L'Appel du Vide

While you take all the bags off the kitchen island, Bob sets up the amp next to the tall chair in the back corner of the living room. There’s a high-pitched noise when he flips the switch to on, followed by a lowly “fuck” when he rushes to turn the volume all the way down. “I heard that.” You scold playfully.

It’s not like Bob doesn’t cuss. But usually, he keeps it at heck or darn it. It’s still amusing when something more elevated slips out. “Sorry. I keep forgetting to get the dial fixed.” His face scrunches up with the apology, and you wonder if his parents are the type who would scold him whenever he'd use a naughty word as a child. It’s one of the many questions you’ve added to the queue since the afternoon. At this point, you’re not even sure when you’ll get to ask all of them. After all, the clock is still ticking. So you focus on what you’d promised in exchange for an impromptu jam session, slowly start unpacking and organizing everything from the bags while Bob finishes setting up. Once he’s satisfied with bass, reverb and whatever other adjustment is needed, he takes a seat, his slate-blue eyes steady on you when he asks “What would you like me to play?” You pause, reflect. Five minutes ago, you didn’t even know that Bob plays guitar. Or that he likes Stargate and Star Trek and Star Wars. Thirty minutes ago, you didn’t know that Bob has quite the sweet tooth. On the way here, he’d already torn into a bag of Swedish Fish. A small one that he’d bought extra just so he could snack right then. And sixty-five minutes ago, you didn’t know that his parents had met in Scotland. And that they go back there every so often. Usually on their anniversary. The answer to what he should play is easy, really. Questions aren’t the only way to get to know someone. “A combo of your favorite songs or guitar solos, if you’re up for it.” You request, so Bob does. He warms up with more well known rock classics, easily transitions solos from ‘Another Brick in the Wall’ to ‘What if God was one of us?’ to ‘Who wants to live forever?’ before he picks up the pace with ‘Summer of 69’ and ‘Simply the Best’. He even plays a medley of ABBA’s greatest hits, amusement lifting his face when he sees you shimmying and twirling along to ‘Gimme Gimme Gimme’. And then… … and then he starts Hozier’s ‘Too Sweet’ and you stop dead in your tracks, literally feel your jaw drop because… What? The? Fuck!? Bob isn’t just playing guitar. He’s singing along. And he’s good. Like really good. Like Hozier would be proud good!

But what stands out the most isn’t the song he picked or that he’s singing along. It’s the fact that Bob looks content. Beyond that even. He looks at peace, lost in the moment as if nothing else around him exists or matters; eyes near closed, head swaying along when he extends the song midway with an improvised guitar solo, his long slender fingers moving across fretboard and strings as if they have a mind of their own. Bob is handsome. Anyone with working eyes can see this. But right now, he looks otherworldly. Ethereal. Even with Bob still being in his service khakis he looks ethereal. There’s a juxtaposition here that doesn’t go past you. Elysian moment versus military formality. And you wonder how often Bob sits here, in his government-assigned quarters, and plays guitar. How often he’s more than routine and military precision. How often he sings to his heart’s content, improvised solo and all. How often he’s anything but the quiet shadow he shares with the world… “You okay over there?” The question catches you off guard. Especially when you realize that Bob must’ve stopped playing some time ago; his Gibson Les Paul already back in its stand when he unplugs the amp. And as the question hangs in the air and your brain catches up to the here and now, you also realize that one, you’ve made it only halfway through organizing the shopping haul, and two, you’re not sure how to answer that. Why? Because Robert Floyd is an even bigger enigma now than he was three hours ago. Sure, you’d gotten some answers here and there, but with every bit of new information there seem to be a hundred more questions. At this pace, it would take a lifetime to get to know Bob. Maybe even two. And dammit, your heart would jump at the chance. But your brain reels you back in. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. So are you okay? Not really. Not with your heart and brain being at god damn odds. Honestly, if it was as simple as asking ‘please don’t go’, it would be different. You’re sure of that! Sure that your heart and brain would align with the simple truth that you’re way beyond just liking Robert Floyd. That you have been for a while now. And that you wouldn’t mind spending a lifetime getting to know what lies beneath the quiet surface of his whole being. But it’s not that simple. Not with Bob being in the Navy. And not with Bob leaving in less than twenty-four hours. Really, it wouldn’t be fair to him to bring this up now, the evening before a long deployment. Confessions of the heart under pressed time are never a good idea. They become distractions. And in his line of work, distractions like this can have dire consequences. So you bite your tongue -hard-, quirk a brow and say “Yup. Peachy. Just a little disappointed.” “Disappointed?” Bob’s voice pitches up an octave and your brow quirks higher.

“Yes. Disappointed.” You stalk towards Bob, hands on your hips when you stop right in front of him. “All this time, we’ve had another musician amongst our midst, yet we’re stuck with Beatles mashups and Jerry Lewis’ ‘Great Balls of Fire’ when we could’ve had something different. Do you have any idea how close I’ve come to throwing that damn bell against Rooster’s head? Or Hangman? Like swear to God, if I hear ‘Slow Ride’ one more time, I’m gonna revoke his jukebox privileges for life. For life! Seriously, Bob, explain yourself!” You poke Bob’s chest and study his face while you wait, and he stands wide-eyed like a deer caught in the headlights. It’s his meek “sorry?” that nearly breaks your pretended annoyance, lips twisting as you try to hold back the laugh threatening to shake through your body. “Wait. Is this another one of those ‘I’m teasing’ moments? I can’t tell.” Bob’s eyes narrow and yeah, you can’t hold back any longer, laugh wholeheartedly. And so does Bob. “Darn it. Got me again.” He says once the moment calms, and yeah, you got him again but there is some truth to what you’d said. All this time, you could’ve watched him play guitar, heard him sing, seen a well hidden part of his beautiful soul… You lightly trace the letters on the headstock again, contemplating. Bob doesn’t like being in the spotlight. That isn’t some new found truth. The Daggers know this. The bar staff knows this. You know this. There’s a reason he always chooses the most far back barstool once he joins his little group. He’s a quiet participant. Not just that. He’s a calming presence. The grounding balance to when egos get too big or too loud. It’s what caught your attention about Bob in the first place. But now that you’ve seen him play, it’s difficult to ignore the idea brewing in your head. “You should play at The Hard Deck. Bring your guitar. Or Penny could get one, so it’s always there when the mood strikes.” You suggest softly, but Bob shakes his head. His jaw sets tight before he quietly tells you that “I’m not… Rooster.” You study Bob’s face again while you consider a rather obvious truth. “You’re right. You’re not,” you say and this time Bob raises a brow, so you add “That’s a good thing. Rooster is an entertainer. He’s like a thunderstorm. Exciting. Even exhilarating, I guess. And that’s fine now and then. But most of us like variety, which includes the calm between the storms.” You pause to let the words settle, but Bob still looks hesitant. You’re not going to plead like earlier. Playing to an audience of one is different than playing in a room full of people. Even if some of those people are friends. And even some of those friends must know he plays. (Someone must know, right? Phoenix? Fanboy?) Still, you have to try. “I’m sure Penny wouldn’t mind a change of pace now and then either.” You encourage and Bob chuckles. “Hmmmm… I’ll… think about it.” “You will? Alright!” You know that ‘thinking about it’ isn’t a guarantee. It’s not a promise. It still feels like a win. So you do a little happy dance, and as you slowly circle around your axis, your eyes are back on the picture frames from earlier, from when you’d stood at the threshold into Bob’s life.

It's interesting. Earlier, those picture frames had made you halt. For good reason. It’s not every day that one goes from casual after-work friend to something… …something… …well, something more real, more true, for lack of a better word. But right now, those same picture frames seem to draw you in automatically, like an irresistible magnetic pull to see, to learn, to get to know Robert Floyd. As you step closer, you realize that there are far more frames than what you’d seen from the entry way. Kaleidoscopic collection, it expands over the sliver of wall visible from the door around the corner and into the living room. The frames are varied in shapes, sizes and styles, but they’re all the same matte gold. Upon closer inspection, it looks like they were all spraypainted that way. Yvette would probably love this combination. And the effort to make it look interesting. The photographs are just as varied, and surprisingly out of order. A lot of people tend to display their life A through B through C. Parents, baby pictures, graduations, other accomplishments, travels. With Bob’s affinity for routine and order, one would think he’d do the same. Yet his collection starts with a couple of photographs from his initial training to become a weapons systems officer. Dressed in full flight gear and helmet in hand, he’s standing next to a small plane in one picture, and sitting in an F-18 two-seater variant in another. From what you remember Fanboy telling you “Wizzos usually don’t have pilot licenses. We handle the armament and navigation system so the pilot can focus on flying. But we do have training to fly the jet in case of an emergency. You know, in case the pilot is hurt or passed out. Thankfully, I’ve never had to use the training.” Regardless if Bob has a pilot’s license or not, he looks good in full gear. Confident. Your gaze shifts higher, this time to a picture of a much younger Bob gently hugging a foal. He doesn’t have glasses, yet. And his hair looks a lot wavier and lighter than now, his cheeks cherup-ier, but it’s undeniably and adorably him. Those slate-blue eyes and that angled little smile are dead giveaways. If you had to guess, you’d say he’s about five or six here. Next to that is a picture that must’ve been taken moments before, or after. The foal looks the same and Bob is wearing the same clothes. Except, there’s a girl next to him. She’s about his age and has the reddest of red curls you’ve ever seen on a person. They’re smiling and holding hands.

Below that is a picture of him on a front porch of a ranch style house. He’s maybe eight in that one, with grayish-framed glasses atop his nose and holding on to a toddler who’s dressed like a pumpkin while Bob is sporting Jedi robes. The girl with the red curls has her hair in buns. She is Leia. “You have siblings?” “Two younger sisters.” Bob is next to you, and you jump. Again! “You need a bell.” You grouch out and Bob laughs. “Sorry.” He smirks, then peruses the pictures with you. “That’s Remy.” He points to the picture you were looking at last, his finger on the toddler. “And that’s Willow.” He says as he steps around the corner, his index moving to a picture central of the collection. This one must’ve been taken late summer. August maybe, as the sunflowers in the background are in full bloom. There are three children sitting on a wide-board swing hanging from an old maple tree. Actually, two are sitting. Willow is cradled in Bob’s lanky arms. She can’t be more than six months old, but Bob looks like he’s grown a lot and Remy looks kindergarten age. They’re all wearing T-shirts, jeans, and light brown cowboy hats. Although, Willow’s is sliding off backwards. “And my parents, Martha and Thomas.” Bob points to the very top frame. There are two wedding pictures in a beautifully leaf-carved frame. One was obviously done by a professional photographer. The typical ‘look here, say cheese’ pose done in front of the venue, three bridesmaids and three groomsmen standing at the respective sides. The other is a candid, the groom squishing the laughing bride’s cheek with a kiss while in an endearing side-embrace. If adorableness was personified, it’d be Martha and Thomas Floyd. You lean up to get a closer look at his parents, a small gasp slipping out. “Holy smokes! Talk about carbon copy.” You lean closer, standing on your tippytoes now. “You look just like your dad,” you say. “Except your nose. It’s buttony. Like your mom’s.” “See, now I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.” Bob throws your words back at you and you snicker. “Just an observation. One thing’s for sure, your kids are gonna be hella cute.” It's like a record scratch, moment frozen in time once the words are out there. You can feel Bob staring at you from the side, and you know that your own eyes are round like little moons when you pivot towards him. “I mean, you know… uhmmm if you ever have kids… or want kids…” Your voice gets higher with each word and Bob’s gaze intensifies with each millisecond.

You need a distraction! STAT!

Rescue comes in the form of the deep orange glow of a setting sun and… “Is that a balcony?” You rush towards the sliding glass door. “May I?” Like many times before, Bob smiles his patient and angled little smile. “Knock yourself out.” You don’t have to be told twice; the door already halfway open before Bob even answers. Fresh air is a good thing. So are the sounds of waves in the distance. You need a moment of clarity. A moment to reset. Because… What the fuck was that, brain? Seriously! Ahhhhhhhhhhh….. Delving into the topic of kids right now seems like dangerous territory. Sure, it probably seems like an innocent statement to an outsider but the second you said the words, more questions started dropping like Tetris pieces at level ninety-nine. And they weren’t just fact-seeking questions anymore. They were moral code, view on life, personal goal questions. The heavy hitters. The compatibility for life types. Those have to be nipped in the bud right away! Especially today! Why brain? Why!? You pray to whoever or whatever that Bob doesn’t question your panic. That he thinks it was an offhand comment. Friends talk about possible futures that include children, right? RIGHT? Best friends do for sure. But what about new friends? What about ‘barely entered the true friendship phase’ friends? DO THEY? You sigh. At least, you didn’t say ‘our’… “Enjoying the view?” God fucking dammit! “How do you keep doing that?” You ask, a genuine annoyed bite in your tone. “What?” “Sneak up like a cat.” Bob laughs. “Had plenty of practice when I started sneakin’ out for joyrides in my Pa’s pickup truck.” You eye Bob with disbelief. His face is soft but unreadable. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.” Really, you can’t. “Dead serious.” He says, eyes crinkling at the corners with some pride. “My Ma said I’m the reason for at least half her gray hairs. Looking back, I think she’s right.” You blink at Bob. No way! “No way! I don’t believe you!” You squint and he laughs ever more. Without a word he plucks his cellphone from his pocket, sends a message, quietly waits. Not a minute later, he gets a reply, flips the display so you can see. “My Ma took the picture.” He grins sheepishly. You’re sure your eyes must look like they’re ready to pop out of your head as you take in the image. Bob, maybe fifteen years old, is sitting in the back of a patrol car, face as sheepish as it is now. His dad- hands on hips- is standing next to the car, and next to dad, a senior law officer waits to open the door. “Deputy drove dad’s truck back to the ranch while I sat in the sheriff’s car.”

You blink again. This can’t be real. There’s no way this quiet, gentle, selfless man next to you ever did that. But then your mind goes to this afternoon. “I would’ve risked restricted liberty...” Those weren’t just empty words. Not to mention, the proof is right there. On his phone. Bob Floyd isn’t just a bit of a troublemaker. “I can’t believe I’m standing next to a delinquent punk.” You can’t think of another word, because really, who is this man? Bob doesn’t seem to mind, the way he’s laughing. “To be fair, that was the one and only time I got into real trouble. Like with the law and such.” Now that, you believe. Naturally, there’s an itch to know “How?” “I usually stayed on the ranch. I mean, Pa taught us all to drive really early on. I could maneuver small livestock trailers by the time I was ten. The bigger ones by the time I was twelve. It’s ranch life. Going for joyrides wasn’t unusual. So long we stayed within bounds. Now, going on joyrides in Pa’s pickup on the other hand... Again, used to stay on the ranch.” “I see, so the one time you decided to hit the road you got caught.” You poke and Bob chuckles, nods. “Mmmmhmmm. Got away with a very stern warning from the sheriff. And a $500 fine. That was nothing compared to home. Lost my internet privileges for a month. Driving privileges for two. That one really hurt. No TV. No phone except for emergencies. Home by 2100 hours. But it was… worth it.” Bob’s voice is soft. And so are his his eyes. Memory-stricken soft. No! Secret-holding soft. Teenagers do crazy things. That’s not some revelation. But from what Bob just told you, and all the things you know about him, it doesn’t feel like he’d just suddenly break his own rules for the stupider option. And considering the age and the fact that Bob seems to have grown up in the middle of nowhere, there’s not much left to choose from. So you ask. “What was her name?” It's as though you’ve hit the bullseye with how quickly Bob averts his gaze. “Come on. The one time you hit the road... I don’t believe you’d risk it for a booze run. Or do some stupid shit like cow tipping. Although… hmmmm… oh my god. Tell me it wasn’t cow tipping?” Bob chuckles. “It wasn’t.” One beat. Two. Then a name. “Charlotte.” He whispers. Your mind goes back to the wall. You’d skimmed over the other pictures. Dagger Squad. Bob’s sisters over the years. Graduations. Remy’s wedding. Sastavci Waterfalls. The Acropolis. Mount Fuji. And in between, every so often, there was “The girl with the red curls.” You say and Bob smiles, repeats. “The girl with the red curls.” Then he’s quiet. Again.

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End of chapter notes: The age gap between Remy and Bob is 6 years, and between Willow and Bob is 11 years. In this story Bob is about 31/32. That would make Remy 25/26 and Willow 20/21. Some may have noticed. Lewis' dad played President Whitmore in ID4. As you know, he was part of the AF. Hence, Bob's dad being former AF is a nod to that role. I also decided to name Bob's dad Thomas; fictional President Whitmore's first name. The title and overall idea is based on Feargal Sharkey's song.

Tags: @mynameismckenziemae @ahotmesswithprivilege @beautifulandvoid @bobbyfloyd

Also on AO3.

Masterlist

“When have I ever made something like that up?”

“Fifth grade,” you answer without hesitation, “when you said you’d met Captain America on that field trip.”

“Again, that was not made up, I saw him—”

“That was a random guy in a baseball cap—”

“—he was looking right at Tyler—”

“—Tyler needed glasses and he also had a crush on you, of course he’d agree—”

“—it was one hundred percent real and even if it weren’t, I was eleven, let it go.”

“You brought it up, Elsa.” You readjust the straps of the overfilled tote bag on your shoulder. “I will find someone else to go to winter wonderland with, by the way.”

“You’re a menace,” Kate grumbles. “I’m off saving the city and you thank me with threats.”

“Put the dog on screen again and I might reconsider,” you answer as you stop for a red light, holding your phone closer to your face again. “Aaaww, did you put him in a bow tie? Well, aren’t you a handsome boy!”

“You already love that dog more than me, don’t you?”

“One hundred percent,” you say, still cooing. “You’ll bring him next week, right?”

“Uhm, yeah …” Kate says, trailing off. She flips the screen again and sits down on the floor next to pizza dog, who places his head in her lap. “I don’t know if I’m gonna make it yet. What with all this—stuff going on. I’m gonna try, obviously,” she adds hastily, seeing the look of disappointment on your face. “I just don’t think these guys are gonna take the weekend off.”

“They better,” you sigh and join the crowd of people shuffling to cross the street while carrying their several salaries’ worth of Christmas shopping. “I miss you, Bishop.”

Kate smiles. “Miss you too.”

“And take a selfie with your new best friend. I have the right to see my supposed replacement.”

“Bye.”

You shake your head as Kate and pizza dog disappear from your screen with a chime.

It’s started snowing during your call, gray clouds covering the sky and turning the crisp winter air into icy gusts of wind that make your eyes water. So much for New York City at Christmas; they only ever tell you about the lights and the window decorations, not about the damn cold.

Thankfully, your apartment is only a couple of blocks away now. The thought of curling up on the couch with your cat and a hot drink is the one thing that keeps your spirits up while you try shoving your phone back into your coat pocket while also not slipping on the sidewalk.

Of course, that’s the exact moment someone bumps into you, sending both you and your shopping bags flying to the ground.

A surprised yelp escapes you as you attempt to break your fall on anything but your bags of presents. There’s a sharp pain coursing through your wrist and knees as you land, unceremoniously, on the curb.

“Well, merry Christmas, asshole!”you shout after the idiot who doesn’t even bother to stop and check on you. Continuing to curse under your breath, you scramble to get back on your feet and gather your bearings. The bags have soaked through, but at least nothing seems badly damaged.

“I think that’s yours.”

“Shit!” You take your phone out of the gloved hand offering it to you. It must have skidded away from you when you fell, and now the screen is cracked. You want to cry. “Sorry, I mean, thank you, I’m just—”

You take a look at the person in front of you and immediately lose your train of thought because, damn—he’s gorgeous.

The first thing you notice is that he hasn’t even bothered to close his jacket; it’s as if the searing cold tearing at you is nothing more than a light breeze to him, his gloves the one concession to the temperature.

Slowly, your gaze travels upwards. There’s some dark stubble on his perfect jawline. His cheeks and nose are tinted a beautiful shade of pink. A few snowflakes have got caught in his hair, and you would find yourself mesmerized by the way it curls ever so slightly on his forehead if it weren’t for his eyes. Wow—his eyes. Midnight blue with some lighter specs that make you think of the ocean, the color accentuated by his navy sweater. You’d be quite happy never looking at anything but his eyes ever again.

You realize you might be staring a little.

“Sorry,” you continue weakly. “That guy just barrelled into me.”

“I saw.” He frowns slightly and your eyes flicker to the little dimple between his brows. Your fingers itch to touch it. “You alright, doll?”

“Yeah, I’m …” You trail off, still nodding like a maniac, wondering for a split second if this is it, if you got sent into a Hallmark movie and you need to just let this happen, before you thankfully catch yourself. You’re being ridiculous, you think. Reel it back in, fast. “I like your sweater.”

Well done.

He blinks. “Thanks. I like yours, too.”

Tradition demands that Kate and you do your shopping together while wearing the ugliest Christmas sweaters you can find, and just because she’s blown you off this year doesn’t mean you’ll forgo that. In this moment, though, you wish you’d opted for anything that doesn’t depict Santa riding a dinosaur. You pull your coat closed.

There’s a slight twinkle of amusement in his beautiful eyes, but not like he’s making fun of you. He doesn’t say anything else, though, he just keeps watching you, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

He looks strangely familiar that way, as if you’d seen him before somewhere, but you can’t quite place him. You can only hope it’s not high school or something equally embarrassing.

Cringing slightly at the thought, you cough and do that awkward smile and nod. “Anyway, thank you, I should get—”

“Is it still working?”

Your head? Not while he’s looking at you, no. “What?”

“Your phone.”

“Oh!” Your hands shake slightly as you try unlocking it. The display stays black. Of fucking course. “I mean, I was running low on battery earlier, maybe plugging it in at home will help,” you say without much hope in your voice.

“Worth a try.” He glances at your bags. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Real life, not a movie. You still manage a smile. “Yes, of course, it’s fine. I’m not far ahead. Thank you, really. Happy holidays.”

“You, too.” He gives you another look and a light smirk tugs on his lips. And then he’s gone.

With a sigh, you turn down the street to haul your soggy bags home and mourn the fact that life does not follow the plot of your favorite rom coms after all. If it were, he’d be running after you now, insisting to carry your bags or at least ask for your number. The thought of it is so delicious you almost turn around, but thankfully, you still have an ounce of self-respect left, so you don’t.

You’re still distracted by your not-quite meet cute when you arrive at your doorstep, which is why you don’t immediately realize something is amiss. The green moving truck parked next to the entrance doesn’t strike you as particularly remarkable as you rummage through your tote bag for your keys.

Not until the guys get out of the car.

Your head turns automatically when you hear someone say your name, but you don’t recognize the men in front of you. They must be working for the same company, since they’re all wearing matching tracksuits. Maybe one of your neighbors is moving, you think, but you get a bad feeling from this. They’re not built like movers.

“Can I help you?” you say, grabbing your keys tightly.

“Hopefully,” one of them answers. His accent is heavy, Russian maybe, but you’re not sure. “We are looking for a friend of yours. Kate Bishop.”

Eyes flitting between the three of them, you take another step towards your door. What do they want from Kate? “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you mean.”

Either you're a worse liar than you like to think or they know something you don’t but either way, they just chuckle darkly. All the hair at the back of your neck is standing up now. Blindly, you reach for the handle behind you in the wild hope that it will just open on its own and you can put at least a door between those weird men and yourself. It doesn’t move an inch.

“Oh, but I think you do,” the same man says, and before you even have a second to breathe, you’re blinking down the barrel of a gun. Your blood turns cold.

“Come on, bro,” the guy to his right says, rolling his eyes. “She said just talk.”

“I am trying, but if she doesn’t want to do the talking, I am going to nudge a little. Show her we are not idiots.”

Should you scream? You feel like you should scream, but there’s no one else around and you don’t doubt that he might just shoot you where you’re standing. On the steps to your home, surrounded by a bunch of presents. What do they want from Kate? You’ve always been terrible in a crisis.

“What will she do, attack you with presents?”

“Fine, fine.” He puts the gun back into his trousers, but your heart is still racing. “See? No harm done. Just tell us where Kate Bishop is and we leave.”

Yeah, right. “Look,” you say slowly. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding …”

“I will tell you misunderstanding.” The man on the right takes a step closer to you and you flinch. It makes him grin, a ghastly, self-assured grin that makes you sick to your stomach. “Is when your friend got involved with the Ronin and pretends she knows what she’s doing.”

There’s only a couple of feet between him and you now and your brain short-circuits. So you swing your wet and heavy shopping bags at his face.

He does not expect that. The impact of the bags is enough to make him fall backwards at his companions, who also grunt in surprise. You frantically snatch your keys out of your bag, stabbing them at the hole to get into the building, but you’re not fast enough. You shriek when hands grab you from behind, kicking at whoever’s dragging you back down the stairs and into the alleyway next to your building. It’s no use.

For the second time today, you’re shoved to the ground roughly, but this time, you don’t get to catch your fall. You wince as your head hits the side of the dumpster, tears immediately springing to your eyes.

“Now can I nudge a little?” you hear one of the men growl. There’s the click of a safety catch being released, and you instinctively brace yourself for a shot.

It doesn’t come.

Instead there’s a yelp and a crash, and the dumpster shakes as something heavy falls on top of it. You push yourself upright where you landed in a small heap of snow, ignoring the sting in your wrist, and roll around just in time to see the second tracksuit guy go down with a groan. Someone shouts something in a language you don’t understand. A strange cracking sound and a scream. Then—

You scramble backwards when a shadow appears in front of you. There’s a wave of nausea that hits you at the sudden movement.

“Are you hurt?” You know that voice.

When you look up, you stare directly into those midnight blue eyes again. Once again, they almost take your breath away, even though now they’re dark with concern.

“I think so, I … I hit my head a little,” you say dumbly.

“Here.” You take his hands and let yourself be put upright, stumbling a little. His grip tightens ever so slightly when you do, holding you steady as the feeling of dizziness eases. There are a few stars swimming across your vision, but apart from that, you feel okay. Well, physically. “We gotta get you somewhere safe, doll, alright?”

You nod when you notice some movement behind his shoulder. The flash of a gun reflected against the snow.

The gasp falls from your lips the same moment as the shot rings out and the stranger in front of you whirls back around, pulling you behind his back with one swift movement. There’s a clanging sound as the bullet hits—metal?

Two more shots are fired and the man catches both of them with the palm of his left hand. He doesn’t seem to feel either of them. Within seconds, he wrestles the gun out of the assailant’s hand and hits him in the head with the hilt. And you realize why he’s seemed so familiar to you before.

“You’re Bucky Barnes,” you manage, eyes wide as you take him in properly.

His hair is short now, which is why you didn’t recognize him before, with his left arm hidden under his layers. There’s a hole in the palm of his glove now, though, and you can see the shiny vibranium underneath for just a moment before he balls it into a fist.

“I know,” he says, jaw set as he drags the unconscious guy further into the alley. Your knees buckle and you have to steady yourself against the dumpster. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

It seems such a weird thing to say, you almost laugh. If only you didn’t still feel like you’re spinning. When did the world stop making sense? “I didn’t think you would.”

“Good.” He brushes off his hands and picks something up from the ground. There’s something next to his shoe, a discoloration of the snow next to the dumpster. “We need to leave. More of them might show up.”

A surge of panic courses through you. “My cat, I can’t just—I can’t leave her here alone, she’s only eight months old.” For some reason, the thought of your kitten being left all by herself makes you sob involuntarily. But you can’t move. Your head is throbbing.

“Doll, you gotta breathe. Focus on something for me, alright?” You draw a shuddering breath, but your gaze is still flitting between the wall, Bucky’s arm, the snow, the men on the ground, your shoes. “Listen to me. What’s your apartment number?”

“4D,” you answer tonelessly. That’s blood right there on the ground. That’s definitely blood being covered by a thin layer of snow right now. It looks almost pink.

You feel another wave of nausea and close your eyes, gulping in huge gasps of cold air. This isn’t real, you keep thinking, it can’t be, even though every single beat of your heart tells you the difference, hammering the truth into your head until you feel dizzy with it. You tilt your head back until you lean against the wall, steadying yourself.

Rational, you tell yourself, hiding your face in your hands, you need to be rational about all this. One deep breath. In. Out.

“Three Men Injured After Attack On Civilian,” you whisper to yourself, trying to keep the bile down. “Read more on 12.”

Usually, it helps you to take a step back from it all, to see any situation through a more neutral lens, if you pretend you’re already reporting on it. Sadly, your brain doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.

Maybe if you don’t open your eyes, you’ll just wake up from an ill-advised late afternoon nap and everything will be back to normal.

A loud screeching noise overhead has you flinch.

“It’s okay, it’s just me.” Bucky jumps down the last couple of feet of the fire escape. “I have her, let’s leave.”

Numbly, you follow him through the alleyway back to the street. You’re almost surprised at the noise of the city that seems to come rushing back all at once. Life has continued despite what just happened only a few feet away, people all around you looking none the wiser.

You steal a glance over your shoulder. If you tilt your head just so, you can make out a boot and some of that rose colored snow.

“Don’t look back,” Bucky says quietly.

You turn back to stare at him. It’s only now that you notice his jacket, which is halfway closed now, appears to be moving. Another tiny gasp escapes you when you realize he has your cat tucked safely inside. She’s surprisingly quiet for an unexpected venture into the streets of Manhattan with a man she doesn’t know. In fact, she seems to be enjoying herself, curiously sticking her tiny pink nose outside and watching as you move back towards the crowd.

Maybe you should take a few pointers from her. You take another deep breath.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” you ask, wincing at how hoarse your voice sounds to your own ears.

“They’re already on their way. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where you can fire a few shots without anyone calling the cops immediately. Stop turning around,” Bucky says and your head shoots back forwards immediately. “Rule number one of not attracting attention is to act normally.”

“Right.” You can’t even remember how normal people walk. Do you usually move your arms this much? Hastily, you stuff your hands into your coat pockets. You feel your useless, dead phone inside, and your fingers clutch around it almost desperately.

“You’re doing great,” Bucky says and you almost laugh. You can still feel the adrenaline rushing through your veins, but at least you’re starting to be a bit more aware again, the panic slowly subsiding.

“What just happened back there?” you say through your teeth as you attempt to rearrange your facial features into something that signals casual stroll and not complete shell-shock.

“I was hoping you could tell me that.” Bucky’s scowl radiates neutral disinterest. You try to pull your eyebrows down slightly. “Do you know who sent those men?”

You give up the grimacing. “Of course not!”

“What were they asking for?”

Your heart sinks and you bite your lip to keep your focus in the present. “Kate Bishop. She, she’s my best friend, but I don’t—I can’t imagine what they’d want from her.”

Unless she was telling the truth, something at the back of your head tells you, but it seems so ludicrous. There’s something about Kate, your Kate, working with an Avenger that’s so far away from reality you can’t even put it into words.

Just like some men following you to your doorstep and demanding you tell them where she is.

NYU Student Involved With Organized Crime, you try in your head. Kate Bishop, 22, claims to have been recruited by—nope. Absolutely not.

If Bucky notices your inner conflict, he doesn’t remark on it. “For now, we’ll hide in the crowd in case they kept eyes on your door from a vantage point.”

You accidentally bite down so hard you taste blood. “Is that likely?”

“I don’t know these guys. But better safe than sorry.”

You turn another corner onto one of the larger avenues. Your eyes are pulled to the place next to the crossing where you’d dropped your phone. It couldn’t have been more than half an hour ago, even though you feel like your world has been turned on its head twice over since.

“You were going this way,” you say slowly, looking at Bucky. “Why were you even there when they …” You leave the sentence unfinished.

He coughs slightly. “I noticed one of them following you. Didn’t feel right, so I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“And still are, huh?”

He lets his eyes meet yours again, another lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Still am.”

You’re pretty positive the flutter in your stomach has nothing to do with the leftover adrenaline. Neither does the heat in your cheeks as you look away. “Well, I appreciate it,” you murmur.

If Bucky hears you, he doesn’t answer.

***

“Pretty sure your cat’s asleep.”

Without your phone, you have no way of knowing how long you’ve been walking aimlessly through Midtown and Hell’s Kitchen, changing direction every now and then, seemingly at random. The sun has set completely and the wind has picked up, making the temperatures drop even further. At this point, you can barely feel your toes as you hurry to keep up with Bucky’s long strides.

You peek at his jacket. Your tiny white cat is barely visible anymore, cuddled closely to Bucky’s stomach to keep warm. Once again, you find yourself strangely jealous of her.

“She must really like you. She’s usually very vocal.” Your chuckle comes out in a white cloud of steam. “Her name’s Alpine, by the way.”

“Fitting,” Bucky says, carefully petting her between the ears without waking her. “You still haven’t told me yours.”

“Oh.” You’ve been talking on and off during your walk, mostly pointing out dogs or decorated windows, unimportant things that have kept your mind off the men asking for Kate. Somehow, your name seems to not have come up. “It’s Y/N.”

He repeats it with a smirk. “That’s pretty.”

You can’t say if Bucky Barnes is flirting with you or if he’s just taking the distraction very seriously. Either way, you’re not complaining, because there’s a warmth in the way he says your name that makes your stomach tumble over itself. And your cheeks are on fire. Frozen still and on fire at the same time.

“Why don’t you close your coat?” Bucky asks after you pull it closer around you for what must be the hundredth time.

“Zipper’s broken,” you mumble, tucking your chin into the collar. “It’s fine, the wind is just a bit annoying.”

“Mhm.” Bucky looks at you from the side and you press your tongue between your teeth to keep them from actually chattering, mouth firmly shut. “Hey, let’s go in there for a sec.”

You look up as Bucky’s already marching across the street, heading towards the coffee shop at the corner. Its windows are almost aggressively festive, but the lights inside look cozy and you’re too exhausted from the cold to question much.

Bucky holds the door for you and you sigh as the first gust of warm, sweet air hits your face. It smells like coffee and cinnamon. The cheery Christmas playlist playing on speakers overhead mixes with the sound of the coffee machines and the pleasant chatter of the patrons occupying most of the tables close to the windows. The barista behind the register smiles at you briefly before she busies herself with the drip coffee maker.

“If anyone was following us, we'd have lost them a couple of blocks back,” Bucky quietly answers your question before you can speak up.

He could have said that a couple of blocks back, you think, but bite it back.

“What can I get you guys?” the barista calls over as you follow Bucky to the counter.

“Could I use your restroom?” he asks. You blink in surprise.

“Only if you buy something, I’m afraid,” the barista answers apologetically, glancing at who you assume is her manager behind the pastry case. “Company policy.”

“That’s alright,” you say, stepping up next to him and pulling the loose change out of your coat pocket. “My treat.” It’s the least you can do.

“Oh.” For some reason, Bucky’s ears go slightly pink. “Thank you. I’ll have whatever you’re having, then.”

The barista nods towards the far end of the store. “Upstairs and to the left, code’s A-616.”

“Thanks.” He turns back to you for just a moment, giving you a reassuring little smile. “Back in a minute.”

You nod and watch him walk to the stairs, keeping one arm in his pocket to make the cat-shaped outline of his jacket at least a little more inconspicuous. You only avert your eyes when the barista quietly clears her throat to get your attention, grinning when she does.

“Your boyfriend’s cute,” she remarks lightly as she rings up your order.

“Ah. No, yeah, he’s—”

“What name do you want me to put on the cups?” she asks, oblivious to your embarrassment.

Well, shit. You should’ve thought about this. Do you give her your real name when there’s people out there possibly still looking for you? Probably not. A fake one, then, but which one? The barista’s name, according to the writing next to a little red-nosed reindeer on her name tag, is Lucy, so you suddenly find yourself unable to think of any other name on the planet.

Wow, you really aren’t cut out for this whole being on the run thing. Terrible Liar: Local Reporter Blanks on Basic Question. More on her move to the moon on page 3.

By the time Bucky returns, you’re tucked into a corner farthest from the window, two red paper cups sat in front of you, almost done with destroying the paper sleeve around one of them. You feel yourself slowly defrosting as you sip your hot coffee.

“Here,” he says, shoving something blue over the table as he sits down. “Put this on.”

It takes you half a second to realize he’s not wearing his navy sweater anymore. Instead, you can make out the outline of maybe the tightest black t-shirt you’ve ever seen on anyone, no longer hidden underneath the additional layer. You swallow heavily.

“I can tell you’re freezing, you know,” Bucky says, clearly amused at your flustered reaction. “Don’t make me beg.”

You’re starting to wonder why he even saved you earlier if his intention, evidently, is to kill you. Real life or a movie? The lines are weirdly starting to blur. “If you’re sick of my beautiful dinosaur sweater, you could just admit it,” you say, voice slightly straining as you slip out of your coat sleeves.

“Never,” he smiles, picking up his drink and looking at Lucy’s pretty cursive with a frown. “Why does this say Steve?”

“I panicked,” you groan as you pull his sweater over your head inelegantly. It’s still warm from Bucky wearing it, and it already smells like a mix of him and your cat. You could get used to this scent, you think with another stutter of your heart.

You emerge to an even deeper frown on Bucky’s face.

“What’s in this?” he asks, looking down at his cup.

“Christmassy goodness,” you answer, taking another sip from your own drink.

“It tastes like liquid sugar.” There’s the tiniest wrinkle in his nose.

“You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” he says, taking another sip as if to prove his point. “I just expected coffee.”

“It is coffee. Well, underneath the syrup.”

“If you say so.”

You shake your head in fake outrage at the blatant disrespect for your favorite holiday drink.

“How’s your head?” Bucky asks in a low voice, and the feeling of contentment vanishes again. For a few moments you almost forgot why you’re here, living in the fantasy Lucy the barista has provided you with, winking in your direction behind her register.

“It’s fine, really. I’m just tired.” You sigh. “And I wish I could talk to Kate.”

“Have you tried calling her?”

You grin mirthlessly. “Phone’s dead, remember?”

“You can use mine,” he offers, hand already reaching into his pocket.

“That’s sweet,” you say hastily, “but I don’t know her number.”

“You don’t know her number?”

You snort at his slightly incredulous tone. “No one knows anyone’s number these days, sarge. Last time I had to remember one I was still in middle school.”

Bucky shakes his head, but doesn’t comment further. He keeps the fingers of his left hand tucked into a loose fist on the table, you notice, still not taking off the gloves even though it is blessedly warm in here. You’re even starting to feel the tip of your nose again.

“Does your friend get into this sorta trouble a lot, then?”

You laugh. “Trouble? Yes. Trouble that involves Avengers and strange men with guns? That’s a first, even for Kate.” Fact or Folly: Fury Hires Young Crack Shot for Avengers Initiative. If true, it would be a fun article to break except for the fact either way, your best friend is in danger. “I just don’t get it. I talked to her just a few hours ago and she was fine, I mean she was a bit wound up because of college, but everything was normal and now …” You sigh. “I just wish everything could be normal again.”

Bucky nods slowly. “I can’t help with that. But nothing’s gonna happen to you again, alright? I’ll make sure of it.”

“Why are you doing all this? You don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.”

You don’t know what to say to that so you just stare at your empty cup of coffee and wait for Bucky to finish his.

“What about you, then?” he asks instead.

“What about me?”

“Do you get into trouble a lot?” His voice is light, clearly trying to get you out of your own head again, and it works like a charm.

“Not apart from pissing people off. I work for the Examiner.”

“Ah.”

You stop ripping the paper sleeve into even smaller shreds. “What do you mean, ah?”

“Nothing. You’re a journalist.” Technically, you’re an underperforming columnist who gets most of her salary through writing the obituaries on the side, but you’re not about to correct him. “It just explains a few things.”

“Like what, exactly?” You cross your arms in fake offence.

“The amount of sugar in your supposed coffee. The newspapers on your dining table.” Right. He was in your apartment. “The fact that you look at everyone around you like you’re trying to find a story.”

Your heart drops at the same time as your grin. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“That wasn’t an insult. Just an observation.” You raise your eyebrows, unconvinced. “I’ve met a few crazy reporters in my time, you don’t strike me as the type.”

“Maybe my crazy’s just more subtle,” you say.

“Your subtle is throwing your shopping at an armed guy’s face, doll,” he retorts with a lazy grin. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Point taken.” You groan. “Do you think people are gonna believe ‘sorry but your presents were lost at a crime scene’ or will I have to buy all of that stuff again?”

“Tough call.” Bucky finishes the dregs of his coffee and you grin at the way his face twitches at the amount of syrup that has accumulated near the bottom. “Some of it might’ve survived, you should take a look first before you spend more money. I just dropped ‘em in the hall though.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You are a hero in every sense of the word, Sergeant Barnes, you know that, right?”

“And you’re very dramatic.” It doesn’t escape you that despite his dismissive words, his ears flush a deeper shade of pink again. “Bucky’s fine, by the way.”

“Well, thank you, Bucky. Seriously.” He doesn’t look away this time, either. Just keeps looking at you until you feel that pleasant warm tingling in your stomach again. You ignore it. “I guess I should head back home again, anyway.”

You grimace slightly at the thought. Maybe the cops are still there. You probably can’t escape answering their questions forever even if they aren’t. Examiner Pen-Pusher Questioned for Battery. Wonderful.

“You don’t have to go back yet,” Bucky says, once again nonchalantly reading you like a book.

“No, it’s fine,” you lie. “I can’t stay here all night, and Alpine needs food, and, you know …”

“You can take my couch for the night, if you want.”

“I don’t wanna impose.”

“You ain’t. I’m offering.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “Besides, I’d feel more comfortable not leaving you alone quite yet.”

The thought of not having to return to your dark apartment for the time being eases your anxiety somewhat. “Okay,” you whisper.

Bucky smiles at your admission and pulls his chair back, moving gently as to not stir Alpine too much. “Shall we?”

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the fogged up windows of the coffee shop as you’re leaving. With your own sweater underneath, his makes you look like a giant blue potato. Not to mention it clashes horribly with your coat. Another point for the not-a-movie list.

“I look ridiculous,” you snicker as you try and fail to pull your coat at least somewhat closed around you again. “Aren’t you gonna be freezing?”

“Not at all,” Bucky answers. There’s something in his voice that makes a shiver run down your spine, and when you look up, the warmth in his eyes heats up your cheeks until you step back outside into the snow, always one step behind him.

Eyes like that should be illegal, you decide.

***

You’re not sure what you expected Bucky Barnes’ apartment to look like before you got invited inside one long subway journey later, but even after the day you’ve had, he still manages to surprise you. Though, maybe you should’ve expected his space to be simple, neat, straightforward. It makes sense for the version of him you’ve started to get to know.

There’s not a lot of furniture. There’s not a lot of space. It’s barely larger than your college dorms were, if you’re really honest, but unlike those, Bucky’s walls are empty and there’s barely anything to suggest anyone is actually moved in, apart from a small stack of books on a table next to the couch. The kitchen looks a lot nicer, though. A single glass door leads onto a Juliet balcony.

Alpine has woken up again and starts talking loudly until Bucky lets her out of his jacket. She jumps to the floor gracefully and marches off to inspect the singular pillow on the floor.

“I’d offer you a tour, but … what you see’s what you get,” Bucky says with a shrug.

You’re not so sure about that. “It’s nice,” you tell him instead. You turn around slowly, taking it all in. “You don’t spend a lot of time here, do you?”

“Why?” Bucky asks, leaning against the kitchen counter with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s just …” You gesture at the bare counter space. “Not very lived in.” Nothing that seems precious enough to come back for.

“I don’t like clutter.”

You feel like that’s not entirely true either, but decide to drop it. In the meantime, Alpine is eyeing the couch as if contemplating which leg to gnaw at first. You quickly bend to pick her up before that, but she makes a run for it, surprisingly fast for her size, and hides behind Bucky’s legs, meowing dismally.

“Alright, I see how it is,” you say, sitting down on the floor in shock of the open betrayal.

“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” Bucky says, barely able to hide his grin. Alpine glowers at you. “D’you mind if I turn on the TV?”

You shake your head. It’s late enough for the two of you to have missed the 10 p.m. news, so the first thing flickering across the monitor is a weather report about the “unexpected blizzard hitting Manhattan earlier today” that quickly cuts to commercials. The volume is set quite low, more background noise than anything else.

“Are you hungry?” Bucky asks after a somewhat awkward pause, clearing his throat.

You feel strangely reassured in the fact that you’re not the only one who doesn’t really know what to do now that you’re not actively running from anything. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s good, because I’m afraid I only have leftovers.”

Another commercial with an annoying jingle comes on and suddenly, you’re very awake as a memory flashes past your inner eye. You couldn’t have been older than ten or twelve, and you and Kate had been begging your parents to let you stay with Kate’s aunt for the holidays because her place was close to the ice rink you’d go to. Your parents finally agreed under the condition that the two of you report back at a certain time each afternoon. And for emergencies, they had you remember her phone number.

You’ve always been shit with numbers, struggling to memorize the stupid thing until you put it to a melody like you saw the car commercials on TV do. Specifically, this very melody that a local convenience store apparently still uses for their holiday sale.

“Hey, could I borrow your phone for a second, please?” Bucky doesn’t question your mood swing, just hands you a kind of flip phone you haven’t seen since 2013. “Thanks.”

You lock yourself in the tiny bathroom and sit down on the closed toilet seat, contemplating the number pad. She might have changed her number, and even if she hasn’t, she might not be home. In fact, she probably isn't. You’re pretty certain she usually spends Christmas down in Florida.

So yeah, it’s a slim chance, but it’s your only idea for the time being. And maybe it gets you somewhere.

Continuing to hum the jingle, you enter the number and press the call button. A few seconds pass as you drum your fingers on your leg. Then—

“Brandon residence,” a suspiciously cheery voice singsongs on the other end. It almost makes you drop the phone.

“Why would you pick up the phone?” someone you don’t recognize asks in the background.

“Kate!” you hiss, releasing the breath you were holding in relief.

“Because technically, I’m house sitting, that’s literally what I’m supposed to do! Sorry, what?”

“Kate, what on earth is going on?!”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Y/N?”

“Yes, it’s me!” You drag your hand across your face. “There were people at my apartment asking about you. Waving their guns in my face.”

“Shit.” There’s a bumping sound and a distant crash, followed by a string of curses, and you’re positive Kate just jumped up and into a table. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I got away.” You glance at the mirror. Your temple is a bit swollen from where you hit the Dumpster and your lips are basically bitten raw, but overall, you’ve looked worse. “I’m safe. Are you okay?”

“Of course I am, I’m—do you mind?” There’s some quiet bickering and the sound of a door slamming closed before Kate speaks again, her voice echoing like she’s sat down in the bathroom as well. “How did you even know I was at my aunt’s place?”

You sigh. “I didn’t. My phone broke and her landline was the only number I remembered.”

“Your phone broke—where are you right now? Do you want me to come get you?”

“No!” You stand up again. There’s not enough room to properly pace, so you basically just keep turning around. “Definitely not, you’re in a lot more danger than I am. And you’re going to tell me why.”

So she does, filling you in properly on the past couple of days while you walk in small circles around Bucky’s bathroom until you’re dizzy. “Your turn,” she finally says when your head is spinning with Hawkeye and the suit and the actual mob. “Whose phone are you calling from, exactly?”

“Right. Uhm.” You close your eyes. “I’m actually at Bucky Barnes’ apartment right now?”

There’s a prolonged silence on the other end.

“Kate?”

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly. “I was just processing. What?!”

“Geez,” you say at the unexpectedly loud exclamation and quickly summarize your strange afternoon. “In other words,” you finish, “I think i retain the privilege of processing time.”

Kate ignores you. “Wait a second, hold on, you had coffee with him?”

“Because I was freezing.”

“And now you’re gonna spend the night.”

“On his couch,” you gasp.

“Right, of course. Mhm.” You can almost see her shit-eating grin.

“Don’t mhm me! Get your mind out of the gutter, Bishop.”

“My mind’s fine where it is, thank you.”

“Come on,” you laugh. “I am severely worried about the thing you’re taking away from this whole situation.”

“You sound like you’re fine. And I really needed something to take my mind off this whole situation, so thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” The background noises at her end are getting louder again.

You bite your lip. “Stay safe, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You know me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m telling you,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Kate snorts. “I promise. I’ll see you next week, right?”

“Right.” You smile. “Bring the dog!”

“Love you, too.”

You end the call with a fond shake of your head, though not before you hear Kate sing teasingly, “have fuun”.

She knows you well, of course, you think, staring at yourself in the mirror again. She’s more than long familiar with your horrible tendency of being a hopeless romantic in any situation, let alone the one you’re currently in. Well, it ends now, you tell your reflection.

The look in her eyes doesn’t convince you.

When you leave the bathroom, you find Bucky sitting on the floor in front of his couch, entertaining Alpine with a piece of string he produced from somewhere in your absence. It’s such an unexpectedly domestic sight it almost stops you in your tracks. Your resolve quietly vanishes off the face of the earth.

“Is your friend okay, then?” The surprise must be visible on your face, because he grimaces apologetically and adds, “thin walls.”

Great. Just great.

“She’s fine.” You lean against the kitchen counter, still twisting his phone around in your hands. “She’s with Hawkeye, apparently. At her aunt’s place.”

Bucky frowns. “I thought Barton retired.”

“Maybe there’s no retirement for heroes.”

“Yeah.” A shadow seems to fall over his eyes, but it passes quickly. “Can Alpine have sushi?”

“She’s been buttering you up, hasn’t she?” Alpine meows loudly, as if protesting such an accusation. You feel yourself relaxing at the change of topic.

Bucky grins boyishly. “Only a little.”

“Any shrimp or avocado’s fine, but don’t give her raw fish.”

“Gotcha.” He picks Alpine up in one hand as he stands, placing her next to you on the counter. He’s pulled off his gloves, you notice. “Sorry, I haven’t had a cat in … ninety years?”

He has really nice hands. You wonder if his metal fingers are cool to the touch or if they run hot like the rest of him. No. “You’re forgiven as long as you don’t spoil her.”

“Now who would want that?”

“You say that now. She’s not serenading you at 3 a.m. Little devil,” you add more quietly while Bucky rummages through the fridge. Alpine mews indignantly as you scratch her between the ears. “Heartbreaking: Local Cat Has Never Been Fed in Entire Life, Claims Local Cat. Read full quote on page 10.”

“What?”

“Nothing!” To Alpine’s dismay, you drop your hand immediately, evading his amused gaze. “Do you need help with that?”

You really need to get a grip on yourself, you think miserably as you eat your dinner on the couch, Alpine stretched out between the two of you, paws basically attached to Bucky’s arm as she keeps begging for food. You literally just met the guy.

Even though it already feels longer, somehow. There’s something about Bucky that makes you feel strangely at home, even in an apartment as empty as this one. Something that makes it almost impossible to look away from him.

“What are you staring at me like that for, doll?”

Unless you are reminded once again that subtlety is not your strong suit. Quit It, Dumbass: Still Not A Movie. “No reason.”

But there’s a certain spark in his eye you find yourself missing as soon as you turn your head.

“Alright,” Bucky says, pulling up one leg on the couch to face you properly. Alpine crawls onto his lap and settles there, purring in content. You bite your tongue. “Let’s have it.”

“Have what?”

“The story.”

You blink. “What story?”

“You have that look again.” He leans back, still watching you. “Humor me. What are you gettin’?”

It strikes you, then, that he’s waiting for you to elaborate on your perception of him. Which is a horrible idea for numerous obvious reasons, starting with the fact you haven’t had a single clear thought since he handed you your phone back.

Not that you’re complaining.

“Well,” you say to buy time, letting your gaze wander over the empty walls again. “You’re not keen on letting just anyone see what’s going on inside your head, which makes sense. And yet you invite me in, after knowing me for less than a day, to eat leftovers on your couch. So that’s an interesting juxtaposition.”

The TV is still quietly rambling on in the background. You catch a glimpse of the trailer for It’s A Wonderful Life, “the classic holiday tale on Christmas Day, 8/7 central”. It makes you think of something else.

“It’s also only a couple of days til the holidays and everybody I know is invited to some party a friend of a friend is throwing or buying last-minute presents.” You gesture at yourself. “But you’re doing neither. You’re not celebrating at all, are you?”

Bucky shrugs with one shoulder. “Not exactly religious these days.”

“I don’t mean that,” you say, swallowing heavily. “I think you might be isolating yourself because all of this Christmas spirit stuff is a bit much, but that also means you’re alone during this time. And lonely.”

There’s a heavy pause. Bucky’s jaw is clenched slightly, but he doesn’t meet your eye.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, “I had no right to say any of that, I—that was stupid, I don’t—”

“It wasn’t,” he interrupts you. “I asked you, and you were honest. Nothing wrong with that.” He turns his head towards you, and the grin tugging at the corner of his lips is almost genuine. “You must be a pretty good journalist.”

You laugh. “Not really.”

“Why not? You’re observant.”

“Believe it or not, people don’t tend to wanna read that. Or any of the stuff I wanna write.” You tilt your head back until you’re leaning against the back of the couch.

“They should,” Bucky says.

Your mouth opens to tell him that he doesn’t even know your writing, so how could he possibly know that, but the expression on his face makes you lose your point. He looks raw, like you’ve stripped him bare of the mask you weren’t even sure he was wearing a few minutes ago, and yet he’s composed in a strange way that borders on contentment.

Yeah, you don’t want to look at anything but his eyes ever again, his beautiful, heavy, midnight blue eyes that seem lighter than they have before. Almost azure. For a moment, almost imperceptibly short, they flicker to your lips.

The air shifts with it.

“I’m not lonely right now,” he says lowly, and your head is whirring.

“Guess not,” you say. His face is even lovelier up close. You barely notice yourself moving.

Then of course, Alpine decides she’s had enough of all this and loudly starts commanding the attention be redirected to her again. The buzzing in your ears stops.

Bucky tickles her between the ears with a low chuckle. “I’m starting to see what you mean.”

“Mhm.” You hide your face between your hands, your heart still going a mile a minute. “She usually settles down around now, but she was asleep all evening, so you’re really gonna love having us for the next couple hours.”

“I’ll survive.” You can feel him get up, followed by the noise of your plates being cleared away. “What about you?” he asks. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you realize. The past few hours are starting to catch up with you.

There’s a spare toothbrush in Bucky’s cabinet, and once you return from the bathroom, he has the sofa set up for you, ignoring your weak protests about taking it from him.

“I don’t sleep much, anyway,” he says. Finally, you give in.

Your eyes fall shut as soon as you lie down, but you find that your thoughts are still too loud to shut down quite yet. For some reason, you keep going back to your first meeting.

“Bucky?” you say, and he hums. “Do you think we’d have met again? You know, without those tracksuits following me?”

Bucky doesn’t answer for a whole minute and you’re lying there, quietly panicking. “I hope so,” he finally says, barely audible over the sound of your heartbeat.

You listen to his slow breaths until you fall asleep.

***

A crashing sound wakes you only a few hours later.

For a moment you’re confused about the crick in your neck and the way your back presses against the sofa cushions. Reality comes back with the next crash and Alpine’s paw in your face.

“Bucky?” you whisper, clutching the blanket more tightly in your fist.

“I’m here.” The relief his low voice brings you is instant, but your heart still races.

Slowly you raise your head. Bucky is standing next to the window, looking down at the street.

“What’s happening?”

“I’m not sure.” His frown is visible even in the pale light of the street lamps outside. “I’ll go downstairs and check. You stay here.”

He’s in his shoes before you can even react, throwing on his leather jacket. You stumble to your feet, clutching Alpine to your chest. For once, she doesn’t protest.

“But Bucky—”

He catches you by the shoulders. “Hey. I’ll take care of it, alright? It’s probably nothing.” You nod slowly, because what else can you do? Bucky gives you a tiny reassuring smile that doesn’t make the frown disappear.

You follow him to the door, swallowing down the bad feeling in your stomach. “Be careful,” you whisper as he makes his way to the staircase. There’s no way he could have heard you, even though it almost seems like he’s about to turn his head back towards you.

He doesn’t, though. You close the door, leaning your forehead against it and taking another deep breath. In. Out. It’s probably just a stray dog or something.

“Geez, I thought he’d never leave.”

You don’t scream. Not a single sound leaves your lips as you turn, slowly, your head throbbing with dread.

A figure steps out of the shadows next to the glass door, which definitely wasn’t ajar a minute ago. Her voice had you expect someone taller than the young woman in front of you. In the moonlight, her blonde hair looks almost white.

“What a day, ah?” She crosses her arms, sizing you up, smiling. “Don’t worry, I will not hurt you. Or your cat. I am just here to talk, okay.”

“About what?” You’re almost surprised your voice doesn’t waver. She doesn’t seem to be armed, which is something, you suppose.

She smirks. “Kate Bishop.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, I know who you are, Y/N Y/L/N. You are a writer, yes?” It seems to be a rhetorical question, because she throws her hands up and keeps talking. “Your column, it’s,” she makes a gesture that indicates her head exploding, “very good writing. Very funny!”

“Thank you?” you say tonelessly. The door is just behind you.

“Look, I’ll be brief,” she sighs. “Where—”

The sound of a car alarm blaring directly under the window outside interrupts her mid sentence, and she’s distracted for a short moment, clearly affronted. You don’t need more.

Throwing the door open, you start towards the elevator, sliding down the corridor in nothing but your socks. You just have to make it downstairs. Your grip on Alpine tightens. Too much.

“Please don’t make me run!” the woman shouts behind you, exasperated. “Did you hear the part about me not going to hurt you also?”

You yelp as Alpine extends all her claws at the same time, leaving tiny, but surprisingly painful scratches all over your hand. With a wail, she wriggles out of your clutch and starts clambering up the stairs, surprisingly fast for her size.

“Come on!” you cry, running after her. You can hear the woman already following behind you, so you swoop the protesting cat back into your arms and continue rushing upstairs, breathing heavily.

“You Americans are very distrustful, you know that?” you hear one level down.

The door to the roof is unlocked. You tumble outside and the icy wind starts tearing into you immediately. The snow has stopped, but there’s a thin layer of white covering the city.

You throw your head around, looking for the fire escape or any other means back to the ground floor. There appears to be none. Panting and shivering, you reach the edge of the roof and confirm what you already feared; you’re trapped up here.

“What did you do that for?” You turn back around to see the woman approach you once again, looking slightly annoyed now. “You had me run in my—it’s my evening off, these are new shoes. They are not comfortable for running.”

“Should have thought that through before you go around threatening people,” you say before you can stop herself. Her nonchalant demeanor unsettles you.

“I did no such thing!” she exclaims in fake offence. At least you think it’s fake. “I know you are not involved in this, those guys down there did some really sloppy work.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Anyway, I took care of it. They should leave you alone now. I just hate it when things get messy for no reason, you know? Don’t you hate that?”

You’re shivering violently now, enough for Alpine to jump out of your arms again and run back towards the still open door. You watch her helplessly.

“Sure,” you reply weakly, not really understanding what’s going on. “But why would you do that?”

“Like I said, I like your writing,” the young woman says, unexpectedly somber for a moment. You can’t quite figure her out. “That was what I was going to tell you. And, ehh …” There’s a pause, as if she’s trying to think of the other thing. “Where is Clint Barton?”

“I don’t know that,” you say. It’s not even a lie, Kate had only told you they were continuing their “investigations”.

The woman only shrugs, not particularly shocked by your answer. “Ah, worth a try. I will find him tomorrow. You can tell Kate Bishop you’re fine, yes? I took care of you.”

“I don’t even know who you are.”

She smiles again. “Good!”

There’s a crashing sound that makes both of you turn.Bucky appears in the doorway, aiming a gun straight at the woman’s head. “Get away from her, now.”

“Oh, that is so annoying.” She rolls her eyes and then glances back at you with a little pout as if looking for your sympathy. “And we were just starting to get along.”

“I said now!”

She sighs, completely unperturbed be the weapon in her back. “It really was nice meeting you. This is nothing personal.”

And before you can open your mouth to ask what, she kicks your feet out from under you. You land on your funny bone with a sharp cry at the same time Bucky fires. He misses, the woman sidestepping the shot easily before she kicks him in the arm, trying to get him to let go of the gun.

You struggle back up to your feet as Bucky keeps a deathgrip on the weapon, pointing it at her arm instead. “Don’t!” you shout.

His gaze shifts to you for a millisecond, but it’s enough of a distraction. The weapon lands on the ground and you flinch backwards automatically, slipping on the icy ground and losing your balance. You shriek as you fall, hands catching the edge of the roof at the last second. You’re barely holding on by your fingertips, your eyes watering as you try to get a better grip.

There’s another shot, and Bucky shouts your name, but your blood is rushing so loudly in your ears, you barely hear him over the sound of the wind. Maybe if you can just stretch your arm a little more, you can hold onto a different—

You lose your grasp.

Time seems to slow down as you’re falling between the whirling flakes of snow you take down with you. What a stupid way to die, you think, with everything else going on.

And then, at the very last second, he catches you. You stumble, your knees weak as Bucky hoists you back over the ledge and you collapse in his arms, shaking. He picks you up with ease, hugging you tightly, all inhibitions lost.

“You’re okay, doll,” he says into your ear. “It’s over, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Over his shoulder, you can see the woman still standing there, her stoic façade not quite wavering. She nods at you shortly before turning her back.

You press closer into Bucky, burying your nose in his warm neck. He smells even nicer than his sweater did, and you inhale the scent in shaky gulps until you feel your breathing slowing again.

“Hey Bucky?” you whisper. “I think I just almost died.”

He sighs heavily. “I’m so sorry, doll, I never should have left you alone, I—”

“I just almost died because my cat ran up the stairs.” It stops him in his apologetic ramblings long enough for you to suppress a hysterical giggle. You just almost died. Suddenly, with the adrenaline still rushing through your system, the next question doesn’t seem that big of a deal anymore. “Do you wanna get coffee again sometime?”

Bucky laughs, then, a low, relieved laugh you feel vibrate against your chest. It’s beautiful. “How about dinner?”

You hum. “Maybe a really boring movie afterwards.”

His lips move against your ear. “Sounds perfect.”

No, you truly didn’t see your day going like this. But right now, safely wrapped up in Bucky’s embrace, even after everything else you don’t mind it that much.

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A mortal woman, who had carried the child of a god, paid the price. Giving birth to a demigod was one many did not survive, let alone one this powerful.

And so, your first breath was your mother’s last. 

As your mother bled, your father stood over the bed, his expression devoid of any warmth, any love. Ares, the God of War, a towering figure who radiated power and rage, tilted his head as he watched you grasp the sheets.

You were small. You were fragile, then. But you did not cry. 

“Take her,” he had ordered his sons.

Phobos and Deimos followed his orders and carried you to Olympus.

—

Ares didn’t raise you with love. 

He never hugged you, never read you bedtime stories. He never kissed your bruised knees when you fell off your chariot.

No, he told you, a five year old child, to get back on the fucking horse and quit whining.

So you did.

You trained for him, you trained with his generals. By the time you were seven, you had mastered dual wielding knives and were on the training ground seven days a week.

“Stop crying,” he once barked when you scraped your knees during combat drills. “Pain is weakness personified.”  

Your childhood was a forge, and Ares was the blacksmith. Every day, you sparred with your brothers, Phobos and Deimos. They were sons of war, and they had been born and raised to follow and create chaos, like you had.

You didn’t understand your powers at first. Why did people grow angrier around you? Why did their rage seem to fill your veins with fire? Your father explained it bluntly:

“You feed off rage, girl. It fuels you. It makes you stronger; give you power. Learn to provoke it.”  

So you did. Not because you wanted to, but because you had to. You baited your brothers in sparring matches, taunting them until they attacked with blind fury. You’d absorb their strength through their anger and you’d use it against them. 

You learned to be fucking annoying. You learned to mimic Ares’s cocky smirk, his unbearable overconfidence, and his cruel remarks. 

You hated every second of it.  

But what choice did you have? 

This was what you were born to do.

By the time you reached fifteen years of age, the gods knew of your reputation. How could they not?

A demigod born with the powers matching that of an Olympian only occurred once in a blue moon, after all.

You became your father’s enforcer, the one he sent to mortal planets on unfinished business, whether it be Earth, or Xandar, or Hala. Once, when Knowhere still belonged to the Collector, you had even retrieved Ares’ stolen battle axe successfully.

See, no one would assume a sweet girl like you would hurt them. Until you did. 

Your father pitted you against mortals and monsters alike. You hated it, but you excelled. You could feel the rage of those around you—the anger of warriors, the fury of the survivors—and it made you stronger. Faster. Unstoppable.  

“You’re just like me,” Ares said one day, after watching you cleave through a line of warriors. His voice was filled with pride, but you felt nothing but disgust.  

“I’m not,” you snapped, your chest heaving.  

But he only laughed. “Oh, but you are. You think I don’t see it? The way you crave the kill?”  

You wanted to deny it. But deep down, you couldn’t ignore the truth. There was a part of you—a small, shameful part—that found solace in war.  

And maybe he was the only one who understood what it meant to be consumed by bloodlust, to feel the glory war in your veins.  

You hated him, but he was the only one who believed in you, the only one who saw worth in your existence. The other gods were scared of you— they did not care if you wanted to be more than a weapon, more than a daughter of war— because they knew you didn’t know how.

How were you supposed to be more than your father’s executioner when your powers were tied to rage? How were people supposed to trust you when your strength was amplified by the anger of those around you? How were you supposed to do any good if you felt weaker during times of peace? How were you supposed to break your mold when wartime made you unstoppable?

Your father claimed it was a gift, but to you, it felt like a curse.  

You hated the way you fed off anger, the way it twisted you into a monster. You hated the way your father pushed you to embrace it, to enrage others and suck the life out of them. But most of all, you hated the part of yourself that enjoyed it.  

“Stop fighting who you are, Child of War,” Ares said one day after a particularly brutal battle. 

You clenched your fists, your jaw tight. “Maybe I don’t want to be.”  

“Doesn’t matter what you want, fool.” He snorted. “This is who you are. You can either embrace it or let it destroy you.”  

You didn’t respond, but his words haunted you.  

To appease your father, you put on a mask. You played the role your father wanted, strutting through Olympus with cocky arrogance. You baited your brothers, goaded your opponents, and pretended not to care that everyone was too scared to get close to you.

But beneath the mask, you wanted to be gentle. You wanted to care about the mortals you fought, but how could you, when you drove a knife through their heart? How could you mourn the lives lost in battle when their anger strengthened you?

You wanted to be more than a weapon, but you didn’t know how to break free. 

Ares would never let you.

If you failed a task… if you failed, Ares would hurt you. And Ares was all you had. 

So, you stayed loyal to your father. 

Maybe he was right. Maybe you were just like him.  

—

The mission your father gave you was simple: retrieve Phobos and Deimos’ ichor and kill the mortal who dared to tamper with the blood of gods. Ares didn’t give details– but it was something about how your brothers bled the last time they visited Earth, and a human scientist managed to recover it for one of their meaningless experiments. 

Failure was not an option, and disappointing him would not be taken lightly.

When you arrived on Earth, you followed the faint scent of Olympian blood to a hidden ex-Hydra facility buried beneath a crumbling industrial complex. You slipped past the initial security easily— too easily— and made your way to the lab.  

Inside, you could smell the stench of antiseptic chemicals and burnt metal. The scientist did not look like a formidable foe— he was a wiry man with hollow cheeks and a frantic gleam in his eyes. He stood behind a cluttered table with two vials of golden liquid laying in front of home.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he said, when he noticed you there. He was not scared, he did not panic. He wasn't angry you had slipped past his archaic computer security system. It was almost as if he was… waiting for you. 

He pointed to the ichor as though it were his masterpiece. “The blood of gods. The key to immortality. Imagine what humanity could achieve if—”  

You didn’t let him finish. With a single motion, you drew your blade from your belt and lunged.

The scientist stumbled back, but he didn’t run. “Good,” he said, reaching for his own knife on his belt, “More ichor for me to farm.”

He stabbed your shoulder before you could stop him.  

Pain exploded through your veins as the weapon struck, the blast searing through your armor and biting deep into your flesh. You staggered, clutching your wound as golden ichor spilled down your fingers.

You looked at the knife he wielded and recognised the sting of the material: Uru metal– the same iron that forged Mjolnir.

“Hydra designed it specifically for gods and their spawn back when Thor first appeared in New Mexico,” he flipped the knife arrogantly. “Asgardian, Olympian— it doesn’t matter. You all bleed.”  

Your vision blurred, but you refused to fall. Gritting your teeth, you forced yourself forward, ignoring the searing pain. He tried to stab again, but you dodged, closing the distance in a desperate leap.  

His eyes widened in fear as he stumbled back, his confidence crumbling by the second. He tried to strike blindly again, but you blocked his arm aside with ease. 

You could feel it— he was getting angry. He was getting frustrated. 

Ah, that feeling.

That wonderful, addicting feeling.

You could finally feed.

And you hated to admit it, but his anger tasted intoxicating.

All of a sudden, the scientist felt weaker, though the poor mortal didn't know that his rage gave you a window to suck energy out of his frail body. For a moment, you didn’t even feel the stab wound as strength surged through you, eclipsing the pain.

You grabbed his fist that held the Uru metal knife and slammed it to the floor. The  sound of his wrist bone cracking beneath your grip was satisfying, his scream even more so.

"You're out of your depth, mortal," you growled. His breaths came in panicked gasps, and he tried for anything— his trembling hands tried to claw your eyes out in a feeble attempt to escape, but his strength was gone. You’d taken it all.

You didn't give him a chance to beg. In one quick motion, your blade slid between his ribs, a strike that ended his struggle as quickly as it began. His body jerked and a haunting gasp escaped his lips as life drained from his eyes.

You pushed your blade off him without a second thought, but as he died— you had nothing else to feed off of. The pain returned— and your body, for all its power, wasn’t built to handle this kind of divine punishment.

Sometimes you forgot you weren’t invincible, that you were not a true Olympian. Just a demigod—a hybrid caught between two worlds.

You retrieved the remaining vial of ichor—one had shattered during the fight, but at least one had survived. You pried the Uru knife out of the scientist’s cold, dead hands and claimed it as your prize— it would definitely be a useful addition to your arsenal.

Your hands trembled as you pressed them against the wound that refused to stop bleeding ichor. You winced, biting back a groan.  

Even through all this pain, all you could think about was how your father would be furious. Sure, the mission was technically a success, but to Ares, success marred by weakness was no victory at all. A mortal’s blade had wounded you, and you knew he’d punish you for being pathetic. 

Weakness was intolerable. Unforgivable.  

Ichor started dripping steadily down your armour. As you stumbled forward, your teeth clenched so tightly you thought they might crack.  

This was nothing. You’d survived worse, but survival was the least of your worries— your mind raced at the thought of facing your father in this state.  

Your vision blurred as you staggered against the wall, your legs giving out and slumped to the floor

Fuck, you though as you glance down at your hand, bathed in you golden blood.

You were bleeding far too much. And for a moment, you weren’t sure if you could even make it out of here at all.

You didn’t have time to curse to yourself before your ears picked up footsteps echoing through the  hallway. You gripped the knife, hands curling into fists as you braced for another fight. 

But the man who stepped into view wasn’t ex-Hydra—or at least, you didn’t think he was.  

He stopped dead in his tracks. He wasn’t here to kill you— that much was clear. Instead of raising his gun, he lowered it when he saw you slumped against the wall, clearly in pain.  

He wore a worn leather jacket that had seen better days, and beneath it, tactical gear that hinted at either a soldier’s past or a mercenary’s present. But the way he stepped closer wasn’t hostile.  

You sneered, “Back off, mortal.”  

“Easy,” the man said. He quickly scanned the room, noting the dead Hydra scientist slumped near the overturned equipment. He gestured toward the body with a tilt of his chin. “You did this?”  

“Why do you care?” you snapped, but you were calmer now. If he wanted to kill you, he’d have done so already.  

“I was supposed to arrest that guy,” he replied, stepping closer. 

“Well, I saved you the trouble,” you said, your breathing ragged. You were seeing spots now. “You’re welcome.”  

His disheveled dark hair framed his face, etched with faint lines of exhaustion and curiosity. A faint scruff peppered his jawline, and his blue eyes finally caught sight of the growing pool of golden blood beneath your feet. 

“Shit,” he muttered in concern, crouching slightly as if seeing it from a different angle would make it less strange. “You’re bleeding... gold?”  

“And?” you hissed, trying to ignore the pain radiating from the gaping wound. 

“I’ve seen a lot of weird things,” he said cautiously. He moved closer, careful not to startle you. “But this is new. We need to get you out of here. Wherever you came from, wherever they can heal—”  

“I’m not going home now,” you cut him off without thinking. “I’d rather die.”  

He tilted his head, and a faint glint of metal underneath his sleeve caught your eyes. A metal arm.  

“Great,” he said finally, his voice wry. “A melodramatic one. Look, I’m not a fan of killing, but since the guy’s ex-Hydra… I guess you got that going for you.”  

The casual remark caught you off guard. He wasn’t angry, or frustrated, or any of the things you’d come to expect.  

“I’ll do what I can to patch you up,” he said, glancing around for supplies. “But you’re gonna have to explain a few things. Starting with why the hell you’re bleeding gold.”  

“Why do you care?” you demanded, your voice sharp.  

“I don’t like leaving people to die,” he said simply.  

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Even people like me?”  

His lips curved up into a sad smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t know what ‘people like you’ means yet.”  

You tried to find a crack in his calm, something you could latch onto to push him away. “I don’t need your help.”  

“Yeah, you do,” he insisted. He tore a strip of fabric from his shirt and reached for your shoulder.  

“You’re wasting your time,” you said, trying to provoke him. You needed an opening to siphon his energy— you needed his anger. “What the hell are you anyway?” You spat weakly, “Did they run out of real soldiers and just piece you together with spare parts?”

He didn’t flinch. It wasn’t the reaction you needed. “I bet you were someone's failed experiment,” you continued, “You probably never measured up— too weak to be a real soldier, too broken to be human.”

He just shrugged. He didn’t even flinch..

Dammit.

Why wasn’t he angry?

So you pushed harder.

“They probably sold you off to the highest bidder, didn’t they?”

“You done now?” He only shook his head in disapproval. Nothing— nothing got under his skin. “Or do you need time to workshop more material?”

You flinched as his fingers brushed against the straps of your armour. “Don’t touch me,” you said, but made no real effort to move.

“Hold still,” he said.

He took apart your armour so gently that caught you off guard. There wasn’t pity in his eyes, and there wasn’t any condescension—he truly cared for another living being.

Still, you watched him warily as he tried to stop your bleeding, searching for an ulterior motive. But there was none. His hands moved with care, his eyes flickering between your wound and your face as though gauging your pain.  

“Why are you doing this?” you muttered, the words slipping out of your lips before you could stop them.  

“Because you’re hurt,” he replied without a second thought. 

You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to process the kindness being offered to you without strings attached.  

“I’m Bucky,” he introduced himself after a moment, trying to break the tension.  

“Didn’t ask,” you muttered.

Bucky noticed the way you recoiled when his hands got too close to your face, the way your eyes darted away when he pressed a particularly painful spot. He didn’t comment, but he didn’t miss the signs either, because these signs of abuse weren’t new to him— hell, he'd lived through it himself.  The way you didn’t want to go home, the battle scars beneath. He didn’t need to know you to know you needed help. 

When he finished, he leaned back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do,” he said, giving you a small nod.  

You stared at him, unsure of what to say. Part of you wanted to lash out, to try and suck away his energy. But you knew it wouldn’t work— and the other part of you didn’t want to.

For the first time in your life, someone wasn’t treating you like a weapon. You didn’t know what to do with that.

“Come on,” he pulled your arms around his shoulders, “I can take better care of you at mine.”

And for once, you didn't complain.

—

Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment was quiet. At the very least, it was a place that didn’t demand anything from you.

Bucky sat you down on his couch, golden blood still slowly seeping through the ripped cloth he’d thrown on in haste. You could almost taste the metallic tang of it in the air, though Bucky didn’t seem fazed. He was busy in the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets.

When he returned, he carried a small first-aid kit, a bowl of water, and a stack of clean cloths. He crouched down in front of you as he peeled back the blood-soaked fabric clinging to your shoulder.  

"Still bleeding," he muttered under his breath, mostly to himself. You tried to pull away, but he gave you a look that rooted you in place.  

"This isn’t going to heal if you keep moving around," he said as if he were speaking to a wounded animal. In a way, he was, because he was one.

He remembered the first days when he was running away from Hydra— he was self-destructive, refusing any help strangers would offer him. 

He could not watch this strange person rot in the same hell he did.

You clenched your teeth and let him work. His hands were steady as he cleaned the wound with the damp cloth. The cool water stung as it met your torn flesh, and you hissed through your teeth. He whispered a quiet ‘sorry’ but didn’t stop.

When the cloth came away streaked in gold, he paused, holding it up to the light. The liquid glittered, his brow furrowed.  

“That’s…,” he trailed up, glancing up at you. It was as if he was still trying to process all of this.

You stayed silent, hoping he’d let it go. But of course, he didn’t.  

"Why… what are you?" he asked, his tone soft but firm.  

You hesitated. You wanted to lie, but you knew he wasn’t asking to pry, but to help.  

“Olympian,” you said reluctantly, not wanting to admit you were a demigod, “Sort of.” 

He blinked, sitting back on his heels as he processed that. "Right," he said. "So… Greek gods are real."  

You nodded, unsure how else to respond. But then he stood and pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling through his contacts.  

“What are you doing?” You asked warily.

“The… blood isn’t stopping. I’m calling someone who might know how to deal with this.” He didn’t even look up as he pressed the phone to his ear.  

Wait, what?

“Hi, Thor,” Bucky said as he paced around the room.

Shit.

Thor. Of course. The once golden prince of Asgard, the one who couldn’t keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it. You had less-than-nice run in with them before, and if the Asgardians knew you were here… word would spread.

Your father would know you were injured.

“Quick question,”  Bucky said, “What do you do to stop a god’s bleeding?”  

There was a pause across the line, then you heard Thor’s muffled voice. “What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into, Barnes?”  

Bucky glanced at you, his eyes narrowing at your frantic head shake. ‘Don’t,’ you mouthed, ‘please.’

“Research,” he lied flatly, though his tone was not quite convincing.  

“Godly blood should stop on its own. But if it doesn’t stop after 15 minutes, it means the wound was pierced by a formidable weapon,” he explained, not questioning Bucky’s request even for a second. “In that case, earthly antiseptic won’t work. You need something stronger.”

Bucky looked around his house and picked up a bronze bottle. “Will the Asgardian liquor you gave me for Christma work?”

“Certainly!” Thor boomed over the phone.

“Got it,” Bucky said, “Thanks.” He hung up before Thor could hound him for details.  

He turned back to you, kneeling in front of you again as he wondered what the hell could have caused this wound— he did not know the weapon in question was sheathed in your belt.

You expected him to say something, to demand answers, but he didn’t. He just worked—cleaning your shoulder with the high proof Asgardian alcohol he poured into a bowl. He pressed the cloth against it to finally staunch the bleeding, wrapping it tightly with clean gauze. 

When he was done, he sat back on the floor, his legs folded beneath him, and looked up at you.  

“You don’t want him to know you’re here,” he said, not a question so much as a quiet observation.  

You didn’t respond. 

But he didn’t push. “I’m not gonna ask why,” he said finally, “But if you don’t want to go home… wherever Olympus may be. you don’t have to.”  

You didn’t thank him, but you stayed. Because for the first time in years, someone wasn’t trying to fix you or use you or break you. He was just letting you be. 

—

The morning came quietly, the pale light of dawn slipping through the blinds. You stirred on the couch, wincing as the sharp ache in your shoulder shuffled against the cushions 

You sat up slowly, grimacing. Your armour rested on the floor nearby, its once-polished surface dulled with scratches and dried ichor. Your knives, and more importantly the Uru knife you recovered, was still hidden in their sheathes. 

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion had dragged you under.  

The undershirt you wore, still stained with ichor, clung to your skin uncomfortably. You were tempted to bolt, to leave before Bucky woke, but when you turned your head, you saw him in the kitchen, already awake and making coffee. 

“Morning,” he said when he noticed you stirring. His tone was casual, like you were an old friend crashing for the night and not a wounded stranger bleeding an inhuman substance on his couch.  

“Hmm,” you hummed, not looking into his eyes.

Bucky held up a box of cereal and a bowl in the same hand, a casual lift of his brows asking a question without words. “Cereal?”  

You blinked, caught off guard by the normalcy of it.

He offered… food… like everything was fine. Like you weren’t a runaway god suffering Uru-inflicted wounds in the home of a man who probably had a dozen secrets of his own.  

“Hm,” you said after a moment, nodding.

He set the bowl and box on the counter, poured the milk, and slid it across the counter toward you. You made your way to the kitchen, stiff and slow. He noticed your pain, of course.

“You should change that shirt,” he said, nodding toward the blood-stained fabric. “I’ve got a clean one you can borrow.”  

You hesitated. It was such a small thing—a shirt—but no one had ever offered anything to you without expecting anything in return.

You nodded, keeping your eyes on the cereal as you picked up the spoon. You ate a bite— and it confirmed what you thought of mortal food— it was sweet and a strange mix of a lot of different textures steeped in an almost flavourless liquid— it was weird.

Meanwhile, Bucky disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with a plain black t-shirt folded neatly in his hands. He set it on the counter next to you, leaving it there for when you were ready.  

“Your shoulder still hurt?” he asked after a good fifteen minutes of eating in silence..

You nodded, keeping your eyes on the cereal. “A little.”  

“Thor said… godly wounds caused by powerful weapons don’t heal easy.”  

Your grip on the spoon tightened. “It’ll heal,” you said, a little too quickly. 

He didn’t respond, but you could feel his eyes on you, searching for a crack of something in your frown. When you finally glanced up, you noticed his eyes were calculating— like he knew too much and still didn’t have all the answers.  

“I still don’t know your name,” he said, almost like an afterthought.  

It wasn’t a demand so much as a fact he stated. But it still felt like a thread pulling at the seams of your defenses.  

What did he want from you? You thought to yourself.

“Does it matter?” you snapped.  

He tilted his head. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But it might make things easier.”  

You didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The idea of giving him that piece of you so soon felt too intimate, too dangerous.  

He didn’t push, just nodded like he understood. “Alright,” he said simply.  

You wanted to shout at him, to scream at him. To make him mad and heal yourself through his rage. But… a part of you didn’t want to sabotage the only person who saw you as your own person.

Instead, you found yourself wanting to tell him why you couldn’t go home, why the thought of stepping back into your father’s shadow made your skin crawl. 

But you couldn’t bring yourself to.

The silence stretched on, and you found yourself watching him as he stood to rinse his bowl in the sink. He glanced at you from the corner of his eyes as your fingers brushed the edge of the clean shirt he’d left for you.  

He wondered if you saw him the way he saw you—fractured but functional, a puzzle with too many missing pieces.  

—

By mid-afternoon, you were restless. You sat on the living room floor, frantically cleaning your armour, knives, and the vial of ichor— your father cannot know that you bled as much as you did.  Your fingers fidgeted, trying to piece together a plan for what came next, what you would tell your father. None of it stuck. 

As you desperately scrubbed the metal, you realised you've been moving way too much— though it was too late. The sharp sting in your shoulder let you know you’d overdone it.  

You felt a warm liquid spread beneath the bandage. 

Fuck.

You hissed and pressed your hand to it, feeling the ichor beginning to seep through again.

“Seriously?” you muttered under your breath.

“I’ll get the bandage,” Bucky, who had been on the other side of the room reading a book, said— as if he’d known this was coming. “You moved too much.”  

You glanced over your shoulder. He wasn’t mad, not even annoyed.

“It’s fine,” you muttered, though it clearly wasn’t. 

He quickly gathered the liquor and his first aid kit and sat next to you.

You glared at him, though your frustration in your eyes wasn’t entirely aimed at him. “Why are you even still doing this?” you snapped, trying to rile him up again, though you didn't really want to. It was just your survival instincts kicking in. “You don’t even know me.”

He didn’t flinch at your harsh tone. He just began peeling back the edges of the bandage with practiced care.

“Why?” you pressed again, desperate to crack his calmness. “You can’t be this selfless. You humans rarely ever are.”  

He paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “If you must know,” he began, “I’ve spent the last few years helping displaced refugees. The blip was years ago, but there are still people who haven’t found a place to call home.”  

You blinked, your anger receding slightly.  

He went back to cleaning the wound. “I see the signs,” he continued, “You’re running from something— or someone, probably. You’re not a citizen of Earth, and as far as I know, Olympians don’t exactly have representation here. So I’m helping.” He glanced up again, his eyes steady but kind. “Because I’ve been there. People didn’t exactly grant visas to brainwashed super-assassins.”  

The words hit harder than you expected, the window to his past even more so. You wanted to argue, to deflect, but there was no anger in his voice, and no pity either. 

His hand pressed gently against your shoulder, holding the fresh bandage in place. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But as long as you stay, I’m gonna help.”  

You stared at him, your chest tight, your breath caught somewhere between anger and relief. “I don’t want your help,” you muttered weakly, though you still didn't mean it.

It would’ve been so much easier if he was angry, if he yelled, if he snapped, if he fought back against your remarks. That, you could work with. You could siphon anger, harness it, turn it into strength to heal. But this? 

Why did this feel… better?

“Okay,” he said simply, taping the bandage. “But I’m not letting you die”  

Your shoulder throbbed, but the ichor finally stopped beneath the fresh bandage. He stood, tidying up the supplies without another word, and you sat there, staring at the floor, your walls slowly crumbling brick by brick.  

“That should hold for now,” he said as he packed away the first-aid supplies. “Try not to move around too much this time.”  

You nodded. There was something in the way he looked at you— like he wasn’t in a hurry for answers— that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could trust him.  

Your name hovered on the edge of your tongue, something you hadn’t offered yet. Something you didn’t want to offer, if you were honest. But he’d done nothing but help, nothing but treat you like a person when so many others hadn’t. He deserved… something.  

You finally said your name.

“Huh?” Bucky paused, not quite sure what he's hearing. 

“That’s my name.”

Bucky couldn’t hide his smile. He repeated your name, and you flinched. 

When your father or your brothers said your name, it usually came with an insult, or maybe praise for committing a horrific act— but on his lips, it could just be.

Bucky tilted his head slightly. “It suits you,” he said simply.

The words landed hard, warmth blooming in your chest. Was that… a compliment? You swallowed the lump in your throat and shrugged, trying to act like it didn’t matter. “If you say so.”  

“I do,” he said, and there was no teasing in his voice, no judgment, just certainty.  

He turned away then, giving you space.

It suits you.  

For the first time in a long time, hearing your name didn’t make you want to scream.

—

The halls of Ares’ residence burned red with torches. The God of War’s booming voice reverberated through the marble columns, a crimson cloak billowing behind him. Servants scurried out of sight, fearing the wrath of their master.

"Where is she?!" Ares roared, his armored fists slamming against the stone table before him. The impact cracked the polished surface, sending shards flying like shrapnel. "It’s been days, and my daughter has not returned!"  

Phobos and Deimos, his twin sons and loyal lieutenants, stood before him. Though they were gods of fear and panic, even they felt terror before their father’s anger.

“She was sent on a simple task!” Ares continued, his voice only of rage and not concern. “She was supposed to kill the scientist. It should not take more than a day! And yet, no word, no sign of her return!”

Phobos, the more cautious of the two, dared to speak first. “Father, perhaps—”  

“Silence!” Ares barked, cutting him off. “Do not insult me with your cowardice, Phobos. She is my finest creation, my most skilled warrior, my favourite child.” He sneered at his son, his words dripping with venom. “Unlike the two of you, she doesn’t run from the first sign of a challenge.”

Deimos, always eager to appease, stepped forward. “If she hasn’t returned, it’s because something has delayed her. But we can retrieve her. Just say the word, Father.”

Ares considered Deimos’ suggestion. “I will not have my enemies thinking one of my blood has failed her duty.”  

Phobos hesitated before speaking again. “Father, what if she… does not wish to return?”. 

Ares froze, his eyes narrowing to slits as he stared down his son. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, his voice low and laced with menace.  

“She would never,” he said, though there was a hint of doubt that he refused to acknowledge. “She knows where she belongs.”

Phobos exchanged a wary glance with Deimos, but neither dared to challenge their father’s conviction further.  

“Now, retrieve your sister,” Ares ordered, his voice rising once more. “Do not return without her.”

As the twins left, Ares stood alone in his hearth, staring into the flames of the brazier before him. 

You were his pride, his masterpiece. But deep down, he knew you had always had an unshakable humanity— a weakness you inherited from your mortal mother. 

You were fire, and that humanity made you untamed and unpredictable. And he was terrified of the day he could no longer contain your flames.

–end.

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@intelligenceofapineapple @diffidentphantom @isnow-0r-never @g1g1l @pixviee

@ailoda

January Posting Schedule taglist :

Cold sweat and cold weather don't exactly mix.

Neither did the cold, wooden floor of the living room but...he insisted on it ever since he woke up choking you to near unconsciousness, his hands trembling with horror when he realized what he had done. The hardwood became his self-imposed punishment, refusing the comfort of proper bedding.

He couldn't forgive himself for that, his instability taunted him for weeks after that, having to see the bruise around your throat cause by his hand. Every morning he would catch glimpses of the purple-blue marks adorning your precious neck, each glance a reminder of how close he had come to destroying everything he held dear. The guilt ate away at him, manifesting in sleepless nights and countless apologies that could never seem to erase that moment from his memory.

He deserved it; the chill in the air making every bead of perspiration feel like tiny needles against his skin.

Especially his scars.

His shoulder hurt bad during the winter, which wasn't a huge surprise, but he would've appreciated if his body formed a bit of resistance to the cold by now.

Between endless cryofreezing, Siberian training, the prolonged exposure to freezing should have given him some sort of enhanced ability to withstand the cold but...cruelly, almost laughably, he was more vulnerable to the bite of chill now.

It pissed him off, quite frankly.

But right now, he couldn't bring himself to dwell on his annoyance.

Instead, his thoughts drifted to you as he sat there on the cold floor, his body tucked carefully against the chair that stood positioned by the stark wall. He had turned the chair into an improvised shelter of sorts, his upper body deliberately laid close beside it in a way that almost seemed to mimic having another body near him for comfort. The transition had been gradual over the course of several months, he had slowly grown accustomed to sleeping in a proper bed, and more importantly, he had grown used to having you there beside him.

Your warm, protective arms would wrap around his frame each night, and he had found himself free of any hesitation or shame as he tucked himself against your chest, letting the steady rhythm of your heartbeat become his personal lullaby, lulling him into peaceful sleep. Better than any goddamn noise machine he could dream of.

But that peace had been shattered after one particularly visceral nightmare that had resulted in him nearly choking the life from you in his sleep-addled state. He found himself unable to bear the thought of sharing a bed with you again, too terrified of what his unconscious mind might make him do.

He thought he was getting better, he was supposed to be better. The words didn't work anymore...therapy was mediocre at best but it was supposed to help him. Yet, after all of that, he still hurt you.

He's still plagued.

Frustrated with himself and the situation, he kicks the chair slightly, causing it to skid a few inches across the worn wooden floor with a harsh scraping sound. Bucky takes a deep breath, his flesh hand instinctively gripping his dog tags - those small pieces of metal that remind him of who he once was - one his own, one Steve’s.

Damnit, Steve. Why didn’t he stay?

The one man who always had his loyalty, his best friend, he felt so abandoned.

Now he had to dump his shit on you. You didn’t deserve this.

Dealing with what remained of Bucky. Dealing with his problems.

Burdening you with his issues.

All alone.

His vibranium hand nervously bundled the thin, threadbare blanket he used to sleep under. The television continued to drone on in the background, playing yet another cheesy Christmas movie that felt hollow and distant. He didn’t like these ones.

He liked the older ones.

They were simpler, easier to grasp. The fantasy of talking snowmen and flying reindeer seemed far better to lose himself in than these modern romantic tales of a cheerful woman who sings perfect carols and inevitably falls for a handsome shop owner...predictable stories that seemed to play on an endless loop.

The warm glow from the Christmas tree cast a gentle, inviting light across the sparse living room, making the empty space feel more like home. The apartment was still largely unfurnished, your current financial situation wasn’t great to say the least. Bucky's couldn’t get a job with his ‘criminal’ background, nor would anyone hire the Winter Soldier, regardless of how good he worked and how well he was with his hands. That left you as the sole provider. The weight of being the only one working pressed heavily on your shoulders, though you never complained.

You were happy to do it, if it meant Bucky could spend time relaxing and not worrying about anything.

Still, he didn’t like it.

The thought of his girl working for the both of you gave him a sour taste in his mouth, his gut tightened as he saw it as just another burden for you. A gentleman deep down, you having to work to support the two of you didn’t do anything but give him even more mental crisis.

Even when you were on the run in Romania, he found odd jobs. He brought food home. He took care of the two of you. It wasn’t that Bucky didn’t think you shouldn’t be working because you were a woman, it’s just…he felt horrible. You did so much for him, and all he could do was sit at home and wait for you to come off your shifts. He felt worthless.

And despite the tight budget, you'd worked extra hours so you could afford a Christmas tree for the apartment. While Bucky had initially been indifferent to the idea of holiday decorations, his memories of past Christmases long since faded into a blur. Watching your face light up as you carefully placed each ornament made every penny worth it.

His thoughts were interrupted by the subtle creak of floorboards, and he turned to find you peering around the corner of the short hallway that led to your bedroom. "Buck Buck...what're you doin' up?" you murmured, voice thick with sleep. Your hair was charmingly disheveled, and his old henley hung loosely on your frame, the hem nearly reaching your knees. Your eyes, still heavy with sleep, blinked slowly, "I heard somethin' out here, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, doll I'm...I'm fine." He exhaled slowly, not exactly confident in his words, shoulders slumping forward as the weight of sleepless nights pressed down on him. His hand still held the dog tags, fiddling with them restlessly as his thumb pad gently traced the engraved names and numbers, a nervous habit he'd developed.

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself that?" You asked softly, sitting down beside him on the cold floor, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to give him space. "Why don't you come back to bed with me? It's cold out here and that small blanket is not enough... I can see you shivering."

"No." He spat firmly, his jaw clenching with tension, "We've been over this. I'm not going to risk hurting you again. I can't...I won't let that happen."

"It was an accident-" you tried to reason, reaching out instinctively.

"NO!" Bucky snapped suddenly, his volume and tone loud enough to echo off the walls, making you flinch as it startled the sleep out of you. The fear in his own eyes matched yours for a split second.

It was silent for a few beats until finally he found the courage to break it with trembling words.

"I can't...I won't hurt you again. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face - the fear in your eyes when I came back to myself. You can downplay it all you want. The doctors told me how close I came to crushing your trachea. How am I supposed to carry on knowing what I almost did? You still have that dark bruise around your throat, oh...god..." His voice cracked and faded, heavy with anguish. The traumatic memory had carved itself deep into his psyche.

The faceless HYDRA torturers had been replaced in his nightmares, instead, visions of his own hands wrapped around your throat, watching helplessly as the life slowly drained from your eyes.

That was more horrifying than any of HYDRA's torture.

He would willingly submit himself to every cruel experiment, every brutal conditioning session, every moment of agony they had ever put him through - if it meant he could erase that one terrible moment when he had almost become your killer.

"Bucky," you interrupted his thoughts, your hand reaching out hesitantly in the dim light of the room, hovering just inches from his tensed shoulder but not yet making contact. You turned your palm slowly upward toward the ceiling, silently willing him to either take your hand or at least allow you the comfort of touching him. "I promise you, I am fine. Yes, it might've been a bit scary in the moment when it happened, and I understand why you're worried...but I know you'd never hurt me on purpose, not in a million years. It was an accident, nothing more than that."

He shifted uncomfortably under your unwavering gaze, his fingers clutching the deep green blanket even tighter to his chest, drawing it close like armor against both the cold and his own guilt. You could see the slight tremor in his frame, whether from the chilly air or his inner turmoil, you weren't sure. You knew he must be freezing out here in the living room, but if there was one thing you'd learned about Bucky, it was that he could be impossibly stubborn.

No matter how much you yearned to lead him back to the warmth of your shared bedroom, you knew he wouldn't budge an inch, wouldn't dare return to your bed, not while the belief that he might unconsciously harm you still gripped his conscience.

Instead of trying the back and forth of arguing, you decided to do something else. Rising from your spot, you made your way back to the bedroom, your bare feet making soft padding sounds against the aged wooden floorboards that creaked ever so slightly with each step. When Bucky heard you walk away, he assumed you had given up and gone back to bed for the night, so he slowly lowered himself down onto his makeshift sleeping spot, trying to find a comfortable position to attempt sleep.

But your absence was only temporary. Within moments, you had returned.

Your arms were laden with an assortment of blankets and a plush pillow, carried from your bedroom.

"No, doll..." he sat up immediately, preparing to launch into reasons why you shouldn't subject yourself to sleeping on the floor, even if it might be hypocritical. But you possessed every bit as much stubbornness as he did, and you had already made up your mind that he wouldn't have to face this night alone.

"Hush. I'm staying with you, and if that means camping out in the living room, then that's exactly what I'm going to do." You insisted firmly but gently, carefully arranging the blankets and pillow beside his spot. "And if sleep doesn't come easily tonight, then we can always put on a movie to pass the time. But I don't want you to be on your own, you've been torturing yourself for weeks now..."

Bucky looked down at his lap, a mix of exasperation and fondness crossing his features. "You are such a brat..." He finally replied, his lips pulling into a small, almost reluctant smile. The warmth in his chest grew steadily as he watched you, touched by how adamantly you insisted on sleeping beside him, even if it meant spending the night on the cold floor.

"That's me," you replied with a playful smirk, your eyes twinkling with mischief. "Now...how about some hot chocolate? If we aren’t gonna sleep, then we might as well have a little treat. Plus, it'll warm you up." You offered, already making your way to the kitchen with determined steps, your mind set on the comforting beverage. "Marshmallows or whipped cream?" You called over your shoulder, your voice carrying a hint of amusement as you deliberately didn't give him any opportunity to decline the offer.

He shook his head slowly, running his hand over his face as an affectionate smile spread across his features, unable to hide how endeared he was by your persistence. "Marshmallows...please," he responded softly.

"And that chestnut flavoring?" You added thoughtfully, observing him still comfortably tucked away on the floor, his form relaxed against the wall. Bucky gave a shy nod, a gentle expression crossing his features, and you couldn't help but smile warmly in return. "We should roast some, I hear people do that this time of year. But I'm not sure why exactly? I haven't had the chance to try them prepared that way before."

You carefully made your way back to where he sat, extending the steaming mug of hot chocolate towards him. The ceramic vessel was filled nearly to the brim, with a generous mountain of tiny marshmallows creating a fluffy white peak on top.

Bucky shrugged his shoulders slightly, reaching up to pluck a few of the dry marshmallows from the pile, popping them into his mouth one by one. "You can eat them plain as a snack," he offered simply, savoring the sweet dissolving treats.

"Yeah, but that seems a bit too plain for chestnuts. How about…a pie? God, I love pecan pie, why not chestnut pie? Or I hear they go good with apples."

"Pie would be really good...you know how much I love your baking," Bucky smiled warmly, his eyes lighting up as he fondly recalled all the delicious sweet treats you had lovingly prepared throughout the seasons. Apple pie was one of Bucky's all time favorite desserts, and he always lit up when you made it for him. You aren’t a professional baker by any means, but the homemade pastries and treats that came from your kitchen had become one of his most treasured simple pleasures in the world.

You sat nestled against him, your shoulders touching as you both sipped hot chocolate and talked about everything and nothing. The conversation drifted from the gentle snowfall outside to potential weekend activities, from dessert recipes you wanted to try together to movies you both wanted to watch.

Bucky had changed visibly since you crept out to see him, his tense shoulders had gradually loosened, the worried lines around his eyes had softened, and genuine smiles now came more frequently. You both occasionally made playful commentary about the predictable romantic comedy playing on screen, sharing knowing looks as the plot became increasingly formulaic and harder to tolerate.

"Can't we watch something else?" Bucky asked, turning to meet your gaze with a slight grimace, "I'm getting tired of these kinds of movies...at this point, I could practically recite exactly what's going to happen next, line by line."

“What do you mean?” You laughed a little, smiling at him as he rolled his eyes in return.

“Let’s see…it’s either Noel, Carol, or some other Christmas themed name for the main girl, and she always moves back to a hometown or is divorced or lonely or just…wandering through life feeling like something’s missing. Meets a handsome guy, a handy man, a baker, someone she knew from her childhood, and they eventually fall in love after this big Christmas event happens.” Bucky muttered, “And there's always singing! That’s been the plot for the last three movies, I swear.”

"Sure," you responded with another laugh, he hit the nail on the head. You reached forward for the remote and scrolled through channels until you stumbled on one specifically for classic holiday films. "Oh my god, this one! It's from, like...1960." You watched, somewhat amused, as the distinctively vintage stop-motion animation showed Rudolph trudging through the snow, the character's movements charmingly stilted by today's standards. Your finger hovered over the remote button, ready to continue searching.

"No, no...don't change it," he interjected softly, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his voice, "I'd like to watch this one..."

"Really? Alright," you set the remote down and got comfy. These classic films held a special place in your heart, each frame bringing back cherished memories of curling up on the couch as a child, lost in the magic of storytelling and still believing in Santa Claus. "This used to be one of my favorites," you murmured softly, snuggling closer against him. Bucky lifted his right arm, eager to feel your heat against his bare chest. He hadn't experienced watching these movies the same as you had, his past denying him even these small comforts.

It wasn't like HYDRA allowed him a tv.

Watching it now, even without the foundation of the right nostalgia, he was drawn into the film's spell. There was something touching about its simplicity, the way it managed to weave enchantment through every scene despite its less sophisticated approach. Even with its fantastical storyline, it carried an authentic magic that resonated deep within him, something pure and genuine he could instinctively recognize. Much better than the movies he had seen all day.

The first movie seemed to float by in a comfortable haze, and before you knew it, another began to play. These old ones didn’t have a very long runtime, but you forgot just how quick they fly by. The Charlie Brown Christmas movie filled the screen with its familiar charm. The gentle orchestration of the score and soothing tone of the character’s voices set a comfortable mood in the room.

While the movie played, you felt a slight shift in weight beside you. You glanced over and noticed Bucky's empty mug resting forgotten in his lap, old white foam from melted marshmallows sticking to the rim, his features softened as his eyelids had finally drooped closed. His weight leaning more against yours, and you carefully adjusted yourself.

"Oh, Bucky..." you whispered tenderly to yourself, watching as the exhausted man finally succumbed to sleep, the warm hot chocolate having done its job exactly as you'd hoped it would. Gently, you removed the empty mug from where it rested precariously on his lap and eased him down into a more comfortable position, making sure his head was properly supported by the plush pillow beneath it. You then took your time meticulously arranging the thick blankets over his body, paying particular attention to his metal arm, ensuring it was completely covered.

The winter months were especially difficult for him, the cold made the connection points of his prosthetic ache terribly, so you made sure that every inch of the metal limb was thoroughly insulated against the chill.

Damn, you should really invest in a heated blanket…they were just so expensive.

You were determined to get one for him though.

After adjusting the television volume just a little to create a soft, ambient background noise, you settled yourself beside his sleeping form. You snuggled in close, your hand moving in slow, soothing strokes up and down the broad expanse of his back.

Even in the depths of sleep, he instinctively sought out your warmth, shifting closer until his face was buried against your chest, his arm wrapping around you in a secure embrace. Though the weight and coolness of the metal arm pressed against you was initially a bit uncomfortable since the henley rode up a bit, but you quickly adjusted. Vibranium was nice, once it warmed it would stay that way for a long time.

But the same vise versa, meaning you really should get a heated blanket soon.

For now, this would do. You'd be the heat he needed, even if it meant staying with him on the floor.

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

Bucky doesn’t protest, just leans back against the wall with a sigh, watching as you shove aside bottles and boxes. When you finally find the first-aid kit, you shove past him with more force than necessary.

“Sit down.”

To your surprise, he obeys, perching on the edge of the bathtub. His silence almost irritates you more than his usual backtalk.

You crouch in front of him, ignoring the way his gaze follows your every movement as you pull out antiseptic wipes and gauze. You don’t want to look at him yet. You don’t need to see his face to know he looks like hell.

But when you finally glance up, it’s still worse than you expected.

If you hadn’t trained yourself to stay composed in the worst situations, your breath might’ve hitched. His lip is split, an eye swollen shut, cuts scattered across his face, and a dark trail of dried blood streaks from his nose to his jaw. The faintest smudge of crimson still lingers on his temple.

"What?" his voice comes out sharper, like he's testing you to see your reaction.

He sits too stiffly for it to just be his face—there are ribs involved, at the very least.

You don't grace him with a reply.

"I'm fine," he says, as if that’s enough to wave away the mess of him.

“Didn’t ask,” you reply flatly, though your jaw tightens.

“Did someone teach you how to be this kind, or is it a God-given talent?” he mutters dryly.

You don’t respond, ripping open a packet of antiseptic wipes and crouching in front of him.

“How’d your day go?” he drawls, voice flat but testing.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“God, the hospitality,” he drags, voice dry and cracked. "For a second there, I was worried bleeding out in your bathroom might make you care.”

“So fuckin' dramatic,” you breathe, swiping a wipe across his busted lip with a gentleness you hate admitting to. “You’re not bleeding out. And I don’t care."

The silence stretches as you clean him up. He doesn’t flinch—not at the antiseptic or the sting of your touch—but you notice his sharp intake of breath when you press a little harder on his ribs.

“Who did this?” you ask lowly, your tone sharp without meaning to be.

He exhales through his nose, something like a grunt. “Why? You plannin' on punching them for me?”

"If that'll keep you out of my damn bathroom at night."

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unyielding, but you refuse to meet it, focusing instead on wiping the blood crusted beneath his nose.

Finally, he mumbles, “Doesn’t matter. Kids are safe."

“Good,” you say, but the word sticks in your throat like glass.

When you glance up, his good eye is already on you, his gaze sharper than it has any right to be. His breathing is steady, heavier than usual but not alarming. Whatever he’s looking for, you don’t know, but it’s enough to make you shift uncomfortably.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, softer this time, almost like he’s trying to convince you.

“Didn’t ask,” you mutter, though your hand slows for a fraction of a second before you move on to the next cut.

His lip quirks at that, the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Noticed."

When you move to dab at the cut above his brow, something in his hair catches your eye. Your fingers brush against it, and you pull the strand closer for inspection

That’s when you notice it—the small braid in his hair, crooked and messy, like it was done by clumsy hands.

You reach out before you can think better of it, fingers tugging gently at the braid.

"Who did this to you?” you ask again, this time biting back a smile.

“Don’t,” he mutters, ducking his head to pull away, but your hand finds his neck, stilling him. His skin grows warm under your hand.

“One of the kids?” you press, voice softer now.

He clears his throat, his cheeks flushing faintly. “The jet was too dark. They needed a distraction.” He pauses, as though considering how much to share. “Missed that one, I guess.”

Your thumb brushes his jaw as you inspect the braid, lingering a little too long. “Shame. It makes you look less hideous.”

Bucky huffs, more exasperated than offended. “You’re shit out of luck, then. Gotta put up with this mug as it is.”

You realize you’ve been staring too long when his eyes flick to yours. Clearing your throat, you drop your hands and reach for another wipe.

He leans back slightly, his gaze dragging over you. “You look like you’re about to punch someone.”

“Surprised there’s anyone left to punch.”

“There isn’t,” he replies breezily, though the weight of his words hangs in the air.

“Good, I don't have to waste my time cleaning up after you.” You swipe the antiseptic across his lip, slower this time, and your fingers linger a fraction longer than they should.

You don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your hands as you tear off another wipe, the way his jaw tightens when your fingers brush against his skin again.

“You’re happy you don’t get to punch anyone?” he asks, “Careful, or I might start thinking you care.”

You don’t answer, not with words. Instead, you press the antiseptic down just hard enough to make him wince.

Bucky hisses, but his lips twitch, and you hate how much you want to smile back.

Instead, you pack away the first aid kit and push it into his lap.

“Go to sleep,” you mutter, turning away.

“Sure thing,” he says, but when you glance back, he’s still sitting there, watching you like he’s not quite ready to leave.

Like maybe you don’t want him to.

"C'mon," you say quietly. "It's late."