do you wanna tell me what happened?” He was driving, but his hand found your leg, his thumb traced circles in your thigh; it was delicate, more like a tender gesture.

“Apparently… Scott was not going to propose…”

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

“And then?”

“He broke up with me… and he expected me to stay the whole week to keep pretending we were a couple in front of his parents.”

“Why?”

“His parents have been threatening for years to stop the support because he can’t hold a job… I was the most stable thing he had…”

“Look at him. Losing the only good thing he had.”

A twitching smile showed on his lips.

“Now… Where are we going?”

“Well… Your favorite person is waiting for you at my place. I’ll go and handle some things, and then I’ll bring your things to your new place.”

“James… I’m not living with you.”You hurried to interrupt, and he chuckled.

“As much as I wished that was real, I’m gonna find you a nice place, and you will be living there.” He looked at you, “Besides… Who do you think I am? I’m gonna let you take your time, and when you’re ready, I’m gonna take you on the most beautiful dates and give you flowers… I’m gonna show you what a real man can do.”

“You’ve already done that for the last few months… What’s gonna be the difference?”

“I was respecting that you were a taken lady… Now you’re completely free to fall in love with me.”

“Oh, you were respecting that?” You mockingly asked, raising your eyebrow.

“Oh, she’s got jokes now.”

You chuckled and finally held his hand. For the first time in months, it didn’t feel wrong to touch him; it felt like it was meant to be, and you loved the fact that he never crossed any boundary you had set previously. He was a powerful man; he could’ve had everything he wanted, but even he knew he had to fight for you. He had to fight to have a real place in your life, and he was willing to take every step to fit in your life.

“James…”

You interrupted his thoughts.

“Mhm?”

“You need to promise me you’re not gonna do anything against Scott.”

He furrowed. “Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s over. We don’t need to do anything else.”

“If he starts bothering you, I’m gonna do something about it.”

“Deal.” He smiled.“So… My Nat’s waiting for me at home?”

‘Home…’ He thought. He loved the way you called his house ‘home’. Even if you had been there just once, he knew you knew that it was completely yours to possess.

“Your Nat?” A fake tint of jealousy could be heard.

“My Nat. That’s my Nat.” You claimed proudly. And he knew you were only teasing.

“Don’t make me question if I still want her on my side, because now I’m not gonna feel safe leaving you alone with her.”

“Oh… you weren’t joking?”Your voice changed immediately; he noticed you were disappointed.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you really gonna leave?”

“Well... I was... But that voice makes me want to leave everything a mess and just hug you to my chest as soon as we get home.”

“That would be nice.” You admitted.

“Can you accept that I leave you with Nat for a little bit while I take some calls… and then I’ll be all yours.”

“I thought you were already all mine?”

He grunted. “Don’t make me question my decision of forgetting I’m respecting your time to heal.”

You lifted your hands in fake surrender.

When you finally got to his place. He made you wait and opened your door for you. At the main entrance, Natasha was already waiting for you. When you were about to run at her, he stopped you by the wrist.

“Have a great evening, and I’ll see you tonight.”

You nodded and smiled, “Promise you won’t arrive as beaten as I found you last night?”

“I’ll try my best.” You nodded and tiptoed, cupping his face with your hands.

Your fingers traced shapes in his cheeks. When you gathered enough courage, you kissed him fearlessly. His hands found your waist and embraced you, just to cup the back of your neck, his tongue found yours like he was starving.

And he felt like he was.

He had been waiting for this moment since the first time you kissed his cheek in farewell.

And now that he had you in that exact place, he was enjoying how soft your velvety lips felt, how your breath hitched with every grip of his hands.

“James…” You mumbled between kisses. “Please tell me you’re coming back.”

“What are you even talking about? I’m finally able to touch heaven with the tip of my fingers by kissing you…” He pecked your lips, “I’ll be back, my sunshine.”

“When’s my turn?” Natasha teased, getting closer to you.

“Fuck you, Natasha.” Bucky flipped her off.

You giggled and looked at her. Bucky was still holding you by your wrist, and now your hands rested on his arms.

“Be glad that I know you would never betray me.”

You shook your head, “We will be fine, James.”

He didn’t waste any chance he got and kissed you again. “I need to get going, I think it’s the third time we've tried to say goodbye.”

You created a distance and decided to walk to Natasha, who greeted you with a hug and a tight grip to keep you by her side. You waved bye at him, and finally, he left to run some errands.

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Also big thanks to @herejustforbuckybarnes because she has supported me since day 1, always reading my crazy ideas (no matter if it’s 1 am) she literally taught me how to format posts (I was a newbie I’ve only used tumblr to reblog). Also thank you to my girl on @buckysdecaflove who recently joined the team & has been beta reading and encouraging for a few months now I love you both so much! 🫂

@sassandscribbles you were the first comment reblog I had for the first fic I posted, I’ll never forget it 🥹

shoutout also for @erina00 thanks for always reading my work and recommending the it. @nicks-fowler you were one of the first recomms I’ve received for both of my fics as well as @cumming4seb 💕 @kileyking who’s also been reading me since the beginning 🫡

And a big thank you to @tw1sters @juniebjonesin @sheriff-bodecker @metal-armed-muse @phoenix-in-writing @wildflowersandvibranium 🫂 your kind comments, reblogs and dms are in my heart. 💕

And also a big thank you to @buckybarnesfic who’s always reblogging everyone, your account has a big place in everyone’s hearts!🥰

Lmao I get cheesy sometimes but I’m very very thankful with yall! 💕

I’ll be posting the second (and last part) for Lethal Love next week to celebrate. 🎉

More faked orgasms than you could count.

The phone number lit up on your screen—and you knew he was going to answer. He said he was always going to do so, but you also knew he was going to unleash all hell if he knew what your boyfriend had done to you this time.

You finally tapped the screen. Really hoping he was going to be busy with a meeting or with some of his colleagues.

“Good night, darling.” His rough-edged voice sounded through the phone.

“Hi, James. Caught you busy?” You mumbled.

“Never for you, sunshine.”

On the other side, Sam signed some contracts Bucky had been avoiding for days. Steve leaned on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Who’s it?” Steve mouthed to Sam—who mouthed back your name in silence.

“I’m amused she didn’t run away as soon as she learned who Bucky was.”

Sam chuckled.

“So, what do I owe this call to? Do you need some help with your rent again?”

Sam was about to take out his phone to e-wire the money.

“No!” You rushed, “Dear lord, no. That was a one-time thing, James. And I still have the money saved to pay you back, but you haven’t accepted it.”

Bucky shook his head, and Sam stopped himself.

“Talk to me, honey. What is it?”

“Just wanted to talk. You’re kind of my only friend now.”

“Don’t lie. I know you’ve met with Nat lately.”

“James, c’mon. She’s on your payroll—that doesn’t count as a friend if she gets paid to check up on me once in a while.”

“How low you think of me. Nat might be on my side, but she’s pretty much my troubled kid. She would never fake being someone’s friend just because I asked her to.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Where are you at? I can’t hear your usual rom-com in the background?”

“How do you know I’m not at home with my TV turned off?”

“Don’t make me ask Stark to track your phone as we speak.”

“Huh. Being friends with the mob is not always that fun.”

“Is that what I am now? Just a man in the mob—and here I am, thinking I was building an emporium.”

“An emporium of dubious origin.”

“Last warning before I dial Stark on my landline,” He scolded.

“I’m at a bar. Just hanging out.”

“On your own?”

You couldn’t hear, but Bucky stood up and started walking to one of his cars.

From the first day you met him, he realized you were something different. Something he would never have found in the world he lived in. He wanted to protect you from day one. The way you smiled lit up his own world. He had just bought you some coffee and books the first time you met him. He was paying a visit to his sister, Rebecca, at the bookstore he had bought her to launder some money.

You brought five books to the register and were yapping to Lia—Rebecca’s worker—trying to decide on just one.

Bucky stared at you while Rebecca feigned not to notice.

“Why don’t you just buy them all?” He asked, leaning on the desk.

“Oh, well. I can pay just for one.” You furrowed.

Bucky took out his credit card and placed it in front of Rebecca. She was already running the card through the machine while you were speechless.

“No. I mean… I was not asking for…” You were stumbling on your own words.

“Is that coffee shop next door good enough?” Bucky interrupted you, and Rebecca nodded, “Lia, can you go pick coffees for everyone—including you.”

Rebecca took the books from your hands and placed them in a pink bag.

You looked at him like he had three heads.

“James.” He offered his hand to greet you.

You shook his hand and said your name back

“Miss, what can I bring you?” Lia looked at you with puppy eyes—Rebecca giggled and guided her by the shoulders.

“I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You looked at him.

“Well, I bought those books, and I want to know why you wanted to buy them. A coffee would be needed for that.”

“Yeah. Kinda wanted to be alone.”

“What did he do now?” He was already heading to the main door.

Sam and Steve shook their head at the same time.

“Bucky’s fucked. That girl has him wrapped around her little finger.” Sam joked.

“And she doesn’t even look his way.”

“Wait, is she still with that Scott guy?”

“I think by his tone, he’s not even going to be alive soon…”

“He didn’t do anything. I think I’m just being dramatic.”

“Don’t you dare say that again. You’re not being dramatic, I don’t care what you did.”

He was already driving all the way to your favorite bar. The only one you visited.

“I found some messages with another girl.”

His hands clutched the steering wheel.

“That’s something big, sunshine.”

His tone was low. Almost a murmur.

He was the most feared man in town. He had a whole emporium at his feet; if he snapped his fingers, your boyfriend would’ve been dead without even looking like a crime. And yet there, he knew if he did that, he would be screwed with you. So, he could say, you were the only person he was afraid to mess with.

“I think I just misunderstood everything.”

You were trying to ease your mind—but deep down you knew he was right. It was a big deal, you felt it like that.

“If you just let me…” He mumbled.

“No, James. We’ve gone through this before… I don’t want him dead. I really love him. And you can’t go around threatening everyone who does me wrong—”

“Oh, so you admit he did you wrong.”

You sighed.

“How did that deal end with Fury?” You asked, trying to change topics.

He chuckled; it was fine. It was going to be a few minutes before he arrived at the bar. He spent the next ten minutes explaining vague things.

He could have been deeply in love with you, but he was not dumb enough to tell you all his details through a phone that could be tapped.

But it had been almost six months since the first time you met, and he had given you enough details that you could’ve claimed the bounty offered for his ass. And you never did, not even when you were struggling to make ends meet. But, instead, you cried on his shoulder for almost an hour because your boyfriend didn’t even want to take one or two double shifts to afford rent.

He made Stark find out who your landlord was and paid two months in advance, and you learned that when you were about to call your landlord to ask for more time—the confirmation of the two-month payment arrived at your apartment.

You didn’t tell Scott. He ‘helped’ you to pay those months, and when you got the full amount, you tried to pay him back. You were on your weekly ‘friendly date’ as you called them. Rebecca’s bookstore with some coffee or whatever thing you had asked for at the moment.

He didn’t even accept it.

“It’s a payback for all the times you had to stay late with me when I needed a warm moment.”

“That’s not something you should pay for…”

“I used to pay hookers to do that.” He said, sipping on his whiskey.

“Am I a hooker now?” You knitted your eyebrows in the middle.

His cheeks blushed immediately. “No!” He shouted, and you burst out laughing.

“I know what you meant, James. And I’m happy you feel comfortable enough with me to do such.”

“Now, are you done with deflecting the topic?” He said, coming back from his memories.

“I’m not deflecting! I was worried that you wouldn’t be able to convince Furry.”

He took his phone and put it back to his ear, “Look at you. Thinking I can’t manage my own business.”

He made his entrance at the bar and looked at you sitting at the bar zone with a watery drink in front of you. That cute dress he had seen you wear so many times, but never got tired of seeing.

“How long has that drink been sitting in front of you without being drunk?”

You furrowed your brow at his question and turned slowly just to see him standing at the entrance. He was wearing a black suit that could kill all the girls at the bar. His woody cologne filled the whole bar, or maybe you were so used to it that you could spot it anywhere, and a beard that he stopped shaving the moment you told him he looked more handsome with it.

“I didn’t ask you to come.” You said when he finally got closer to you.

“You don’t ask for a lot of things, I do the things for you ‘cause… I like your company.”

You smiled, and he tilted his head.

“Now, let’s get out of here.” He placed a bill on the table and made you get off the stool to walk with him—his right hand guided you by your lower back to the exit.

“The bookstore isn’t closed today.” You looked at him, worried. “And I don’t want you to make her close it again just because you don’t trust any other place to hang out with me in.”

“I’m taking you somewhere else. Do you trust me?”

“I did before you asked.” He husked a laugh, and you could swear he made it sound that pretty on purpose.

“I’m kinda busy right now, but I hated the idea of you being alone here. So, what about you coming with me to my place, and then I’ll take you home whenever you ask me. Promise.”

“I—don’t want to interrupt you…”

“You won’t. I’m just signing some things Sam asked me for. We can even go and buy from that restaurant you keep telling me and bring some take-out to Steve and Sam, or they are gonna chew my ass.”

“Is Natasha there?”

“No, sunshine. I’m sorry, she’s traveling now, but I can arrange something for you to see her soon.”

You smiled and nodded.

“My place?” A literal mansion with the biggest garden you had ever seen—multiple cars, a large number of people surrounding it, probably guarding it. “Do you really call this mansion ‘a place'?”

His hand was again on your lower back, and his free hand held the biggest bag of food while you held a smaller one.

“What fuckin’ took you so long?” Two men emerged from one hall.

They didn’t even look at you at first, until the black man nudged the blond’s shoulders.

The blond said your name, more like questioning it.

“Oh… yes… Steve, right?” You offered your hand, and he shook it. “And you must be Sam.”

Both of them nodded. "Nice to meet you.” Steve finally responded.

“We brought you food from my favorite place, hope you don’t mind I chose it.”

You noticed they were rigid in their foot, but both shook their heads.

Bucky tossed the bag at them and made you walk to his office.

“We’ll be in my office. Don’t worry, Sam. You will get your contracts signed in an hour or two.”

He said before closing the door.

“Did… Bucky bring a girl here?” Steve nodded, pursing his lips.

“Apparently.”

“He told us she was young… but how old is she?”

“Twenty-four… Twenty-five next month.” Steve said like he was reciting something.

“Did he make you study her or what?” Steve nodded.

“Well, you should be ready for the cute, pink party you’re going to throw next month for little Miss Sunshine here.”

You were placing the containers on a big table in the middle of the office, while Bucky brought the papers he needed to sign.

“So, you talk about me with your friends?” You teased.

“If any man surrounding me talked to me half as teasingly as you did, he would be a dead man, you know?”

“Yeah, but you don’t like them as much as you like me.”

“And don’t take advantage of that, sunshine.”

He knew you meant as friends. You were always clear that this was platonic.

You never really told him, but you liked him the same way as he liked you, but between your fear of his life, the fear of starting all over again after five years, and the clear age gap between you two. You didn’t want him to know your true feelings.

“I’m gonna be busy for a few minutes. I got some books for you, they are over there on my desk. Read for a while, and then we will talk as much as you want.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to buy me more books…”

“Becca told me you were there last week and only bought one, even when I was very clear that I’d pay for any book you wanted.”

You were going to kill Rebecca for tattletaling on you.

“I—didn’t want to take advantage of it.”

“Well, I’m asking you to take advantage of me.” He placed the paper on the side and continued to the next.

You moved a container closer to him. “Eat, please.”

“Thank you, darling.”

He knew he was in the wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have brought you to his life—but you were that light he thought he had lost when he started this life, and he was sure he was going to make you understand that even if it meant spending his whole time with you by his side.

Some minutes later, he saw you typing on your phone with rushed hands.

“Is that who I think it is?” Bucky didn’t even look up.

“Uh… if I told you no, are you gonna believe me?”

“Not really. It was more of a rhetorical question.” He fixed his eyes on you. “What did he tell you about all those texts?”

“That she was a friend… and I was not seeing the full image.”

“Well, tell him you’re with a friend too. And turn off your phone before I take it.”

You giggled and nodded.

You hated to lie to Scott… But when it was about Bucky, something made you lie. You didn’t even have a good excuse to tell, you were spending your time with an older guy in a bookstore, let alone now in his house.

“Now, you eat. We got a lot of talking to get to.”

After a while, he was finally done with all his signings and took you to the couch in his office.

You were sitting on the corner while he leaned on his side, looking at you—you were explaining the whole situation in full detail. He just nodded and let you finish. He didn’t even gesture all the hate he wanted to show; he wanted you to feel comfortable telling him all the details.

“I’m trying to understand, sweetie. But I can’t. Look at you, why are you wasting your time with that thing?”

You chuckled. “He used to be a good guy…”

“Yeah. And I used to be that too, but look how the tables have turned.”

You rolled your eyes, “You’re a good guy still.”

A smile twitched on the corner of his lip.

“Flattering. But I’m not a good guy.”

“You’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“Well, you’re something different.”

“I’m sure that’s what you say to every woman…”

Clutching the armrest with his hand, he looked at you.

“I’m not even going to dignify what you just said with an answer.”

A knock on his door made him grunt.

“I’m busy, fuck off,” Bucky growled.

“It’s not optional,” Clint shouted through the door.

“Who’s that?” You didn’t recognize the voice from earlier.

“Your call to go home.” He seemed pissed off. “C’mon, sweetheart.”

“Oh…” You furrowed your brow, looking at him with a hint of sadness.

“If this idiot is here,” Bucky said as he stepped outside, where a man with a sleeve full of tattoos was waiting, “that can only mean something went terribly wrong, and I have to fix his mess.”

Clint handed him a gun, and he placed it on his back, tugging it between his jeans and his shirt.

You tried not to look so impressed by the gun, but your eyes were still focused on the arms Clint was still holding.

“But…” You stuttered and stopped, looking at him.

This was a side you had never seen—stern, pensive, tense—his jaw clenched every time he looked at Clint.

“Banner’s gonna take you home, and I’ll call you as soon as I’m free.”

He made you walk faster; his eyes were fixed on the main door. Now, Clint, Steve, and Sam followed him some feet behind, while his hand gripped your arm to be by his side.

“Who’s Banner?” Your weary voice had him on his nerves. He knew you were completely right to be worried—but he hated the idea of him being the reason.

“Go to the jet, I’ll be there in five.” He ordered his men, all of them nodded, and walked past behind you.

A man who seemed too calm to work for him waited in the entrance, too.

“Sunshine, you know who I am, you know the implications of the life I live. Now, you’re gonna follow every instruction Banner gives you. You’re gonna go to your apartment, read whatever you want, wait for my call, and we’ll have one ‘friendly date’ as soon as I’m back.”

“Why does this feel like a goodbye, Bucky?”

Bucky scoffed a laugh. “Not even the toughest man could deprive me of seeing you.”

His eyes were deep—for the first time, the ocean blue nestled in his eyes was almost nowhere to be seen, and being so near him, you noticed those scars that bedecked his face.

“Promise you’ll be fine?”

He looked down, noticing a pink hair scrunchie that wrapped around your wrist. He traced a path from your finger to it, taking and putting it in his pocket. “I think now I need to come back and give you this, right?”

“Be careful,” You mumbled, but before you could say anything else, Banner gripped your shoulders.

“We need to get going.” You saw how Bucky walked without even batting an eye at you.

The drive back home was tense; you fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, and you stared at the city fading through your window.

“You’re a tough one.” Banner finally spoke.

“Huh?”

“You look so innocent, so cute in your dresses—I didn’t even trust you for the first two months. Steve asked me to follow you around for two months straight. We were sure that as soon as you learned who he was, you were going to tattletale on him

You hummed, “Well… It’s not like I’m completely fine with what he does, but… I guess… He’s been kind to me, that should count for something, shouldn’t it?"

“You’re tough, and kind.” He pursed his lips and nodded.

The car stopped in front of your building, and he looked at you, “Do all of us a favor, don’t leave your apartment for a minute, he’ll call you as soon as this thing gets handled. Just don’t put yourself in danger while we’re not near. We need him focused… and you’re quite distracting for him.”

“Oh… I’m sorry, but I’ll do so.” You got out of the car and looked at him, “Nice to meet you, Banner.”

“See you later.”

You nodded and saw him walking away to prepare his gear suit.

You sat on the kitchen bar while you continued scrolling on your phone.

This was your life. The life you had chosen to have by his side since you met. Since the first date, he told you who he was, what he had done—that he worked alone, and the only man he trusted was Sam. And then, the whole undercover as a Congressman appeared, and they drifted away, making you even more alone than you were before.

Sam always took care of you, and he invited Sarah over very often, but after that, it was only you, the neighbors who caught you on your daily walk, and that was it.

He came back to the kitchen and saw you lost in your thoughts.

“Something wrong?” He leaned, hauling you between his arms, and you shook your head.

“C’mon, sweetie. I know something is haunting your thoughts. Talk to me.”

You furrowed, “Do you think there will be a reconciliation with Sam?”

He kissed your temple and left his lips there for a minute, “Not really. He’s still very mad about this whole Thunderbolts thing. And he’s kinda right, but I need to keep an eye on them if Valentina’s still behind them.”

You turned around and hugged him by the waist, “I’m just tired of being here alone—and Sarah keeps asking to come, but I don’t want to make Sam more upset by her bringing the kids.”

His lips were resting on your crown while he furrowed.

“You know you’re not a secret just because. This is for your protection, mine, even your smelly cat. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Don’t call Alpine smelly, that’s why she hates you.”

“Well, if she weren’t smelly, I wouldn’t call her that way.”

He scooped you into his arms before you could answer.

“Now, let me have some of this before I leave to deal with those shitheads.”

He tossed you carefully in your bed and knelt between your legs, unzipping his jeans.

“Bucky! You’ll be late.”

“And what are they gonna do? Start without me?”

He lifted your dress and hooked a finger in your panties just to slide them aside. His throbbing length leaked already while he towered over you. His dog tags hanging by his neck, while he positioned himself at your entrance, his tip slowly kissed your entrance.

“Maybe when I get back, we could start planning about that baby you told me last night you wanted.”

He slid inside slowly. Your inner walls clenched at the feeling.

“I was… not serious.” You pinched your eyes closed when he started to thrust slowly. His arms now fell to your sides, and he started to peck your cheeks.

“No, you weren’t. This is the third time you’ve mentioned how much you want to be full of me. How much you would love to have some super babies…” He chuckled.

You bit your lip and grasped his hard gear suit from behind.

“What do you think? When I come back, we can talk about you getting rid of that damn birth control.”

“Not with you going on missions every week.” You scolded.

“I’ll deal with that the moment we learn you’re expecting our first child.” He rolled his hips carefully.

“First? How many does Sergeant Barnes want?”

“Old style, baby. As many as you want to give me.” You laughed and looked at him.

“You’re crazy.”

He finally spurted his seed within you and scrambled into your arms, but before even slowing his hips, he straightened out and started circling your clit, “I’m not leaving until you give me one.”

“I gave you one already in the morning,” You whined, clutching the blanket under you.

“But I need one before I leave.”

You faded as soon as the orgasm started to wash over you.

“I promise I’ll be back soon,” he said, kissing your lips. “See you tonight.”

When he finally slipped out, you missed the contact between your thighs.

“Leaving already?” You pouted, coming down from your peak.

“Tonight, I promise.”

You sighed and saw him leaving.

“Gear up,” Walker said, tossing a tablet at Bucky, “We are leaving in twenty.”

“I’m not leaving nowhere.” Bucky furrowed, looking at the tablet.

“Something came up, and unless you want us to leave alone. You’re coming with us.”

He sighed and started to read the information on the tablet.

“And what the hell are you wearing now? A woman’s perfume?”

He barely twitched a smile in the corner of his lips when he remembered the way your arms hugged him while he thrusted against you.

“Mind your damn business, Walker.”

He said, walking to the Quinjet.

It was supposed to be easy. Just some document retrieval—and somehow a one-day mission became a two-day shift he couldn’t skip.

He had been texting you, letting you know he was doing fine and we’d be home as soon as possible, but a bad manoeuvre on Walker’s side provoked a bullet to rip through Bucky’s gear suit. Alexei and Walker carried him to the car and rushed to the nearest hospital.

He was bleeding and almost unconscious—his phone kept ringing nonstop.

And then, you received the phone call.

Your last name came through the phone.

“Speaking.” You were sitting on the couch trying to get a hold of Bucky.

“Mr. Barnes got you listed as an emergency contact. Is that correct, ma’am?”

You sighed and stood up immediately. He had prepared you for this. You always knew this was a possibility.

She gave you the location, and without thinking much, you hurried yourself to the hospital where he was.

When you came into the hospital, you recognized his team there.

They didn’t even bat an eye at you. Why would they? They didn’t even know what kind of life Bucky had outside the tower.

You walked to the reception bay.

“Good afternoon,” you took out your ID and said your name, “I was called for the patient James Buchanan Barnes.”

Walker nudged Yelena’s shoulder as soon as he heard you asking for Bucky.

“Oh, you’re listed as his wife. Is that correct, ma’am?”

You nodded and smiled.

“Wait, wait, wait—” Yelena rushed, “I don’t know who this girl is, but she’s not Barnes’ wife. He’s not married.”

The nurse furrowed. He had warned you before this could happen, so you were prepared. You took your marriage certificate from your bag and showed it to the nurse.

“It looks pretty real to me,” She directed to Yelena.

“She doesn’t even have his last name!”

“Well, he’s Bucky Barnes. It was for protection—” you interjected.

Walker nodded with a thinking pout.

"I’m gonna validate this, but in the meantime, she’s got all right to be in the room with him.”

“How’s he doing?” You went back.

“He’s doing fine, his recovery is fast, and he will be out tomorrow. He just needs to rest.”

“Can I see him?” She nodded, but Yelena stopped you by your wrist.

“Are you really letting her into Bucky Barnes’ hospital room without any vigilance?”

You sighed, “Yelena, if you want, you all can come. I don’t care.”

Yelena tilted at the team, and the four of them walked behind you. The nurse escorted you all to Bucky’s hospital room. He was already awake when the nurse motioned for you to come in.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing here?”

“Sweetheart?!” They all shouted in unison.

Bucky sighed while you walked to his bed.

“Well, they called me. They never do, this had to be something important if I was called.” You stroked his hair, and he furrowed.

“I’m fine. Walker’s an idiot and didn’t cover as I damned asked for.”

“Stop right there. Yes. I can be the most imbecile, I can be whatever you want, but you’re not going to make it like this is nothing, Barnes.” Walker walked and motioned to you immediately.

He grunted and kissed your knuckles. “Yes, I’m married. We’ve been together for almost five years now, but we got married last year.”

“Five years?! And you didn’t mind telling us about it before?!” Yelena chimed in.

“It was better that way. I was still on a dubious legal status when we got together, and didn’t want to make such a fuss about it.”

“And he calls her ‘sweetheart’, by the way,” Bob said, shyly.

You giggled. “I told you that you needed to be kinder to them.” You stroked his hair again.

“And she’s a sweetheart!” Bob was still amused by you.

“Shoot.” Bucky sat in the armrest, and you stood up next to him, leaning on his body, his arm wrapped around your hip.

“How?!” Alexei chipped.

“We met accidentally.” Bucky answered immediately, you nudged his side, “We met at a bar, Sam pushed me to ask her for her number, and somehow she accepted it.”

“Why?!” Ava asked you directly. You chuckled.

“He was nice. He’s softer than you think.”

“No, I’m not.” Bucky mumbled. Really trying to keep his stern figure in front of them.

You rolled your eyes and motioned them to continue.

“Where do you live?!” Alexei continued the interrogation.

“Uh… Brooklyn?” You tilted your head, and Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Did you really just ask for that?!”

“Were you planning to tell us?” Bob fidgeted while he asked.

“Not really,” Bucky said shyly, and you scolded him with your eyes. “Yeah. We were planning to, but not so soon.”

You smiled.

“Is she always this sweet?”

“Don’t know how,” Bucky admitted.

“Are you planning on having kids?!” Alexei asked, and everyone scolded him immediately.

“What? We need to know if we’re having more mini winter soldiers!”

“That’s a plan, but not… in the foreseeable future.”

A ring on your phone took you out of the conversation.

‘Wilson.’

Bucy furrowed as soon as he saw it.

“Did you tell him? Did he answer you?!” Bucky was perplexed.

“Well, I was worried—and needed some help. Who do you think took me to the hospital?!”

“Wilson knows?!” Yelena seemed surprised.

“Yes. He was our witness; his best man, Sarah, his sister, was my maid of honor and witness, too. Since Bucky didn’t want a lot of people involved, we were just four and my family.”

“Does your family approve of him?” Ava really tried not to sound harsh.

“They love him. My mom loves to have him around.”

“This is too much,” Bob said and walked away, “But… I guess welcome to the family?”

“Thank you, Bob.” You smiled fondly at him, and he was pretty impressed by it.

“Now, do you have any other questions for my wife, or can we leave for home now?”

Alexei lifted his hand.

“I’m not answering any question about my sexual life to you, Alexei.”

And as soon as he lifted it, he put it down.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He mumbled in your ear, and you shook your head.

“It’s fine, honey. But I gotta go, I need to pick up Alpine, she must be ruining all Sam’s couches.”

“Who the hell’s Alpine?” Ava questioned.

“Our cat!” You took out your phone. Your lockscreen showed your courthouse wedding. Bucky was wearing a black suit, while you had a long but simple bridal dress.

“Very domestic from you, Barnes.” Walker teased, and Bucky threw daggers at him immediately.

Then you finally showed a photo of Bucky and you holding Alpine.

“She’s the cutest. I’ll bring her soon so you can all meet her!”

Bucky shook his head and guided you to the sliding door.

“See you, guys! Nice to meet you!” You said as he walked you out.

“I knew he smelled different.” Walker nodded, pursing his lips.

"Hi, Nat," you murmured.

"Are you okay?" You shook your head, "Do you want to talk about it?" A second shook.

Steve and Bucky remained in the doorway, watching as Natasha leaned in to listen to you speak.

"Do you want us to call someone?" Natasha cocked her head at you.

“No, I'm fine. I'm just... tired."

Natasha frowned, tilting her head.

"I have a suggestion," Natasha whispered.

"What is it?"

"A testosterone-free night. Just you and me. Away from this apartment."

Bucky heard the proposal, and his body walked towards you. Steve stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Didn't you tell me she hasn't been seeing her friend Lola?" Steve whispered. Bucky nodded and knitted his eyebrows in the middle.

"Natasha will take good care of her if she agrees to go out with her."

You stared at the bar in front of you, the bar seemingly trapped in time. The night was cold, but it helped cool the heat felt in your head.

When both of you entered, you understood why she liked it so much. It was a place with music at just the right volume: it didn't overwhelm, but it allowed for private talking. You sat at a booth that was almost hidden. Natasha left you at the table to bring two beers.

"What do you want to talk about?" Natasha asked before taking a sip from her bottle.

"Honestly, I feel like an idiot. I've yelled at more people in twenty-four hours than I've yelled at anyone in a month."

"Why is that?" You finished sipping your beer.

"First, my brothers..."

Natasha gestured, and you understood that you didn't have to explain so much.

"They come and want to judge Jamie for a fight that none of us fought."

You paused to look at your hands, which were trembling just at the memory.

“Then... something else happened, but Bucky doesn't know about it."

Natasha reached out to caress your hand, silently assuring you it would remain between the two of you.

"I found a box..." Natasha nodded. "It contained what I assume were the remains of his classified documents."

"Oh." Natasha could only say that, and you nodded.

"I saw photos of him in the cryogenic chamber, photos of him as a young man—and then some guys in the café treated him worse than a circus animal."

"And you exploded," Natasha replied.

"I yelled at them that they were morbid, that they had no idea what Jamie had been through."

"Jamie..." Natasha chuckled at the nickname.

"The point is..." You continued, trying to ignore the laugh, "I hate that people treat him like that. I think it's despicable."

“Barnes is used to it."

"He shouldn't be. It makes me angry that he's so calm about it. I don't even know why it hurts me so much."

Natasha smiled. "You know why it hurts."

You shook your head, your cheeks beginning to heat. Natasha smiled again, and you could see the mockery hidden behind the grin.

"No... I don't..." Your brow furrowed.

"Relax." She laughed. "I'm not saying you're in love with him, I'm just saying that... you care about him."

"Don't you all do the same?" You really tried to avoid the claim.

"Not like you do."

"Will that be a problem with him?" Natasha shook her head.

"Not if no one makes it a problem."

Natasha decided to change the subject. She could sense you starting to question things you perhaps didn't want to deep on them yet.

You started joking about other things. Natasha noticed how the weight on your shoulders was becoming less noticeable, your laughter beginning to flow more naturally. She could see you enjoying the beer, laughing at a silly joke, playing with the old seeds on a saucer in front of you.

Steve drank a beer on the couch while Bucky sat on one of the small chairs at his kitchen bar.

"She's fine," Steve said without even looking at him.

The elevator rang, Bucky tensed his shoulders, and Natasha opened the door without even knocking. She noticed Bucky's face darken when he didn't see you come in.

"It's okay, she went to her apartment to change clothes. She spilled beer on herself and hates the smell."

Bucky nodded.

"She's better." Natasha opened the refrigerator to get a beer. "We talked, she vented, she drank a lot of beer. She'll be fine in a few days."

You finally came in, closed the door carefully, noticed the glint of alcohol in your eyes, while your cheeks looked heated, and you smiled calmly at him. He allowed himself to feel that twinge in his chest as he watched you relax again.

Steve and Nat curled up on the couch. They watched them like spectators from afar—not really trying to interrupt whatever was going on between you two.

"How was it?" he said without moving from his chair, and you approached the bar.

"I had a good time. Nat... She's good."

Silence.

"Sorry about the coffee shop. It was reactive."

"Thanks for trying to defend the indefensible."

"You're not indefensible," you furrowed, "Not to me."

He sighed and nodded. It was a lost case to try to argue.

Steve and Nat said goodbye a couple of hours later, Bucky accompanied you to your apartment, and both of you could notice a change in the air without really knowing why.

Two days later, Lola came running into the hallway, rushing out of the elevator as if she had been thrown out of it. She didn't even notice Bucky leaving his apartment as she ran directly to your door without thinking.

‘Did she leave her door open again?’ Bucky thought. He decided not to worry about it—choosing to believe that you had left it open so that Lola could come in quickly.

You were already waiting for her with dinner, and she was carrying two bottles of wine in her hand.

"Were your brothers here?" Lola was flustered as she set things down on the coffee table; she looked like she had run a marathon.

"They saw Jamie face to face." You stroked your temple. Lola's jaw dropped to the floor.

"And what happened?" You denied with a gesture while serving the food.

"Nothing. I made my brothers leave, and Jamie go to his apartment."

"Boo, boring." She stuck her tongue out and rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't interested in watching my brothers fight a super soldier."

She could see how hurt you were just by mentioning that scenario.

"It would have been interesting."

Lola tried to defuse the moment—and then she noticed your arm, examining the scars from the accident.

"And how are you healing your scars?"

"Better."

"And you said Bucky wouldn't change your life." You gloated in front of her.

"You're an idiot." You smiled when you thought of him.

"But I'm perceptive."

You sat down to dinner, playing with time, listening to music, and singing loudly. You felt a hint of normalcy after the days you had spent spiraling with all the situations.

That same night, in Sam's backyard, with a couple of beers and the cold night air, Bucky and Sam sat in a couple of folding chairs, saying nothing.

"You're quieter than usual, and that's saying a lot." Sam played with the bottle in his hand.

Bucky grunted.

"Steve?" He shook his head.

"Natasha?" He shook his head again. Sam leaned back on his knees, staring at him.

"The sweet neighbor...What’s her name?"

There was a long sigh. Sam let out a loud laugh. Bucky narrowed his eyes.

"Buck, it took me two seconds at that Gala to realize she was more than just a neighbor. And it was thrilling to see you on someone's arm and her looking so... confident." He faked shivers.

Bucky threw his head back, and Sam could see his Adam's apple moving in his neck from the tension.

"Well, is she okay?" Bucky shook his head.

"She had a discussion with her brothers for... being my friend?" He sighed, "It sounds ridiculous."

"What do you think?" Sam leaned toward him, and Bucky opened his eyes to look at him.

"I don't think my opinion should matter in this situation." He paused, "But if I had to give it—her brothers are right."

"Do you really believe that, or is that just your self-loathing talking?"

Bucky fixed his gaze on Sam, who was taking a long drink.

"I hate you."

"What I mean is..." Sam moved a little closer. "If you really care, tell her. Just do something."

They both fell silent. He hated talking with Sam, hated having to stay quiet so as not to prove him right. Which was a very frequent occurrence.

You walked along the sidewalk of the Smithsonian, the same you had ignored so many times. The Captain America exhibit had never interested you—until you found yourself wondering if you had feelings for Bucky, his friend of literally a lifetime.

As you entered, you looked at every image—every piece of Steve's history, his change after the serum, the little family history they were able to recover—or that he dared to tell.

Everything was fine until you found yourself in a different room.

"A fallen comrade." "James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes."

You swallowed hard when you saw it. Your hands were sweating, your spine felt cold, and your throat was dry.

There were photos similar to the ones you had seen in the box at Bucky's house.

His smile. God, that smile made you tremble for a moment. His eyes were still full of the future, hope of changing the world.

There was a short video with Steve. They were both laughing. It wasn't a sad laugh, nor a sarcastic one. It was honest and sincere. And that hurt even more than seeing anything else.

You were in front of the memorial they had made for him before the whole world found out he was 'The Winter Soldier'.

"Born in 1917, Barnes grew up the oldest of four. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Barnes enlisted in the army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor..."

You began to read, and your heart sank as you read that distant date. 1917?

Did he even get to see anyone in his family while they were still alive? How lonely he felt when he snapped out of the programming? How did Steve help him go through that whole new world?

You sat down on a bench in front of the text. You repeated it over and over again, trying to wrap up your mind around all those words.

"Captured by Hydra troops later that fall, Barnes endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America."

Tortured? You couldn't even imagine the unspeakable and inhuman things he must had endured, even before they turned him into who he was forced to be for decades. You couldn't even try to think about how he was tortured—how his mind was taken and molded into what he was trapped in for decades.

Tears began to fall from your eyes as you saw more photos, more candid videos of him. You could portray him as a charming man—who probably had all the ladies at his feet.

That smile must have charmed half of Brooklyn.

That Bucky no longer existed; that man had died, been buried, brought back to life, destroyed in life, lost his body, his name, his will. That man was not there even when he lived in the same hallway as you did.

You felt something in your chest, a twinge that made a groan escape your lips. You felt like mourning the death of a man you had never met, yet he was only a few feet away from you every day.

You could understand why Steve had so much faith in him, why he protected him so much. He never saw the soldier; he saw the friend who protected him on and off the battlefield.

And then your gaze fell on the last line of the text.

"Bucky Barnes 1917 - 1944"

He was only twenty-seven when he was declared killed in action. He had been presumed dead at the age of twenty-seven. It felt so young, it couldn't even be put into perspective. You understood that he was a grown man, a trained soldier, but no human being should have had to live through what he did.

You walked away from the memorial, but it was impossible to completely escape the memory of Bucky. You sat down on a small bench where you could see the entire room, dozens of photos of Bucky in different places and moments.

And then you noticed a second part of the memorial. This was different. A bitter undertone could be felt.

"Winter Soldier: From Friend to Foe." "…Accused of bombing the Vienna International Centre, claiming the lives of many innocent dignitaries..." "A world-wide manhunt continued to track down the covert assassin, whose natural identity was revealed as James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes: lifelong friend of Captain Steve Rogers, believed to have been killed in action in 1944…"

You couldn't stop the feeling of burning in your eyes. You even remembered that whole disaster—your father really tried to keep you away from that. There, you understood why.

Bucky had been involved in that—and your father, ever the protective one, was trying to keep you from seeing it.

"Captain America himself led the effort to bring Barnes in, only to later aid in his escape from custody, having been convinced of his innocence." "Steve's loyalty to his old friend, coupled with his refusal to sign the Sokovia Accords, led to the dissolution of the Avengers…"

A hurt but truthful smile was formed on your lips—you were still trying to comprehend how important they were to each other, but something was sure—Steve was the only thing he had left from his past life, and probably one of the few people who never stopped trusting in him.

"The current whereabouts of Barnes remains unknown, having been labeled a fugitive following his escape from custody…"

All of this was placed in front of a photo of him while he was still a soldier—while he was still Sergeant Barnes. The blue and white light from the memorial hurt your eyes, almost on purpose.

You felt cold, unsure if it was your body or if the room was really that cold. Your eyes were still wet, and your cheeks were flushed. You hugged your elbows to feign some warmth—your heart heaved while you tried to calm yourself down.

You couldn't stop repeating his age, couldn't erase the dates, couldn't stop thinking about that young man suffering that hell on earth. Being accused once and twice. Even when he was set free, he was still facing the consequences of actions he was not capable of doing in different circumstances.

You couldn't even stop crying, no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you told yourself that today that man was safe.

You didn't even notice it, but Steve entered the room and sat down quietly on one side.

He left enough space in case you needed privacy. You felt it immediately; when you turned around, you noticed the blond man with a baseball cap and a leather jacket. You smiled at him, trying to hide the fact that you had been crying for the past few minutes.

Steve cleared his throat. "He was my only friend for years." His gaze was fixed on the last sentence of the memorial. "He used to be first at everything, first to enter, first to accept."

Steve's words did not offer any comfort; they caused so much pain that you touched your chest to find some solace.

"He was a charmer; he had every woman in the neighborhood at his feet. His smile lit up every room he walked into."

You smiled at the mental image.

"Everyone thinks they know him from what they read, from what the news showed, but no one has any idea who Bucky was. Who my Bucky was. I’ve said it before, even when I had nothing, I always had him."

You swallowed hard. You couldn't believe everything that was taken from Bucky.

"You would have loved that Bucky."

You tried to smile, tried to pretend your chest didn't hurt.

"I'm sure that Bucky wouldn't even have looked my way with all the women he had around him."

You wanted to joke; you really needed to. You couldn't admit the pain you felt.

Steve laughed. "He would have been a gentleman to you."

"Do you come here often?" you asked, looking him straight in the eye, immediately changing the subject. You refused to dwell on that sentence.

"When they thawed me out, I used to come here often."

You really tried to imagine how difficult that first moment must have been for him.

"Then I found out he was alive, that the whole world feared him." He looked down, still hurting when he thought about it.

"When I was struggling to find him, I started coming every week."

You swallowed hard.

"Why does it say here that he has yet to be found?"

"They really tried to amend it, but Bucky was tired of his story being told from someone else's perspective… So it remains like this until he's ready to tell his story."

"It's sad that people come here and this is what they find—and yet… Bucky is walking not completely free, and is always being judged—" You stopped yourself from rambling.

Steve chuckled, "He will eventually come to peace with the idea of the rest of his life being told."

You bit your lip. You tried to understand him, but the idea of this whole thing being here telling utter lies, was aberrant for you.

"I hope so. He deserves to be seen…"

"As you and I see him?" The grin on his face caused something within you.

"And what does that have to do with me?" You raised your eyebrow.

"Buck told me what happened to your brothers. I figured that would make you pensive, and I wanted to see if you were okay."

You nodded.

"I'm fine… just… angry."

Steve looked at you, "I'm glad to know that he found a… friend, that sees him the way I see him."

A friend. That title lingered on your mind.

He said goodbye after a while, leaving you alone for a little longer, but he could see something in your face that he never thought he would see in someone else.

Someone else mourning a man who was still alive. Someone mourning Bucky.

It had become a habit for Steve to visit Bucky's apartment, checking in during the week to make sure he was okay. At least he did before you arrived.

While Steve took a sip of his coffee, looking out the window, Bucky was finishing his at the table.

Suddenly, a different knock on the door pulled them out of their thoughts. They both recognized your knock on the door and knew well you were still working. Bucky walked quietly to open the door.

There was Lola, with bright red hair, red lipstick, and huge eyes.

Technically, they didn't know each other. Technically, they had never been introduced, but they both knew each other. He had seen her a couple of times in the building, and she... She knew who he was.

"Lola?" Bucky tilted his head.

She pushed him inside, looking from side to side down the hallway. He was taken aback that someone as small as her didn't hesitate for a second to push him, as if he weren't who he was.

His body tensed; he wasn't used to someone invading his space so abruptly. However, all the courage she had in front of Bucky vanished when he saw Steve behind them.

Her cheeks turned red, her eyes grew twice their size, and her lips parted slightly. Steve smiled sideways, raising his hand in the air to wave.

"Sorry for the intrusion," Lola said, ,immediately removing her hands from Bucky's chest. "I didn't want her to see me if she came back early."

"Is she okay?" Steve approached, and Lola took a step back.

Bucky had heard countless stories about Lola's bravery, about how she had invited guys from the bar to her apartment, how she could look strangers straight in the eye and flirt without a shred of hesitation. But she acted as if Steve were the deadly weapon in the room. All her cocky behavior was nowhere to be seen now that she was in front of Steve.

"Yeah, she's fine, it's just that..." She paused for a moment to look up, trying to get her mind to agree with her mouth. "It's her birthday soon."

Bucky felt a weight in his chest. He sometimes forgot that things like birthdays were still important to the rest of the world. The rest of the world hadn't lived in anonymity for decades. The rest of the world hadn't been withdrawn from those kinds of things.

"When?" Bucky pressed his lips into a line.

"This weekend." She admitted, putting her hand behind her neck.

"And what do you need?" Steve interjected. "How can we help?"

"I'd like to organize something. She... isn't on good terms with her brothers, and... she hasn't mentioned doing anything that day. I can't allow that."

Steve stepped aside to offer her a seat, but noticing how it made her nervous, he decided to return to his original position at the window, moving as far away as possible.

"I can offer my house."

"Oh." That was the only sound that came out of Lola's lips.

"We'll buy the food, just take care of bringing her over and make sure the girl who bakes the best cookies in New York has a beautiful cake, okay?" Steve instructed the brunette, and she nodded slowly.

Bucky remained silent, tense, processing what had just happened. Steve understood perfectly well that Bucky didn't know how to react to the information given and decided to make the decisions while he navigated his thoughts.

Steve and Lola exchanged numbers and decided that Bucky would pretend he didn't know about her birthday and invite her to Steve's house to spend the day.

Bucky had ignored you for the rest of the week. He had followed orders for decades, faced enemies three times his size, but he couldn't stand in front of you without feeling guilty for not knowing about your birthday, for not remembering it from those times he read what Natasha helped him research. But back then, he didn't care about knowing your birthday.

Like every Saturday afternoon, you were about to leave your apartment to look for him. You had planned to stay at his apartment to prevent him from finding out about your birthday. However, for the first time, he asked you to go with him to Steve's house. You accepted without hesitation. At least that was two men who didn't even have the slightest idea that it was your birthday.

"Is Steve okay?" You asked, taking Bucky's hand to get off the motorcycle. He nodded.

"He got bored of my apartment," he lied.

You entered the apartment and immediately noticed that the blond man was nowhere to be found. Bucky noticed you looking everywhere and continued walking until you reached the kitchen. Upon entering the space, he swallowed hard. He couldn't believe he was feeling nervous.

When you opened the door, Lola ran in for a hug, practically throwing herself at you. Bucky stepped aside. He could see how you were starting to cry on Lola's shoulder. You were mumbling something to each other as both nodded. He could now notice the strong connection you two had. The way you melted in her arms without even thinking twice—how you started to cry with no shame as soon as she held you.

Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Sharon came over to congratulate you. Bucky felt out of place. He didn't even know if he should congratulate you. How should he do it? His mind was in a tailspin as he thought about what to do.

By the time the rest were done, you approached him. You knew he was hesitating, and he needed a bit of help. He could see your crystal-clear eyes, your huge smile, and your flushed cheeks.

You wrapped your arms around him, your hands connecting at his back, encircling his waist, and resting your head on his chest. His human arm wrapped around you after a couple of seconds; the metal one took a little longer to do so.

The rest of the people decided to pretend they didn't see the scene, except for Steve. He could see how Bucky buried his face in your hair, how he allowed himself to fill his lungs with your scent, and closed his eyes.

"Happy birthday," he murmured to you.

"Thank you for this." The vibration of your voice echoed in Bucky's chest.

When you detached, you finally became aware of everything around you and, for a moment, forgot that it was the first birthday of your whole life that you were away from your family.

Lola was holding your arm, and for the first time in your life, you saw her without a sarcastic comment, without a flirtatious smile. She felt inhibited around these people, and that was something new.

"Lola, please. I need to go to the bathroom," you pleaded. "I promise you, they're great people."

Lola refused with a shake. Steve noticed the exchange between you and came over to help you while Bucky was looking for beers in the kitchen.

"Everything okay?" Steve smiled as he approached. Lola's grip tightened on your arm.

"Could you entertain Lola while I go to the bathroom?"

You managed to break free from the grip and walked to the bathroom. Lola froze for a moment as she took a breath to try to regain some of the dignity she had lost over the last few days in front of Steve Rogers.

"So you've known her for a long time?" Steve tried to make conversation. She nodded.

"Yeah, it's been a few years." She breathed out a nervous laugh, "But not as long as you and Bucky."

"Almost impossible."

Silence.

"Steve—should I be worried?" she finally asked, Steve's posture changing slightly.

"About...?" He immediately realized what her question might imply.

"I'm sorry, don't get me wrong. I don't mean that he'll hurt her, or that he's a danger to her, but—"

In the years since Bucky had come back into his life, Steve never thought he'd find himself having a conversation with a girl about whether Bucky was someone trustworthy to have a relationship with.

"He has feelings for her too, he just... needs time to figure it out." She nodded as she swayed in her center.

"Let's hope it doesn't take too long."

They both nodded.

Next Part.

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“It’s a battlefield out there,” he was saying, voice easily carrying from the living room where he adjusted his tie for the twentieth time. “And the war is raging, sweetheart.”

You hum in response, still in the bathroom, necklace finally behaving and sitting flat against your skin.

“I’ll be on your six the whole time.” Bucky was still talking, cufflinks secured and pocket square perfectly plumped. “An undivided front. We’re gonna be ruthless.”

“You are not helping my nerves,” you call back, losing the fight with the delicate clasp of your earring.

“Then I’ll tell you this. I got you. You’ll be on my arm, right beside me, all night. My beautiful wife.”

You step out from your quarters into the living room, anxiously smoothing the silk of your gown, eyes seeking his for approval.

The way his gaze raked down your body felt like he’d touched you with fire.

He stepped forward to take your hand, delighting you with a small spin as he took in the gown that glittered like fine jewels against your skin.

“Look at my girl. My best girl. You think I’m letting you out of my sight dressed like that?”

In the limo to the event you had to smack away his wandering hands a few times, and you found you were almost thankful marrying Bucky had given you plenty of practice at reapplying your kiss-smudged lipstick in the dark. A swipe of your thumb across his lips cleaned up most of what transferred, but the gentle touch of his tongue and that wicked glint in his eyes left you wondering why you bothered.

You had to fix yourself once more before arriving.

Inside, under the glittering lights of the gala and all the eyes on you, Bucky felt the way your hand grew clammy held in his. So he took your hand, wound it around his jacketed vibranium arm, naturally pulling you closer. He covered your hand with his and smiled reassuringly when you glanced up. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, and swept you into the battlefield of politics and fake smiles.

On Bucky’s arm as he circulated correctly, speaking to all the right people, you felt your fears slip away. He introduced you to every single person, talked openly of your work, warm pride colouring his voice as he gave you space to describe the grassroots efforts you fought for every day. And though they all smiled indulgently at your embarrassment and nodded politely as you spoke, he only had eyes for you.

“You do good work, baby. Let me show y’off a bit.”

You slap your hand against his chest, feigning indignation, but a photographer captures the moment you melt back into a smile and Bucky raised your hand to brush his lips across your knuckles. A beautiful, quiet shot for tomorrow’s news.

Later, when he’s at the podium giving a brief speech, your eyes mist over and you giggle with the crowd at his honest words. You’re so, so very proud of your Congressman too.

“I’ve been shot full of holes. I’ve been laughed at, been the butt of a joke or two,” he’s saying with a bashful half-smile. “Tried to keep my head up for all I’m worth. But taking the hard knocks of life is what it takes to make a difference.”

Back to it amongst the people and mingling, you break away from Bucky with a kiss to his cheek to visit the bathroom.

Leaving him with some snot-headed man who didn’t have the minimum required brain cells for congress.

“Fine piece of candy you have on your arm tonight, Barnes. Where’d you dig her up from?”

Bucky took a sip, his smug smile flashing even as the tic in his jaw jumped with irritation.

“Like I’d share such a find with you, Ralph.”

He spied you reenter the room, gaze scanning briefly before meeting his eyes with a smile and making your way back to his side.

Meanwhile Ralph’s guffaw showed he clearly didn’t catch the warning in Bucky’s tone.

“Share her? Imagine that little thing pinned between—“

“Speak of my wife with the respect and dignity she deserves.”

The stupid man’s face scrunched up. “They’re cute with their little charities and fundraisers, right? Riding the coattails of our successes with some pretty, empty words and no effort.”

You reached them. The sweet oh your lips formed had his heart drop to his stomach. Your perfect smile faltered. You’d heard. 

“My wife,” Bucky bit out, voice like steel, “does the legwork. The hours. She’s the one hands-on in the women’s shelters your bill can’t seem to find the funding for.”

“Now, see here, Barnes—“

He forcibly took the other man’s hand in both of his, vibranium and flesh grip crushing so hard Ralph wouldn’t wank straight for a month. Bucky was all smiles over the handshake, picture perfect from the outside, but his deadly tone could not be mistaken. “Speak ill of my wife again and it’s the last thing you’ll do.”

You wait until he took your arm and guided you away before chiding him.

“Bucky,” you murmur, smile plastered in place but your eyes pools of worry. “You shouldn’t have done that. That’s going to cost you.”

“I’ll take it on the chin,” he mumbled, brushing his lips against your temple, “for you.”

You walked from the kitchen with their drinks and your beer in hand. Bucky patted his lap, and you sat on it immediately. They kept their conversation like nothing had happened. You were always so affectionate around each other that everyone who spent more than an hour together knew you weren’t capable of being without each other.

Bucky’s metal hand rested in your bare thigh, under your dress, as per usual. While his right hand held his drink, Steve tried—really tried not to look its way. He didn’t want to be disrespectful; you had been nothing but good to him, but he couldn’t resist the way you made him feel from time to time.

And this was something that happened more often than he could admit. He would daydream about your thighs straddling him, or how pretty you sounded every time you moaned as Bucky slammed against you. He couldn’t even shut down that memory from the time he arrived without announcement, and you took longer to open the door—he noticed it immediately—your reddened and swollen lips while Bucky was ‘in the bathroom’.

He hated himself for it, but since he spent so much time on the run and taking care of things—he hadn’t even had time to have something serious… or something at all, to be honest.

The worst? Bucky noticed it too. He saw the way Steve’s gaze lingered longer on your thighs, and then looked away immediately.

He knew you were more on the open-minded side; he had seen how you looked at Steve once, he was helping him to move some furniture, you were almost agape looking at his broad body—but you were so in love with him that your mind would never be able to think about fucking another man that wasn’t him.

He couldn’t even blame you for staring at him. He looked handsome with that thick beard that now bedecked his face, or that long golden hair that was brought up just to want to commit sins for it.

So, he decided to test something.

He started slowly. Every time Steve needed a stitch or to be patched up, Bucky would ask for your help—even if it meant that Steve needed to be shirtless.

You tried to restrain yourself from looking, just enough to clean up your friend. Your boyfriend’s best friend. But it had been so often that you just surrendered, and started to look at him longer. Enough for you to admire his clean and well-shaved pecs, but not enough for anyone to notice.

But Bucky did; he knew you were falling for it. You just needed some help to come to the realization.

You were watching a series when the bell rang. Bucky was not home, and he never left without his keys.

Through the peephole, you saw Steve standing up. Fuckin’ gear clothings. Hands on his belt, waiting probably for Bucky to open the door.

You opened it and smiled at him. He looked at you immediately, short enough to leave nothing to the imagination, a black tank top, and he was almost sure you had no bra under.

“Hi, Steve. All right?”

He furrowed immediately, “Yeah. Bucky told me to come. I was on a short research, but I came as soon as possible.”

“Oh. He’s probably on his way, just come in. I’ll let him know you’re already here.”

He nodded and walked in, pecking your cheek as a greeting as he passed by.

You: “Hun, Stevie’s home. Where you at?”

Bucky: “Running late. Can you entertain him?”

‘That’s exactly what I’m not trying to do.’ You thought to yourself.

“Something to drink?” You handed him a beer, and he smiled at you.

You sat on the couch next to him. His knee bumped yours every time he shifted in his seat. He rested a hand on his knee, and his knuckles touched your bare leg slightly.

“Uh… I should… I should change. I’m sorry, I didn’t expect anyone to come today.” You stuttered. You felt so nervous, and you noticed he felt the same way.

He shook his head, “No. No. You’re fine. I thought Bucky had told you beforehand I was coming.”

You tried to stand up fast, and as he tried to do the same, he made you trip on your own feet. Before you could fall to the floor, he held you by the waist, pulling you closer. You could feel his bulge even with all the clothing layers between you two.

He set you free as soon as he realized his growing problem was happening—he didn’t really want to, but he knew he was being disrespectful, not only to you but, especially, to his lifelong best friend.

Before you could take a step away, the door swung open, and Bucky walked in and smiled. You didn’t really notice, but that smug grin was him being proud of what he had planted in you two.

After a short briefing between the super soldiers, you were in the kitchen trying to get rid of the feeling of Steve’s bulge.

You were doing the dishes carefully, not letting yourself get lost in the memory when you felt Bucky’s metal hand traveling from your side to your breast.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you today.” He mumbled on your neck, kissing it carefully.

His right hand found its way to the hem of your pajamas, sliding them down. You felt his hand now working his fly, freeing his cock while bending you over the sink.

“I missed you too, Bucky,” you cooed, holding the hand that groped your breast.

He smeared the precum leaking from his cock on your slit. Using it as the perfect lube to thrust and make himself inside.

You gasped, and he smiled.

His lips found your ear, “I saw you earlier with Steve—you two seemed close. Should I be worried?”

Your breath hitched. The memory of his bulge tried to appear immediately.

“No. Of course not.” You mumbled—even when your arousal was now making you drip from your cunt.

“No? Then why am I feeling you clenching, huh?” He thrusted faster.

“Bucky, you know I’m yours. That… is not…”

He chuckled and took you by the neck, “Oh? Really? That’s why you keep staring at his pecs every time I ask you kindly to patch him up.”

You clenched again, and he scoffed a laugh.

He pulled from your hair, making you look at him from behind, “You like him, right?”

You shook your head, “No. I’m only yours. Just yours.” You cried out.

“I’m not saying you’re not mine. I’m saying you like him too, am I lying?”

You swallowed, and he pulled from your hair again; you whimpered.

“No…” You finally had the guts to admit it.

“What would he say? Mhm?” He released your hair and moved his hand to your clit. “Knowing that my beautiful and supposed to be loyal girlfriend wants to fuck him.”

You squimered in his arms.

“Should I call him?” He spat, “And tell him to come and fuck some sense into you?” He was rolling his hips, pacing them fast.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” You whined, and he shook his head.

“Don’t be sorry, I’m not asking you for that…” He chuckled and started to pound harder. Making you reach your peak immediately.

His throbbing cock finally spurted inside you. Your chest heaved while he stroked your hair.

When the night finally cooled down, you were getting ready to go to sleep when Bucky emerged from the bathroom, you were trying not to look at him, and you still felt shy about what had been said in the heat of the moment.

“What’s going on?” He sat next to you and started to rub your thigh.

“I… didn’t mean it, Bucky.”

He furrowed, “What?”

“What I said while we were in the kitchen…” He scoffed.

“Sweetheart, I know you did mean it. I’ve seen you two, I know you two are just… holding by a string.”

You gazed down.

“I… am sorry… I can move out if you need it… I don’t mean to interfere in your friendship—”

He cooed your name and squeezed your thigh, “I like it.”

You stopped at his words, “Huh?”

“Not like that… I just… I wouldn’t… mind.”

You gasped, “Bucky…”

“Look at me.” You lifted your eyes to meet his. “Do you want to try something with him?”

You were looking at him agape.

“I love him… and I love you—maybe in a more similar way than I thought. And if… that’s something you two would like to try… I can deal with it.”

“No, Bucky… I wouldn’t do something to hurt you…”

“But you wouldn’t hurt me—I’d love to see you two happy.” He stroked your cheek and smiled at you, “Of course… only if you want to.”

You knitted your eyebrows, “And what if he doesn’t want to?”

He chuckled, “Who wouldn’t want to have you? Look at you… Besides, I know him. I know when he likes someone.”

You pursed your lips.

“I’m not asking you to do anything. I’m telling you that I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to do something like that… with Steve.”

Yet again, Steve was sitting in your living room, and you were pouring their drinks. Bucky had prepared you for the night. A short dress that Bucky apparently realized Steve liked more than others. You had been drinking slightly more than on other nights you three had shared. You were trying to pour some liquid courage, even after years, you still got nervous from time to time when you were having intimacy with Bucky, but now? He was now accepting that you tried to take a step forward with Steve.

You walked to both men; this time, Bucky was sitting next to Steve, and when you tried to take your usual spot on the couch in front of them, Bucky stood up and excused himself to the bathroom.

You knew that was your signal.

You sat next to Steve, and he shifted in his seat, trying not to look at your legs spread open.

“It’s your drink fine, Steve?”

He nodded, “Always great.”

You noticed that a drop of drink fell from the corner of his lip. You leaned over him, your hand rested on his knee, and with your index finger, cleaned up the drink and sucked on it, looking directly into his eyes.

Steve gulped, trying to look away, but he didn’t distance himself from you.

The alcohol in your system helped you to be bolder. So you crawled until you were almost straddling him. He felt different from Bucky.

Somehow, his skin was smoother, and he was less broad than Bucky, but somehow you felt a kind of familiarity. He felt as warm as Bucky.

His free hand gripped the couch while the hand holding the drink was almost shattering it.

You scoffed a laugh, you took the glass and bracketed his cheeks, making his lips part. You poured the liquid down his throat. He gulped all the liquid and looked at you worriedly.

He murmured your name, “Bucky could come… he could see us.”

You leaned closer and licked his lips, savouring every drop of his drink.

“I think he would be happy to know we are finally connecting.”

Your lips finally touched, and without thinking much, his hands gripped your waist, making you grind against the firmness of his pants.

His hand fell to his back, and you smiled at the sight.

“Do you like it, Steve?” He nodded; the fervor in his chest was almost unbearable.

When he tilted his head and opened his eyes, Bucky was sitting on the couch in front of you two. His hand caressed his hard cock, still covered by his jeans. Steve tried to move, but you chuckled at his reaction.

“Please, don’t stop on my count. I’m just… some public.”

“I told you, Stevie—he’s happy about seeing us having a stronger relationship.”

“Or, do you need some help?” Bucky unzipped his jeans and finally left his quivering cock sprung free.

Bucky stood up in front of you two. He yanked you by the hair and made you face him just to kiss him again.

Steve could taste the beer in your tongue mixed with the drink you had previously poured in his mouth.

Steve’s hands traveled enough to find the hem of your dress and lifted it. Just there, Steve noticed you were completely naked under the dress.

“Dear lord.”

“Isn’t she pretty?” Bucky cooed, stroking your hair. Steve just nodded, appreciating your breasts.

“She likes it when you lick them. Be our guest.”

Steve’s hand groped one breast while he kissed the other nipple. Bucky lifted you and knelt at the edge of the couch. Steve was still latched to your breast when Bucky started to unzip Steve’s jeans.

Bucky jerked his cock enough to make it closer to your bare cunt.

“Look at him, honey. He’s already leaking just by seeing you.” Steve flushed at Bucky’s touch.

He didn’t even flinch—he was enjoying the sight of you atop of him while he had Bucky’s hand in his cock.

“C’mon, honey. Don’t make him wait.”

You looked at him, and he nodded eagerly. You sank on his cock, feeling that burning stretching that you were already used to feeling with Bucky. But Steve’s was somehow different. As big as Bucky’s, as thick as his… but somehow, kind of different.

He jerked you on his cock slowly, while Bucky was slowly stroking himself. You were trying to focus only on Steve, even when your loving boyfriend was behind you, jerking with the sight of you being fucked by his best friend.

The living room was filled with Bucky’s moans and the sound of skin on skin.

Buckye pushed you into Steve’s chest, exposing your bare ass.

“You ready, sweetheart?” He croaked, and you nodded.

One hand held his cock to line himself in your ass. While the free one steadied himself on Steve’s arm.

He pushed slowly, and Steve slowed his ministration to let Bucky slide in. When he finally thrust inside, he locked eyes with Steve, both men nodded, and they both started to pound in tandem.

Your head fell on Steve’s shoulder, and you were babbling nonsense. Your whole body was numb from the feeling of both warm bodies. Steve pushed himself to lean closer to your side. Bucky was still pounding when he finally noticed Steve. He leaned closer.

His lips finally crashed onto each other, and you were perplexed at the sight.

Your boyfriend had never expressed such feelings towards other men… and somehow it felt… natural for both of them to find each other’s lips. But you were almost intoxicated by the tangy smell of both men crowding you.

They both looked at you. Steve kissed you again while Bucky was still holding Steve’s arm.

“I need more,” you mumbled. Bucky chuckled.

“You heard her, she needs more.”

Steve nodded and gripped your hip, jerking you faster. The feeling of both cocks stretching you open got you almost numb—you weren’t even thinking straight when Steve started to cry something out.

“I need to pull out,” he pleaded.

“No need. Do it inside. She loves to be pumped full.” He yanked you by the hair and made you look at him. “Don’t be disrespectful, sweetheart. Look at him while he fills you up.”

You looked at him through teary eyes and a tired smile. “Please.” You whimpered.

Steve couldn’t resist anymore and started to spurt his seed inside you—ropes and ropes of warm sperm, and that’s when you learned… the amount of sperm did come from the serum, but before you could say anything else, Bucky pushed you flush on Steve’s chest and slid in your cunt. You hadn’t even come when he was now thrusting, you were pounding on Steve’s chest while he hugged with both arms to give Bucky enough space. You finally reached your climax and tried to find Steve’s mouth to muffle your moans.

Now was Bucky’s turn to fill you with his ropes of warm seed. His cock was now completely covered in both cums. His and Steve’s. And you were limp. You couldn’t even think clearly; you just knew that both of your favorite men had fucked your thoughts out of your mind.

When the moment finally cooled down, Bucky looked at the mess you were at the moment.

“How are you doing, sweetheart?” Bucky kissed your temple, and Steve’s hand was still on your back.

“So so good.”

“And you?” Bucky caressed Steve’s cheek.

He nodded, still speechless.

“What was this?”

“I think something we all needed and wanted a long time ago.”

He chuckled.

“Not that I don’t love to be squashed between my two favorite guys in my life, but I’m sure I’m dripping… and I don’t want to mess the couch.” You said, still limp on Steve.

Both hurried to stand up, and Steve held you tight and looked at Bucky.

“Take her to the bathroom, she loves a bath after sex… I’ll… clean this up, and I’ll be right at you in a minute.”

Still in his arms, Steve leaned over the bath, turning the water on. His hand held you from your thighs while you straddled him, trying not to rub your already sensitive cunt on anything. Steve placed you in the bath while the warm water fell on your body.

“How do you feel?” He mumbled, kneeling in front of the bath.

“Sore.”

He scoffed, “I’m sorry… I can even notice some bruises on your hips.”

“I think we all got carried away.” You chuckled.

Bucky walked in and knelt next to him, leaning over the edge of the bath. He handed you some pills and water.

“Take this, you’ll need it.” You nodded and gulped the pills with the water.

“Do you need a minute?” He asked, looking at you. You shook your head, “‘Mkay. We’ll stay then.”

The bath was relaxing. The two men just stared at you as if you were the most beautiful thing; neither of them tried to touch you, they were just there keeping you company.

When you announced you were ready, Bucky hurried to lift you from the bath and brough you to your shared bedroom.

Steve helped him to wipe out all the water running down your sensitive skin, and then made you lie down in the bed. You were already dozing off when Bucky tucked you under a blanket.

“Let her have some sleep,” Bucky murmured to Steve. “She tends to get sleepy just with me… I don’t know how she feels now that she has had not one but two… rounds.”

First, Bucky pecked your lips. “I love you, sweetheart.” You smiled, almost falling asleep.

Steve was already heading to the door when Bucky coughed.

“She’s waiting,” Bucky said, looking at him. Steve turned around, confused.

“Please,” you mumbled.

“Oh… Oh.” Steve walked back and leaned over you. He was about to kiss your cheek when you bracketed his cheeks, kissing his lips. “Take some rest…”

They left your bedroom, and you finally got the time to repeat all the scenes.

What did this mean in your relationship?

Was Steve now part of it?

That was not something you talked to Bucky. Not at all… but at the same time… you didn’t mind.

He was always there. Taking care of you two, and you two took care of him tenderly.

Your mind raced through all those thoughts when you finally fell asleep.

In the living room, Bucky sat on the couch while Steve stood in front of him, arms crossed, chest still heaving.

“What… does this mean?” Steve looked at Bucky.

“Whatever you want it to mean.” Bucky leaned on his knees.

“Don’t say something you don’t mean, Buck.”

He chuckled, “You just fucked my girl ‘till she was brainless—I kissed you shamelessly, and you still think I don’t mean it?”

He sighed.

“Let’s wait for her, and we will… talk about it together.”

It happens on a Tuesday.

You know it’s a Tuesday because Tuesdays are your longest editing days, and you’re halfway through correcting exposure on a series of portraits when your phone buzzes against your desk. You don’t even look at the name before you smile, you’ve learned the rhythm of him now. He doesn’t text much but when he does, it’s direct.

You home.

No question mark, it makes you smile softly as you type back:

Eventually. Why?

There’s a longer pause this time, then,

Found something.

You grin at your screen.

If this is another broken appliance you’re adopting, we need to talk.

Three dots disappear, then reappear.

Not an appliance.

You snort quietly to yourself, you don’t ask for clarification because you already know he’ll show up whether you do or not.

By the time you make it back to your building, dusk has softened the edges of Brooklyn into gold and shadow. You take the stairs two at a time, not because you’re in a rush, but because you’ve started to associate the top landing with something waiting.

You don’t check the subway map anymore, you don’t hesitate at the corner bodega. You don’t feel like a visitor in your own life. When you unlock your apartment door and push it open you immediately stop. Bucky is standing in the middle of your living room, very still, like he’s holding a live grenade. Except the grenade is small.

White.

And glaring at you.

You blink.

“…Is that… a cat?”

The cat blinks back. She’s tiny. All narrow limbs and oversized ears, fur stark white against the dark Henley stretched across Bucky’s chest. One of her paws is hooked firmly into the fabric like she’s anchoring herself there on purpose.

“She followed me,” he says flatly. As if this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. You close the door slowly behind you.

“She followed you?”

“Yeah.”

“Home?”

He nods once.

“She looks like she weighs three pounds.”

“I tried to tell her not to. She’s got opinions.”

On cue, the cat makes a small, indignant sound. Not quite a meow. More like a complaint, you step closer carefully, hands out like you’re approaching something sacred.

“Oh my god,” you whisper with a growing smile.

Her eyes track you instantly, blue, sharp and wholly unimpressed.

“She’s so small.”

He scoffs. “She’s probably feral.”

“She’s so baby.” You cooed with a waggle of your fingers.

“She’s not—”

“She is,” you insist softly, reaching up to brush one careful finger along the edge of her back. Her fur is softer than you expected. She stiffens at first, eye narrowing just a fraction then leans in, just slightly.

Bucky’s brows draw together. “She scratched a guy.”

“He probably deserved it.”

“You don’t even know what he did.” He huffs as he genlty shifts her in his hold.

“He existed near her.”

“That’s not a crime.”

You look up at him through your lashes. “It is if you’re three pounds and fierce.”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s no bite to it. You lean back to fully look at him now, eyes wide with something that feels suspiciously like wonder.

“You brought her here.”

“She wouldn’t leave.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You don’t say it out loud, but you both feel it. He could have taken her anywhere. A shelter, a vet, anywhere but here. Instead, he brought her to you. You reach out fully now, cupping your hands under her tiny body. “Can I?”

He hesitates for half a second then nods and transfers her carefully into your arms. She’s lighter than she looks, all bone and stubbornness. Her paws immediately knead into your shirt, claws catching slightly as she readjusts.

“Aw,” you breathe, heart cracking open without your permission. “Hi.”

She stares up at you like she’s evaluating your worth, you smile at her like you’ve already decided she’s yours.

“What’s up with you, girl?” you ask softly.

He shifts his weight. “Alpine.”

You look up at him, startled. “You named her.”

“She needed one.”

You look back down at the tiny creature in your arms. “Hi, Alpine,” you murmur.

She blinks once, then, slowly, she begins to purr. It’s faint at first. Barely there, then it gets stronger like a tiny engine vibrating against your chest.

Bucky goes very still at the sound.

“She didn’t do that before,” he says quietly. You grin up at him like you’ve just accomplished something monumental.

“She likes me.”

“She tolerates you.”

“She loves me.”

“She met you ten seconds ago.”

“And yet.” You carry Alpine to the couch carefully, lowering yourself into the cushions you once assembled under his supervision. She curls into your lap like she’s been rehearsing it.

Bucky stands there, watching the two of you.

You glance up. “You know she’s our baby now, right?”

His eyes widen slightly. “She is not—”

“She absolutely is.”

He opens his mouth to argue but closes it. Looks at Alpine, then at you.

“You know… we’re not—”

“I know,” you interrupt gently, softer now. “I’m just kidding.”

But the word ours lingers in the air, and neither of you correct it again.

Adjusting to Alpine afterwards is surprisingly easy, adjusting to each other has been… gradual, natural almost.

Like you’ve both been circling the same warmth and finally allowed yourselves to step fully into it. He comes over without being asked now. Sometimes you’ll hear the lock turn and his boots cross your floor before you even realize you were waiting for him. He leaves things behind, a spare toothbrush, a flannel slung over the back of your couch. Tools tucked under your sink “just in case.”

You make space for them without comment. Alpine claims him in her own way, she sits on his chest when he lies back on the couch, she bats at his metal fingers like they’re an interactive toy, she once knocked over his glass of water and then stared at him like it was a moral lesson.

“You spoil her,” he says one evening as you crouch in front of a pet store aisle, comparing two different brands of kitten food like you’re reviewing fine wine.

“She deserves it.”

He cocks a brow. “She tried to fight a pigeon on the fire escape.”

“She was defending her territory.”

“She weighs less than the pigeon.”

“She has spirit.”

He shakes his head, but he carries the heavier bag without being asked, and back at home, he assembles a cat tree without looking at the instructions. You sit cross-legged on the floor narrating Alpine’s inner thoughts in a dramatic voice.

“‘Yes, father, construct my tower. Higher. Higher.’”

“She doesn’t talk like that.” He murumurs from under a fuzzy hammock.

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s judging you right now.”

You glance at the cat. Alpine blinks slowly before turning her head back to seemingly watch Bucky.

“She agrees with me.” You state with a firm nod of your head.

He almost smiles, you see it, you always see it. Something in your chest heats up at seeing it and you reach for your camera without thinking, lifting the lens to watch him through it.

Click. He looks up at the sound.

“You take too many pictures.”

You hum behind the camera. “I’m documenting history.”

“I’m building a cat tree.”

“Exactly.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.

Later, when Alpine finally climbs to the top perch and perches there like she owns the skyline, you end up sitting on the couch shoulder to shoulder. Your thigh pressed lightly against his, his arm stretched along the back of the couch. Fingers just barely brushing your shoulder, close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“She’s so tiny,” you murmur.

He huffs something close to a laugh. "She’s vicious.”

“She’s fragile.”

“She scratched a grown man.”

“Both can be true at once.” You tease through a smile.

You glance at him sideways, expecting an eye roll but when you look he’s not looking at the cat. He’s looking at you. You don’t talk about what you are, you don’t need to. Everything important has gone unspoken, he kisses you gently when he arrives. Soft and brief, like checking in. You kiss him back when he leaves, lingering just a second longer each time. It was a silent adjustment to each other’s rhythms. He knows your coffee order without asking, you know when he’s had a bad day by the way he sets his boots down. He reaches for your hand in crowded subway cars now without hesitation, you lean into him when the train lurches.

You’ve started claiming things as yours together without meaning to. Your park bench, your bodega, your stupid inside jokes about screaming radiators.

And now, your cat.

One night, you wake to find Alpine curled between you in bed. Bucky’s arm is draped over your waist, his metal fingers resting warm and steady against your hip and you lie there for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of his chest.

The way Alpine’s tiny body vibrates faintly with sleep. You realize something quietly, you don’t feel like you’re building alone anymore, you feel… accompanied.

Chosen.

Alpine stretches, paws kneading into your collarbone before she headbutts your chin lightly and you laugh softly.

Bucky stirs.

“What’s she doing,” he mutters sleep-rough.

“Claiming me.”

He settles back into the bed. “Hm. She’s territorial.”

“She gets it from you.”

He cracks one eye open to look at you.

“I’m not territorial.”

“You absolutely are.”

He studies you for a second, then leans forward just enough to press a soft kiss to your temple. “I just know what’s mine,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches for half a second and he closes his eyes again like he didn’t just say something that makes your chest feel too small. Alpine purrs louder between you, small and fierce. And somehow, without either of you planning it—the three of you fit.

Photography has always been your passion in life. Capturing the essence of moments in stilled frames. It started small. Borrowed cameras and phone pictures, sunlight through your bedroom window catching dust in the air like suspended stars. You liked that a photo could hold something still, proof that a moment existed exactly the way you felt it.

When life felt loud or overwhelming, framing the world through a lens made it manageable. Cropped. Intentional. Yours.

New York amplified your love for photography because it gave you an endless supply of almost-moments. A man laughing too hard on a street corner. A woman adjusting her heels before stepping into a cab. Sunlight ricocheting off glass buildings and landing like a spotlight on someone who doesn’t know they’re glowing.

You don’t mean to start photographing him like this.

At first it’s practical. Professional, detached even is what you tell yourself.

The lighting in your apartment is good in the afternoons—warm and honeyed, slanting through the tall Brooklyn windows and catching on dust motes and soft edges. You tell yourself you’re just practicing. Documenting domesticity. Capturing the way ordinary life looks when it’s honest.

It just so happens that Bucky is in the frame more often than not.

He doesn’t notice at first. He’s kneeling in front of your kitchen cabinet, sleeves shoved up, hair falling into his eyes while he tightens the hinge that’s been sagging for weeks. You’re perched at the table with your camera resting against your palm, chin tucked into your shoulder as you watch him through the lens.

Click.

He doesn’t look up.

The metal of his left hand gleams faintly where the sunlight touches it, silver softened into something almost warm. His right hand steadies the cabinet door, careful and patient like he’s working with something delicate.

Like he always does here.

You lower the camera just long enough to watch him without the barrier.

There’s something about him in your space—large and solid and quiet—that doesn’t feel invasive anymore. It feels like furniture. Like foundation. Like he’s always supposed to have been kneeling on your kitchen tile, muttering under his breath about cheap screws.

“Stop glaring at it,” you tease. “It can sense fear.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Click.

He glances up this time, catching you mid-shot. His eyes narrow a fraction. “You takin’ pictures of me again?”

“Maybe.”

“Why.”

You shrug like it’s obvious. “I'm documenting history.”

“I’m fixin’ a cabinet.”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no real protest in it. Just that quiet tolerance he reserves for you — like you’re allowed to get away with things no one else is. You don’t tell him that you like the way his brow furrows when he concentrates. Or the way his mouth presses into a thoughtful line. Or the way he looks softer in your apartment than he does anywhere else.

You photograph him crouched beside Alpine’s food bowl next.

She’s watching him like he’s personally offended her by refreshing her water five minutes too late. Her tail flicks with dramatic irritation while he adjusts the dish on the mat you bought with tiny embroidered fish.

“She’s judging you,” you narrate from behind the camera.

“She always judges me.”

“She knows you’re weak.” You taunt after a shutter adjustment.

“I am not weak.”

“You gave her salmon last night because she blinked at you.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Click.

The photo captures something you didn’t expect, the curve of his metal fingers hovering carefully near her small body. Not touching, just close, being protective without claiming control. Alpine is still small. Still a little too thin around the ribs. You both pretend you don’t remember how she looked the day he showed up with her tucked against his chest, fur clumped and eyes wary.

Now she sits like a queen surveying her kingdom—your apartment, his boots by the door, the couch that used to be yours and now belongs equally to both of them. She swats at his hand when he finally scratches under her chin.

He grins, small and fleeting, you miss it because you’re adjusting the focus.

The subway platform becomes another favorite location.

You catch him staring down the tunnel, coat collar turned up against the wind, hair tugged back by the rush of oncoming trains. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but something about the movement, the waiting, feels cinematic.

He stands slightly in front of you when the platform gets crowded, not enough to make a statement, just enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

You lift the camera.

Click.

He looks over. “Gonna charge me royalties at some point?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. When the train roars in he places his hand at your lower back as you step inside, it’s a small thing, it always is with him. Small touches. Gentle brushes. The kind that don’t demand attention but linger anyway and you start to recognize the way your body anticipates them, the way your breath steadies when he’s close.

The park bench photo is the one that changes everything.

You’re sitting beside him, knees almost touching, Alpine safe at home because she’s not allowed outside no matter how loudly she protests. It’s early evening, the golden hour slipping toward dusk, the air smells like leaves and city exhaust and distant food carts.

He’s not paying attention to you, he’s watching a kid across the path attempt to throw a tennis ball for a dog that refuses to cooperate and his expression softens without him realizing it.

The sunlight catches in his lashes. You lift the camera instinctively.

Click.

He turns toward you at the sound and for half a second—he almost smiles. Not brazen or wide, not open-mouthed with teethflashing. But something real, something gentle and unguarded. You freeze and lower the camera slowly.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.

“Do what.”

“That.”

He frowns faintly.

Your eyes find his, wide and soft all at once. “Look like that.”

“Like what?”

You hesitate. Safe, you think, but you don’t say it. He rolls his eyes like you’re being dramatic, you play it off with a small breath but when you check the photo your chest tightens. It’s there. The almost-smile. The warmth in his eyes. The absence of the weight he usually carries like armor. You save it immediately.

It becomes your favorite.

Your boss calls you into her office the next day as she flips through the prints slowly, brows lifting higher with each image. There's no denying the growing intimacy of the photos, not in the vuglar or exposing sense, but in the way of his heart began to glow in the lens.

“Who is he to you?”

You swallow, pulse thrumming at your wrists and below your ear, flushing like she had asked if you two were to be wed. “I answered his flyer.”

The words feel bigger now than they did months ago. That stupid piece of paper taped crookedly to a lampost with a scribbled NEED HELP? in bleeding ink. To think you almost walked past it, you almost didn’t take a paper.

Your boss smiles faintly.

“You’re lucky,” she says and you feel it reside itself deep inside you and you think about that all the way home.

Lucky.

You think about that word the whole way home.

You let yourself into the apartment quietly. He’s on the floor with Alpine sprawled on her back, paws in the air while he rubs her stomach in slow, careful circles.

You lean against the doorway. “Hey.”

He looks up immediately. His face shifts when he sees you, subtle but unmistakable. Shoulders easing back, the corners of his mouth softening upwards.

“Hey.”

You don’t move for a second, just stand there and watch him, watch the man you almost didn’t meet.

“I was thinking about something,” you say softly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad I saw your flyer.”

The words hang there between you two, simple and honest, yet carrying a weight you hadn't expected to hit so hard.

He stills and Alpine chirps in protest at the loss of movement. He clears his throat.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You step closer. “I almost didn’t call. Put it in my purse and left it there.”

His jaw tightens faintly. “I almost didn’t put it up.”

“What?” You blink.

He shrugs, looking back down at Alpine like she’s suddenly fascinating. “Figured nobody’d answer.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t respond right away. You kneel across from him, mirroring his position and Alpine rolls toward you greedily, like the traitor that she is.

“Buck.”

He exhales slowly.

“Didn’t think anyone would want to take a chance.” On me, he doesn’t say but you hear it anyway.

Your chest aches.

“I’m glad I did,” you whisper.

His eyes lift to yours and something raw flickers there, quick and then it's gone.

“Me too,” he says quietly.

The room feels smaller suddenly, closer, the air heavier. Alpine headbutts your hand impatiently, demanding attention. You both laugh at the same time and the tension dissolves into something softer. But it doesn’t disappear entirely, it settles between you like something warm and real.

You keep photographing him, but now it feels different, it's not just observation anymore, not just study. sdwfeIt feels like preservation, like proof. Of the way he leaves his boots neatly by the door because you once mentioned tripping over them.

Of the way he started buying your favorite cereal without asking, of the way he checks the locks twice before bed, of the way he presses a gentle kiss to your temple when he passes behind you in the kitchen.

Nothing intense, nothing overwhelming. Just soft and intentional. You catch your reflection in one of the subway windows one evening with your shoulder tucked under his arm while the train sways. You look… settled. Happy. It makes you think about the flyer again. The crooked tape, the quiet hope behind it. You think about the man kneeling on your kitchen floor. On your living room rug. On a park bench in golden light.

You think about the almost-smile, and you realize something slow and steady has taken root inside you.

It isn’t just attraction anymore. It isn’t just comfort. It’s the knowledge that if you hadn’t looked up that day, if you hadn’t paused on your stoop and seen that lampost, your life would be missing something fundamental.

You press your face briefly into his shoulder on the train, it makes him tilts his head toward you instinctively.

“What's wrong,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

You don’t tell him you feel something more than lucky, you don’t tell him that sometimes you look at him and think: I chose right, you don’t tell him that your favorite photo isn’t the almost-smile. It’s the one where he’s not looking at the camera at all, he’s looking at you. Like he’s quietly grateful you took a chance on him, and maybe, just maybe he’s a little lucky too.

It slips into something quieter one night.

You’re at the counter again, but this time there’s flour everywhere—your hands, the surface, a faint dusting across your shirt where you tried (and failed) to brush it off.

“I said I could just go buy something,” he mutters, watching you wrestle with dough like it personally offended you.

“And I said no,” you shoot back, not looking up. “People make this all the time.”

“Yeah. People who know how.”

You narrow your eyes at the dough. “It’s about the principle.”

“It’s about you losing a fight to bread.”

“I’m not losing—”

You look up just as he steps closer. His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and for a second you think he’s going to reach for the bowl, or the counter, or anything but you.

Instead, his thumb brushes across your cheek, light and careful as he wipes away a streak of flour you didn’t know was there.

Everything in you stills and warmth prickles all across your skin. The room doesn’t go quiet, you can still hear the faint hum of the fridge, the city outside your window, Alpine batting something off a shelf in the other room but it feels like it does.

You don’t move and neither does he. His hand lingers for half a second too long, thumb hovering like he forgot what he was doing midway through it. Your breath catches, shallow and uneven in a way that feels louder than it should be as your heartbeat does strange, unfamiliar things.

“You had—” he starts, voice lower now, rougher. “Flour.”

“Yeah,” you barely manage, your mind floating somewhere far from here.

His hand drops eventually, but the space between you doesn’t widen again.

He starts staying over more after that. Not "officially". Not in a way either of you acknowledge out lou, it just happens. At first, it’s practical.

It’s late, the trains are slow and Alpine is already asleep curled into his side like she made the decision for him.

So he stays. He takes the couch the first few times, or at least, that’s what he tells you. You believe him until one night you wake up thirsty, the apartment dim and quiet, the soft blue wash of streetlight bleeding in through the windows.

You shuffle toward the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing at your eyes and then you stop.

He’s not on the couch. For a second, your stomach dips, sharp and immediate but then you see him. On the floor. Blanket barely tucked under him, one arm thrown over his eyes like he fell asleep mid-thought. Alpine is curled against his side, a small, white comma against the dark of his shirt.

Your chest tightens.

“Buck,” you murmur softly.

He doesn’t stir and you hesitate.

You could wake him and tell him to take the bed, tell him the couch is fine, that the floor is ridiculous, that he doesn’t have to—but you don’t. Instead, you step closer, then closer. And before you can overthink it, before you can stop yourself you lower down beside him.

The floor is cool beneath you, grounding in a way that makes your breath even out. You don’t touch him at first, you just lie there close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that Alpine shifts slightly, resettling between you like she approves of the arrangement.

It feels strangely natural, like you’ve done this before, like you were always going to. He stirs after a minute, brow furrowing slightly before his arm drops from his eyes. His gaze finds you in the low light, still hazy with sleep.

“…You okay?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Couldn’t sleep.”

A pause.

Then, softer—“Floor’s more comfortable than it looks.”

You huff quietly. “I can tell.”

Somewhere between one breath and the next, the distance between you disappears. It’s not intentional, not really. You just shift slightly, then he does too. And then his arm is around you, your head is tucked against his shoulder. Alpine is wedged between your ribs like a tiny, purring anchor. You fit together so easily it almost startles you, but neither of you pulls away.

By morning, you’re tangled.

Not in a way that feels messy or complicated. In a way that feels right. Your leg hooked over his, his hand resting warm and steady at your waist, Alpine sprawled across both of you like she owns the entire situation.

You wake up first and for a second, you just lie there taking in the quiet and the warmth. The way his grip tightens slightly, even in sleep, like something in him registers your presence and refuses to let go.

He stirs a few minutes later, breath shifting, eyes blinking open slowly and for a second, he looks disoriented. Then he looks at you and something in his expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

Neither of you moves, neither of you rushes to untangle the way you probably should. His thumb traces a small, absentminded line against your side, like he’s checking that you’re still there.

You are.

You both are.

And neither of you calls it anything, but neither of you pretends it’s nothing, either.

You don’t notice it at first.

That’s the part that sticks with you later throughtout the whole day—the way it happens without announcement, without anything sharp enough to pull you out of your own head.

You’re tired.

Not just end-of-the-day tired, but the kind that settles behind your eyes and stays there, heavy and burning. You’ve been staring at a screen for hours, adjusting exposure, chasing light that already happened, trying to make moments feel the way they did when you first captured them.

It blurs after a while. Faces. Colors. Time. The subway hums beneath you, a low, steady rhythm that you usually find comforting.

You’re thinking about a photo when it happens. Not even a good one—just a small detail you want to fix tomorrow, the way the light caught on the edge of a frame, how you might crop it tighter when the train slows, stops and the doors open.

You don’t move.

And then they close again.

It’s only when the station sign slips past the window, unfamiliar, wrong, that something in your chest stutters and your stomach drops as you realized you missed your stop .

“…Great,” you mutter under your breath.

Too late.

The train lurches forward again.

The next stop feels longer than it should, everything does when you’re suddenly aware of it. The way your foot taps against the floor. The flicker of the overhead lights. The low murmur of strangers who don’t know you just made a mistake.

You step off quickly when the doors open again, pulse just a little too fast. The platform is quieter here, too different. You don’t like it.

The announcement crackles overhead, distorted and distant.

“—maintenance delays—next train—extended—”

You close your eyes briefly because, of course. It's late when you check the time, later than you meant to stay out. Later than you usually feel comfortable being anywhere unfamiliar. You could wait for the next train to turn around. You should wait. But the platform feels wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too open, too empty, like something that’s supposed to be full of noise has been hollowed out.

So you decide to walk to the next station, it’s not far, you tell yourself that like it makes the decision better.

You know the moment it shifts when you step out into the might air. It’s not something you see but something you feel. The street is quieter than Brooklyn. The buildings taller, the gaps between people wider. The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful but absent. Streetlights flicker overhead, one buzzing faintly before stabilizing and your footsteps sound louder than they should. You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, shoulders drawing in slightly without meaning to.

And then there's that feeling again. The one that crawls up the back of your neck before your brain catches up.

You glance up and see there’s a group of men down the block. They notice you immediately. You see it happen in an instant the shift in posture, the subtle way their attention locks in. Alone and disoriented.

Your chest tightens as you look away quickly, adjusting your path just enough to seem casual.

Keep walking.

Don’t react. Don't—

They start moving, not obviously, just enough to match your pace. The air feels colder suddenly, like something’s been pulled out of it. Your breathing changes before you can stop it, shorter, sharper. You turn a corner and try to stay calm. You don’t look back right away because you don’t want to confirm it, but you know. You hear it, the sootsteps are still there, still echoing behind you. Your fingers shake as you pull your phone out of your pocket.

There’s no debate, no hesitation as you hit his name.

He answers on the first ring.

“What broke?”

Any other time it would make you laugh.

Your throat tightens and you barely get the word out. “Buck.”

It comes out thinner than you want it to, and there’s a brief pause. But everything about him changes on the other end of the line—you can hear it, feel it, the way his breathing shifts, the way his voice drops into something sharper. Focused.

“Where are you.”

You try to explain. Street names you barely registered, landmarks you didn’t think to remember. It comes out in fragments, rushed and uneven, your words tripping over each other.

“I—I missed my stop and I got off and I’m walking and there’s—”

“I got you,” he cuts in, calm and steady.

“Stay on the phone.”

Your grip tightens around it. “Okay.”

“Keep walking. Don’t stop.”

Your heart is pounding too loud now, drowning out everything else. Behind you, one of them calls out something. You don’t process the words, you don’t respond you just keep walking.

Your breathing stutters.

“Buck—”

“I’m here,” he says immediately. “You’re good. Just keep going.”

Your vision feels too narrow, like everything outside of the path in front of you has been blurred out. You turn another corner and they follow, closer now. Your chest feels tight, like you can’t pull in a full breath. And then headlights, bright and fast flash in front of you as a truck pulls up hard along the curb beside you, tires crunching against the edge of the street.

You flinch at the sound as the driver’s door opens. And he’s there. Bucky steps out like he’s stepping into something controlled and not the eratic chaos you feel in your ribcage. He's calm and measued, something almost cold in his eyes.

The shift is immediate. He doesn’t yell at the group of men, doesn’t posture, he doesn’t say a word. He just moves, placing himself between you and them like it’s instinct, like it’s the only position that makes sense. The streetlight catches on his left arm, metal glinting sharp and unmistakable and the men stop. There’s a beat of calculation, and then they back off. Muttering something under their breath, turning away like the decision was easy, like you weren’t worth it.

You don’t process it, not yet, all you know is that he’s here. You move before you think, closing the distance, your hands grabbing onto him like you need proof he’s solid and real, not something your brain made up out of fear.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, closer to the one you know. “I got you.”

You nod against him, even though he can’t see it properly, your grip tightening for half a second longer than necessary. He doesn't miss a beat, he just guides you toward the truck, one hand steady at your back.

The drive is quiet.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands still curled slightly like they forgot how to relax. Your heart hasn’t fully slowed down yet and you’re aware of everything. The hum of the engine, the rhythm of the tires against the road, the way his hands grip the wheel.

Too tight, the knuckles of his right hand pale under the dim lighting. He doesn’t look at you at first, his focus is locked forward, expression carved into something hard and controlled.

You’ve seen that look before.

Just not like this, not because of you, not because of something that almost happened. Your throat feels tight again, but for a different reason now.

“I’m okay,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t respond right away as the truck turns down your street.

Finally, his grip shifts slightly on the wheel, like he’s forcing it to loosen.

“I know,” he says.

But his voice is still tight, still holding something back. You glance at him, really look this time. And you realize he’s not just angry, he’s shaken. Not with fear in the way you are, but something sharper, something that looks a lot like the realization that he almost wasn’t there in time.

He doesn’t say anything else when he parks, he just kills the engine and gets out, rounding the front of the truck before you’ve fully gathered yourself. He walks beside you to the door, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

He unlocks it before you can reach for your keys, like it’s instinct now, like it’s always been his job.

Inside, the apartment wraps around you both with familiar walls, soft lamplight, and the faint sound of Alpine shifting somewhere deeper in the space.

For a second, neither of you moves.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the quiet that follows is heavier than anything outside. You turn toward him and he’s already looking at you. There’s something in his expression you don’t see often, something unguarded, pulled tight with restraint.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, voice tight and focused.

You shake your head. “No, I—”

His hands are already there, gentle but firm, checking your arms, your shoulders, your face like he needs proof. Like he won’t believe it until he confirms it himself.

“Anywhere?” he presses, quieter now.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m okay.”

He stills just for a second as your words take a moment to settle somewhere deeper than they should have to. And then something in him gives. His hands slide up, framing your face, and before you can process the shift he pulls you into him.

The kiss isn’t careful.

It isn’t the soft, checking-in kind he’s given you before. It isn’t brief or hesitant or something that leaves room for doubt.

It’s desperate.

Like something almost slipped through his fingers, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re here. That you’re real, that you’re okay. Your fingers clutch at his shirt without thinking, holding on just as tightly, just as instinctively as you melt into the kiss.

“You scared me,” he breathes against your mouth.

The words are rough, honest in a way that cracks something open in your chest.

“I know,” you whisper back.

“I can’t—” He stops, swallowing hard, his forehead pressing briefly to yours before he finds your eyes again. “I can’t lose you.”

Your breath stutters.

There’s no distance left between you now. No space to pretend this is anything less than what it is.

His voice drops, quieter but steadier.

“Be mine.”

The words land heavier than anything else tonight.

“For real,” he adds, like he needs you to understand. “No unspokeness. No almost.”

You blink, heart racing for an entirely different reason now, something softer threading through the remnants of fear.

“I am,” you say.

There’s no hesitation in it.

“I've always been yours, Buck.”

His grip tightens slightly, like he needs to hold onto that.

“Forever,” he insists, softer now but no less certain. “Let me take you home. Every time. Let me hold you on every train. Let me put up every shelf. Let me—”

He doesn’t finish, you kiss him again. This time slower, still deep and certain, but steadier, like something inside you both is finally settling into place.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ll choose you. Every day.”

Your answer comes easily.

“Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for longer than just tonight.

His hands shift, gentler now at your waist, but no less sure of where they belong. You tug him closer without thinking, closing whatever space might still exist between you and something shifts. The heat from your bodies no longer stays under the skin, it moves and blooms into a fiery heat somewhere deep inside you. Inside you both.

The mismatching calloused and metal pads of his fingers trace down to the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He kisses you again but this time his lips follow his downward trajectory, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. Each one lingers, deliberate, until your skin blooms pink beneath his mouth.

"You're so beautiful," he breathes, the words warm against your collarbone. His teeth graze the spot just above your pulse, gentle and testing before he sucks softly, drawing a quiet gasp from you.

You arch into him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "Bucky—"

"Tell me," he murmurs, lifting his head just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "Tell me you're mine."

The words tumble out without hesitation. "Yours. Always yours."

A low sound rumbles in his chest, pleased and possessive. He kisses you again, deep and unhurried, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, claiming rhythm. His hands roam your body, worshiping every inch of the softness of your thighs, the flutter of your ribs beneath his palm, the way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your nipple.

You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you pull it off, then guides your hands to his chest, letting you explore the hard planes of muscle, the scars, the warmth of him. His breath catches when your fingers skim over a sensitive spot just above his hip.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're gonna be the death me."

"Not yet." You hum as you kiss him again, pouring everything into it, trust, want, love.

His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass as he lifts you effortlessly, carrying you through the apartment and to the bed. He lays you down like something precious, following you with his body, covering you without crushing you.

His lips find yours once more, soft and insistent as you both shed every last layer between you, before trailing lower—over your breasts, your stomach, lower still. Every touch is deliberate, every kiss a promise.

"Let me take care of you," he whispers against your inner thigh as you nod shakily.

His fingers tremble slightly as they skim your bare skin—so close to where you ache for him, yet hesitating. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way his breath comes uneven against your skin.

"Buck," you whisper, stroking his hair. "It's okay."

He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to your hip. "Been a long time," he admits, voice rough. "Don't wanna mess this up."

"You won't." You tilt his chin up, meeting his eyes. "We'll go slow. Together."

A ragged breath escapes him as he nods, lips brushing the sensitive skin of your thigh. His hands grip your hips, steadying himself, before he lowers his mouth to you, tentative at first, then bolder as your soft gasps guide him.

"Christ, baby," he groans against you, fingers digging into your flesh. "So sweet like this."

You arch beneath him, pleasure curling tight in your belly. "Bucky, 8ikplease—"

His tongue is slow at first, experimental, and almost shy as if he’s relearning the shape of you like this. But the second your hips jerk under his mouth, he groans against you and his confidence soars, gripping your thighs to keep you still. "Easy, princess," he murmurs, lips brushing your clit. "Let me take my time with you."

And god, does he take his time.

His tongue traces slow circles around you, teasing but never giving you exactly what you need until you’re writhing beneath him. "Bucky—" you gasp, fingers knotting in his hair.

"Patience," he rumbles before finally closing his lips over your clit and sucking gently. You cry out, back arching off the bed as pleasure arcs through you like lightning. His fingers join then, one sliding into you with ease, curling just right, the dual sensation has your thighs shaking around his head.

"That’s it," he murmurs against you, adding a second finger as his tongue flicks faster over your clit. "Let me feel it, let me hear you."

You don’t stand a chance. The orgasm crashes over you so hard your vision whites out for a second, his name spilling from your lips in a breathless chant as you grind against his mouth. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from oversensitivity, dragging his tongue through your folds one last time before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

When he finally lifts his head, his lips are slick and his eyes are black with hunger. "Fuckin' perfect," he rasps, licking his lips like he can’t get enough of the taste of you.

You tug him into a kiss by the hair, crashing your mouth against his so you can taste yourself on his tongue. He groans into the kiss, hips grinding down against yours where he’s achingly hard.

"Need you inside me," you pant between kisses, rocking against him insistently. "Now."

His breath hitches as he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. "Yeah?" His fingers flex possessively on your hip. "Gonna beg for it?"

"Please," you whimper, dragging his hand between your legs again, showing him exactly how ready you still are for him.

His throat works as he nods, reaching for the condom on the nightstand with unsteady hands. You help him roll it on, stroking his wrist when he fumbles.

"Easy, soldier," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He chokes out a laugh of half nerves, half affection before settling between your thighs. His cock brushes against you, hot and thick, and he stills, forehead pressed to yours. "God, sweetheart—you—"

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Move with me," you breathe.

He does, slow at first, sinking into you inch by inch as his muscles tremble with restraint. His breath comes in ragged bursts against your neck, lips finding your pulse point again, sucking gently.

"Good?" he rasps.

"So good," you sigh, fingers clutching his back. "More."

He moans, hips rocking against yours in a deep, unhurried rhythm. Every thrust is deliberate, every groan muffled against your skin as he murmurs praises or "perfect," "mine," "angel" between kisses. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he loses himself in you, the hesitation melting away with every shared breath.

"Close," he grits out, sweat beading on his brow.

You nod, urging him deeper, nails scraping lightly down his spine. His rhythm stutters, his body tensing as he spills over the edge with a broken moan of your name.

He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck, arms tightening possessively around you as he murmurs something low and soft against your skin.

His cock twitches inside you, still thick and hard despite his release. You shift your hips experimentally, drawing a sharp gasp from him as his fingers dig into your waist. "Still?" you tease, rolling your hips again just to feel him shudder beneath you.

Bucky's metal hand slides up your back, pressing you closer as his hips shift, grinding deeper. "Always for you," he growls, voice rough with need.

You push him by the shoulders until he rolls onto his back as you rise up on your knees, guiding him back inside with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips. His groan is ragged, hands gripping your thighs as you take control, riding him with slow, deep strokes that make his breath hitch. His flesh hand tangles in your hair, pulling you down for a searing kiss as his hips meet yours in perfect rhythm.

Your body trembles as Bucky’s thrusts grow rougher, his cock hitting that deep, perfect spot again and again until your vision blurs. A breathy whimper escapes your lips as your head drops against his shoulder, nails biting into his sweat-slicked skin. His arms lock around you, keeping you pinned against him while his hips snap upward, each movement sending sparks of pleasure racing through you.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he growls, voice rough with need, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Take it—take everything I give you." His fingers tighten in your hair, tilting your face toward his for a sloppy, desperate kiss. "You feel so damn good, like you were made for me."

A moan shudders out of you as he shifts slightly, the new angle rubbing his cock against your walls in a way that makes your thighs shake. You whimper his name, hips grinding down in needy little circles just to feel him twitch inside you. Bucky groans, his metal hand sliding down to grip your ass, forcing you down onto him harder.

"Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me," he snarls, teeth grazing your collarbone as his thrusts turn punishing. His breath is ragged against your skin, his voice dropping into something dark and possessive. "Mine. All fucking mine."

You arch against him, pleasure cresting so sharply it steals your breath. Bucky’s grip on you tightens, his rhythm faltering as his cock pulses deep inside you, filling you with another wave of heat and pleasure as you tremble around him.

He exhales sharply against your neck, his hips still rocking into you in slow, possessive rolls even as his breathing slows. His hands stroke over your skin, gentle but his grip stays firm, like he can't quite bring himself to let go.

The apartment settles around you slowly afterward.

Not silent as it's never truly silent in New York, but softened.

The radiator clicks faintly in the corner. A car horn sounds somewhere far below the window. Alpine hops onto the bed at some point, circles twice near your feet, then decides against staying when Bucky shifts beside you with a sleepy murmur.

Everything feels warm.

Warm in the way your skin still hums from being held so closely, from his hands lingering at your waist like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. The sheets are tangled low around your legs, the air heavy with the lingering heat of summer and each other.

You’re tucked against his chest, cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arm is around you. Like even asleep he can’t stop reaching for you.

You think you should feel shy about it all afterward. Different somehow. Instead, you just feel calm, like something that’s been leaning precariously finally settled into place.

Bucky presses a sleepy kiss into your hairline, half-conscious and entirely automatic, and your chest tightens at the tenderness of it.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You smile against his skin. “Yeah.”

His fingers drag lazily along your spine once before stilling again.

“C’mere,” he mutters, even though you’re already impossibly close. You go anyway.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, you wake slowly, not completely but just enough to feel it first. The absence, his warmth gone from beside you. Your eyes blink open into darkness, disoriented for half a second as your hand drifts across the sheets to feel it empty.

Your stomach tightens immediately.

“Buck?” you mumble, voice rough with sleep.

No answer.

You push yourself upright too quickly, pulse already starting to climb. The apartment is dim, silver-blue moonlight stretching across the floorboards. For one irrational second, panic flashes through you sharp and immediate.

Then, the bathroom door opens. Warm light spills briefly into the room before he steps out, shutting it quietly behind him.

“There you are,” you breathe.

His expression changes the second he sees you sitting up, concern softens immediately into apology.

“Hey,” he says quietly, crossing the room. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Your shoulders loosen all at once. “I thought—”

You stop yourself.

Thought what?

That he left?

That this disappeared overnight somehow?

The feeling must still show on your face because his own softens further.

“Just cleaned up,” he murmurs.

There’s a washcloth in his hand, steam still faintly curling from it. He sits carefully at the edge of the bed, reaching toward you with a gentleness that makes your throat ache.

“C’mere.”

You let him.

He brushes the warm cloth carefully along your shoulder, your neck, your arms and between your thighs. His hands are soft against your skin, like he’s caring for something precious. You watch him through sleepy eyes, the furrow in his brow, the quiet concentration in the way he holds your wrist gently while cleaning flour-soft traces of the evening from your skin.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.

Your lips twitch. “Documenting history.”

A sleepy huff of laughter escapes him.

“There she is.”

The washcloth gets abandoned somewhere on the nightstand eventually because he leans down to kiss you before finishing, slow and lingering and warm enough to make your eyes flutter closed again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far, his forehead against yours, breath mingling softly in the dark.

“You scared me tonight,” he admits quietly.

The vulnerability in it hurts worse now somehow than it did earlier.

You reach up, fingers brushing along the edge of his jaw. “I’m here.”

“Yeah,” he whispers.

Like he’s still convincing himself.

He climbs back into bed beside you a second later, pulling you into him immediately, no hesitation left in the movement now. Your leg slides between his, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist until you’re tucked against him again exactly where he wants you.

Where you want to be.

You press a kiss beneath his jaw and his hold tightens slightly.

“All mine,” he murmurs sleepily into your hair.

Your heart turns over softly in your chest. You tilt your head up just enough to kiss him once more, slow and fond and certain.

“Yours,” you whisper back.

And this time when sleep finds you again, it finds both of you together.

Bucky’s Blooms prides itself on its customer service, fresh floral arrangements, and client privacy, but damn, if this particular client isn’t getting under Bucky’s skin with his orders. Besides the fact that the man is clearly cheating on his wife and some other woman, he doesn’t tip Bucky’s delivery driver, Joaquin, when he orders the flowers.

“I’m not driving up to Tribeca and then all the way to Forest Park with no tip again, man,” Joaquin grumbles as he starts on the familiar bouquets. “That’s a trek on a light traffic day.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says. “Why don’t you man the shop for a bit? I’ll make these deliveries. Besides, I need to stop in Bushwick for more craft paper and some other supplies.”

“No, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll go. I apologize for complaining,” the young man says.

“Really, Joaquin, it’s fine,” Bucky assures him. “I need some fresh air, anyway.” He finishes the bouquets, signs off on the handwritten notes with Your Husband and Your Man while trying not to let a shiver run down his spine at the two-timer, and heads out to the delivery van. “Be back in a couple hours,” he says as the shop door shuts behind him.

The drive up from Brooklyn to Tribeca isn’t far, but can take a while with traffic, so Bucky turns on the radio to tune out the noise in his head. It’s not his first time seeing something suspicious like this in the floral business. He's had to write his fair share of questionable notecards, but the fact that this particular client is so smug as to order the bouquets under his real name (yes, Bucky looked him up) on the same day every month, and even have the notecards spell out the situation for him is brazen and stupid and downright awful. He decides right then and there to tell the women about the situation, client privacy be damned.

The “wife” isn’t home when he delivers the bouquet, so he leaves it with the doorman and makes the trip back down to Queens. It’s a nice enough neighborhood, but clearly very different from where the man lives with his wife in Manhattan, and Bucky wonders how they met. They’re clearly from two very different social circles. He double checks the address on the GPS as he looks out the van window at what appears to be a bakery. The address matches, so he shrugs and grabs the bouquet.

As he walks through the bakery doors, he’s hit with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. It’s strong, and reminds him of something his mom used to bake years and years ago.

A head pop ups from behind the counter with a wave. “Welcome in! Let me know if you have questions- oh,” you trail off as you notice the flowers in the man’s arms. “Are those for me?”

Bucky steps up to the counter and eyes your nametag before nodding. You’re beautiful. “Looks like it,” he mutters as he hands the bouquet to you across the counter. The bakery is quiet and empty, and Bucky clears his throat. “I, uh- I own the shop,” he says, nodding to the flowers. “My assistant usually delivers them, but, uh- it’s me today.” Why is he rambling?

“Well, thank you. They are beautiful as always,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the roses. Your eyes flutter open and Bucky thinks his heart stops. You’re something else, and he almost completely forgets what he came here to tell you.

“What is that smell? It’s so familiar, like…” he searches the recesses of his spotty memory for something nearly gone.

“It’s cinnamon coffee cake,” you say. “Fresh out of the oven.”

“Coffee cake,” Bucky says with a nod and a solemn smile, remembering how his mom used to bake that for special occasions. Sometimes there was no cinnamon, but it was better when there was.

“Would you like a slice?” You ask, setting the bouquet on the counter. “It’s still quite hot, though.”

“I- I’d love one. Thank you,” he says, pulling out his wallet to pay.

You wave at him to put it away. “On the house,” you say. “I know the drive out here is far from your shop.”

“Yeah, but that’s okay. It’s nice to get out of the store sometimes,” he says as you put a steaming slice of the cake in front of him on a Robin’s egg blue plate. “Wow, well, thank you.” Bucky makes a mental note to put something in the tip jar by the register before he leaves.

“I’m going to get a vase for these,” you say as you walk to the back of the bakery. Bucky blows on a piece of cake before taking a bite. It’s perfect - better than his mom’s was, actually. You come back with a milky white vase covered in a strawberry print and put the roses inside, fan them out, and set them on the counter. “Beautiful.”

“Do you want anything for the road?” You ask, nodding toward the glass case of baked goods.

“Actually, I need to tell you something,” he says, wringing his hands together nervously. “And I know I shouldn’t from a legal and business standpoint, but I can’t in good conscience keep deliverin’ those bouquets to you and not say something. You seem like a sweet person. You deserve to know.”

Your stomach plummets and your heart starts to race. Echoes of your mom and sister and friends saying things like “too good to be true” and “he’s probably married” play through your head like a film reel.

Bucky senses your anxiety and clears his throat, rethinking if he (a complete and total stranger) should tell you this awful news or not.

“Just tell me” you mutter, gripping the edge of the counter for moral and physical support. “Just say it.”

“He’s married,” Bucky says calmly, setting his fork down on his plate. His eyes search yours, which are quickly filling with tears.

You swallow down the lump in your throat. “And how do you know? You know for certain?”

“He sends two bouquets every month - one to you, and one to his wife,” he says. “Joaquin usually delivers them both, but the asshole never tips. That’s why I came today.”

You lean back against the counter, the pit in your stomach growing by the second. He was supposed to pick you up tonight to drive up to the coast for a weekend away at his cottage. You’ve never once been to his place in the city - not once. For months. That should have been a red flag, but he’s been so charming. You ignored all the signs. And now here you are, faced with the cold, hard truth in the form of yet another bouquet of perfect roses from Your Man. “I- uh, I’m not sure what to say,” you tell the man sitting in front of you. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I’m sorry I had to,” he says solemnly.

“I’d rather know now, you know, than… later.” After you’ve fallen deeper in love with the dickhead. You look back at the roses and shrug. “I can’t get rid of them. They’re too beautiful. Maybe I’ll just pretend they’re from someone else,” you say with a pained laugh.

Bucky smiles at your resilience and nods. “Just pretend they’re my payment for this delicious coffee cake. Just merchants trading goods.”

You genuinely laugh at that and nod. “So, you’re Bucky?”

“I’m Bucky,” he says, offering you his hand to shake. “I wish we were meeting under any other circumstance.”

You shake his hand - it’s warm and calloused. Bigger than yours. “Me too.”

“Are you going to be okay today?” He asks, putting both hands in his pockets. You now notice the glint of a prosthetic on his left and look back to his face.

“I’m going to be just fine,” you assure him.

“Okay, well,” he starts, looking back to the glass of the bakery case. “I’d love a couple biscottis for the road. Dealer’s choice.”

You smile through your sadness and walk around the counter, placing two into a paper bag for him.

“I’m paying,” he says, waving his wallet around.

“You’re not. I owe you one,” you say, crossing your arms.

“You’re stubborn,” he sighs, shaking his head. He pulls a twenty from his wallet and slips it into the tip jar anyway before stepping back from the counter. He knows he should say goodbye. This interaction is over, but there’s a tug in his chest that won’t let him walk out. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Aren’t you from Brooklyn?” You ask. The chances are slim to none that you’ll ever see him again.

“Yeah, but I have a feeling you’ll get flowers again,” he says as his back hits the door to exit the bakery. “Take care.”

———

One Month Later

The bell above the bakery door chimes as you’re elbow deep in a tub of frosting. “Welcome in,” you exclaim, not looking up from the counter.

“D’you have any coffee cake?”

Your head snaps up at the deep voice. He is standing there with a bouquet of pink lilies and a smile. “I told you you’d get flowers again.”

The End

Another nod.

"Buck, I need you to talk."

"She's hurt. I wanted to teach her how to ride a motorcycle, and she fell, but she's okay."

"Bucky, you can't feel bad about that..."

The blond was about to start his tirade, but Bucky stopped him. "That's not what's bothering me."

"Then what?" Steve dropped a couple of bags he was carrying in his hand.

"I stayed to take care of her..." Steve raised his eyebrow without looking at him. "And she had a nightmare; she cried for a while in her sleep."

Steve just nodded, an affirmative hum coming from his lips.

"Is that all you plan to say?" Bucky demanded.

"What do you want me to say? I'm not surprised."

"What do you mean, you're not surprised?" The tone of his voice showed how offended he was by the blond's lack of reaction.

"Buck, she comes from a military father. She has what? Three brothers? Also in the military. I would never think that her childhood would be the healthiest."

Bucky's lips remained sealed in a straight line.

"Buck." He paused to think about his words. "You met the only woman who has ever only spoken to you as a person, the only woman who is capable of holding your gaze because she doesn't care about your past, and you really believed she didn't have a horrible past?"

When he said it out loud, he realized how stupid it sounded.

"She probably learned obedience before she learned to add."

Bucky clicked his tongue in response. He felt like an idiot.

"And what did you do?"

"Nothing."

Steve looked at him incredulously. He knew he was lying.

"I stayed—I stayed by her bedside, waiting for her to feel better—waiting for her to fall asleep again."

"Buck..." Steve stared at him.

"Mhm." He grunted.

“No one is asking you to take care of her, I'm sure not even she is."

"So what?"

"Just... try to be her friend?" Steve shrugged. "Not everyone wants or needs to be rescued."

When Bucky returned to the building, he decided to make peace with the idea of being friends with you. He didn't really know how to do it, but he wanted to stop running away.

He approached your apartment to talk, knocked on your door three times, no response.

He knocked again, a little louder. Nothing.

Just as he was about to return to his apartment to get the card he had, you opened the door. Your hair was tied up on top of your head, and you were wearing pajama pants and a top that left part of your midriff exposed.

"I'm sorry, I was asleep," you said, holding onto the doorframe.

"At four in the afternoon?" You nodded. "Are you okay?"

"My body still hurts, but I'll be fine."

"If you need anything, I'll be in my apartment." He turned away.

"Jamie." You spoke before he had even taken a step.

"Can I stay with you... at least today?" Bucky raised his eyebrow. "I feel... bad. And I don't want to be alone."

"Pack a bag."

He replied, returning to the doorway. You nodded and began to walk erratically around the apartment. After a few minutes, you were ready with a gym bag. He took it from your hands, a little faster than he would have liked, and offered his other arm to hold onto.

That first night became the beginning of a routine. Both realized that you enjoyed each other's company more than you had been willing to admit for months.

And that's how it started; on bad days, you would show up at Bucky's apartment to complain about your coworkers, your patients, anything that had bothered you that day. On good days, Bucky would arrive, perhaps with food, sometimes with homemade coffee, just looking for excuses to spend more time with you.

Lola spent her days teasing you, saying you would be living together sooner than you thought. You spent your days making excuses, comparing the situations to when you visited each other.

One afternoon, Bucky was cooking a pizza in the oven while you read on the couch, something that no longer seemed strange to either of them.

However, a knock on the door startled them both. You tensed when you saw Bucky's eyes darting around erratically. He tried to appear relaxed as he approached the door, hoping not to startle you.

Steve was waiting on the other side of the door, carrying a bag of fast food.

When Bucky opened the door and saw him standing there, his skin paled, and his body moved a few inches backward. As if Steve's mere presence had pushed him. The problem wasn't Steve—it wasn't even that you were there. The problem was that he wasn't ready to admit that someone else was in his circle of trust.

You had such a domestic routine established for weeks that you didn't even realize it had become a habit to be in each other's apartments.

"Good thing I brought extra food."

He just commented as he walked past Bucky.

"Am I interrupting something?"

"No, we were just waiting for the pizza to be ready."

You sat down at the table, putting down the device you had been reading on.

But Bucky knew that wasn't what he meant. Bucky knew Steve wanted to ask if he was interrupting something—important, more intimate.

They began to set the table, Steve talking about his day, banalities that you found interesting. No one asked any more questions than necessary. Steve didn't even want to find out what you were doing on a typical day, reading in Bucky's apartment. He understood that he had taken his advice to other extremes.

"How are your... constant injuries?" Steve said after drinking from a glass.

"Better, I was able to go back to work. It was difficult at first."

"Be more careful, kiddo."

The expression on Steve's face was delicate; you could see genuine concern in his eyes. You couldn't help but feel nervous—it was difficult not to in the presence of Captain America himself. You tried to be careful, but some food fell on the floor when you were distracted by Steve's smile.

"Jamie, I'm sorry." Your voice was tender. Bucky shook his head and got up to look for napkins.

Steve couldn't help but smile again when he heard you call him like that so naturally.

When you took out one of the trays Steve brought—you found a raspberry pie.

Bucky notices how you scrunched your nose with every bite of the pie.

"What happened?" Bucky furrowed.

"You don't hate when you get your tongue itchy after eating raspberries?" Your nose kept scrunching.

Steve tried not to snort, but it was almost inevitable. Bucky just sighed your name.

"That's called an allergic reaction."

"What do you know about allergic reactions?" You snorted a laugh.

"I've lived enough to know how an allergic reaction works."

You rolled your eyes and kept eating.

"Anything new?" Raynor asked after some minutes of silence.

He didn't want to answer. He wasn't ready for that.

He mumbled your name. Almost imperceptible.

"Who's she, James?" Raynor wrote your name down.

"My neighbor." She noticed how he didn't include any kind of negative adjective before defining who you were.

"What about her?"

"She's got a military background. She's the daughter of a late General I fought decades ago."

Raynor nodded, allowing him to continue. This was the first time Bucky had the initiative.

"And is that a problem?"

"Isn't it sick? We… She spent the night at my apartment." Raynor couldn't feign the surprise behind those words, "Not like that. She got injured while we were practicing on my bike."

She was writing things down mentally—she knew how much Bucky hated the notepad. But the words coming from his mouth were nothing but good news.

"It is not sick. It's a casualty. Does she know that instance?" Bucky nodded.

"She started seeing someone some weeks ago."

Raynor tried not to furrow, achieving it. Maybe she was reading the whole situation completely wrong.

"And how did that make you feel?"

Bucky chuckled, "I'm just telling you that because she spiraled—I tried to help her. That should count, right?"

Just when Raynor thought she was making progress with Bucky, she fell from grace. Not because she really believed that Bucky did that just to gain some points, but because he was not ready to accept that he did just because he cared about her.

Despite countless evenings together, neither of you had ever fallen asleep at the other's house without prior arrangement—so he was very surprised to see you lying on the couch, fast asleep. He decided to leave you there. He tucked a small blanket around you and turned off the lights in every room.

The light above the stove was the only thing illuminating the room, but he felt it was enough to see you if you needed anything without disturbing your sleep.

He stood in front of you for a few seconds, not knowing what to do next. He wanted to go to his room, but it seemed rude to leave you all alone on the couch. He really didn't want to leave.

He didn't want to wake you up either; he wanted you to keep sleeping.

He decided to settle down in the single armchair. He could excuse himself by saying that he had also fallen asleep without realizing it. Before sitting down, he locked the device you were reading on.

Maybe tomorrow he would ask what you were reading now.

When he sat down in the armchair, he noticed your breathing quicken. For a moment, your chest began to move irregularly. Even with closed eyes, he could see your pupils moving from side to side under your eyelids.

He approached and placed his hand lightly on your shoulder, just resting it there. You calmed down at his touch.

In the morning, you woke up with a ray of sunlight shining on your face. You noticed Bucky on the other couch, and he shifted position when he felt you waking up. Old habits.

"Did I sleep here?" He nodded. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing? You were tired, you rested."

He stood up to stretch his body. You realized you had slept hugging the sheet, a habit you had had since childhood.

You both heard your phone ring, but you decided to ignore it.

"Would you accept breakfast from me, or am I taking advantage of your kindness?" You repeated Bucky's movements to stretch.

"I think you can take advantage of my kindness a little longer." You both smiled.

Breakfast was awkward, slightly rushed, as if they both wanted to kill the awkwardness created by you staying the night, even when you both were comfortable with each other.

When you said goodbye to return to your own apartment, you both realized that neither knew what to do with your free time without the other.

When alone, you realized that the person who had been sending messages was one of your older brothers. He asked you to meet him as soon as possible.

You agreed to see him immediately; it would serve as a distraction.

You didn't really mention it, but your three brothers were what kept you afloat in your worst. Your older brothers, Robert and Noah—who were like father figures for you, then Derek, the youngest—your baby. The one who looked up at you.

Everything was almost perfect until you decided to start on your own—when you really tried to be your own persona.

From that moment, they tried to protect you even more, no longer as brothers, but as guard dogs. They questioned every move and worried if you didn't call one day. They were so afraid of losing you that they even began to question who you were associating with.

But this time it wasn't just sibling jealousy. It went beyond that.

You visited your brothers that same day after returning from spending the night at Bucky's house.

They were waiting for you at your mother's house.

When you first arrived, you noticed that the three of them were tense.

Robert and Noah just kissed you on the forehead; there was no hug as there usually had been. Derek hugged you with all his strength; he had always been the most sensitive of the three.

"May I ask what the urgency is?" You asked, sitting down in front of them.

"We just want you to tell us the truth. We don't want any more rumors." Roberto's voice, always so deep, resonated in your chest. You nodded.

"Someone from the rehabilitation center where you work mentioned that they saw you in your car with no one else but Steve Rogers, Captain America. Is that true?"

That sentence had a double meaning, you knew, and unfortunately, you could sense where it was going.

You shrugged. "Yep. Steve stopped by to say hi that day." You said as if it weren’t something new, as if Steve had always been in your life.

"We're not really interested in you being close to Rogers, but we want to know, how did you become close to him?"

You rolled your eyes. They were asking rhetorical questions to make a point. "I think you already know the answer. You're not interested in hearing what I have to say."

"So is it true that you live in the same building as James Buchanan Barnes?" Derek spat out that name with a certain disgust on his tongue.

"Yes, Ja-" You stopped short. You knew perfectly well that this was not the time to use his nickname. "James is my neighbor. He has his apartment on the same floor as me."

"Do you have any idea who he is?" Noah wrinkled his nose.

"I didn't find out until a few weeks ago."

"So, you know, and you are still talking to him?"

"He's never been mean to me. He tries everything to make up for his mistakes."

You tried to defend him, but not too much; clearly, you didn't want to give them the wrong impression. The truth was that you wanted to defend him with all your might. You wanted to tell them how he tried so hard every day to help you, to not hurt you or anyone else.

"We're not talking about your veterans with PTSD, we're talking about a mercenary, an assassin, a deadly weapon in a human body."

"He's not a danger," was all you managed to say.

You sighed.

"Guys, I know you're worried, and I appreciate it." You stood up and walked over to Derek. "But you have nothing to worry about. I'm fine. James has never been a threat to me—and I hope you respect my decision."

"If you leave this house, we'll follow you to your apartment," Noah challenged.

"Go ahead, I have nothing to hide, and neither does James."

"We're not done talking."

You kissed Derek on the cheek; he was the only one who would allow it in a situation like this. You walked to your car without even looking back. You knew they would follow you, even if you had stayed to talk.

You decided to let them see the intimacy of that small building that had been the setting for your whole interactions with Bucky.

When you arrived at the building, they walked in with you. Robert and Noah walked in front of you, while Derek put his arm around your shoulders.

‘Guard dogs,’ you thought as they asked which floor.

When they reached your hallway, you prayed that Bucky wouldn't hear the extra footsteps and wouldn't peek out. But you were out of luck.

As you were walking out of the elevator, Bucky was coming out of his apartment; he was not even paying attention—he was not even aware you were walking in with three men towering over you.

You paled, your chest swelling as you held your breath.

What looked like a pack stood in front of Bucky—who stared back at them. Three perfectly formed men with a military bearing, as if they had been born to be soldiers. Their skin looked weathered, perhaps from the sun, perhaps from blows or the passing years.

Bucky could see General George—your father, in each of them, except for the youngest, who looked the smallest and was identical to you. He had the same look as you, sweet but carrying more than he let on.

None of them said anything; they just stared at each other. The four men with their dog tags visible. A detail that you would have preferred to ignore.

Robert stepped forward, as if he wanted to assert himself in front of Bucky.

"James Buchanan Barnes." Robert spat with disdain. Staring intently at his face, looking for the slightest reaction so he could excuse himself if he had to confront him...

"Bucky," he replied. Noah let out an almost sarcastic laugh.

Bucky's gaze sought out you, pleading with your eyes not to start anything, to let them gloat long enough to feel like they had won. He accepted without even changing his expression.

"Or do you prefer 'The Winter Soldier'?" Noah crossed his arms over his chest. Bucky sighed.

"Guys, please."

The tone of voice confused Bucky. He expected to hear a little girl in a woman's body, but it was quite the opposite. Your voice was harsh, challenging.

"Needless to say, my sister has no reason to be hanging out with you, right?"

"No one is forcing her to do anything with me."

You could see from his profile how much Bucky was clenching his jaw.

"And you expect us to accept that? After knowing who her neighbor is, you expect us to believe you're not taking advantage of her?"

Your eyes widened, and Bucky took a step forward. The mere implication of that sentence made him feel a heat all over.

"I'm just her neighbor. I'm not looking for anything."

The three men closed in on Bucky like wolves. That was enough for you.

"Enough!"

You shouted. The four men froze instantly. You walked to stand between them, looking so small next to them.

"I'm not going to let you all talk about me as if I weren't here, as if I were a fool who can't defend herself."

You turned to look at your brothers.

"These are my decisions. I'm not an idiot, and I'm not going to pretend that this man here is everything that's wrong with the world, much less that he's a saint." It came out of your mouth like a growl, as if it burned to say it, even more so in front of him.

They looked at you with a mixture of bewilderment and frustration. They were so used to you giving in to everything they said that seeing you argue shook them off.

You turned to look at Bucky, completely turning your back on them. "Go away."

Your gaze was pleading, despite your harsh tone. He swallowed and didn't even answer.

"You too." You turned to look at them after hearing Bucky's door close.

Derek pleaded your name, trying to negotiate.

"Get out." You mumbled through your teeth.

Bucky didn't leave his apartment that day, not out of fear, but because he really didn't know what to say, didn't know how to help, or even if he should help at all.

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts early in the morning.

Your eyes were swollen, again.

Without thinking twice, you approached and hugged him, burying your face in his chest.

Bucky stood still. He was not used to being a source of comfort—but a few seconds later, his arms awkwardly wrapped around you. He didn't move them at first; he didn't even know where they were supposed to be, but he held you just long enough for you to feel comforted.

"I couldn't sleep at all." The fabric hid your sobs. He just nodded. "Can I...?"

You didn't want to ask—you no longer felt you should ask, but deeply knew he could be just as hurt by what had happened.

You let go of him first, turning to look at him with embarrassment. He was already opening the door without even answering.

You sank into the armchair, your hands resting on your knees and covering your face. Bucky began to heat water to make coffee.

His cell phone started ringing.

"It's Sam," he said with an embarrassed tone.

"I'm fine, you don't have to watch over me." He smiled wryly and went out into the hallway—closing the door to shield you from whatever Sam was about to say.

You weren’t in the habit of snooping—especially at Bucky's house. However, for the first time, you noticed a metal box under the coffee table, hidden away, discarded.

It had no label, looked old, and was corroded by time.

You turned towards the door, and your heart began to race, and then leaned over to pick it up. It felt cold, rusty, light, but with a mental weight.

As you held it open, you realized what it was, and that it was probably there because of the confrontation the previous afternoon.

They were photos of his life. One photo looked like it had been taken from a folder; it even had a faded stamp on it and looked worn out, probably from decades of use.

It was him in a cryogenic chamber, eyes closed as if asleep, skin white as snow, trapped in that horrible machine. You put it away immediately—your heart couldn't bear to look at it for more than ten seconds.

Then there were a couple of photos of him that looked like they had been taken from security cameras; he was wearing a mask, almost like a muzzle that completely covered his face, a tactical uniform that made him look... so humanless.

Your chest ached, burning as if someone had buried a dagger in it.

Finally, you found a couple of even older photos, from the 1940s. He looked full of life, full of hope, confident in the future.

Your throat clenched up with pain. You couldn't believe how badly the whole world had treated him. Your fingers trembled with nerves, pain, and frustration.

You immediately put the photos away and left the box exactly where you had found it. You couldn't wrap up the idea of what you had done, couldn't believe you had been snooping around in something so private—so intimate.

And now, you were heartbroken and had no way to explain it without looking disrespectful.

You stood up and walked to the door. Bucky was about to come in.

“Can we get out of here? I need some air." Bucky swallowed hard, but agreed immediately. He took a jacket and gently placed it on your shoulders.

In the coffee shop, Bucky noticed more than a few stares and decided not to say anything.

He needed and wanted you to stay calm, and if that meant putting up with a few stares—he would do so without hesitation.

Sitting at a table by the window, Bucky noticed how you stirred your coffee too vigorously, almost to the point of spilling a few drops out of the cup. At the same time, you noticed how the sun glinted on his metal arm, and just there, you started to notice the details on it. The golden lines, the almost black metal, glistened in the sun—and you finally realized he was not wearing his usual leather jacket nor his gloves.

You were both immersed in each other, unaware that you had been silent for almost two minutes, until a voice around them snapped you out of the trance.

"How can they possibly let him be in public without supervision?" One man murmured to another, clearly looking at Bucky. You caught it right away.

"How is it possible that anyone in their right mind could sit in front of the 'Winter Soldier' as if it were... human?"

"I bet the guy has her kidnapped or something."

Bucky clenched his jaw, said nothing, just looked down, trying not to react. That made you explode.

After what your brothers had done, after the photos you had found, you hated how the world looked at him and pointed fingers. As if he had decided to do everything he had done while under HYDRA's control.

"Do you guys have a problem?"

You barked, dropping the stick you were using to stir the coffee.

Both boys froze when they heard you address them.

"I asked if you have a problem," you repeated.

"No... We—just—"

"What? Did you want to feel morally superior to a man who had been tortured and mentally enslaved for decades?"

You got up from your chair, but Bucky tried to stop you, his hand lagging behind your enraged movements.

"Do you think you're a better person?" You looked at one of them—the boy took two steps back.

"You wouldn't survive a single day of what he went through. Not even one day. But here you are, judging as if you knew a single day of what he's been through."

"We're sorry, we were worried about you." One of them finally spoke, clearing his throat.

You chuckled, a hurt and almost cynical laugh. "Yeah, sure. 'Cause, probably both your lives are so boring that you have to come up with morbid ideas of other people's lives just to feel something—"

The two boys looked down.

Bucky said your name, almost like a plea.

"Just… let them go."

Bucky took your hand, and the two boys took advantage of the distraction to leave the café. You sat down in the chair, feeling exhausted.

You covered your face with both hands, running them slowly but firmly across your face.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped." You looked at him. He was silent. "I'm sick of people deciding who you are."

You got up, and he followed you. Nothing else was said after that.

You arrived at his apartment and collapsed onto the couch, burying your head in a pillow. Bucky sat down on the other couch, running his hand through his hair.

"Do you need anything?" he asked. You shook your head into the pillow, and he could hear your quiet sobbing.

He decided to text Steve. Bucky felt he could help you more than he could.

Next Part.

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