Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.
Word Count: 6.5k
Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)
Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡
Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡
Masterlist
You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.
Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.
Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.
You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.
“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.
Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”
“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.
But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”
A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”
She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.
“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”
Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”
You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.
Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.
You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.
It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.
Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.
Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.
“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”
You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”
She smirks. “Could happen.”
You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”
Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”
You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”
She winces. “Oof.”
“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”
Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”
You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”
She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”
Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.
Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.
And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.
Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.
The number 17 fills out your vision.
Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.
His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.
Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.
“See something you like?”
Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.
Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.
Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”
You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”
Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.
He’s turning.
Wait, he’s turning.
Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.
He’s looking at Natasha.
Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.
Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.
Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.
You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.
His attention shifts. To you.
Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.
His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.
Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.
“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.
Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.
“He’s Steve’s best friend.”
You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”
Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.
“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.
Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.
“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.
You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.
And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.
You shake that thought right off again.
It’s not like it matters.
Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”
Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”
“And you didn’t because…?”
“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”
There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.
“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.
Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”
“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”
She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You huff. “Nat.”
Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.
Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.
You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.
A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.
Number 17.
And he is coming right toward you.
You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.
His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.
He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.
His eyes land directly on you.
“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”
You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.
“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.
You turn to her confused. “Huh?”
“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.
“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.
Natasha looks triumphant.
When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.
“Thanks, doll.”
His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.
He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.
“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.
You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”
His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.
You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”
Oh.
Oh, damn.
You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.
You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”
Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.
Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.
You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”
“Maybe I can change that.”
You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.
Natasha cackles. You ignore her.
Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.
He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”
You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”
Natasha snorts.
His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.
“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”
His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”
You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.
“Huh,” he muses.
You frown slightly. “What?”
He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”
That somehow feels worse than the flirting.
You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.
There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”
That must be their trainer Fury.
But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.
You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”
He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”
And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.
It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.
You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.
“We both know you’ll be here next time.”
Infuriatingly, you know she is right.
“I hate you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.
Because he’s on the field.
And, well damn.
You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.
Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.
Really good.
His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.
You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.
When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.
The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.
You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.
Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.
You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”
Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”
You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.
So you only huff and lean further into your seat.
But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.
There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.
Oh, hell.
As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.
Right at you.
And he winks.
Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.
The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.
Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”
She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.
You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”
“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.
“That was textbook showing off, babe.”
You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.
But maybe she’s not wrong.
The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.
The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.
The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.
And apparently, Steve notices, too.
Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.
You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.
Natasha snickers beside you.
Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.
Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”
Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”
But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.
And he’s still looking at you.
This time, you don’t look away.
Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.
“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”
Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.
“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.
You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.
Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.
“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”
“Do you ever stop?”
“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”
It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”
“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.
“He’s not-”
“Watch.”
You do.
And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.
They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.
It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.
When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.
And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.
It’s irritatingly impressive.
You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.
He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.
Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.
You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”
She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”
You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”
You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.
Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.
The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.
The ball is pitched.
Bucky swings.
Crack.
The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.
It’s gone. A home run.
The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.
“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”
“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.
Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.
You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.
And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.
Right to you.
The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.
Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.
You are clapping, like all the others.
And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.
The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.
“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.
“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.
“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”
“Stop that-”
“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.
Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.
You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.
That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.
Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.
His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.
He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.
But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.
And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.
“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.
Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.
The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.
The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.
Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.
But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.
His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.
Then he’s gone.
“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.
“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.
She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”
You groan. “God, shut up.”
“That never worked on me. You should know better.”
With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.
“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.
“What? Nat-”
“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”
“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”
“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”
You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.
Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.
The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.
And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.
Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.
Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.
You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.
And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.
His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.
Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.
“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”
You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”
“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”
It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.
You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”
He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”
You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”
He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”
Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.
You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”
Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.
Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.
The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.
“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.
You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”
Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.
“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”
You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.
Next time.
You don’t quite know what to do with that.
You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”
Bucky beams.
It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.
He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.
You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”
Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”
“Make sure?”
He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.
Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”
Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”
You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.
Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.
The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.
You glance down.
A new contact. Bucky Barnes.
Bucky watches you with a soft smile.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”
Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.
“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.
“Guess so.”
His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.
“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.
You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”
Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”
You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.
Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.
This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.
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Summary: You can’t stand to watch him get hurt. He can’t stand to watch you risk your life for him. In the end, both of you are right - and both of you are bleeding for it.
Word Count: 7.3k
Warnings: angst; gun violence; gunshot wound (not too graphic, but described); blood loss; angst-heavy relationship conflict (verbal fighting, yelling, unresolved anger); panic; fear of loss; crying; loss of consciousness; medical emergency; Bucky is desperate
Author’s Note: I’m back with some avengers angst y’all!! It’s honestly a pretty classy idea but I just needed to get this out. I hope you enjoy ♡
Masterlist
The metal walls around you are sweating condensation from the cold outside. The air is astringent, reeking faintly of antiseptic, like adrenaline that hasn’t finished leaving the bloodstream.
You feel the constant noise of the quinjet in your teeth more than your ears. You can taste metal on your tongue, like pennies thrown into your mouth, and every inhale chatters against the soreness layering behind your ribs.
Sam is cracking some joke in the corner and Natasha’s smirk is sharp enough to slice the tension in half, but no one laughs too loud. Everyone’s voice is dipped in that tired kind of calm, the one you only wear after the gunfire stops but before the bruises bloom.
You shift in your seat. The fabric of your suit still smells faintly of smoke, of something burnt. There’s a line of fire along your side where the bullet carved skin but not life, a neat little warning branded into you. The medkit says it’s fine. You say it’s fine.
Bucky doesn’t say anything.
He is sitting across from you, three feet away. Or maybe it’s three miles. Hard to tell with the emotional distance between you that just continues to stretch.
He is hunched over with an elbow braced on his knee, flesh hand covering his mouth as if he’s holding his jaw in place. His steely eyes are fixed on the floor as though there are answers written in the rivets. You want to tell him you’re fine, really fine, better than fine because you’re alive and so is he, but the words get blocked in your throat, too clumsy, too simple for what happened.
His head does not once lift off the floor. Not even to glance at you.
And maybe you should be grateful. Because if he looked at you, if he head-on looked at you, you’re not sure if he’d scream or shatter.
Natasha eyes you from across the cabin, quickly, as though she is measuring the damage and cataloguing your foolishness all in one glance. It makes you sit up straighter even when your body tries to collapse in exhaustion. Her gaze snaps once toward the man in front of you, the one who hasn’t said a single thing since you boarded.
He is sitting so still. His jaw is locked, rigid, a muscle ticking like the echo of gunfire he can’t outrun. He doesn’t even move when a turbulence shivers through the jet. He is galaxies away, orbiting his own fury.
Tony tosses a protein bar at you. It lands in your lap. “Eat. You look like a corpse cosplaying as a superhero,” he says.
You roll your eyes, peel back the wrapper. The sugar tastes too sweet. Too human. Your tongue rebels, but you chew anyway.
“It’s just a scratch,” you state, casual, careless.
A chorus of scoffs follows. Familiar. Frustrated. Almost affectionate.
But not him.
Not Bucky.
He is still silent. Still folded into himself, hands clasped tightly, flesh knuckles white. There is a tremor running up his arm. The sound of leather groans under the strain of his grip.
You know he isn’t ignoring you. He is holding himself together with threads that are fraying by the second.
“A scratch is a papercut,” Sam pipes up, scoff in his voice. “That was a bullet, sugar.”
“She’s walking. That’s a win,” Clint muses, throwing you an encouraging smile you try your best to reciprocate. But you can’t force your gaze away from Bucky for too long.
He doesn’t flinch when Sam talks, doesn’t respond to Clint, doesn’t rise to Tony’s jab. He sits there with his hands curled too tight, a silent sermon of outrage and fear. You watch as he presses his trembling fingers hard into his thigh as if to ground himself here, now, instead of where his mind is replaying the scene.
You want to reach for him. You want to link your hand with his, take him into your arms, and tell him that you would do it again, ten times over, a hundred, because the thought of him falling while you stood still is unbearable. But the words feel heavy in your chest, and his silence is heavier still.
Steve’s gaze switches between you and Bucky. It lingers on him a fraction longer. Like he knows. Like he always knows. But he doesn’t say anything either.
You can feel Bucky growing roots in the corner. The air between you is threaded too tight, pulling every breath thinner. He’s trapped inside his head, and you’re the one who put him there.
Not the bullet. Not the shooter. You.
You think about the moment again - how fast you moved, how instinct overtook thought, how your body was already in front of his before you even realized what you were doing. The sting. The heat. His face, right after. The kind of pale dread that makes time stop.
And now this.
Natasha leans back in her seat, eyes half-closed, but she’s watching. Always watching. “The scar will look hot on you,” she says casually, like she’s talking about what food you’re going to order when you’re back.
Someone chuckles. Maybe Clint. Maybe Sam. You don’t catch it.
Because Bucky finally looks up.
Just for a second.
And he is not fixed on the others, but finally, finally on you.
And it’s too much. The devastation. The terror. The rage building dark and boiling behind his pupils.
His eyes are not gentle. They are not soft. They are not melting the way they usually do when he looks at you. They are wild and desperate and hurt. A thousand words bitten down to silence.
And you know.
You know the fight is already waiting for you on the other side of the quinjet door.
Because it‘s all there. The way he is replaying the moment in his mind, the way he saw you step in front of him, the way you flinched when the bullet kissed your side. He is watching it again, again, again. A loop he cannot find his way out of.
And you are left wishing you could reach inside his skull and silence the reel.
But for now, he just sits there, broken and furious and so impossibly quiet.
The quinjet tilts. It lowers almost in a reluctant way, as if it doesn’t want to come back down to earth. There is that gradual drop in your stomach, the kind that says home is near. The kind that says everything dangerous is technically over, but not really.
The engines whine softer, softer still, until the rumble becomes a heartbeat underfoot. The floor vibrates through your boots in a way that feels almost human - like the jet is alive and exhausted and glad the night is nearly over.
The others unbuckle in a choreography you know too well. Tony first, impatient, muttering something about a hot shower and an ice-cold drink. Clint following, stretching like his spine is a bowstring. Sam trailing after him with clipped movements, the kind of gestures people make when they are trying not to look at what actually bothers them. He gives Bucky one last glance, and it’s a glance you feel, something unspoken between them. But Bucky doesn’t even seem to notice. Or care.
Natasha stands too, graceful as always, rolling her shoulders, and she lets her hand brush your shoulder as she passes. You can’t make out the intention behind the move, but you hope it’s meant for comfort, because that’s what you need right now.
Steve lingers. Of course he does. One hand gripping the edge of a seat as though he’s not sure if he should play mediator or ghost. His eyes swap between the two of you again - Bucky’s still form, your restless hands. He looks at you with that kind of concern you never ask for, but he’s been alive long enough to recognize when not to push. So he just sighs, presses his lips together, and finally goes. The sound of his boots fades down the ramp.
And then it’s just you. And him.
The silence with the others gone is too large, a silence with elbows and knees that bruise if you bump into it.
You don’t even hear him breathe, but you see the way his chest heaves unevenly.
He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. He still sits hunched forward, elbows on his thighs, flesh hand dragging across his jaw. His metal hand stays clenched, the dull silver gleaming under the overhead lights. But they are dimmer now.
You swallow against the knot in your throat. Try his name once, softly. “Bucky.”
Nothing.
Not even a twitch. He’s carved himself into stone across from you, shoulders rigid, jaw locked, eyes fixed on the floor like it’s the only thing keeping him from spinning off the planet.
You wait. You give him a moment. Two. A whole eternity stretched wide.
Still nothing.
He doesn’t breathe differently, doesn’t blink in your direction. He is an unmoving photograph, locked in grayscale.
The pain in your chest sharpens. You sigh, a sound heavier than you want it to be, and push yourself upright slowly. The motion makes the cabin shift beneath your feet, your body pulling against gravity like it doesn’t quite know not to fight against it. The wound pulls at your side when you straighten, and you wince, but it’s nothing compared to the way he won’t look at you.
You take a step, just one, because you don’t know where you’re supposed to go when the space between you is so wide and so small all at once.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
His voice. Rough. A scrape of gravel across the floor. The question is a demand, a plea, an accusation. All three at once.
It stops you cold.
You turn, and there he is - finally looking at you. Not blank. Not silent. Alive with fury that isn’t really fury at all, that’s shaking, ripping, cracking open. His hands are fists, his chest is rising too fast.
He’s looking at you and it feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with no railing. His eyes are sharp, wild, too wide, and too wet. And you are the storm he’s trying to survive.
And suddenly the fight you’ve been tiptoeing around is no longer waiting. It’s here.
Bucky leans forward. Blue eyes darker than usual, fractured into pieces you can’t put back together. Not just like that. He stares at you as though you’re both the answer and the problem, as if you have stolen something from him and he doesn’t know how to take it back.
You blink, say his name like it might put the fire out. “Bucky-”
But the match has already struck.
He’s already shaking his head, not giving you room to start, to soften it, to explain. His hand scrapes down his face again, metal fingers clinking against his stubble. He looks wrecked. He looks furious. He looks like someone who just crawled out of a nightmare and hasn’t realized he’s awake.
“No. Don’t” His tone cracks. His voice is hoarse, low and harsh. Ashes in his throat. And he keeps shaking his head as if to shove away the memory. “Don’t even- don’t give me some bullshit answer. Don’t tell me you’re fine. Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter.” His fists are shaking on his thighs. “Do you even get what you did?” His voice is rough, wearing thin. “You just- you jumped in front of me. You took a bullet that was meant for me.” He laughs, but it’s not a sound of joy or anything like it. “Do you even hear how fucking insane that is?”
You straighten your shoulders, though you can feel the sting at your side where the bandage presses too tight. “It barely grazed me.”
He is on his feet before you realize it, breath ragged, chest heaving. The shadows under his eyes are bruised with exhaustion and fear, but his fury is louder than either. “That’s not the point.” His voice cracks, then hardens. “That’s not- Jesus, you don’t get it.”
You cross your arms, defensiveness piercing your chest. Your throat is dry. You try again, softer, but it comes out sharper than you mean. “I didn't think, okay? I-”
“Yeah, that’s the fucking problem.” The snap in his voice is loud enough to echo against the metal walls, then it collapses into something quieter, more vulnerable. “You didn’t think. You didn’t even give me the chance.”
The quinjet might as well be a cathedral now - all cold metal and echoes and saints made of anguish.
Your pulse is in your ears. Your side is throbbing. Your mouth is full of rust. You meet his eyes, and wish you hadn’t.
Because Bucky isn’t just angry. He’s wrecked.
“I was supposed to protect you,” he grounds out. Quiet now. Barely above a whisper. “That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.”
His voice folds around the words as if they’re used to having a meaning. As if they’re vows etched into his bones.
“You don’t get to just- just take it for me, doll.” The petname is a tremble. Like it hurts to say. He always uses so many pet names when you’re caught in an argument. It’s as if he tries to remind himself every single time that he still gets to call you that. Gets to call you his. That he hasn’t lost you just yet. But a fight between the two of you never escalated the way it seems to be doing now.
And then he moves - too fast - pacing like a storm in a cage.
One hand scrapes through his hair, the other clenches so tight you hear the metal whine.
“You don’t get it,” he says again, voice breaking in the middle. “You don’t get what it did to me- watching you go down. Watching you bleed. Watching you-” He swallows it. Chokes it back. “I couldn’t even move. I couldn’t breathe.”
You’re shaking now. You didn’t mean for this to hurt him. Didn’t mean to tear open every stitch he’s sewn shut. But this fight is different. This one is real. This one cuts somewhere neither of you knows how to bandage.
“You always do this,” he mutters. “You always- throw yourself in front of the fire. God, baby, it drives me up the wall.” His voice climbs higher.
You feel like a child again, being scolded for touching the stove, for chasing puddles, for running into traffic, and saying you were chasing the moon.
You want to be calm. Rational. You want to explain that it wasn’t a choice, that it was instinct. But frustration rises inside you, choking. “What was I supposed to do, Bucky? Just watch you get shot?”
He turns to you, eyes slashed open, burning wild. “Yes! Damn it- yes. You should’ve let me take it. I can take it. I’ve taken worse. A bullet wouldn’t have done a damn thing to me.”
Your throat goes hot. “And if it was worse?” Your words spill too fast, too brittle, louder now. “What if it wasn’t just your arm, or your shoulder, or wherever the hell you think you can take it? What then?”
“You think I can’t handle a gunshot?” His laugh is bitter, hollow, empty. “Do you have any idea how many times- how many times I’ve been shot? I would’ve walked it off. But you-” He gestures at you, wild, helpless. “You can’t. You’re not-”
“I’m not what? Not you? Not indestructible?” You hear the bite in your own voice and hate yourself for it, but you don’t stop. “I know I’m not you. But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to sit back and let you get torn apart in front of me.”
“I can take it,” he snaps, desperate now, his eyes piercing and locking on yours like if he stares hard enough you’ll finally understand. “That’s the difference. I can take it.”
The words hit harder than the bullet did. Heat burns your throat. The anger sparks before the hurt has even settled. “Wow.” Your laugh is bitter, breathless. “So that’s what you think of me? That I’m some fragile little liability on the field?”
He shakes his head instantly, quick, desperate. “That’s not- doll, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” The question tears out of you, hurt and harsh. “Because all I’m hearing is that you’re built to take it and I’m not. That I’m- what- breakable? Fragile? Disposable?”
“No, baby, that’s not-” His voice stumbles, rough edges colliding. “That’s not what I’m saying.” With a groan, he drags his hands down his face, flesh and metal both. “I’m saying I can take it better than you can, and you damn well know it.”
You freeze. The room tilts a little. His words slice in ways he didn’t intend, but the cut is real all the same. You can feel the wound at your side throbbing, sharper under your anger. “Look, I know I’m not some special kind of superhero, okay? I don’t have powers, I don’t have some serum running through my veins, and there is nothing explicitly great about me, but don’t stand there and tell me I can’t handle a goddamn graze, Bucky! I’ve had worse.”
His shoulders tense, his whole frame falling inward.
“God, that’s not-” His voice rasps like something splintering under pressure. Then it hardens again, lashing out in panic disguised as fury. “That’s- I don’t-” It falters mid-breath as though his lungs don’t want to carry the weight of the sentence. He catches himself with a fist clenched too tight and a jaw that looks like it’s been grinding down a scream. When he speaks again, it’s serrated and sharpened anguish. “I know you’re strong, baby.” His voice is worn. Throaty. “Stronger than anyone gives you credit for, hell, stronger than me most days. But this- this isn’t about that.” His breath cuts short, chest shuddering, and he looks at you with eyes that are all storm, no shore. “This is about-” He stops. Stutters. “You could’ve-” The word wilts on his tongue. He swallows profusely, like it burns going down. A tremor rushes through him. He rakes his hand through his hair, breath half-held, whole body trembling like he’s standing barefoot in a blizzard. “You could’ve died, doll.” The words crack like ice. “And you don’t even-”
You step forward, something molten rising up your throat. “But I didn’t.” You throw your arms out, as if to show him the whole inventory of your body, bruises and all. “I’m fine, Bucky. Look at me.”
“Fine?” He spits the word as if it tastes like blood. His voice lifts again, strong with desperation he can’t mask. And then his metal hand slams into the armrest of the seat beside him with a violent clatter, the sound a boom in the belly of the quinjet. The chair jerks sideways, bolts groaning in protest. “You call that fine?” His voice is scraped raw from the inside out. “Sweetheart, you’re bleeding under that damn bandage and you almost didn’t-” His words collapse on themselves. He breathes like he’s chasing oxygen that won’t stay in his lungs. He is visibly fighting the tremor in his throat.
Silence. A silence that isn’t really silence, because his breathing is jagged and your pulse is thunder in your ears.
You want to tell him you acted on instinct. You want to tell him that it wasn’t a decision. That your body just moved when it saw him in danger. That fear has a language all its own and yours always spells save him. That the image of him falling, broken, is worse than any pain you could imagine.
But he’s looking at you like you pulled the trigger yourself. Like you opened your chest and aimed the bullet at your own ribs just to punish him. Just to rip the ground out from under him.
You glance down at the torn fabric, the dried blood that crusts around the bandage. “I’m handling it, okay?” you tell him, and your voice is strained, stretching thin against the silence. “It’s not a big deal.”
The sound he releases is a scar, twisted and hollow and painful to hear. “Not a big deal?” he echoes, voice incredulous and so, so wounded. “You could’ve been dead. Do you get that? Do you understand what that means? One inch deeper, one second slower, and I’m holding your body instead of your hand.”
The silence after that feels too big, too swollen to hold.
Your arms wind around yourself, because his words keep finding the softest parts of you and keep pressing down. You exhale and it hurts to let go of the air.
He looks away, hands on his hips, head bowed as though he’s just emptied himself out. His shoulders rise and fall in numbed, uneven lines.
“Can’t you see what it does to me, Bucky?” you whisper, the words hitching in your throat. Splintering with weariness. “Watching you go headfirst into danger every goddamn time? It kills me, Bucky. It kills me to picture you not coming back.”
He scoffs. Rough. Dismantling. The sound of something breaking. His hand flies out, gesturing wide, as though the whole world is a mess he can’t control and he’s trying to hurl it away. “That’s different!”
“No, it’s not!” you shout, heat boiling in your chest, heart hammering. You step closer, refusing the distance he’s trying to put between you. “Why is it different? Because you’ve been through hell? Because you’ve survived it before? That doesn’t mean it should always be you taking the fall. You can’t expect me to always just stand behind you while you get hit.”
“If it keeps you alive,” he says, voice low and lethal, “then yeah. That’s exactly what I want. That’s exactly what you’re going to do.” The words are a blow. But you don’t flinch. You fire back.
Anger tears through the cracks of your ribs. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I do when your life’s on the line!” His voice booms, ricocheting off the metal walls as though looking for a way out. His body is shaking. He is pacing again, shoulders rigid, breath stormy. His hands are firecrackers, bursting through the air, erratic. “It’s not noble, throwing yourself in front of me like that. It’s not- it’s reckless. It’s fucking reckless. You don’t get to make that call, not when I-” He stops, swallows audibly, shakes his head as though he is choking on the words. His fists are clenched at his sides.
Your side pains, wound burning hotter, but the fury blinds you to it. You throw his words back at him, icy and fast. “Don’t talk to me about reckless,” you snarl. “You’ve thrown yourself into worse for all of us. You don’t hesitate when it’s your body on the line. But the second it’s mine, suddenly it’s a crime?”
He turns so fast it shakes the air. His head snaps toward you, eyes blazing. Searing. Sorrowful. Fury and devastation are wrapped so tight you can’t tell them apart. He takes a step toward you, and then another, until there’s barely air between you.
His voice drops, rough and shaking and dangerous. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what it felt like- seeing you drop, seeing blood on you because of me.” He closes the last distance between you in two quick strides. His eyes are oceans mid-tempest. “You were on the ground, and I swear to God, I stopped breathing. I saw you hit the floor and I thought- this is it. This is the moment I lose her. And if that happens- if you’re gone- if I lose you-” He bites down hard. You see the pain stretch across his face like glass cracking under pressure. “I’m done,” he breathes. “You hear me? Done.” His voice is gravel and grief. “There’s no coming back from that.”
Your chest caves in, slowly, painfully. But your voice rises anyway. “And what if I feel the same?”
He freezes.
“What if I can’t survive watching you die? What if I’d rather take that bullet every time than live in a world without you?”
His face breaks, and for a second you think he’s going to fall apart. Say something raw and unfixable.
But then he turns away. Fast. Hands in his hair. His metal fist curls, clenches, presses against his mouth like he’s trying to stifle the sound coming out of him - a noise you’ve never heard before.
It’s not rage. It’s not grief. It’s terror. Strangled and trembling.
The sound makes your wound flare, a hot, twisting pain, but you bite down on it, refuse to wince. Refuse to show him one ounce of weakness.
“It’s not the same,” he grits out through harshly clenched teeth.
“Yes, it is,“ you shoot back, frustrated.
“Goddammit,” he mutters, voice scraping bottom. “Why don’t you get it?”
You step closer. Close enough to feel the quake in his shoulders. “Why don’t you?” you throw back, chest aching. You’re not yelling anymore. You’re just breaking. “I made a choice, Bucky. My choice. And you don’t get to tell me it was wrong just because it scared you.”
He whirls on you with a snarl of disbelief, eyes wild.
“Scared? You think that’s all it is?” He steps forward, and you swear the jet shrinks around you. “It wasn’t just wrong,” he claims, “it was stupid. Suicidal. You gambled your life like it meant nothing.”
“And I’d do it again.” The words rip from your throat, vehemently, tears stinging behind your eyes. “A thousand fucking times, I’d do it again.”
His face crumples as if he’s folding under the strain of every second that’s passed since the bullet tore through you, heartbreak and grief colliding until he looks almost unrecognizable. His hands fall to his sides. His mouth parts, shaking. Silent. His eyes glisten as if he’s seconds from drowning.
“You’re gonna drive me insane,” he whispers, defeated.
And the silence after that feels like it’s been held in the mouths of stars.
The wound in your side pulses again - no, not a pulse. A bite. Teeth, dragging. Sharp. Cruel. Hungry. You press it down like you’ve been taught to do. Like the pain owes you obedience. But it doesn’t. And he’s looking at you as if you’re a stranger in your own skin.
And God, you’re too deep in the fire to pull back now.
Your voice is soft when it finally comes. Paper-thin. A whisper trying not to tremble. “You’re not the only one afraid of losing someone, Bucky.”
He exhales like he’s coughing up a wound. A sound so raw it cleaves the air between you. His chest stutters. Caves. Fights to lift again.
“Then stop putting me in a position where I almost do.” His words are not loud, but they land.
Your hands curl into fists, your nails digging crescents into your palms. Your side is screaming now. Screaming. Not a throb anymore. Not even a burn. It’s a hurricane. A tidal wave. It climbs your spine, presses sweat through your skin, swirls around your lungs and tightens.
You feel lightheaded, but you dig in. Dig deeper. Because anger is easier than fear. And you’re too stubborn to give the pain permission.
“You don’t get to tell me how to love you,” you say, and your voice has a raspy note. But there is a certain confidence in the way you speak to him. “I won’t apologize for saving you from a bullet wound.”
He flinches.
It’s small - almost nothing.
But you see it. You feel it.
For a moment, it is quiet again. The air between you quivers, explosive and tenuous. Everything but peaceful.
Just two people breathing hard enough to unnerve the walls, hearts banging like warning sirens against ribs too shrill and too bruised to carry them.
You don’t even realize your breathing is too shallow until the world shifts. Just a tilt. Just a smear of light. The overheads cloud, lengthening into halos you can’t quite reach.
You blink. Once. Twice. Mouth pressed tight. Trying to glare at him. But your vision is molasses now, slow and honeyed and dangerous. The wound - your whole side at this point - is a furnace. A pulse that spikes, hot and penetrating. Like someone driving a nail under your skin. At first, you think it’s nothing - just your body’s reminder that adrenaline always runs out. But it is expanding. Deepening. A slow burn blooming into fire.
You tell yourself that this is what a graze feels like. But the air doesn’t enter your lungs the way it should anymore and the lights overhead are suddenly a single sting behind your eyes.
You don’t remember when your knees began to give, only that they did. Just a slight buckle. A warning shot you try to keep to yourself.
Bucky doesn’t miss it. Of course, he doesn’t. His eyes snap down, sharp as knives, then back up to your face. His expression changes, sharpens in a different direction. Like a tide pulling out. Like a cliff eroding in fast-forward.
“What is it?” he asks, voice low, croaky, unstable. It sounds as if his throat is lined with sandpaper.
“Nothing,” you bite out too fast. Too curt. You straighten. Or you try to. “I’m fine.”
But the pain is not fine. It’s surging now, like the wound has been waiting for the argument to end before it demanded center stage. As if summoned by your lie. It grabs hold of you now. All at once.
The bandage feels wet. Your side feels like it’s trying to tear off your body. The edges of your vision grow fuzzy for just a moment longer - enough to make you catch your breath, enough to make your body sway.
“Hey-” Bucky’s voice is urgent now, sharp and thick with alarm. And he is there in an instant, too close, too fast. His hands are on you before you even register him moving, one warm, one metal, both steadying you before the ground has the chance to steal you.
“I said I’m fine-” you grit out, trying to shove him away with hands that don’t quite do what you want them to. Your words are clumsy, just like your movements. You try to straighten, but instead your body sags against his grip. Your body doesn’t cooperate. Your muscles slur. Your spine folds. “It’s nothing,” you gasp, “just-”
“Nothing?” The word snags in his mouth. His eyes flash down and he sees the blood. The bandage soaked through. The way the red spills across your side like it’s writing a warning in ink. His face goes slack with horror. Then it tightens. Hard. Like a door slamming shut behind a scream. “Jesus, Y/n-”
“I can handle it,” you exclaim stubbornly. But your voice trembles, shivers, betrays you. You’re trying to stay upright, trying to fight the proof of your body’s collapse. Trying to win, even now. To prove him wrong, to prove yourself right. “I told you, I can handle it.”
His arms shift again, cradling you like you’re already slipping through his hands. His metal arm hooks under your legs without hesitation. He’s trying to hold you without hurting you, panic in every movement.
“Handle it?” His voice pitches up, hoarse and fierce and broken. “You’re bleeding out on me.” His words are a tremor. A truth too loud to ignore. “You’re white as a sheet, you can barely stand - don’t you dare tell me you can handle it.” His voice is pulled straight from the center of him.
You stumble again, and this time there’s no denying it. Your whole body lurches. The pain spikes - bright and feral - and a gasp slips from your mouth before you can stop it.
Your hand flies to your side. Hot. Wet. Sticky. The bandage is gone. Useless. You’re losing too much, too fast.
Your knees crumple, and your body pulls you down despite your mind’s insistence, but his arms are already catching you with a curse under his breath. His body braces around yours with the force of something terrified. You feel his heart pounding where your head presses into his chest. A thunderous rhythm.
“Shit- shit, hold on, I’ve got you,” His voice has no rhythm now, just pieces - pointed, breathless, all jumbled together like falling debris.
He clamps one hand to your wound, hard and fast, like he’s trying to hold the blood in, like if he just presses hard enough, he can undo it.
His breath is coming in stutters. Not clean. Not measured. Just labored little gasps, broken fragments pulled too fast into his lungs.
His arms - one flesh, one metal - tighten. Not gently. Not delicately. Desperately. Scared you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a second.
You want to tell him to stop. You want to tell him you can walk, that this isn’t necessary, that he’s overreacting and this is excessive. But your tongue feels plushie, your mouth tastes like copper, and the air won’t sit still long enough for your lungs to catch it and shape the words.
He’s moving too fast. Too fast for someone with a heart that’s breaking.
“Hold on,” he utters. Two words. Strained. Snapped in half. Laced with dread and too many maybes.
He shifts you against him, pulls you closer, your weight drawn easily against his chest, one arm under your knees, the other anchoring your back, as though you’re breakable and already broken. His warmth, his solidity - it’s too much. It makes you want to collapse entirely.
You shouldn’t feel this safe. Not when everything hurts. You don’t even notice him taking off, the ramp of the quinjet groaning and moaning under his weight.
Your head lolls against his shoulder as the corridors rush by in a haze. Too heavy. Too hollow. The vibrations of his boots slam into your spine, and travel up, up, up. Too fast, too hard. Each step proof of how close he is to breaking.
You feel him everywhere. The heat of him. The tremor in him. The wild, frantic, unsteady beat of his heart crashing against your ribs, against your ear.
“Bucky-” Your voice is a whisper, a thin wire strung between your teeth.
“Don’t.” One word, but it lands like a plea. Gruff. His breath catches like it's snagged on something sharp. You feel his jaw flex against your temple. Hear the way his voice fractures. “Don’t talk, baby. Don’t waste your strength.”
You almost laugh - because wasting your strength on words is all you know how to do - but pain is a cruel thief, and it steals even the sound of a smile.
You catch the tremor in his hands. Not the metal one. The other one. The human one. The one made of skin and scar tissue. The one that remembers how it felt to hold hope and lose it. Fingers press too tightly at your shoulder.
“I should’ve seen it.” His voice is quieter now, almost to himself. “Should’ve known. I was too- too wrapped up-” The rest dissolves into another language. Russian, maybe. Sharp syllables. Soft fury.
You try again, your voice thinner now. “I told you- it’s not that bad.”
But you’re lying. And he knows it.
He lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before - something guttural shredded with disbelief. He jerks his head, eyes burning down at you, and the expression on his face is something you’ll never forget. Not anger. Not this time. Just naked fear. “Don’t you dare say that. Not one more time. You’re bleeding through my shirt, baby.” His voice hitches. Shatters in the middle. You feel the break. Taste it. “That’s bad. That’s fucking bad.”
And you realize he’s right. You can feel it now - the consistent warmth soaking through layers of fabric, the pain sharpening into something blinding. Your skin is clammy, your head spins harder, your breaths grow weak. You feel the way the world spins like it’s on the verge of forgetting you.
“Stay with me,” he grates out, the syllables wrecked. He sounds out of breath. He’s never out of breath. “Don’t close your eyes, baby. Look at me.”
You try. You do. But the world is softening and there is nothing you can do about it. Each step he takes sends another sharp pang through your side, the ache sweltering and radiating.
You gasp, eyes fluttering, and the pain sings its jagged lullaby.
He adjusts his grip, faster now, speeding down the corridor. “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you- god- baby-”
You blink, slow and stupid. You swallow as best as you can, words slurring in your mouth. “We were busy.” It sounds like a joke. And maybe it is. A terrible, unforgivable joke.
His face contorts like you’ve struck him. He looks down at you as though you’ve just ripped his heart out. “Busy fighting?” His jaw tightens. His voice drops to a choked whisper. “You should’ve told me. You should’ve told me. I should’ve seen-”
You hum something in return. Maybe agreement, maybe apology. But the world is a merry-go-round now and you’re slipping off the edge. Your eyes close for just a moment. Just one. The dizziness is inviting.
“No. Hey.” His voice spikes, piercing and raw. Loud and terrified. He jostles you lightly, desperate, hysterical. “No, no, no- eyes on me. Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me. Don’t even think about it, baby.”
Your lashes flutter, the hallway tilting again. His grip tightens, trying to hold you inside your own body. His face is a watercolor now, smudged and moving.
“Almost there,” he gasps against your hair, but the earthquake in his voice doesn’t get muffled. “Almost there, baby. Hang on.” He bites down on the next words, his jaw hard enough to crack. “Don’t do this to me. Don’t- please, baby-”
You want to reach for him. To cup his face and tell him he’s being dramatic again because he always gets dramatic when it’s about you and your health. But your hands aren’t working. Your body is sinking. Your bones are tired of holding you up. Your tongue is sluggish and your mouth won’t work the way you want it to.
The med bay doors loom ahead, too far and too close all at once. He shoulders them open without slowing, the slam of metal against metal echoing behind you.
“Somebody-” His voice cracks through the room, loud, panicked. “Somebody get in here!”
You try to tell him to stop yelling. To stop making a scene and that it’s not as bad as it looks and that others might be doing worse. But the ceiling is spinning and your words are gone.
“Stay with me,” he breathes, voice breaking down to almost nothing as he lowers you onto the nearest bed. His hands are everywhere - pressing at your side, brushing hair off your face, shaking, steady, shaking again. “Stay awake,” he pleads again. He’s trying to hold all your pieces together, but they‘re slipping through his fingers. “Stay with me, baby, please. Please, I can’t-”
The fight is gone. The fury is gone.
All that’s left is fear.
Your eyes flutter, heavy, and you whisper his name like it’s the last coin in your pocket.
And the look on his face when you do - the panic engraved so viscerally, the desperation rasping through every line - is enough to keep you tethered, just barely, just enough.
The med bay fills too quickly. Footsteps hammering, voices swinging through the air with urgency. Dr. Cho’s commands come clipped, efficient, the language of someone used to patching up gods and soldiers alike. A tray clatters, gloves snap, lights blaze white above you.
But all you see is him.
Bucky doesn’t move from your side, not even when Cho snaps at him to give space. His hands are sticky with your blood. His eyes are frantic, tearing over your face as though he can will you to stay awake just by looking hard enough. “Easy, doll. I’ve got you. Right here, I’m right here.” His voice is wreckage.
Your fingers twitch, searching. Blind. Weak. They find nothing but air.
Until his hand is there. Big, calloused, trembling. He links your fingers and you grip with what little strength you have, your palm slipping against his. He clutches you with deeply rooted desperation.
His breath catches audibly. He bows his head close, closer, forehead nearly touching yours, his hair falling forward in a curtain that hides you both for a heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he croaks, broken into pieces. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You believe him. You always do. You should. You can.
The medics are talking around you, about pressure and blood loss and IV lines, but their words aren’t registering. You focus only on his voice, the gravel and quake of it, the way it buckles against your skin.
You squeeze his hand. Hardly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. The words are frail, wobbling things. “Bucky- I’m sorry.”
Bucky’s face crumples. His whole body folds. His reaction is immediate, violent in its tenderness. His hand grips yours tighter. His forehead presses to your temple, his lips moving over your hairline, your cheek, your brow, your knuckles - feverish kisses, despairing, wherever he can reach in the chaos. “No- no, don’t you say that.” His voice shreds as he speaks. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, baby. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. You don’t get to be sorry. You don’t-”
Another wave of pain sears through you, sharp enough to make your vision go white. You gasp, your body arching, your grip on his hand faltering.
He squeezes tighter. His thumb rubs over your knuckles, rushed and intense. You see the wet shine in his eyes. The tears breaking loose, tracking down his face. And your chest clenches because you’ve seen him bloodied, broken, beaten - but never shattering like this.
“I can’t-” His throat locks, helpless and human. He shakes his head, presses another desperate kiss to your hair. “I can’t lose you. Don’t make me, please- please don’t”
You want to answer. You want to promise him. To tell him again you’re fine, or will be fine, or something that might sew his fear back together. Something that might make him stop crying. But the room is melting into darkness and it is opening its mouth for you. You’re already halfway inside. The sounds around you are dimming into a single hum. Your body feels heavier, every heartbeat slower, slower still. You don’t even know if you’re present anymore.
“Stay awake,” Bucky begs, voice crumbling as his tears hit your skin. He shakes your hand, gentle but miserable. In demise. “Please, sweetheart, stay awake.”
You try to hold on, to give him one more word, one more look. But your body is slipping. Your hand slackens in his.
The last thing you hear is his voice breaking open against your name as your eyes fall shut.
The last thing you feel is the heat of his tears falling into the hollow of your throat as the world disappears.
Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.
Word Count: 6.5k
Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)
Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡
Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡
Masterlist
You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.
Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.
Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.
You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.
“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.
Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”
“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.
But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”
A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”
She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.
“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”
Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”
You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”
She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.
Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.
You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.
It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.
Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.
Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.
“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”
You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”
She smirks. “Could happen.”
You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”
Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”
You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”
She winces. “Oof.”
“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”
Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”
You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”
She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”
Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.
Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.
And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.
Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.
The number 17 fills out your vision.
Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.
His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.
Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.
“See something you like?”
Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.
Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.
Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”
You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”
Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.
He’s turning.
Wait, he’s turning.
Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.
He’s looking at Natasha.
Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.
Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.
Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.
You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.
His attention shifts. To you.
Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.
His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.
Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.
“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.
Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.
“He’s Steve’s best friend.”
You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”
Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.
“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.
Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.
“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.
You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.
And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.
You shake that thought right off again.
It’s not like it matters.
Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”
Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”
“And you didn’t because…?”
“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”
There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.
“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.
Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”
“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”
She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You huff. “Nat.”
Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.
Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.
You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.
A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.
Number 17.
And he is coming right toward you.
You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.
His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.
He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.
His eyes land directly on you.
“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”
You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.
“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.
You turn to her confused. “Huh?”
“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.
“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.
Natasha looks triumphant.
When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.
“Thanks, doll.”
His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.
He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.
“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.
You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”
His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.
You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”
Oh.
Oh, damn.
You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.
You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”
Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.
Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.
You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”
“Maybe I can change that.”
You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.
Natasha cackles. You ignore her.
Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.
He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”
You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”
Natasha snorts.
His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.
“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.
“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”
His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”
You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.
“Huh,” he muses.
You frown slightly. “What?”
He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”
That somehow feels worse than the flirting.
You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.
There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”
That must be their trainer Fury.
But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.
You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”
He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”
And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.
It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.
You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.
“We both know you’ll be here next time.”
Infuriatingly, you know she is right.
“I hate you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.
Because he’s on the field.
And, well damn.
You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.
Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.
Really good.
His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.
You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.
When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.
The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.
You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.
Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.
You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”
Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”
You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.
So you only huff and lean further into your seat.
But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.
There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.
Oh, hell.
As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.
Right at you.
And he winks.
Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.
The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.
Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”
She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.
You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”
“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.
“That was textbook showing off, babe.”
You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.
But maybe she’s not wrong.
The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.
The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.
The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.
And apparently, Steve notices, too.
Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.
You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.
Natasha snickers beside you.
Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.
Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”
Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”
But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.
And he’s still looking at you.
This time, you don’t look away.
Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.
“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”
Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.
“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.
You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.
Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.
“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”
“Do you ever stop?”
“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”
It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”
“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.
“He’s not-”
“Watch.”
You do.
And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.
They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.
It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.
When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.
And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.
It’s irritatingly impressive.
You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.
He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.
Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.
You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”
She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”
You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”
You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.
Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.
The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.
The ball is pitched.
Bucky swings.
Crack.
The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.
It’s gone. A home run.
The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.
“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”
“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.
Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.
You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.
And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.
Right to you.
The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.
Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.
You are clapping, like all the others.
And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.
The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.
“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.
“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.
“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”
“Stop that-”
“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.
Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.
You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.
That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.
Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.
His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.
He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.
But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.
And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.
“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.
Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.
The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.
The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.
Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.
But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.
His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.
Then he’s gone.
“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.
“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.
She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”
You groan. “God, shut up.”
“That never worked on me. You should know better.”
With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.
“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.
“What? Nat-”
“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”
“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”
“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”
You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.
Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.
The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.
And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.
Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.
Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.
You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.
And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.
“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.
His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.
Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.
“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”
You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”
“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”
It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.
You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”
He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”
You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”
He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”
Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.
You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”
Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.
Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.
The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.
“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.
You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”
Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.
“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”
You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.
Next time.
You don’t quite know what to do with that.
You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”
Bucky beams.
It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.
He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.
You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”
Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”
“Make sure?”
He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.
Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”
Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”
You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.
Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.
The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.
You glance down.
A new contact. Bucky Barnes.
Bucky watches you with a soft smile.
“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”
Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.
“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.
“Guess so.”
His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.
“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.
You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”
Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”
You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.
Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.
This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.
TW/tags Bucky Barnes x reader, established relationship, drowning mention, mentioned death of a family member and best friend, blood and bruising, nosebleed, reader has an inherited curse
You woke up tasting ash and dust in your mouth.
Sometimes, you tasted metal when sleeping with your mouth open, the faint aftertaste of the New Avengers’ tower recycled air. This was different. This coated your tongue, bitter and scorched, gathering between your teeth as if you had spent the night breathing through smoke.
You swallowed and felt grit scrape down your throat.
Behind you, Bucky shifted beneath the sheets.
He was still half asleep when he pressed his mouth to your back, kissing the bare skin between your shoulder blades. His stubble dragged pleasantly over you, his lips unhurried as they travelled along your spine. His metal hand rested heavily on your hip, thumb moving in an absent circle.
Usually, you would have smiled. You would have pushed backwards into him until he tightened his arm around your waist and complained that you were trying to crush him, despite both of you knowing perfectly well that you couldn’t, even if you tried.
This morning, you couldn’t move.
The curse of premonition had been in your family for centuries, bestowed by a witch who had wanted your ancestors to suffer long after their own deaths. You would feel every tragedy creeping towards you and still remain powerless to name the hour, the place, or whose blood would be spilled.
Your grandmother had tasted saltwater for three days before her brother drowned. Your mother had heard bells ringing inside her skull before the hospital called about her father.
Before your childhood best friend died a brutal death, bruises appeared on your skin and you woke up with blood running from your nose.
Bucky kissed the back of your neck, then stopped when you flinched.
His hand became still on your hip. “You’re awake.”
You nodded, although he couldn’t see it.
Bucky pushed himself up behind you. The mattress dipped as he leaned over, brushing your hair away from your face. You could feel him watching you before he gently rolled you towards him.
His hair was tangled from the pillows, and there was a crease across one cheek from your pillow and warmth lingering in his eyes that disappeared when he saw your face.
“What is it?”
You opened your mouth, but the taste of smoke became stronger. You tried to speak and had to swallow dust first, drowned in a coughing fit. When Bucky offered water, you refused and forced the taste down.
Oh.
Bucky caught your face between both hands, because he knew that look too well by now.
“What did you feel?”
“Ash.” Your voice came out raw. “I… I can smell smoke.”
Bucky inhaled through his nose, as though he might be able to smell it too.
There was nothing for him, just the warmth of your shared bedroom in the tower and lemony clean sheets.
You reached for him, twisting your fingers into his shirt and pulling yourself against his chest.
Bucky wrapped himself around you immediately, metal arm across your back while his flesh hand cradled the base of your head.
“I think something bad is going to happen,” you managed.
Bucky pressed his mouth to your temple. “How bad?”
“I don’t know.”
You never knew.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
Bucky had survived so many things, from himself, to armies, alien invasions and the end of the world. He had spent his entire life teetering too close to the edge, but had never let you do the same.
You held him tighter and whispered, “I’m not worried about me.”
Bucky went still. His breathing stumbled, and the arm around your back tightened until you could feel every plate in his hand. “Oh,” he looked down. “Is it…”
“I—” You cut him off, before biting the inside of your cheeks so hard it almost bled. “I don’t know that it’s you.”
“But you think it is.”
You couldn’t answer.
Ash gathered beneath your tongue again, and you squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face against his bare chest before he could see what you were still feeling.
Bucky kissed your hair. “Whatever it is, you know we’ll handle it,” His hand moved along your back, trying to soothe you while his heartbeat raced beneath your ear. “I promise everything’s gonna be okay.”
Outside the bedroom, the New Avengers Tower began to wake up, an elevator door chiming below. Alexei laughed in the corridor, followed by the muffled slam of a door.
These were all ordinary morning sounds you had grown fond of over the last six months.
And to think it could be taken away, just like that….
Bucky pulled the blankets higher around both of you and held you, pretending nothing in the world could reach you there.
You knew better.
You knew promises had never stopped the curse before.
But Bucky sounded so certain, and he loved you so much, and there was no harm in letting him believe it for a little longer.
Hey, so I had this crazy idea about drunk bucky being a menace in love and is all over the reader and spilling embarrassing bedroom secrets in front of everyone 😉 and is so delusional, he believes that she is drunk not him and tries to take care of her but fails miserably and everyone is just enjoying his antics and cheering him on
You know what, you should totally add your own crazy thoughts about drunk bucky if you decide to write this 😃
ahhahahahhah, I cackled the whole time writing this😂
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Bucky Barnes was drunk.
Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except that he was aggressively drunk. Loudly drunk. Passionately, whole-heartedly, menace-level drunk.
And completely convinced that you were the one who’d had too much.
“Someone get her a blanket,” he announced to the room, throwing his vibranium arm out wide, nearly knocking over a lamp. “She gets cold when she drinks. You know—her knees? They do the little shiver.”
You blinked. “I’ve had one cider, Buck.”
“You’re slurring,” he said, squinting suspiciously.
“I’m not.”
“You are. And your face is doing that… face thing.” He nodded decisively. “Classic signs of a tipsy kitten.”
From his perch on the edge of the couch, Sam sipped his beer and grinned. “Tipsy kitten?”
You were pretty sure you were the only sober one in the room. And yet Bucky, who had done four celebratory tequila shots with Thor ten minutes ago, was now babying you like you were one hiccup away from collapse.
You tried again. “I’m really not drunk.”
“That’s exactly what a drunk person would say.”
Natasha snorted. “She’s literally the one who drove you here.”
“And I thank her for her service,” Bucky said solemnly, wobbling slightly on his feet. “But I’ve got it from here. I’ll take care of her. Always do.”
“Always?” you muttered, and Bucky turned to beam at you.
“She cries after sex, y’know,” he said proudly.
Your soul left your body.
“Oh my god, James,” you hissed.
“Not because she’s sad,” he continued, unfazed, addressing the room like a man delivering a TED talk. “Because it’s so good. Her words. Not mine. Though I agree. I think it’s that one move I do—”
“BUCKY!”
Everyone erupted. Sam literally dropped his drink from laughing. Tony looked like he was about to take notes. Wanda covered her mouth. Steve whispered a soft “Jesus Christ” and turned toward the wall like it might save him.
Meanwhile, Bucky looked so pleased with himself.
“I’m just sayin’,” he shrugged. “She gets all emotional. It’s beautiful.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die here. This is my death.”
“NO!” Bucky shouted, stumbling over to you. “No dying. You’ve had too much. You’re acting unstable.”
“I am sober, you absolute menace.”
He leaned in conspiratorially, whispering directly into your ear, “Don’t worry. I’ll hold your hair if you need to throw up.”
“I will end you.”
“Later, doll,” he grinned. “You always say that in bed, too.”
A sound left your mouth that may have been a wheeze.
Clint stood up, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “Barnes, sit down before you reveal the coordinates of your sex tape.”
“We don’t have a tape,” Bucky said, then immediately followed it with, “Because we deleted it.”
Tony clapped once. “That’s enough entertainment for the evening, folks.”
But Bucky wasn’t done.
Oh no.
Because now he had moved into the delusional caretaker phase.
“You need water,” he said, cradling your face in his hands like you were seconds from passing out. “Where’s your water? You gotta hydrate. It’s important. You’re so small. You dehydrate faster than other people.”
“I’ve been hydrating,” you said flatly. “Meanwhile, you drank what was basically liquid gasoline.”
“Because I’m a super soldier,” he whispered, poking your nose. “You’re just a civilian angel.”
You looked around the room helplessly. “Can someone tase him?”
“No way,” Sam said through his laughter. “I’m letting this play out.”
“I’m gonna make you toast,” Bucky declared, staggering toward the kitchen. “That’ll soak up the booze. Where do we keep toast?”
“THE BREADBOX,” you and Steve shouted in unison.
Bucky paused, then snapped his fingers. “Right. Secret bread drawer.”
You flopped back against the couch as he banged around the kitchen, opening cabinets with the urgency of someone defusing a bomb. “Why is he like this?”
Nat shrugged. “Honestly? This is the happiest I’ve ever seen him.”
You glanced into the kitchen where Bucky was holding two slices of bread up like they were treasure. “He looks like he’s about to kiss the bread.”
“I might,” he shouted. “Because it’s for her.”
You groaned into a throw pillow.
By the time you finally got him wrangled into a coat and ready to leave, he’d managed to trip over a chair, try to bridal carry you and almost drop both of you, and glare at Sam while yelling, “DON’T CORRUPT HER WITH YOUR FILTHY JOKES. SHE’S A LADY.”
“She has more dirty jokes than I do!” Sam replied.
“DOESN’T MATTER. SHE’S MY LADY.”
“Bucky, get in the car.”
“Don’t raise your voice, she’s had a rough night,” he whispered, swaying dangerously.
You rubbed your temples. “I literally haven’t.”
When you finally got him into the passenger seat and clicked his seatbelt, Bucky turned to you with glassy, adoring eyes and whispered, “I love you so much, it’s stupid.”
Your heart softened.
“I know,” you said gently, brushing his hair back from his face. “You’ll remember all of this tomorrow and die of shame.”
“I hope so,” he said, already dozing off. “Because this was the best night of my life.”
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Tags: Jealousy trope, Big Papa Sam, Bucky flirting with another woman, you will be cheesing at the end dw, reader is actually mature about it (sorta)
Summary: While trying to annoy Sam, Bucky accidentally hurts you. (Requested)
Work Count: 1.2k
Editor: @sweetcherries123
-.-
When Bucky told you that Sam invited you over for a weekend trip in Louisiana, you were excited. Shortly after arriving, that feeling dissipated. You knew that Bucky loved to get under Sam’s skin, but you didn’t know he would take it so far.
Across the lawn, your boyfriend had a charming, mischievous smirk on his face as he approached Sarah. She rolled her eyes, but her body gravitated towards him. He kept looking at Sam's irritated face from their flirty exchange. Meanwhile, you stood discarded on the porch, unable to do anything but watch.
AJ tugged on your hand. “Do you wanna play video games with us?” Behind him was his older brother, Cass. They could tell you needed an escape.
“I would love to!” Your once-sullen look was replaced by a cheerful smile as you followed the boys upstairs.
You had forgotten all about that jealous pit in the stomach by the time dinner rolled around, but that carefree feeling could only last so long.
“Boys, can you set the table, please?” Sarah asked over her shoulder, but it was more like an order.
Bucky got up from the couch without a second thought. “I got it.” He winked at Sam, who leaned on the counter behind Sarah.
With ease, he grabbed plates from the top shelf of the cupboard. Every seat he set was given more attention than you’d gotten all day. You couldn’t believe you were jealous of plates and silverware.
Throughout the meal, Bucky would relentlessly compliment Sarah’s cooking, and although you agreed that the food was good, it still upset you. There was a flirty undertone to his comments that irritated both you and Sam, but Bucky didn’t notice yours since he was solely focused on Sam’s reactions.
As the evening wore on, you thought that Bucky would finally be satisfied by Sam’s misery, but it was never enough. His comments got bolder; even though you knew he was just joking, they all sounded too real.
Eventually, you decided to ignore Bucky since he was doing the same to you. The purpose of it was to give him a taste of his own bitter medicine, but he didn’t notice. He was so enthralled by his little game that eventually you just left.
The porch stairs were weirdly comforting. The ambiance created by the cicadas and grasshoppers almost made you forget why you were outside in the first place. You still couldn't wrap your head around why Bucky would do such a thing to you. Last week, he was waking you up with breakfast in bed and showering you with compliments. Now, he doesn’t care where you are or that he’s embarrassing you in front of a bunch of people you didn't even know 3 days ago.
The front door creaks open, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.
“The futon is set up.” Sam looks behind him before ultimately deciding to shut the door and takes a seat next to you. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” You furrow your eyebrows at him. “Why?”
“You don’t deserve the way Bucky is treating you.” You look over to see his eyes full of sincerity. “The rise he’s getting out of me isn’t just because he’s flirting with Sarah.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “What else is it?”
“I think it’s embarrassing that he’s flirting with another woman when his girlfriend is right next to him. It’s embarrassing not just for you, but especially for him.” The sound of footsteps coming closer from inside ends the moment.
“The boys are asleep; I’m heading up to bed too. Y/N, do you need anything else?” Sarah asks from inside the screen door.
Your head turns at the sound of your name: “No, I’m alright. Thank you.”
She nods, “Goodnight.”
You and Sam both repeat it back as she walks away.
“I should be going to bed,” Sam grunts as he stands up as if he were an old man, which he kinda is.
“Goodnight.” You watch as he walks towards the door, but before he can disappear, you continue, “Thank you for noticing; it feels like nobody has in the past few hours.”
“Of course.” He says quietly before finally heading to bed. You truly did appreciate Sam’s words. It was nice you weren’t completely invisible, but it still was slightly embarrassing to have someone notice the douche your boyfriend had been.
“You got this.” You pump yourself up, taking three deep breaths to compose yourself to face Bucky.
Inside, Bucky lay in the middle of the bed, like he did every night. It wasn’t him taking up space, but he lets you choose which side you want to snuggle him on each night. Unfortunately for him, you wanted nothing to do with that tonight.
“Pick a side, James.” You tell him sternly while you dig through your suitcase for pajamas to wear.
Bucky’s face screwed up at your “unreasonable” annoyance with him. “What did I do?” He asked with genuine curiosity.
“You can’t be serious.” You mumbled, walking into the bathroom to put on your sleep set.
Bucky stumbled off the futon to follow you. “I am serious; I don’t know what I did to deserve this attitude right now.”
“I know you're 106, so your memory might be a little wonky these days. But do you seriously not remember anything that happened today?” Your voice is drenched in tension and hurt.
Bucky looked to the side while he thought; he didn’t want to be distracted by your half-naked body as you got changed. His mind replayed the day. It started with the early morning drive into the late afternoon, to sharing a beer with Sam and Sarah, to dinner, to you disappearing while he chatted with Sarah on the couch. Eventually it clicked.
“You’re jealous of Sarah?” He asks with an amused tone. Bucky was secretly a little excited at the thought that you could be so easily riled up by a few flirty remarks.
“No.” You pushed past him to throw your day clothes into the dirty laundry bag you brought.
Again, Bucky followed you like a lost puppy. "Really? ‘Cause you seem pretty jealous right now.”
“I’m not jealous, James. I’m irritated and embarrassed by the way you acted today.” You tell him earnestly, turning to face him for the first time during your conversation.
He immediately felt bad; he didn’t realize that his little game of annoying Sam was affecting you more than it did his friend, “I’m sorry I was such a stupid jerk today.”
You couldn’t help the way the corner of your mouth lifted at his word choice. You hated the effect he had on you. Even when he was being an asshole, he was still your favorite person.
“I swear I’m gonna make it up to you. Just don’t make me sleep outside.” He pleaded, getting down on his knees and holding onto your hand.
“You’re ridiculous; just change your act tomorrow.” You pull away from his grip and hop onto the left side of the futon. You patted the spot next to you twice, signaling to Bucky that he was welcome for your nightly cuddle session.
-.-
Editor’s Note: James Buchanan Barnes is getting beat for this behavior btw
pairings: bucky barnes x reader, sam wilson
warnings: tiktok trend
about: request! doing this tik tok trend on bucky barnes? But it's to him in person. ( gaslighting bf into thinking he's short. )
the weight of bucky’s head is sweet against your thighs, soft tufts of dark hair between the spaces of your fingers as you run them through. the cerulean of his irises is hidden behind fluttering eyelashes, his cheekbones pressed against your lap. he hums once in a while to voice how comfortable he is, lightly tightening the arm looped around your waist to pull himself closer.
the sound of the television is not enough to drown out the music from sam’s phone, constantly changing from the tiktoks he’s watching. bucky can barely hear any of it through the sound of your heart and the wonderful feeling of your love that makes his skin tingle.
sam’s chortle nearly snaps him out of the daze that made him begin to drift off to sleep, a quiet grunt slipping past his lips in disapproval. it disappears when he feels you giggle, fidgeting with a particularly silky strand. he pushes his face further into your thighs when sam turns up the volume on his tiktok and restarts the video.
after attempting to laugh quietly for two minutes, sam begins to guffaw, and bucky grumbles after a few seconds of it, reluctantly raising his head from your skin, “sam.”
sam shushes him, “i’m trying to hear.”
“if i can hear, you can hear,” bucky grumbles, sighing frustratedly when sam waves him off. “i’m going to the bathroom.” he’s already been forced out of his comfort, so he might as well.
kissing your thigh before getting up, bucky shoots sam a look before going to the elevator to his room, he never liked using the ones on the main floor.
“what’re you laughing at?” you ask sam when bucky is gone. sam snickers.
“there’s another tiktok thing going around where girls convince tall guys they’re short. it’s great.”
you tilt your head, nodding amusedly, “i can imagine that.”
sam’s eyes suddenly rise from his phone to you, a wide grin overtaking his face and a delighted laugh already bubbling in his throat, “you don’t have to.”
“what?”
“you should do that to bucky! how tall is he? eight-ten?”
“i don’t know, at least six feet?”
“i don’t care, you should do this to him,” sam encourages, thrusting his phone into your hands. you roll your eyes.
“bucky’s one-hundred-and-four, he isn’t going to freak out over me saying he’s short when i know he’s not.”
“who knows?” sam exclaims, “people can surprise you.”
“sam—”
“do it.”
pursing your lips, you settle your attention on the man, squinting, “you’re not leaving me alone until i do.” he shakes his head and you throw your hands up, “fine! but this will be very boring because he will just nod yes and then kiss me on the cheek.”
“nuh uh, this will hit a gross little part of him, you’ll see.”
“stop,” you laugh.
“stop what?” bucky asks when he enters the room again, sitting next to you and pressing a kiss to your head as he throws an arm over you.
“i just told y/n how tall you were,” sam cuts in, you cock your head at him.
bucky’s brows furrow as he looks back at you, “and you said stop?”
“height is just a number, bucky, don’t worry about it,” you assure smoothly with a light hand on his bicep. you wish sam wouldn’t look so impressed, this was your damn job.
“what?”
“i mean, i knew you were short, but i never—”
“short?” bucky interrupts, turning to you with inquisitive eyebrows.
“yeah, but it’s not like it’s something new,” you shrug comfortingly, “and it’s not a bad thing, honey.”
“i know, but i’m not.”
“oh,” you pout, “whatever you say, baby.”
bucky scoffs, “it’s not—y/n, i was tall before the serum and i’m taller now.”
you hum along, stroking his arm, “okay.”
“don’t—okay, do you think sam is short?”
you shake your head immediately, “no, no, sam’s tall, buck. what’re you talking about? you know you shouldn’t compare anyone, especially because of something so tiny like your height—oh, sorry.”
“i’m taller than he is!” bucky points out. you tilt your head at him, smiling softly.
“oh, honey, it’s all about perspective.”
“stop it! say that i’m tall.”
“okay,” you nod, “you’re very, very tall, honey,” you give in, pecking his nose. bucky groans.
“not like that,” he argues, letting his head fall against your shoulder, “this is bullying.”
“it’s okay,” you coo, yelping when you’re suddenly pulled up, one of bucky’s hands at his forehead.
“look,” he whines, “tall.”
at his insistence, you can’t help but laugh, tugging him closer to you, “yes, sweetheart, tall.”
“y/n, stop,” he drags, his chin above your head.
“it’s okay, you can be what the ladies call a short king,” you wink. he groans. sam laughs.
“bullying,” bucky insists, nuzzling his nose against your forehead.r
i'm not sick ⌇ You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.
You weren’t sick.
No matter what Bucky Barnes said, no matter how smugly he leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed and a knowing look in his stupidly handsome face: you were not sick.
You cleared your throat (quietly, strategically), rolled your shoulders, and tightened the sleeves of your hoodie. “I’m fine.”
“You sound like a broken air conditioner,” he said, biting back a smirk. “One of those ones in a cheap motel.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means,” Bucky said, pushing off the counter and walking toward you with that annoyingly smooth super soldier stride, “you’re wheezing. And sniffling. And doing that thing where your eyes look too shiny, like a cartoon character about to cry.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not wheezing.”
“You are wheezing.”
You turned your back on him and made your way to the living room, grabbing the stack of mission reports Fury wanted reviewed and flopping onto the couch. You were fine. You could do this. You weren’t going to let a stupid cold defeat you in front of Bucky freaking Barnes.
Especially when he never, ever, got sick.
Not once since you’d known him. Not a sneeze, not a sniffle, not even a yawn from exhaustion. Super soldier serum, enhanced immune system, annoyingly superior biology. He was basically a walking health commercial.
So no, you refused to show weakness. Even as your head pounded, your throat scratched like sandpaper, and your body screamed for a blanket and twelve hours of sleep.
You were fine.
You were not fine.
You were in fact, so not fine, that the moment you tried to sit up too fast from the couch, the world tipped sideways.
And Bucky caught you. Instinctively. Like he always did.
“Whoa, whoa- hey.” His hands settled on your shoulders, steadying you. “Alright, that’s it.”
“I’m-” You paused to cough into your elbow. “I’m fine.”
His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “Sweetheart, you just blacked out for a second while holding a paperclip. You looked at it like it insulted your family.”
“Okay,” you croaked. “Maybe I’m a little sick.”
He didn’t say I told you so.
But he did smile like he wanted to.
Bucky didn’t leave your side after that.
He tucked you into bed (and you were too tired to argue, which he clearly took as a victory). He brought you every cold medicine known to man and a few you suspected were just old Brooklyn traditions.
He came in with soup. Twice.
“Second one has real chicken in it,” he said, placing the bowl beside you. “Not the weird freeze-dried cubes from the first one. I upgraded.”
“Fancy,” you whispered, voice wrecked and scratchy.
He returned with orange juice and a whole bottle of vitamin C gummies.
“You’re supposed to take two a day,” you warned weakly.
“I’m not letting you die from a cold,” he said seriously. “I’ll overdose you on vitamins if I have to.”
He even brought flowers.
“You bought me flowers?”
He shrugged, like it was nothing. “Don’t get too excited. They were next to the NyQuil.”
And chocolate.
“You’re bribing me.”
“Yes. So stop looking like you’re going to cry and eat the damn truffle.”
But what really got you, what really made your heart ache, were the kisses.
Soft kisses to your temple when he brought in tea. A gentle brush of lips over your hair when you fell asleep mid-sentence. Little pecks at your forehead while he adjusted your blanket. Sometimes, even kisses on your warm, slightly runny nose, just to make you laugh.
“Bucky,” you croaked once, laughing despite how awful you felt, “you’re gonna catch this.”
He just smirked, leaned in, and kissed you anyway, square on the mouth. “I don’t get sick.”
You blinked at him. “You just kissed me while I have a fever.”
He kissed you again. “Worth it.”
Over the next few days, you faded in and out of sleep while Bucky floated in and out of your room. You felt him brush your hair back, hold your hand, rub your back when you couldn’t stop coughing. Once, you woke up with your head on his chest, his hand gently stroking your arm, slow and steady. You didn’t move. You just melted into it.
There were more kisses. Lazy ones. Sleepy ones. Fevered ones, mostly on your cheek or temple, until you felt a little better and pulled him in for a proper one.
“See?” he whispered against your lips. “Told you I’m indestructible.”
You snorted. “Arrogant.”
“You like it.”
You kinda did.
The quiet, careful Bucky.
Something about the way he stayed, about the way he looked at you like you weren’t a burden, made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your cold.
Once, you woke to find him dozing at your side, head tilted back against your headboard, his hand still holding yours where it rested on the blanket.
You didn’t let go.
By day five, you were better. Not perfect, but walking upright, able to speak without croaking, and your skin had lost that lovely shade of “slightly dead.”
You found him in the kitchen that morning, making coffee.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, handing you a mug.
You blinked down at it, then up at him. “Guess I lived.”
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you sip. “Barely. You gave that tissue box a run for its money.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
He tilted his head, voice softer. “Always.”
Maybe it was the warmth in his voice. Maybe it was the way he said always like he meant it, like he’d already decided that looking after you was just part of his life now.
Or maybe it was the fact that his hand found the curve of your waist without thinking, that he pulled you just a little closer, his fingers brushing under the hem of your hoodie to touch skin as if checking for fever.
Whatever it was, it made you rise up on your toes.
And kiss him.
Just a soft one, a quiet brush of lips, no pressure behind it. But when you pulled back, Bucky’s eyes were half-lidded, like he was the one feverish now.
Later that day, you were curled up on the couch under a blanket, finally reading through the reports you’d abandoned mid-fever, when you heard it:
A sneeze.
From the kitchen.
You froze.
Then slowly turned your head.
Bucky stood there, staring at the counter. His nose scrunched, eyes wide like he was trying to process the betrayal of his own immune system.
“…did you just sneeze?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.
He blinked. “No.”
“Oh my God.” You sat up slowly, eyes gleaming. “You did.”
He scowled. “It was probably dust.”
You stood, walking toward him with a grin that threatened to split your face in two. “You’re getting sick!”
“I’m not-”
“You caught my cold.” You gasped, delighted. “The super soldier has fallen.”
“I don’t get sick.”
“You do now.” You poked his arm. “This is the best day of my life.”
Bucky opened his mouth to protest but then sneezed again.
You nearly fell off the couch laughing. “Bucky.”
He groaned, rubbing his temple. “I should’ve listened to you. Should’ve stopped kissing you.”
You grinned and walked up to him, arms slipping around his waist. “You couldn’t help yourself.”
“Apparently not.”
You stood on your toes, kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll take excellent care of you.”
He eyed you warily. “You’re going to make me soup, aren’t you?”
“With real chicken,” you said proudly, hugging him tighter and pressing another kiss to his jaw. “And I’ll even bring you flowers. But only if you admit I’m your favorite nurse.”
He sighed dramatically. “You’re not even certified.”
“You didn’t care when you were kissing me all over my fevered face.”
He leaned in, nose bumping yours. “Touché.”
And when he sneezed again, a big, dramatic one. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the tissues you were about to hand him.
But you caught him this time.
Wrapped him up in a blanket.
And whispered against his hair, “Told you I was contagious.”
the out ⌇ "I'm giving you an out, Bucky. Take it."
⤷ longer version of not enough
After another date, you and Bucky found yourselves glued to each other as you made your way into your room.
You locked the door as his mouth left little kisses along your neck.
"You know, um..." you close your eyes and bite back a smile. "There's this new coffee place a block from here. We could go get breakfast there tomorrow before you head home."
He immediately stops, and you feel his body freeze behind you.
You open your eyes and turn around slowly. "What's wrong?" you ask, and start kissing him slowly.
"I don't know if that's a good idea."
"What isn't? Breakfast?" you laugh lightly, but stop when he doesn't react the same way. Your hands rise to his shoulders. "What's wrong?"
He takes a deep breath. "I guess we need to talk again."
"About what?"
"About... us."
"What about us?" you say, leaving little kisses all over his face and neck.
"It's just... I know you want things. I'm not going to give you those things." His hands are now gripping your waist.
"I don't want other things."
"Yes, you do," he says, taking your hands off his shoulders.
You groan and start pacing.
"You know, I don't understand men. When we want something more, you're all so quick to try to make us forget about it, but when we want something we know we'll never get, so we just accept whatever it is you're willing to give, apparently that's still not good enough," you sigh, crossing your arms and leaning against the wall. "Neither of us is in the mood anymore, so you should go."
You start walking toward your bed and feel his hand catch your wrist.
"Please..." he says, almost a whisper.
"I'm giving you an out, Bucky. Take it," you say, lifting his hand off your wrist and placing it on his shoulder as you press a kiss to his cheek. "Goodnight." You give him a small smile and go sit on your bed, pretending to busy yourself with the clasp of your heels.
He walks toward the door and pauses for a second as his hand reaches the handle. Soon enough, he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.
As soon as you hear it click shut, you throw yourself onto your bed. Your eyes close as you feel a tear rising.
If this were a book or a movie, he would turn around, press his lips to yours, and tell you he'd never need an out, that he only needed you. But this isn't one of the many fantasies in your head, and he warned you about that. Hell, you knew it before he ever said a word, you thought.
But it's just easier to pretend to forget something until you actually do, and fall for it anyway.
And it had been so easy, falling for him.
The next morning came slow and grey, the kind of morning that seemed to match exactly how you felt.
You didn't cry the whole night, not really. You'd stopped yourself somewhere around midnight, telling yourself you were being dramatic over a man who had never once promised you forever. He warned you. He always warned you. That was supposed to make it hurt less, somehow, knowing it was coming. It didn't.
You went through your day like you always did. Coffee first, though not at the new place down the block, because that felt like a joke you weren't ready to laugh at yet. Then training, because Natasha didn't care about broken hearts when there was a schedule to keep, and honestly, you were grateful for that. It gave you somewhere to put all the frustration sitting heavy in your chest.
"You're hitting harder than usual," Natasha said, catching your wrist mid swing before you drove your fist straight into the mat where her head had just been. "Something happen?"
"Nothing happened," you said, stepping back and shaking out your hand. "That's kind of the problem."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't push. That was one of the things you liked about her. She knew when to let something sit.
Bucky wasn't at breakfast. He wasn't at lunch either. You told yourself you weren't looking for him, even as your eyes kept drifting toward the door every time it opened.
Steve found you in the kitchen around dinner time, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea you weren't really drinking.
"He's been in the gym since six this morning," Steve said, not quite looking at you, like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to bring it up at all.
"Good for him," you said, and even you could hear how flat it sounded.
Steve sighed and sat down across from you. "He told me a little. Not much. You know how he is."
"Yeah, I know how he is." You wrapped both hands around your mug. "He's the guy who kisses me like I'm the only thing keeping him steady, and then reminds me he can't give me anything more the second I mention breakfast."
"That's not fair," Steve said gently. "Not to him."
"I'm not trying to be fair, Steve. I'm trying to survive a Tuesday."
He gave you a small, sad smile at that. "For what it's worth, he's not doing much better than you are. He's just better at hiding it behind a punching bag."
You didn't say anything to that. You didn't know what there was to say.
Three days passed like that. Careful hallway nods. Empty seats at the same long table. A silence between you that felt louder than anything either of you had ever said out loud.
On the fourth night, you couldn't sleep. You found yourself on the common floor balcony, the city lights spread out below you, the air cool enough to make you wrap your arms around yourself. You didn't hear him come out until his voice broke the quiet.
"Can't sleep either?"
You turned, and there he was, hands in his pockets, hair a little messy like he'd been running his fingers through it all night. He looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with missions.
"Guess not," you said, turning back to the view so you wouldn't have to look at him too long.
He walked over and stood beside you, close but not touching, like he wasn't sure he had the right to be close anymore.
"I've been thinking," he said finally.
"That's dangerous," you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to, almost fond despite yourself.
He huffed out something close to a laugh. "Yeah. Probably."
Silence again, but different this time. Not empty. Waiting.
"I told you I couldn't give you certain things," he said, staring straight ahead at the skyline. "And I meant it, when I said it. I've spent so long telling myself I don't get to have the normal stuff. Breakfast dates. Someone waiting for me. A life that looks like anything other than surviving. I told myself that was gone for me a long time ago, and I got real good at believing it."
You stayed quiet, letting him get there in his own time.
"But I've been sitting with that punching bag for three days telling myself I did the right thing, and it still feels like the worst decision I've ever made. And I've made some genuinely terrible decisions in my life, so that's saying something."
That pulled a small, surprised laugh out of you, one you didn't quite mean to let go of.
He finally turned to look at you. "I'm not scared of not being enough for you. I think I'm scared of finding out I could be, and losing it anyway. It felt safer to walk away first."
"Bucky."
"I know it's not fair to you. I know I don't get to almost lose you and then show up on a balcony asking for another chance like it's that simple."
"So why are you here?"
He stepped closer, close enough now that you had to tilt your head up to look at him. "Because you said something about a coffee place a block from here. And I have spent three days thinking about breakfast with you more than I've thought about anything in the last several years combined."
Your chest tightened, that same fragile hope from the other night creeping back in despite every warning you'd given yourself.
"I don't need an out," he said quietly, echoing the words you'd handed him days ago, like he'd carried them around this whole time. "I never did. I think I just needed to remember that I'm allowed to want something good. And I want you. All of it. Breakfast, and mornings, and whatever else comes after that."
For a second you just stood there, searching his face for any trace of doubt, and finding none.
"You're sure?" you asked, quiet, careful, because you'd learned the hard way not to hand your heart over without asking first.
"I've never been more sure of anything," he said, and then he was reaching for you, one hand coming up to cup your face the way he did when he wanted you to know he meant every word.
He pressed his lips to yours, slow and certain, nothing like the rushed, heated kisses from the other night. This one felt like an apology and a promise all at once.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little unsteady.
"For the record," you whispered, a smile finally breaking through, "that coffee place opens at eight."
He laughed, the real kind, the kind that reached his eyes. "Then I guess I better not be late."
And for once, the fantasy in your head and the moment in front of you looked exactly the same.
summary: After having a little too much to drink, your best friend revealed your little secret to your boyfriend, one you didn‘t actually want him to know about just yet.
warnings/tags: drinking, reader has some insecurities, other than that there‘s honestly just fluff, Bucky is down bad just like always
author’s note: I don‘t think there‘s much to say about this one, I just hope you‘ll like it!
dividers by @cursed-carmine
You should've known that taking all those tequila shots with Joaquin had been a bad idea.
He couldn't keep his mouth shut even if his life depended on it when he was drunk. You'd been there when he got truly shitfaced for the first time, after all, which meant you knew exactly what you were talking about.
Back then, you had to watch as he confessed his feelings to his highschool crush Grace in such a heartfelt way it made every romcom look cheap. After he was finished, you were also the one that had to deescelate the situatioon when Grace's boyfriend beat the shit out of him.
So admittedly, you should've known better.
And now you were paying the price.
The party had died down a while ago. Now, only the Avengers were still there, sitting together on the couches surrounding a small table, the air was buzzing in a way it only ever did after a good time and a little too much to drink.
Bucky's arm was comfortably wrapped around you as your head rested against his shoulder, the alcohol in your blood making you sleepy as the energy slowly wore off.
"You alright, sweetheart?"
Your boyfriend's voice wasn't much more than a low rumble, quiet enough that only you could hear him.
You tilted your head just enough to be able to properly look at him and the concern in his stupidly beautiful eyes made you smile. "I'm good, Buck."
Letting your gaze roam over his features now, you relished in taking all the details of his face up close. The stubble on his cheeks was freshly trimmed, the pale skin of the scar tissue right above his left eyebrow barely visible in the low light. You could see his crow feet clearly as a grin spread over his face and you loved how much they had deepened over the last few months of your relationship.
You adored that you were a part of the life he was having right now, the one he was happy in. Happiness looked good on him and it was a sight you were never going to be sick of.
You were absolutely and completely mesmerized by the man sitting next to you, and he noticed. Of course he did.
"Enjoying the view?"
"Mhmm."
The agreement came almost too easy. You never hesitated when it came to telling your boyfriend how you felt about him, loving how flustered he always got because of it. "You're pretty."
Just like expected, you got to watch how heat creeped up his neck, tainting his cheeks in that adorable way you loved so much.
"And you're unbelievable. You can't just say stuff like that."
"Why not?" Now, you really couldn't help yourself. "You're even prettier with that blush on your face, Sarge. It suits you."
Flustring your boyfriend really was your favourite thing in the world. Unfortunately for you, Sam interrupted the moment before you had the chance to watch the cute pink taint turn into a deep crimson red.
"Hey, love birds! We're still here, you know? Stop looking at each other like that, it's unnerving."
A crease quickly formed in between Bucky's eyebrows, just like it always did when someone interrupted the two of you. Sam had once joked that if it was up to Bucky, he'd devote every single second of his life to you and everything that kept him from doing so was just an annoying inconvenience.
You had laughed it off, but Bucky never actually corrected him.
"Am I not allowed to look at my girlfriend?" Bucky sounded offended by the mere idea of it, but Sam only rolled his eyes.
"Man, you can do whatever you want, it's not like I could stop you if I wanted to. The only thing I'm saying is that it's getting a little out of hand. I figured that the sexual tension might wear off as soon as the two of you got your shit together and finally confessed your feelings, but somehow it has only gotten worse. It would be disgusting if it wasn't so cute."
"Actually, it is disgusting," Tony agreed with Sam. "This is supposed to be team bonding quality time. I didn't sign up for all the eye fucking."
"Guys, you don't know what you are talking about." Joaquin joined the conversation now aswell, still holding the beer that he had been sipping on for the last thirty minutes now. His shit eating grin was so big as he looked between you and Bucky, you knew you were fucked before he even opened his mouth again.
"It's not disgusting, the word you're looking for is destiny. Seriously, these two were meant to end up with each other from the beginning."
For quite a few seconds, everyone just stared at Joaquin. Even Thor looked like he was contemplating if this was the sign that the boy needed a glass of water.
You, on the other hand, already knew exactly where this was going.
And you didn't like it one bit.
"Corny as fuck, but he isn't wrong," Natasha pipes up, trying to save whatever Joaquin just said and make it sound a little less… well, like something Joaquin would say. "The chemistry has been there ever since the two of them started working together."
You couldn't even deny that. You and Bucky have both been on the team for quite a while now, but you only started getting closer to each other when you were assigned to be mission partners for the first time. From then on, the bond between the two of you quickly developed into something you could barely call a friendship anymore.
The tension had finally snapped after Bucky'd caught a bullet for you on a mission and neither of you could hide what you were feeling for each other anymore.
That had been five months ago.
You knew damn well that Joaquin was not talking about any of that, though. No, your best friend had something completely different and way more embarassing on his mind.
"Since they've been working together? Ha, that's funny. This is going all the way back to seventh grade, guys, I'm telling you."
"Joaquin, I swear to god, if you don't shut your mouth right fucking now I am going to throw your ass out of the window and you'll know how it feels to fall twenty-one floors without any wings to save you."
It was an empty threat, but it was the best thing you could come up with right now. Your voice was mostly steady, but there was also a slight hint of panic that you couldn't quite hide. This wasn't how you wanted Buckyy to find out about your little secret and you definitely did not want the others to know about it, either, who all looked equally confused right now- which was understandable. To them, Joaquin was speaking in riddles and you were making threats- trying, at least. Joaquin didn't even seem half as intimidated as he was supposed to be.
He only grinned at you, not intimidated at all.
If he didn't mean so much to you, you were onvinced that you would seriously contemplate throwing him out of the window now.
"No you won't. You love me too much for that."
"I'd actually love if you shut your mouth, Torres."
"Alright, that's enough. It's normal that Torres isn't making any sense, but you-" Sam pointed his finger at you. "Make even less sense right now. Do you wanna tell us what this is about?"
"No."
"Oh, totally."
Joaquin and you answered at the same time, but instead of respecting your decision, he seemed almost offended by it. "C'mon, he'll find out at your wedding anyway! I'll just tell him now and than you got it out of the way and can get married in peace."
"Joaquin, there won't be- we've only been together for five months," you hissed, your cheeks turning pink now as you were discussing the future of your relationship with your best friend whilst your boyfriend was still very much sitting right next to you. He hasn't said anything yet, but you were painfully aware of his hand still resting against your waist, his body heat seeping into your side.
"Five months, five years- that's just the fine print. Do you see how he looks at you? He'd marry you on the spot, paper rings and all. You wouldn't even have to ask."
Joaquin didn't even glance up as he scrolled through his phone, looking for the evidence of what you've said sixteen years ago when James Buchanan Barnes hadn't been anything more than a man from a different time… and a poster in your room.
"That's why it's so important that he knows now. He has to know what he is getting himself into. You've been manifsting this since middle school, after all."
"I'll show Sam your fanpage, Joaquin."
To others, the threat might seem ridiculous of you considered that you'd threatened to throw him out of the tower just a few minutes ago, but you knew your best friend. You knew that making edits of The Falcon when he 'd sixteen and still ages away from actually working with Sam was one of his most well kept secrets.
Usually, you wouldn't use it against him and play dirty like this, but he wasn't exactly giving you a choice.
This had to be enough to keep Joaquin from showing Bucky that goddamn video.
At least you hoped so.
"Dude, I honestly think that I'd care about that if I wasn't this far gone right now, but I really don't. Show him the edits, I ate with that shit."
Well, damnit.
Your shoulders slumped in defeat as you watched Joaquin, accepting that there was nothing you could do to stop him anymore.
Bucky was looking at you curiously, wanting to know what this was about, but you couldn't bring yourself to look at him.
No, you were too embarrassed for that.
"There it is!" Joaquin's grin only grew as he finally found what he was looking for.
It wasn't a big deal. At least it shouldn't be, but you still felt a knot tighten in your stomach as you dreaded Bucky's reaction.
You had been a kid. It wasn't more than a fun story you should be able to laugh about, but you weren't.
Not when you were scared that this might be something that could scare Bucky off.
Joaquin turned his phone around, the display now visible for everyone to see.
"What are you doing, Joaquin?" The twelve year old version of you was grinning at the camera and currently sitting at the kitchen table in your old childhood home, a poster and plenty of markers lying in front of you. You were wearing your favourite neon pink shirt and a ponytail so high, only a pre teen could make it look cool.
Or Ariana Grande, but that was besides the point.
"I'm documenting this." Joaquin's voice sounded so young and carefree, a chuckle went through the room. You still remembered how much his voice had changed during puberty and if this were any other situation, you probably would've laughed too.
"I gotta show this to your husband on your wedding day, just so he knows he was never your first choice to even begin with."
Now your younger self was laughing, at least, a high pitched giggle slipping past your lips as you glued a picture of Bucky to your poster. "He will at least have to look like him, that's for sure. Otherwise I don't want him at all."
"You do realise this is kind of weird, right?" The camera moved unsteadily as Joaquin clumsily set it down with a loud thud before he sat down next to you. "He's dead. And even if he wasn't, he'd be way too old for you. He was born in, like, 1900."
"10th March 1917, actually."
"You even know his birthday! I don't even know Grace's birthday and she is, like, the love of my life."
"Maybe he is mine, how would you know?" There was offense in your voice now, the kind that a kid's voice always carried when they were hearing something they didn't like.
"Dude, he is dead. Do you wanna stay single for the rest of your life and find out if he is really the man for you when you're already six feet under the ground?"
"At least I'd be single by choice, Joaquin. You're just bitter because Grace doesn't like you back."
"Okay so first of all, ouch, and second of all, that is not the point. The video is supposed to be about you and your future love life, which isn't looking all too hopeful when your requirements are that he looks and acts exactly like James Barnes. You don't even know the guy! What if he was a total douchebag?"
"His name is Bucky."
"What?"
"His name, Joaquin. It's Bucky," You repeated yourself and pointed at the bold letters on your poster that formed his name."It literally stands right here."
"Oh, so now a stupid nickname is mandatory too, huh? Do you really think you are ever going to find a man like that?"
"I think if my man is still somewhere out there, I'll know. And then, you have my permission to show him this. Now turn the camera off, J. There's barely any storage anymore."
The video ended and for five very long seconds, the room was very, very still. Nobody said anything as they were still staring at Joaquin's phone, who really couldn't look any more pleased with himself, but the only thing you could focus on was how loose Bucky's grip on your waist has gotten.
Now, wasn't that just fantastic?
"Oh my god." Tony was the first to speak, because of course he was. "Would you look at that. The woman's been plotting on her man ever since middle school. Isn't that romantic?"
"What the hell were you making that poster for? Your room?" There was a big, disbelieving grin on Sam's face, like he couldn't really believe what he just witnessed was actually real.
"It was Hero's day at school." The defense was weak, because you knew damn well that you'd put it up in your room afterwards. "Felt fitting at the time."
Wanda seemed to sense your very deep ly felt embarassment, because she joined the conversation now aswell, just in a less mocking way than Tony, Sam or Joaquin.
"I think it's cute. Everyone had a crush at that age right? I did. And Joaquin apparently did, too. Did you and that girl ever end up together?" Her curiosity seemed to be sincere, but you knew that she was trying to nudge the conversation into a different direction, which you appreciated.
"Well, it's kinda complicated-"
"That's his way of saying no," You interrupted him dryly. "He was into her for, like, seven years, but decided to shoot his shot at the one time she had a boyfriend. Didn't go too well for him."
Joaquin only scowled at you whilst the others laughed and Sam shook his head with a snicker. "Man, I gotta say, quite the devotion the two of you got there. Though it seems like it worked better for one than it did for the other." His eyes flickered to Bucky for a second, who still hasn't said a word the whole time, which was slowly but surely freaking you out. And because you couldn't handle the silence anymore on his end anymore, you decided that this was the perfect moment for you to leave- right fucking now.
"You're never going to let this go again, are you?"
"Not a chance, lover girl."
"Whatever." You placed your glass on the table before you got up, again not daring to look at Bucky, even though you could feel his eyes burning into you from where he was still sitting on the couch. "I think this is my sign to go to bed, that was enough embarassment for one night."
You didn't care about the embarassment, at least not really. That you could handle- what you couldn't handle was your boyfriend probably thinking that you were a scary freak who has been obsessing over him ever since she was twelve.
"Joaquin's fan account is called 'SamWilson_FireFalcon', by the way. You're welcome."
That was the last thing you said before you left the room, your heels clacking against the ground as the only thing on your mind was getting as far away from Bucky as possible.
About twenty minutes later, you were sitting cross legged on your bed, hair thrown up in a bun, your face bare of any makeup and dressed in nothing but one of Bucky's old shirts.
You realised quickly that putting it on might've been a mistake, because now you were even more aware of the lack of his presence.
Maybe you shouldn't have left like that.
Maybe bolting like that had been a bad idea and you should've just wait to see how he'd react, but you you'd been scared. Joaquin didn't mean any harm by it, of course he didn't. He was drunk, it was a fun story from when you were kids and from the outside, it did seem like a lighthearted joke.
You weren't sure if it was that for Bucky, though.
Everyone watching it had reacted, at least in some way. Laughter, commentary, something. The only reaction you got from Bucky was his arm going slack around you.
And that wasn't exactly the kind of thing that could reassure you in this situation.
Bucky had said from the beginning that he wanted to take things slow with you, and you respected that.
Unfortunately, him finding out that you've been crushing on him ever since you were a young girl was about as slow as crashing into a wall with a speed of 100 miles an hour.
Before you could start to properly think about what that might mean for your relationship, there was a light knock on the door.
You knew who it was. Hell, you would recognise that sound of metal knuckles against wood anywhere, but you relished in the silence for a moment longer before you told him to come in.
Your heart twisted in your chest as he appeared in the doorway, because you really, really didn't want to be having this conversation right now.
Actually, all you wanted to do was be with your boyfriend, which was kind of ironic, because he was also the last person you wanted to talk to right now, scared of what he might have to say.
The alcohol you still had in your system didn't help one bit with the nerves, either.
Usually, Bucky could calm you down in a situation like this. He was the only person that could.
Now, your heart felt like it was going to jump out of your ripcage when yoour eyes met his.
"Hi." Your voice came out a tad smaller than you wanted it to and you were almost mad at how much this was getting to you.
"Hey, sweetheart." The familiar softness in his voice should've been enough to calm you down at least a little bit, but right now, it didn't have a reassuring affect at all.
Right now, it just felt like the quiet before the storm.
And that storm could potentially be a breakup.
Maybe you were jumping to conclusions here, but your fear wasn't unjustified. You had experienced way too often that big emotions like that were too much and enough of a reason to make people leave.
So actualy, it was more like a hurricane, tsunami and tornado were all coming in at once.
You watched as he slowly walked over to the edge of the bed, his eyes constantly on yours as he sat down.
For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other.
You were painfully aware of the distance between you, the crease of his eyebrows that you didn't know how to place yet.
Which was weird, because you usually always knew what was going on in his head.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." The lie came easier than it should, especially around Bucky. "Just… a little embarassed, that's all." You could at least try to act as if everything was fine, but you failed miserably when the laugh that was supposed to reassure him came out thin.
Yeah, definitely wouldn't win an Oscar for that one.
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend like everything is okay even though it isn't." His voice wasn't exactly harsh now, but it sounded… stern. Protective, almost. "You don't ever have to pretend with me, sweetheart. Joaquin shouldn't have done that, not against your will and not with all the others being there. You're allowed to be upset about it."
You knew that your boyfriend was one of the most considerate people in the world, but you still hadn't expected this.
Actually, this was the furthest away from the reaction you'd expected.
"You're not mad at me?"
The look on Bucky's face would've been funny if it you weren't so scared of the answer.
"Mad at you? Honey, why on earth would you think that?"
The utter confusion in his voice confused you now, too.
Wasn't the answer obvious?
"Well, that was kind of a lot, wasn't it?"
Now that he asked, you couldn't stop yourself anymore. You've never been good at keeping things from Bucky, anyway.
"I just don't want you to think that I am just with you to prove a point. I promise, I had been way over that crush before we ever started dating and this is not, like, me obsessively holding onto a childhood crush. Does it seem obsessive? I swear it isn't, it's just always kind of been a joke between me and Joaquin but now that you know it doesn't feel all that funny anymore and I'm just scared that you'll think less of me now or-"
"Sweetheart, you need to breathe. C'mon, take a deep breath for me."
You didn't even realise that you'd been rambling until Bucky interrupted you, your inhale stuttering a little as you did as you were told. "There you go, just like that."
You kept your focus on him now as you matched your breathing to his, giving yourself time to calm down a little before you started talking again. "I just don't want you to think that we are together only because that's what I wanted all those years ago. I want you, Bucky. Just like this, not the some version I used to read about. And I was going to tell you about it someday, just… not now. You said you wanted to take it slow and that whole thing… it didn't feel slow. Not at all, to be honest.
Bucky held eye contact the whole time you were talking, patiently waiting for you to finish and let the silence sit between you for a moment longer afterwards, just in case you wanted to add something else.
"Doll, there is absolutely nothing you need to be worried about. Sure, maybe the way Joaquin portrayed it was a little weird, but that's because the guy can't handle a drink, not because you did anything wrong." Bucky slowly reached for you, carefully placing his hand against your waist like he wasn't sure how far he was allowed to go right now.
"And I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at myself. Mad that I didn't stop Joaquin right then and there because you were clearly uncomfortable and then didn't even talk to you after watching it. I was being an idiot, and I'm sorry."
Without letting go of your waist, he let himself slip down from the matress knelt down on the floor in front of you, his chest pressed tightly against your knees as his other hand found your body, too.
"I know we aren't just in a relationhsip because of that. We both know that you have been more than patient with me over the last few months, which you wouldn't have been if this wasn't real. I know that, doll. You're doing a damn good job at showing me everyday what I mean to you, whih honestly drives me absolutely crazy." Bucky's eyes were so expressive again, you felt almost ridiculous for the panic you had spiraled into just a few minutes ago, because it suddenly felt completely unjustified.
"I love you so much, sweetheart, it honestly scares me sometimes. I never thought that I'd ever be able to feel something like this, but you keep proving me wrong every day, because my love for you only seems to grow. And even though I hate to agree with him, Joaquin is right. I would marry you right now, in this outfit, with nobody to witness it but us. But you deserve better than that, and my ma would be turning in her grave if she found out that I way rushing things with an amazing dame like you."
"Dame, huh?" You couldn't help but laugh and your change in mood made Bucky grin, too.
"The most amazing one I've ever met. Why do you think I gave you those, huh?" Bucky gently, so gently, raised his hand and tugged on the dogtags that were resting around your neck.
"I'm already yours, sweetheart. I have been ever since that young girl from Miami decided that I was the man for her long before I had any chance to prove that I was worth even a second of your time. I've never believed in soulmates, doll, not even before the war. But you make it very hard not to."
Bucky reached for your left hand now, pressing a kiss against your finger right where a ring would be sitting now if he was down on his knees for a completely different reason. "I don't want you to ever be scared about being too much. You couldn't be, even if you tried. I love you, exactly how you are, way too much for that. As a matter of fact, I will fall in love with you again and again for the rest of my life until my heart is so full of love it won't fit anymore and even then I won't be able to stop. Do you understand that?"
Now, you felt like your heart might be bursting out of your chest at any moment. Holy fuckin shit.
"You can't just say stuff like that, Buck." Your fingers grabbed at the fabric of the shirt that had been driving you crazy for the whole goddamn evening now and you tugged on it, which Bucky seemed to understand immediately because he stood up, giving you the chance to pull him into the bed with you. One of his arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, but the other one was braced against the matress, careful not to crush you beneath him.
You didn't want him to be careful, though. You wanted him to be as close to you as physically possible, so you tugged on him a little more forcefully, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your legs around his waist, which made his chest rumble with one of his stupidly handsome laughs.
Before James Buchanan Barnes, you'd never ever thought that a laugh could sound handsome, but here you were anyway.
"I'm too heavy, sweetheart. Wouldn't wanna crush you."
"Don't care." Your voice was muffled because of how tightly you were pressing your face against his chest, inhaling th scent of clean soap, fabric softener and something so achingly him it made you dizzy.
Every single concern of him breaking up had suddenly vanished into thin air. He'd just proved that there was not a thing you had to worry about, because your man was just as crazy about you as you were about him. "Just want you close, Buck."
That seemed to make him budge a little bit, because he carefully lowerd some more of his weight on top of you. He was still mindful of not hurting you, but now you were enveloped by nothing else but him.
For a very long time, the two of you just stayed like that, breathing in sync as your bodies were tangled together so closely, you could almost feel your hearts beating together, too.
"Can I tell you a secret?" You just hummed against his chest, signaling Bucky to go ahead.
"I think I've been in love with you ever since you first introduced yourself to me back when you'd first joined the team." He let that sit between you for a moment, thinking about how to continue.
"I didn't know that it was love back then, off course. I just knew that I was thinking about you so much it was actually driiving me crazy."
Bucky laughed a little at the memory and flipped you over so you were lying on top of him now, just so he could properly look at you. "We didn't end up on that mission out of coincedence, either. I asked Steve to assign us together."
Now, that did surprise you, because back then you had been completely convincd that Bucky didn't want to have anything to do with you. "Seriously?"
"Seriously," He confirmed. "I had no idea how to approach you, especially because every time you came into a room my brain just turned into mush. Missions were familiar ground though, so I figured that if we'd just get assigned together as often as possible, I'd get to know you without making a fool of myself."
You had to laugh, the sound more disbelieving than it was amused. Everytime you thought your boyfriend couldn't get any more perfect, he did another thing that rattled your entire brain chemistry. "You are completely out of your mind, do you know that?"
"Nah, sweetheart." He grinned up at you, carefully brushing a hair strand out of your face.
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warnings: 18+ MDNI. angst + comfort. and there was only one bed. mutual pining. communication is key guys, do that.
word count: 2.9k
prompts: lemonade: something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution: “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
missed call: almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been: “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.”
summary: road tripping would be a lot more enjoyable if you hadn’t kissed the driver, bucky barnes, two months ago. and if you would, you know, talk about it.
sc talks: i’ve never done a prompt thing like this before, so hopefully it’s decent enough!. sc write anything other than angst challenge: impossible. i plan on writing a cute little fluffy counterpart to this, so hopefully i can have that out soon! p.s. shoutout to @tookhimtomypenthouse for the sunglasses and t-shirt ;)
Bucky was going to have words with Sam.
He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”
“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”
You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position.
“Hey, feet down.”
You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”
Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”
Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”
Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him.
"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add.
The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments.
“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you.
Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”
“I’m a good driver!”
Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”
Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS.
“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”
Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.
“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio.
It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders.
The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement.
You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night.
The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”
You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.
“Sounds good.”
“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.
The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”
Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time.
The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.”
You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly.
Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else.
“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more.
“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”
Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”
“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”
Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”
Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”
Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting.
His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”
Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.
He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him.
What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.
The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying.
“Good shower?” He asks tentatively.
You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like.
“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”
Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”
“Go for it.”
Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.
A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”
Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”
In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”
“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”
“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all.
“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”
“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”
“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark.
“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you pick up?”
There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.”
It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared.
“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours.
“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”
Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap.
This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark.
Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.
“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”
Bucky exhales, gathering you into his arms and feeling you relax into him. “That,” he hums, “I can do.”
warnings: 18+ MDNI. angst + comfort. and there was only one bed. mutual pining. communication is key guys, do that.
word count: 2.9k
prompts: lemonade: something sour turning soft → enemies to lovers lite / misunderstandings / emotional resolution: “You don’t hate me that much, do you?” / "Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
missed call: almost connection, the one that got away → timing issues / regret / what could’ve been: “I tried calling. - “I know.” / “Why didn’t you pick up? - “I didn’t know what to say.”
summary: road tripping would be a lot more enjoyable if you hadn’t kissed the driver, bucky barnes, two months ago. and if you would, you know, talk about it.
sc talks: i’ve never done a prompt thing like this before, so hopefully it’s decent enough!. sc write anything other than angst challenge: impossible. i plan on writing a cute little fluffy counterpart to this, so hopefully i can have that out soon! p.s. shoutout to @tookhimtomypenthouse for the sunglasses and t-shirt ;)
Bucky was going to have words with Sam.
He’d already had them with you, somewhere just south of Richmond in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
“Was this really necessary?” Bucky groaned, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and using his other- the disgustingly attractive metal one- to lean his head on. “If we’d flown, we would be there by now.”
“If we’d flown, you would’ve had to pay an obscene amount of money in bag fees, had to go through extra security for that arm, and you wouldn’t have been able to bring that death trap you call a bike.” Your voice is smug, like a 17 hour road trip in the dead of summer is fun, not Bucky’s idea of fresh hell. “Besdies, you know it’ll be fun to have everyone together in Louisiana again.”
You look out the front windshield, propping your feet up on his dash as the truck inches forward a few feet. Bucky hums in agreement, but purses his lips at your position.
“Hey, feet down.”
You dart your gaze to him, meeting his eyes through his sunglasses and flipping your own translucent coral shades atop your head into a makeshift headband. “My shoes aren’t that dirty.”
Bucky puts his metal hand back on the wheel, using his right hand to brush carefully across your bare thighs in a shooing motion. “‘S not about your shoes, princess. Not worth the orthopedics bill if someone decides to rear-end us.”
Your responding scowl is mocking, punctuated by an eyeroll as you lower your feet down again. The ghost of his touch lingers across your skin. “Shouldn’t you be worried about your own bones, centenarian?”
Bucky fixes his eyes on the road again, gently letting his foot off of the brake to roll forward again. “Super-soldier serum,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
“So this is your way of saying you care about me? Are you flirting with me, Barnes?” You hum, sugar sweet as you turn your knees to face him.
"Flirting? Me? I wouldn't call it that."
Your heart sinks, legs shifting away from him and facing out the passenger side window. “Right,” you mumble nearly imperceptibly, heart sinking. He doesn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw signals that he heard you and has nothing to add.
The traffic in Richmond has delayed your journey nearly two-and-a-half hours. It’s half-past eleven, you’re somewhere in rural South Carolina, and the sun has long set. The headlights are the only thing illuminating the road in front of you, an odd car passing in the opposite direction every few miles. Bucky starts yawning, and soon they’re coming in near-perfect three minute increments.
“I can drive, you know,” you offer, stretching your legs out as much as your seat afford you.
Bucky doesn’t even spare you a look. “Not happening.”
“I’m a good driver!”
Bucky rolls his eyes, stifling another yawn. “It’s fine. I can make it to Atlanta.”
Atlanta, where the promise of a hot shower and soft bed awaits. Atlanta, which is another three hours away, according to the GPS.
“You’re exhausted, Buck. Come on. Let me finish it out.”
Bucky shakes you off again. Road trips weren’t the most common thing in the 1940s, but he’s pretty sure it’s not chivalrous to let a woman take over driving because the man was too tired. The twenty-first century it may be, but Bucky clings to his 1940s standards of romancing, if you could call what the two of you have a romance.
“If you don’t let me take over, we have to talk about it.” Your voice cuts across the cab like steel, finally getting his full attention as a slower Springsteen song croons from the radio.
It being the late-night kiss in his apartment after picking you up in the pouring rain. The kiss that he’d broken off. You had stuttered out a quick thank you for the ride and vanished through his door, hair still dripping droplets onto his leather jacket still tucked over your shoulders.
The text he sent you the following morning went unanswered. Your phone call went to his voicemail. A silent agreement that clearly, the prior night was an accident. A mistake. A lapse in judgement.
You didn’t speak for a month, when Sam had texted the two of you, asking you to visit Louisiana for a week, for Bucky to bring down some of his stuff and saying that Sarah wanted to see you. Thus, the road trip. 17 hours with a man who you can’t help but adore, despite his obvious distaste for you after that awful night.
The truck is silent. Bucky can feel your gaze boring into his side, suddenly wide awake. His throat bobs around a swallow. “There’s a motel at the next exit, two miles ahead,” He grunts, “we can crash there tonight.”
You deflate, heart dropping into your fluttering stomach. The ache of rejection flows through your veins just as it did when he pulled away the first time.
“Sounds good.”
“One room… with one queen bed?” Your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, disbelieving and pitchy.
The tired front desk worker stares at you with little interest, “that a problem? Would’ve thought a couple of lovebirds like you would be all over that.”
Hot mortification floods through your chest, “we- we’re not together.” You look up at Bucky for backup, but he stands stoic as a statue next to you, holding your pale blue duffel bag in one hand and his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“We really would prefer two rooms. Even two beds. We aren’t together.” The even tone of his voice makes you want to cry and strangle him at the same time.
The man behind the counter doesn’t react beyond a half shrug. “Makes no difference to me. One room left. You want it, it's yours. If not- move your car outta my lot before sleeping in it.”
You grit your teeth, prepared to argue, to turn on your heel and find another hotel. Insist Bucky let you drive, go anywhere but here and be further trapped with the man who clearly hates your guts. A placating hand sets itself on your mid-back, hovering with enough authority to prevent you from another outburst, but not familiar enough to be anything other than friendly.
Bucky hands the man a few bills and a bronze colored key is slid over the counter. “Room 112. Check out by 10.” He disappears behind the curtain separating the back room before you can say anything else.
“I’ll sleep in the truck,” Bucky offers lowly as you walk along the motel doors to your room. Chirping crickets break through the silent of the night and moths flutter around the flickering lights above you. With every step towards the surely dingy room that awaits you, your skin crawls even more.
“No, you won’t.” You snap, jamming the key into the lock. After a few wiggles, the lock finally clicks open, the door unsticking to reveal a tiny room with a loud air conditioner, a rickety desk, and as promised, one queen bed with a very outdated comforter. “We can share. We’re adults.”
Bucky steps inside, letting the door slam loudly behind him, but doesn’t move from the doorframe as you examine the mattress. “It’s not a big deal. You should take the room.”
“Jesus!” You exclaim, finally snapping as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of your neck. This air conditioning unit really isn’t doing anything. “We can share a fucking room, okay? This doesn’t have to be a thing-” Your voice catches, eyes welling up angrily. “You don’t hate me that much, do you?”
Bucky is paralyzed. Frozen in your gaze, fists balled at your sides as you stare at him with anger, hurt, and worst of all disappointment. Swallowing hard, he sets his backpack down and takes a careful step towards you, like you’re a stray cat that could startle at a sudden movement. “I don’t-” He inhales, letting his eyes stay on you despite the way you’re furiously wiping at your cheeks. “Christ, I don’t hate you.”
Neither of you speak, maintaining your distance. Your eyelashes flutter, blinking away whatever tears you can as the walls close in around you. At your side, your fists clench and unclench. “Then you fooled me,” the air conditioner unit shuts off, leaving an uncomfortable tension in the air. “I’m going to shower. Sleep in the bed with me. Or on the floor. Or out in the truck. I don’t care.”
Bucky doesn’t budge, even when you brush by him and turn the shower on. It isn’t until he hears you pull the curtain aside and step under the stream that he allows himself to move. He acts methodically, pulling his folded sleepwear from his backpack, hesitating on the shirt he brought to sleep in, despite knowing he always ends up yanking it off due to claustrophobia. He leaves it off, knowing you’d roll your eyes at the formality and clear attempt at protecting your modesty. He untucks the thin comforter, settling underneath it on his back and staring at the ceiling. Waiting.
His therapist said to make mental lists when he found himself stressed. Of anything. “Just make sure it’s factual,” she’d hummed, jotting something down in her notebook. “Leave no room for speculation.”
Bucky knows you like tea. A small collection lives in your cabinet above the stove, with teas from around the world. Earl greys, floral teas imported from Hawaii, a white blend from the Mom and Pop shop you frequent. The tea he brought you from that mission he did with Sam in France. He knows you use a tuberose and honey body wash- he smells it on your skin constantly. The same scent that wafts from the thin bathroom door now. Bucky knows you tasted like vanilla and cherry lip gloss when he kissed you- that the lip gloss is the one you wear all the time. Even in the car, he watched you reapply it in the mirror and found himself remembering the feel of it on his own lips.
He knows he should’ve chased after you that night. Stopped you before you could make it out the door. Assure you that it wasn’t you- it could never be something you did. That for the first time in 70 years, he felt something warm, bigger than himself. Something he couldn’t control that was truly good- and how it scared him.
What a fool he is, to have let you think he feels anything but love for you.
The bathroom door opens, and you emerge, hair piled atop your head and eyes puffy, like you’ve been crying.
“Good shower?” He asks tentatively.
You nod, crossing your arms over your middle. Sleep shorts cover your lower half, an oversized blue t-shirt on your upper half. “Yeah. Thanks.” Blinking, you take in his position- shirtless, opposite the side of the bed you like.
“You’re right,” he says by way of answering. “We can share the bed.”
Nodding again, you pad over to the bed and lift the coverlet, sliding in next to him. Once settled, you lay on your side, facing away from him. “Can I turn out the light?”
“Go for it.”
Neither of you speak for a long while, listening to each other’s breathing. Bucky can feel you on the bed, tense and as far away from him as possible. “Are you asleep?” He murmurs after a while, turning on his side to face your back.
A harsh exhale comes from your side, “Yes.”
Despite your annoyance, a smile tugs at his lips. “I’m sorry.”
In the dark, he can see you peak over your shoulder. “For?”
“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you,” he pauses, focusing on the slope of your neck, your waist that he desperately wants to grab and pull you into him. “When we kissed- it felt like- for the first time, I didn’t just have to look out for myself anymore. Like I was living to feel, not just to be alive. If that makes sense, I-”
“It does,” the sheets rustle as you turn to face him, finally giving him your all.
“It scared me,” Bucky admits, placing his hand between the two of you. “I didn’t know what to think and I pulled away and-”
“I left.” You finish quietly, hand reaching for his. Your pinkies brush. “I didn’t give you the chance.”
“I texted.” The excuse is feeble to his own ears. Still, he sees the ghost of a smile cross your face in the dark.
“I tried calling,” you return with no malice in your voice. Still it hits him like a freight train.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you pick up?”
There’s a long pause, so still that you think he won’t respond, but he exhales and says, “I didn’t know what to say.”
It’s unclear who moves but your hands are working together, intertwining inseparably. A sharp tug has you sliding over the sheets and against him, so that your faces are inches apart and breaths are shared.
“And now?” You manage, eyes darting over his face as you search for answers. Bucky’s cerulean gaze is dark, pupils blown from the dark and your proximity. He leans closer, brushing his nose against yours.
“I’m still finding the words,” his lips graze yours with every syllable. “Is that okay?”
Eyes fluttering closed, you inhale a shaky breath. “More than,” you whisper before closing the gap.
This kiss is slower than the first one, filled with passion and tenderness. He rolls half-atop you, the hard ridges of his abdominals pressing against your soft shirt. Legs tangle together as you grasp at his hair with your free hand, tangling in the dark locks but not quite tugging. Bucky’s metal hand comes up to cradle your jaw, like you're something delicate as he angles you for a deeper kiss. His dog tags press against your hand that is still intertwined with his, trapped between your heaving chests and sure to leave a mark.
Lungs aching, you finally surface for air, regrettably, like dying would be worth it so long as Bucky’s plush lips were pressed to yours. Your eyes are still closed as Bucky rubs his nose over yours. “I need to take you on a proper date,” he muses, punctuating the sentence with a series of kisses over your face. Brow, cheek, corner of your lip.
“I don’t need proper,” you hum, pressing your lips to his quickly, “I just want you.”
Bucky exhales, gathering you into his arms and feeling you relax into him. “That,” he hums, “I can do.”
summary : The last thing you wanted was to be trapped in a room with a person you didn't know, much less be forced to team up with them. But thanks to your best friend's meddling, you now find yourself headed for a peculiar blind date, paired with someone who’s anything but a stranger. You swore you’d moved on. He said it was for the best. But maybe you were never meant to let each other go.
pairing : Sam Wilson x f!reader
warnings : Mature (16+), second chance romance, friends to lovers to kind of enemies to lovers?, mutual pining, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, forced proximity, angry/heated makeout, heavy feels and yearning, fluff and humor, truthfully two idiots in love, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.
word count : 14.2k
author's notes : To celebrate the rise of our brand new Captain America and Valentine's Day, I wrote this little piece to pour out my appreciation for Sam Wilson who is, imo, an insanely underrated character.
This is also my entry for the wondrous @elixirfromthestars 's Cinema Writing Challenge, which I stumbled upon mid-writing this one-shot and found that I was going in a direction that could've fit this in a fun way. I referenced the "Why didn't you write me?" scene from The Notebook though in a lax manner, so I hope to have still respected the general guidelines.. This is my first time participating in a writing challenge, so please bear with me :')
Happy Valentine's Day, my loves. Know that even if you're as alone as I am, your existence is greatly valued in this world. <3
(ao3 version)
⠀
Driving back to Delacroix was nothing short of a pleasant experience—just you, one hand on the wheel and the other idly hanging out the window with fingers slicing through the warm morning air. It was one of the few times you enjoyed driving, which is why you insisted on not having your chauffeur be the one to take you to your destination, preferring the solitude of watching the road stretch ahead like a ribbon of sun-bleached asphalt, flanked by swaying marsh grass and the slow-moving waters of the bayou. The old jazz station buzzing over the speakers only further enhanced the atmosphere, with the crooning trumpet blending effortlessly into the continuous murmur of cicadas in the background.
It was early enough that the mist still clung to the marshes, curling around the gnarled roots of cypress trees like ghostly fingers. The world shimmered gold in the pale dawn light, an untouched moment as the weight of the day settled in. You could also make out in your passing spanish moss draping lazily from the branches, swaying ever so slightly as if still waking from its slumber.
You had always loved this route. It felt like a portal to another life, one that belonged solely to a place where your name wasn’t headlined in articles, where your every move wasn’t scrutinized by strangers looking for something to pick apart. Here, you weren’t the subject of speculation or the topic of gossip columns. You weren’t “the one from the titles” or “the name in the papers.” You were simply you.
The familiarity of it all only served to bring you back to those late-night drives after absurdly long college lectures, when the stress of exams and deadlines melted away over seafood and pleasant company, the briny scent of the ocean mixing with the fried goodness of whatever had been thrown together for dinner. It reminded you of sunburned afternoons spent on the docks, the sound of waves lapping against the wooden beams, of kids that you used to babysit laughing as they chased each other barefoot across the pier. Life was indeed much nicer in the olden days.
The docks finally came into view as you veered off onto the dirt road. You could see that the morning had already settled into its rhythm—fishermen hauling in their first catches, their voices rising and falling over the water while the low rumble of boat engines punctuated the exchanges in the salty air, mingling with the occasional bark of a stray dog nosing around for scraps. Seagulls routinely circled overhead and swept low whenever someone tossed a handful of bait into the sea. The scent of fresh fish, damp wood, and the ever-present Louisiana humidity all wrapped around you, strong-filled even at this hour.
And there was poor Sarah, up to her elbows in work as always.
She stood near a stubborn crate, her brows drawn together in frustration as she struggled to pry it open. The morning suns of July had already kissed her skin a shade darker and a streak of dirt ran across her forearms, evidence of a morning repeatedly spent wrangling supplies and fixing whatever had inevitably needed mending. She also had that look—the one she always got when something should have been done yesterday.
Pulling up alongside the dock, you stepped out of your fancy car, rolling your shoulders with a slow stretch. The thick and stifling heat settled around you instantly, encasing itself around your skin like a second layer along the faintest promise of an approaching summer storm.
“Didn’t know we were wrestling furniture today,” you called out while your expensive shoes thudded lightly against the weathered planks, the wood creaking ever so slightly beneath your steps.
Sarah huffed, blowing a loose curl from her forehead as the sheen of morning sweat glistened against her sun-warmed skin. “You show up just in time to save the day, as usual.”
You smirked, pushing up your sleeves. “That’s what I do best.”
Together, you pried open the crate with a loud crack, the wood groaning in protest before finally relenting, revealing neatly packed supplies of nets, ropes and a few spare tools, all stacked with military precision.
“I swear, whoever sealed this thing had a personal vendetta against me,” she muttered, shaking her head.
You leaned against one of the weathered wooden posts, letting the briny breeze roll over you. The dock swayed ever so slightly beneath your weight, creaking in quiet protest. Out beyond the harbor, the bay stretched wide and glittering, rippling with the soft push and pull of the current. For a moment, there was nothing but the steady lull of the water, the occasional cry of seagulls, and the distant clang of metal against wood as fishermen worked their boats. A rare pocket of peace.
At least, that was the case until Sarah spoke.
“Sam’s coming home today.”
The words landed on you like how a stone would sink to the bottom of a river.
You kept your expression carefully neutral, inhaling through your nose before exhaling slowly. “Fantastic,” you deadpanned, flicking a piece of splintered wood off your palm.
Sarah sighed, already bracing for the reaction she knew was coming. “I know you two don’t—”
“Like each other?” you finished for her. “Get along? Want to exist in the same hemisphere?”
She shot you a flat, unimpressed look. “I was going to say see eye to eye.”
You scoffed. “That’s an understatement.”
Sarah crossed her arms, leaning back against the wooden beam beside you. The steady rise and fall of the tide lapped at the pylons below, filling the brief silence between you. “Are you ever going to tell me what really happened between you two?”
You hesitated. The problem wasn’t just Sam. It was everything that had happened because of him.
And worse—the things that had happened before. But how could you explain that to your best friend, who was also his sister, that before the cameras, before all of the unwanted attention, there had been a spark?
Befriending Sarah in college had meant stepping into her world, with frequent afternoons spent at the family’s restaurant but also evenings that bled into weekends. And with this eventually came Sam, who was at the time a cheeky guy too charming for his own good and with a tendency of getting under your skin in the most enjoyable way. The kind that your mama told you not to approach too much if you didn’t want to stray away from a good line of life.
You honestly wouldn’t have paid him much attention if not for the quick-witted banter, a push-and-pull that became something of a ritual every time you would come over. He would saunter into the restaurant under the pretense of bothering his sister, but his eyes would eventually find yours first, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just before he threw out some teasing remarks in hopes of riling you up. You would roll your eyes, fire something back, and somehow, without realizing it, you had begun to orbit each other.
It had slowly bloomed in the way where summer warmth shifts into the first breath of autumn—almost imperceptible until you’re standing in the midst of it. Eye contacts that lingered just a little too long. Making even the most absurd excuses simply to accompany you through your journey of going to college. A growing familiarity that turned into late-night conversations on the dock, where the world was nothing but the hush between you. There had been something easy about it, an understanding that neither of you ever had to say out loud.
And then, one fateful night—
A kiss was added to the list.
You could still precisely recall how it had unfolded. It had been one of those thick Louisianan nights where the land was quiet except for the gentle slosh of the tide against the pylons and the occasional chirp of cicadas hidden somewhere in the dark. You and Sam sat side by side on the wooden planks with your legs dangling over the edge.
He had shown up at the restaurant after closing, claiming he had nowhere better to be. You had scoffed, knowing damn well he could’ve gone to the arcades where he usually hung with his small band of friends, but instead, he’d lingered—elbow on the counter, tossing peanuts in the air and catching them in his mouth while Sarah cleaned up. When she suspiciously shooed the both of you out under the pretense of wanting to finish tidying the place in peace, you both ended up in your favorite spot and falling into conversation with the same ease you always had.
Strangely enough, that night was different.
It was felt in the way your knees brushed when he shifted closer, in the way your laughter had simmered and turned quieter, softer. It was the night where plans for the future were spoken of, and how you learned that Sam would soon leave Delacroix behind to join the Air Force while you were still figuring everything out.
“You ever think about getting out of here?” Sam’s voice cut through the quiet.
You smirked, tilting your head toward him. “What, and give up all the fine dining of your family’s home cooking? I don’t know if I could handle that.”
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, because there’s nothing more to do than eating fresh seafood and watching the sunset every day.”
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “Hey, you’re the one talking about getting out of here, Wilson. What, the dock life not glamorous enough for you?”
His grin was easy, but there was something contemplative beneath it. “I always knew I’d leave. Not ‘cause I don’t love it here, but... I want more. I wanna see what else is out there.”
Your smile faltered, just a little. You weren’t sure why the thought of Sam leaving sat uncomfortably in your chest. "You make it sound like you’re never coming back."
He turned toward you then, one leg kicking idly at the water below. "I’ll come back." His voice got fainter this time, lacking its usual teasing edge. "It’s not like I’d just disappear on you."
You arched a skeptical brow. "Awh, don’t tell me you’re going soft on me. You saying that ‘cause you mean it, or ‘cause you think I’d cry if you didn’t?"
Sam smirked. "Maybe both."
You scoffed, pushing at his arm, but he barely budged. "Please, you’d be the one crying your eyes out first."
"Uh-huh," he vaguely affirmed, unconvinced. "You could write me letters, you know."
"You gonna write back?"
"Every time."
You regained your smile at the answer, and it was when you turned to glance at him that you noticed that he was closer than before. You weren’t sure if he had leaned in or if you had, but your shoulders touched and your knees pressed together. He was close enough that you could see the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed and caught his eyes flickering from yours to your mouth and back again.
You had felt it coming before it happened—the moment slowed, stretched, and his tentative fingers had brushed yours where your hands rested between you on the dock. He was testing out the waters, and neither of you pulled away.
Without a word, he leaned in.
It felt like a kiss engaged between adolescents discovering intimacy for the first time. He was slow in his doing, as if waiting for you to stop him, but you didn’t. You tilted into him instead, your hand resting against his jaw upon the faint scratch of stubble he had grown. His lips were warm and coaxing, stealing the breath from your lungs as he deepened the kiss while his hand curled lightly around your wrist. The world beyond the two of you fell away, drowned out by the rush of your pulse.
It was the kind of kiss that felt like the beginning of a promise. But promises, as you had learned over time, were far too easy to break.
You thought that this kiss was supposed to mean something. Evidently, it didn’t to Sam.
Months passed without a sign, not a single mail in your box or a phone call. Then years came by, and silence continued to reign like a chasm.
The first time Sam Wilson came back to Delacroix after becoming the Falcon, it wasn’t for a homecoming or a celebration—it was for Sarah’s wedding. By then, he was no longer just the annoying little brother, the immature sod who used to throw shrimp shells at you when you weren’t looking. He was an Avenger. A hero. Someone whose face people recognized, whose name carried weight.
And you? You had built a life of your own. A business. A name that had nothing to do with anyone else but yourself.
He had changed but so had you, and whatever had been between you had withered away a bittersweet memory, more sour than sugary.
The wedding had come and gone in a whirlwind of music and laughter, of his sister glowing in a way you had never seen before, of toasts and dancing under strings of warm lights. You had somehow ended up outside, trading the muffled sounds of celebration drifting through the open doors of the reception hall for the cold silence of the outside.
You hadn’t planned to talk to him. In fact, you had spent most of the days of his visit avoiding being alone with him, dodging him and whatever it was that lingered between you both like an unfinished chapter. But he still managed to find you anyway, stepping out into the night with that same infuriating ease as if nothing had ever changed.
“Did anybody ever tell you that you scurry away like a mouse?” he jokingly prompted, hands tucked into his pockets. “For someone who’s supposed to be the maid of honor, you disappeared pretty fast.”
You didn’t look at him, instead fixing your gaze on the rippling water. “Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone.”
“Never said you did.”
Stillness settled between you, cut by the cicadas humming in the trees and the warm breeze rolling in from the bay. He was watching you. You could feel it.
“You been good?” he asked eventually, almost hesitant.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“Business still going strong?”
Another nod.
Sam exhaled a soft laugh. “Damn. You always this talkative?”
Finally, you turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest. “Well, what do you want me to say, Sam? That it’s good to see you? That I missed you?”
He blinked, caught off guard.
“You know what? I did,” you admitted, your jaw tightening. “I missed you when you left, when you didn’t write, when you didn’t call. But then you show up years later on TV with wings on your back and a whole new life, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “Forget it.”
Sam was quiet for a moment. “Listen, I never meant to—”
The sudden burst of camera flashes cut through the dark like lightning. Movements danced from the shadows beyond the dock. Figures. A handful of people, cameras raised, lenses trained on you both.
Your blood ran cold.
The pilot turned, his expression shifting in an instant. He stepped in front of you, partially blocking their view. “Hey! Back the hell up.”
The damage was already done. Your name was already in their mouths, in their cameras, and in their notes. And by morning, the world would be talking.
You knew it wasn’t his fault. Not entirely. The blame didn’t belong to him—not for the cameras, the prying eyes, or the intrusion. But the continuous letdown, the unresolved past, the hollow promises left unanswered—it all boiled over.
Maybe it was the years of unspoken resentment. How he had left and never looked back, only to come home like no time had passed—like you hadn’t once meant something. Or maybe it was the fact that for one fleeting instance, the world thought you belonged to him like you selfishly wanted to back then when he had never even fought to keep you.
The fight was inevitable. Hurtful words, raised voices. Raw anger tangled with accusations you didn’t mean spilling from your mouth before you could stop it, among the ones you did. And to his credit, he gave as good as he got. You weren’t the only one harboring old wounds. You weren’t the only one who felt burned by your shared past.
By the time the shouting stopped, the damage between you was just as permanent as the damage done by the eye-catching headlines. Some words couldn’t be taken back, just as ties, once broken, could never be pieced together the same way again.
The next morning, as you predicted, the internet had been set ablaze with speculation.
The press was relentless, churning through the story like a wildfire swallowing dry earth. The Falcon and his Mystery Woman—Who is She? New Romance or Old Flame? Falcon’s Secret Love Life—Exclusive Details Inside!
It was absurd. Laughable, even. You had snorted at the first few articles, rolling your eyes at the grainy photos that painted a story far more dramatic than the truth. You and Sam barely tolerated each other. If anything, your history was a testament to mutual irritation, not some clandestine love affair.
But the laughter didn’t last because the headlines didn’t fade. Because the story didn’t die.
Because soon enough, it wasn’t just some passing tabloid gossip. It was everywhere.
Paparazzi began to linger outside your workplace, their lenses snapping up every movement as if they could capture something scandalous in the mundane act of you stepping out for coffee. Your inbox flooded with emails—some from reporters fishing for a statement, others from people you hadn’t spoken to in years, suddenly eager to "reconnect."
Social media became a nightmare all on its own. Strangers dug through your past with eager, prying hands, dissecting old photos, analyzing every public interaction you’d ever had, and spinning theories about a relationship that had never even existed.
The worst part of your predicament was certainly work-related. Every handshake, every business meeting, and every new acquaintance suddenly all came with a question mark. Were they here for you or for the association? Were they interested in your work, in you, or just in the proximity you offered to something greater, to a man whose name counted amongst Earth’s greatest heroes?
And through it all, Sam had remained frustratingly unbothered.
"It’ll pass," he had dismissed with a shrug accompanying his words. "People move on when it comes to these kinds of things."
At most, he made sure you were surrounded by constant security and had some sort of secret service he was apart from watching over you in case malevolent spectators deemed it a good idea to bother you. While you were grateful for the protection, you had wondered if his lack of intervention to correct the situation with both words and actions wasn’t motivated by underlying factors.
Ultimately, you had been the one left dealing with the aftermath. The one picking up the pieces and untangling the mess, sifting through the wreckage of your privacy. And that was something you could never forgive.
You slowly exhaled, massaging your temple at the exasperating memory. “Let’s just say your brother has had a knack for making my life difficult and I got tired of it.”
Sarah hummed, skeptical but wise enough not to press too hard. “He’s really not as bad as you think.”
You shot her a dry look. “Sarah.”
She held up her hands in surrender, lips twitching. “Alright, alright. I won’t push.”
Before you could say more, the sound of a door swinging open interrupted you. Then came the hurried patter of feet and the excited shout of your name before two small bodies crashed into you, all limbs and boundless energy.
You caught them both with a grin, stumbling slightly under their weight as they clung to you.
“You taking us to school today?” Cass asked, beaming up at you.
You ruffled his curls, feigning deep thought. “I don’t know... you guys gonna behave?”
AJ gasped, scandalized. “We always behave!”
Their mother snorted at the blatant lie while you laughed, nudging AJ’s shoulder. “Alright then, let’s go.”
Sarah shook her head, a familiar mix of amusement and exasperation on her face. “They listen to you better than they listen to me.”
“That’s because I’m the cool auntie. Right, boys?”
Both of them cheered in agreement, to which she rolled her eyes and shooed you toward your car. “Go before I change my mind about letting you take them.”
You steered her children toward the vehicle, their voices rising in an animated debate over which of them would get to call shotgun and put their playlist to play for the drive. But even as you settled into the driver’s seat, their excited chatter filling the space around you, your mind remained elsewhere.
Sam was coming back.
And whether you liked it or not, you were going to have to deal with him.
⠀
⠀
The restaurant was already alive with the late afternoon rush by the time you strolled in with the boys coming back from school. Orders flew in, plates stacked high and the scent of fried seafood and rich gumbo diffused in the place. The kitchen bustled with movement—Sarah barking orders, cooks shuffling between stations, the sizzle of oil, the clang of metal on metal. Fortunately, you had worked enough shifts here during college to comfortably throw yourself into the chaos and fall into the rhythm with ease, balancing trays and dodging wayward elbows like second nature.
You had expected a busy night.
What you weren’t prepared for—what you could have gone your entire life without dealing with—was walking out of the kitchen, only to come face-to-face with the one person you had been dreading.
The door swung shut behind you, the sudden quiet of the dining area making the moment feel even heavier. Sam Wilson stood near the counter, arms crossed, an easy smirk already in place as if he hadn’t just been gone for years. The sight of his tall, broad and annoyingly self-assured stature made something stubborn coil in your chest. The golden glow of the setting sun slanted through the restaurant’s windows, catching on the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight curl of his lips, settling into the warm brown of his eyes with an infuriating sort of ease.
It had been years. But of course, of course, the first thing he did when he saw you was smirk and look at you the way he always did—like he was expecting a fight.
“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking over you with the kind of scrutiny that made you itch to throw the nearest dish towel at his head. “They’re really letting just anyone work here now, huh?”
You scoffed, stepping behind the counter. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing.”
“Hey, I actually own part of this place,” he shot back, leaning against the wooden bar. “What’s your excuse?”
“Sarah asked me to help,” you replied smoothly, grabbing a clean set of glasses from the shelf. “What’s yours?”
“Thought I’d check in, be a good brother and say hi,” he sassily answered. “Didn’t realize I’d be graced with your presence too.”
“Lucky you,” you deadpanned with a tight-lipped smile, brushing past him.
And to your luck, he followed you to the back, offering unhelpful commentary while you restocked supplies, then bickered with you while you both helped—or at least attempted to—his sister with the dinner rush. Arguing over everything with the soldier felt like muscle memory at this point, and it showed in the way he reached for the same things you did, your movements accidentally falling into sync.
By the time things slowed down enough for dinner, you were already nursing a headache. It wasn’t until the pace had slowed and Sarah finally sat down with a plate of food after her kids were put to bed that the conversation turned against you.
“So,” Sarah stabbed a piece of calamari with her fork, looking at you with a glint of something announcing nothing good. “You seeing anyone yet?”
You nearly choked on your drink. Across from you, Sam let out a low chuckle.
“Oh, this should be good,” he mused, propping his chin on his hand and settling in like he was about to watch a show.
You shot him a glare before turning back to Sarah. “Not really.”
“Not really, or not at all?”
“Not. At. All.”
Sam let out a whistle, shaking his head in mock pity. “Damn. That’s rough.”
Your fingers tightened around your glass. “Well, it’s kind of your fault.”
The smirk fell right off his face. “My fault?”
You didn’t waver, locking eyes with him. “I don’t know if you remember, but you kind of put me on the map. You know, with that whole ‘mystery woman spotted with the Falcon’ thing?” You waved a hand vaguely. “Hard to trust people when they might secretly be fans. Or worse, spies.”
The hostess hummed in interest, taking a slow sip of her drink. “That does sound inconvenient.”
Sam scoffed. "Oh, be real, miss fancy pants. You can’t be serious.”
“But I am,” you shot back. “Because of you, I have to second-guess every new person I meet. Even for business.”
Sam shrugged, looking way too entertained. “Could be worse.”
You raised a brow. “Would you trust random people throwing themselves at you if the roles were reversed?”
He let out a sharp laugh, cocky and dismissive. “Sure, after a small background check.”
You leaned forward, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, totally. It’s so much fun when I get approached because people think I’m some tragic ex or long-lost lover of yours. Or getting bombarded with people asking if I ever hooked up with the Falcon, or if I have ‘tea’ to spill on our ‘relationship’, or if I’m ‘jealous’ that you’re off saving the world and not wasting time.” You tilted your head. “That’s just peak entertainment.”
For once, the Avenger had nothing to say.
You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, and let’s not forget the weirdos who DM me saying they’d be happy to ‘fill the hole’ you supposedly left in my life.”
Sam choked on his drink, coughing violently. “What?”
“Oh yeah.” You pulled out your phone, tapped a few times, then held it out to him. “Here. Go ahead. Take a look at your legacy.”
He grabbed it hesitantly, scrolling through your inbox, his expression shifting from amused to horrified. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered. “What the hell is wrong with people?”
Sarah smirked. “Damn, Sam. Ruined her dating life and left her with internet weirdos. That’s cold.”
Sam dragged a hand down his face. “Okay, fine, that’s bad.” He handed your phone back. “But still, you could’ve just—I don’t know—ignored it? De-activate your socials?”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just ignore the fact that I have to Google every guy I talk to just to make sure they’re not running a secret fan account for you.”
He burst out laughing, to which you childishly responded by throwing a fry at his head.
Sarah, watching all this like it was prime-time TV, suddenly perked up. “I might have a solution.”
You groaned. “I don’t like that tone.”
“No, no, hear me out,” she insisted, grinning. “I saw this thing the other day—apparently, there’s a place in town that does blind dates in escape rooms.”
You blinked. “You saw what now?”
“It’s a fun concept,” she continued breezily. “Two people, locked in a room, working together to get out. You don’t know who you’re paired with beforehand, and it forces you to communicate.” She took another bite of her food, then added, “I think you two should try it.”
You both turned to her at the same time. “No—” “Hell no.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “You two are so dramatic. It’s literally an escape room—”
“With a blind date,” you interrupted with frantic gestures. “As in, being forced into a confined space with a random stranger and trusting them enough to help me get out.” You shook your head. “Not happening.”
Sarah gave you a pointed look. “You do realize that’s exactly what dating is, right?”
You glared. “Don’t make points right now.”
She turned her attention to Sam, who was still muttering under his breath. “And what’s your problem?”
Her brother shot her a disbelieving look. “You seriously don’t see the issue?”
“Nope.”
He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s way too risky for me to go in public and have my info given out to some company and get paired up with someone potentially crazy like her right here. Yeah, no way in hell I’m signing up for that.”
You turned back to Sarah. “Do you hear the way he talks to me? And you think I should be dating?”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m setting you up with other people. You both need a reality check.”
You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Okay, ignoring the audacity of that statement—why an escape room? If I wanted to be locked in a room with a stranger, I’d call my internet provider.”
Sarah once again ignored your rebuttals. “It forces you to work together. Communication, problem-solving, a little trust—”
Sam let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, no thanks. I’d rather skydive without a parachute.”
“You literally have a parachute,” you deadpanned.
“Exactly,” Sam said. “Which is why I don’t need to go on some experimental dating hostage situation.”
Sarah huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. Let me put it this way—if you don’t go, I’ll tell Bucky you’re both too scared to put yourselves out there.”
You wanted to put up a bigger fight, if not for the very real threat of James Buchanan Barnes getting wind of this.
You had met him once, years ago, during one of Sam’s very unwelcome, very impromptu visits. You hadn’t even been expecting company that day, let alone a literal ex-assassin sitting at Sarah’s dining table like it was the most normal thing in the world. And to make matters worse, Sam had introduced you in the most obnoxious way possible.
“This is my sister’s best friend. She talks a big game but couldn’t win an argument if her life depended on it.”
And Bucky, with all the smugness of someone who absolutely enjoyed making your life difficult, had just smirked, leaned back in his chair, and smugly commented—
“Huh. Sounds familiar.”
You hadn’t even known him for five minutes, and he had already sided with Sam. Ever since, the latter had made sure to weaponize their friendship against you at every opportunity, regardless of the fast-growing amicability between his former partner and you.
And you knew that if Bucky found out about this, you would never hear the end of it. He’d be relentless. Casually dropping mentions of your lack of a partner into every conversation, even if the irony lied in him being in the same situation—though he’d probably argue that unlike him, there was a lack of trying on your part as well as the absence of an excuse as astronomical as being a well-known mass murderer with an insane past. And also probably betting money on how fast you’d walk out of the damn escape room.
Sam narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
His sister’s grin only widened. “Oh, I absolutely would.”
You could already picture it—Bucky, smirking like he had all the dirt in the world on you and bringing it up at the most inopportune moments. Teasing you mercilessly every time you so much as glanced at your phone. Probably making some dumb comment like, “So, can’t find anyone to put up with you?”
Nope. Absolutely not.
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temples. “I so hate you right now.”
Sarah just smiled. “So that’s a yes?”
The Falcon groaned in desperation. “This is blackmail.”
She simply shrugged at the accusation. “I like to think of it as strong encouragement.”
"How long is it?” you finally asked, defeated.
“One hour.”
Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Sixty minutes of my life I’m never getting back.”
The restaurant’s owner shrugged, too pleased with herself to care. “Think of it this way—worst-case scenario, you get out and never see the person again.”
The pilot grumbled under his breath before sharply exhaling after a long pause. “Whatever. But when this goes horribly, I want it on record that I called it.”
“Duly noted.”
⠀
⠀
The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and violet as you gripped the wheel of your car with the force of someone actively trying not to commit murder. The drive to the escape room was supposed to be uneventful. Key words: supposed to. But Sam Wilson had never once encountered an opportunity for peace without promptly deciding to mischievously ruin it.
It started small. A shift in his seat, a glance at the dashboard, an exhale so faint you almost didn’t catch it. Then, before you knew it, his fingers were wandering, prodding at the glossy screen in the center console with an exaggerated curiosity that made your temple throb.
You gritted your teeth. "Stop touching things."
“Relax,” he drawled, ever the picture of unbothered arrogance. "I’m just exploring my environment."
“It’s not an environment, it’s my car.”
Sam clicked his tongue, grinning in a way that meant nothing good. “You got all these fancy-ass features, and you don’t even use ‘em? Shame. Really makes me question your judgment.”
“You’re about to question your life choices when I push you out onto the freeway.”
With all of your previous spouts, you should have known that issuing such a warning would only serve to encourage his childish behavior.
It started with him cranking the seat warmers up to their highest setting, slowly enough that you didn’t notice until your lower back was mysteriously drenched in sweat. He followed by playing with the ambient lighting, flipping through every color at an alarming rate until the inside of your car looked like a malfunctioning disco ball. But the worst, the absolute worst, came when he discovered your Bluetooth.
A horrendous mix of static and Sam’s laughter blasted through your speakers as the system synced.
You gawked at him. “If you so much as—”
Before you could finish your sentence, the familiar bright and bouncy opening chords of Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus blared from the speakers, the bubbly pop song catering a stark contrast to the slow-building horror creeping up your spine.
Sam, entirely unbothered by your stricken expression, immodestly threw his feet up onto the dashboard with the air of a man settling in for a long, leisurely road trip rather than someone actively testing the limits of your patience. With the unrestrained passion of a performer standing before a sold-out stadium crowd, he threw his head back and belted at the top of his lungs, “And a Jay-Z song was on!”
You recoiled, grimacing as his voice cracked mid-note. But before responding, you reached over and smacked his legs off the dashboard, sending his sneakers thudding back to the floor. “Get your dirty feet off my dash,” you snapped.
Sam clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Oh, live a bit, woman. Damn, you really have no appreciation for the arts or my comfort?”
Your grip tightened around the steering wheel as you ignored his jab, leveling him instead with a flat, unimpressed stare. “This,” you slowly voiced with incredulity, “is the choice you made?”
“Hell yeah.” He nodded in affirmation, not even pausing in his off-key, wholly committed performance. “This is a certified anthem.”
“This is a cry for help.”
Sam gasped, scandalized. “You don’t like Party in the USA?”
“I do. I just don’t like you singing Party in the USA.” Without breaking your focus on the road, you lunged for his phone, yanking it from his grip with the precision of someone who had endured one too many of his antics. A dramatic click later, and blissful silence fell over the cabin.
Your passenger, however, was anything but deterred. He cackled, shoulders shaking, entirely too smug.
You inhaled deeply, willing the tension in your fingers to ease before you left permanent indentations on the wheel. “I swear to God, Wilson—”
“Hey,” he cut in, still grinning like a man with no fear of consequences. “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve switched it to romance audiobooks.”
“I will crash this car.”
The silence was short-lived. Like a cocky thief in the night, Sam moved with the precision of a soldier and the recklessness of a man who knew exactly how to test your limits. One second, the phone was in your grasp, victory assured. The next, it was snatched away with infuriating ease.
You barely had time to register the offense before the speakers flared back to life, the cabin suddenly swelling with the smooth, honeyed tones of a song that hit far too close to home.
"I see the crystal raindrops fall…"
Your eyes snapped to him, narrowing in slow, dawning realization. The Falcon, unbothered and wholly self-satisfied, leaned back against the seat with his arms folded behind his head as if he hadn't just detonated a nostalgia bomb between you. The smooth timbre of Grover Wshington Jr.’s voice accompagnied the melodious instrumental of Just the Two of Us, the saxophone bringing more than just nostalgia of a classic.
You knew exactly what he was doing. You remembered the easy rhythm of laughter between verses as you'd vaguely engage in a clumsy waltz, tripping over both feet and lyrics and pretending it was intentional. You remembered Sam’s off-key falsetto and your equally disastrous harmonies, along with the unshakable euphoria and certainty that no matter where life took you, you’d always end up in the same place.
But life had a way of rewriting certainties—the choices that wedged themselves between you was certainly proof of it. And yet, despite everything that happened, that song still had its hooks in you.
Sam, ever the instigator, drummed his fingers against the dashboard, slow and patient, like a fisherman waiting for the line to tug. When you didn’t react, he turned his head and elbowed you in your arm. “C’mon. Don’t act like you don’t remember.”
Your fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “I do remember.”
“Then sing.”
You scoffed, pretending it didn’t get to you. “Pass.”
His grin sharpened. “Boo, loser. What, so you can’t sing anymore? That’s crazy. Didn’t know losing your ability to sing was part of getting old and bitter—”
Your glare should have scorched him and wiped that insufferable smirk right off his face, but he only leaned in, fully basking in his role as an unrepentant menace.
"We can make it if we try…" He sang it pointedly, nudging you again with his elbow like an annoying kid brother. You swatted him away without sparing a glance. He did it again. And again. Until finally—
You exhaled sharply, grip slackening. “I hate you.”
But as the chorus approached, the words left your lips before you could stop them.
"Just the two of us…"
It was barely a whisper at first, something fragile and unintentional. But Sam caught it immediately and grinned just as quickly, victorious, before singing louder.
You rolled your eyes, but the fight was already lost.
“That’s my girl,” he cheered on, and before you could roll your eyes, he threw his head back and belted out the next line with all the fanciness of a Broadway performer.
By the next verse, you were both loudly singing off-key. He purposely overstated his notes, while you botched entire lines just to tease him. Laughter flowed freely between lines, busting through the barricades you'd both painstakingly established. Sam, ever the dramatist, went full concert mode, wiggling his shoulders like an overenthusiastic backup dancer and pretending to hold a microphone as he crooned into his fist.
“No,” you moaned in exasperation between bursts of laughter as he hit an ungodly note. “That was—oh my God, Sam, stop—that is a crime against music.”
He only doubled down, adding unnecessary falsetto flourishes and pointing dramatically out the window as if serenading the passing trees. The harmonies were an absolute disaster. The timing was questionable at best. But for those few minutes, it didn’t matter. It was just you and Sam, the car, and the open road, voices colliding in the space between you.
It shouldn't have felt so natural, to slip into something that had been tearing around the edges for years. But for a brief while, it did—which was perilous, like plunging into still waters.
No matter how lighthearted it appeared, you were smart enough to understand that the political choice in this song was not only to reminisce about one of your favorite memories, but also to convey a hidden message, as the song still had meaning in its lines. “We can make it if we try”. It was a promise, one you had scarcely believed in with your whole heart before you had to learn to live without him.
By the time the final note of the song was hit, the magic was broken. You cleared your throat and adjusted your grip on the wheel. You mumbled, "Still sing like a damn goat," since it was easier than admitting anything else.
Sam snorted. "You still talk big for someone who sounds like a dying cat."
Quietness regained its rightful place, this time more charged than before with the shadow of something lost between you. He shoved his hands into his pockets, head down, looking like he was trying to collect his thoughts—or just avoid whatever was about to spill out.
“Look, about everything that happened...” He hesitated, voice trailing off, before he tried again. “I didn’t mean—”
You cut him off before he could continue. “It’s fine,” you muttered, trying to keep the ache from spilling over. “Honestly, I should’ve expected it. You’re always going to be tied up in something bigger than us. I get it now. I should’ve known better.”
The pilot didn’t respond right away but you still made out the sound of him breathing down his nose, betraying the turmoil that was spiralling in his mind. “I just—I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring what happened. I—”
“No.” The word came out before you could stop it, hard and final. Your lips twisted into a smile, but it was bitter, hollow. “You don’t need to apologize anymore. It’s not necessary. I mean, the Air Force is a big thing. And now with the whole Avengers thing…” Your breath hitched slightly. “You had big priorities. It’s understandable.”
The words left a bitter taste on your tongue, every syllable a shard of resentment you had tried for so long to swallow. “It’s okay. You don’t need to make up some excuse.”
Sam’s expression flickered, his features shifting subtly as he processed your words, but he didn’t respond. His silence felt like another slap in the face, the unspoken weight of his guilt settling over the car.
"It just hurt," you continued, the words uncontrollably tumbling out of your mouth, as if you couldn’t hold them back any longer. "You said you’d make time. That we could figure it out." Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed on, your chest tight with the pressure of everything you’d been carrying. "But then... it was like I was just some side story to your life. I had to deal with everything on my own. You didn’t just leave me, Sam. You left me hanging in front of the entire world, like I was an afterthought."
You could see him flinching and opening his mouth to speak, but the reply stayed stuck somewhere behind his teeth for awhile. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way,” he finally admitted, his voice tight with frustration, lips pressed into a thin line. “You have to know that.”
You let out a dry laugh, bitter and edged with years of pent-up anger. "No," you spat, shaking your head. "I don’t know that. I really don’t. And now you want to apologize? You think a few words will make it go away?" You turned to him then with glaring eyes, the dam inside you breaking wide open. “But I guess I should’ve known better, right? You’ve always got more important things on your plate than me. And I was just dumb enough to think I could be part of it." You let out a shaky breath. "That’s on me, not you.”
Sam’s shoulders tensed, his fists clenched so tightly against his knees that you could see the tendons in his hands strain. "That’s not fair," he rasped.
“No,” you bit out with the bitter burn of years of disappointment. “What’s not fair is pretending everything’s okay now, like you didn’t leave me in the dust. You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to forget how much it hurt when you left me behind.”
Sam growled, his gaze snapping to yours with an intensity that could’ve burned brighter than the sunlight reflecting on the windshield. “I didn’t mean to do that. It wasn’t like that. If you’d just let me explain—”
But you were already shaking your head, a bitter laugh slipping out as you cut him off. "It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing this again."
The rest of the drive stretched on in silence, bouncing on the precarious mix of unsaid words and the sharp sting of old wounds reopening. By the time you pulled into the parking lot of the escape room, your knuckles were white against the steering wheel, your body wound tight with the tension of everything you’d let out during the ride.
You almost yanked the car into park with more force than necessary, the engine’s rumbling metaphorically serving as a harsh reminder of how you were both still reeling from your slight altercation.
The door slammed shut behind you, but neither of you made a move to walk toward the entrance. The space between you felt wider than the parking lot itself. You weren’t sure what else to say, if there was even anything left to say.
“You should go inside first,” you finally said, your eyes staying firmly on the building in front of you. “I still need to arrange a few things in the car.” You were making a conscious decision to create some distance, to not go beyond what you could navigate through the dangerous waves of this confrontation. “Good luck with your date… or, uh, escape game.” You gave a small, tight smile, though it felt more like a bitter farewell than any kind of encouragement.
Sam silently hesitated, his eyes searching yours, like he was about to say something—but the words never formed. Instead, he took a deep breath and gave a short nod. "You too. Good luck with... whatever it is you're gonna do, too."
Without another word, he turned his back to you and walked toward the entrance with stiff shoulders. His footsteps echoed against the pavement as he left you alone, marking said distance you were so adamant on implementing once and for all.
You didn’t watch him go. You couldn’t. Instead, you opened your door with a soft creak, the cool night air rushing in as you slid back into the driver’s seat. It felt like a strange kind of closure, the door clicking shut behind you as if you were signing the definite end of a chapter, even if nothing really felt settled. With a shaky hand, you wiped the stray tears that had fallen down your cheeks, quickly brushing them away like they never happened, like you could pretend they weren’t there.
You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. There was still the night ahead, the escape game to focus on, even if your heart wasn’t entirely in it.
⠀
⠀
The artificial chill of the air conditioning wrapped around you as soon as you stepped inside, abruptly differing from the lingering warmth of dusk. The area smelled somewhat floral, though not in a pleasant way—more like a half-hearted attempt to conceal the antiseptic, even clinical ambiance. The welcome space looked sleek and modern, with clean lines and soft, ambient lighting, but something seemed odd.
A trio of employees stood behind the clean counter, their demeanor courteous but impersonal. Their uniforms were clean, their smiles practiced, and their eyes assessing—not in a way that made you feel welcome, but rather processed.
"Just need you to sign a few things," one of them said, sliding a clipboard toward you with the kind of ease that suggested they had done this a hundred times before. Maybe a thousand.
You picked up the pen and skimmed the pages, your brows knitting together. Waiver. Consent form. Limited liability in the case of mild distress.
Everything screamed shady.
Even though you knew they conducted a comprehensive background check on their clients' criminal records—you knew because you boldly inquired beforehand—your gut twisted with disquiet, a silent warning you had long since learned not to ignore. But you forced yourself to exhale, suppressing the mounting doubt. Sarah planned this, and she wouldn't throw you into an underground horror movie scenario, right?
Still, the blindfold part? That was peculiar, to say the least.
“Standard procedure,” the staff member assured you in a smooth and clearly rehearsed tone. That didn’t make you feel any better.
But you weren’t about to back out now. Soundly sighing, you allowed them to tie the fabric securely over your eyes, and in an instant, the world went black.
A friendly but firm hand took you down what appeared to be a long corridor. Each step heightened the sense of disorientation, the absence of sight accentuating everything else—hushed murmurs in the distance, the continuous flaps of an air vent above, the dull pressure of the floor under you. Then a pause. The air became colder. A door opened, and you were gently guided inside.
The door shut behind you, and the person beside you vanished.
You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at the sides. The lack of vision made everything feel too much—the faint shuffle of your own feet as you shifted nervously, the way your breathing seemed louder than it should, the slight press of your pulse on your temples. How long were they going to leave you here?
The weight of the silence stretched, and so did the edges of your nerves. Finally, the door creaked open again. Your spine became rigid. Footsteps, slow and measured. The door clicked closed once more.
Someone was here.
You exhaled, forcing an easy tone into your voice despite the unease creeping up your spine. "So, uh… I guess this is the part where we introduce ourselves? Hi, I’m—"
A strange, loaded silence tightened around you like a noose, twisting in your stomach. Were they simply joking with you? Or was there something else going on here?
Your patience, already thin after the day's events, had fully frayed. Screw this. Against your better judgment, you reached up and ripped the blindfold off, blinking rapidly as your eyes acclimated to the room's dull, amber hue.
And there, across from you, stood Sam. A solitary rose danced between his fingers, whirling aimlessly, as if he had all the time in the world. His attitude was unreadable—calm and poised, but his eyes held something you couldn't quite identify.
"Oh, hell no."
Sam let out a humorless chuckle, rubbing his temple like the sheer force of his fingers could press back the headache forming there. “Unbelievable,” he sneered, shaking his head. “I should’ve known Sarah was up to something when she kept dodging my questions.”
You let out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face as the reality of the situation settled over you like an unbearable weight. “This is what I get for trusting Sarah with this. Honestly, I’d rather deal with Bucky’s endless teasing right now than… this.”
The veteran arched a brow, folding his arms. “To be fair, you did let her set you up on a blind date with a stranger.”
You leveled him with a look. “Yeah, and so did you!” You threw up your hands. “And we came here together. Did she seriously think we wouldn’t notice?”
He exhaled sharply, his expression caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement. “Guess she figured we’d be too busy arguing to put the pieces together.”
You scoffed. “Well, congrats to her, then. She got exactly what she wanted.”
Determined to put an end to this ridiculous setup, you turned toward the door, grasped the handle, and gave it a firm tug. It didn’t budge. Your pulse ticked higher. You tried again, more forcefully this time, but the door remained stubbornly locked.
Behind you, Sam sighed, the sound far too entertained for your liking. “Still locked?”
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, jaw tight. “Obviously.”
Before he could toss out another quip, the overhead speakers crackled to life, the static buzzing through the dimly lit room before a saccharine, overly cheerful voice filled the space.
"Welcome, lovebirds, to the Valentine’s Day Escape Challenge!"
Your entire body went rigid. Sam, standing just a few feet away, had stilled completely, his eyes narrowing like he was already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.
"Over the next hour, you and your partner will work together to solve puzzles, uncover secrets, and—most importantly—ignite a spark between you!"
Your eye twitched. "The what?"
The Falcon was still staring up at the speaker, but you could feel the sheer amount of unspoken profanity radiating off of him.
"You have sixty minutes! And remember... teamwork makes the dream work!"
A mechanical clunk sounded somewhere in the room, and a timer flickered to life on the far wall, its neon numbers casting an ominous glow.
59:59. 59:58. 59:57.
You inhaled deeply through your nose, forcing down the overwhelming urge to scream, then turned to Sam. He met your stare, equally exasperated, equally resigned.
The room was an assault of saccharine love-themed aesthetics, as if Eros himself had suffered a violent, glitter-drenched demise. Heart-shaped garlands draped along the walls in looping chains, glowing pink fairy lights casting a hazy, dreamlike blush over every velvet-draped surface. A gilded vanity stood against one wall, its mirror smeared with cryptic riddles in waxy, crimson lipstick. The simulated fireplace screen let out crackled sounds, its flames flickering just a little too artificially, a cheap illusion of warmth in a space meant to seduce.
At the center of it all sat a small, round table, dressed in pristine white linen, set for two. A single wax-sealed envelope rested atop the china, like the final invitation to some grand, elaborate joke.
Sam let out a low whistle, slow and unimpressed as he took in the spectacle. “It’s like Cupid threw up in here.”
You crossed your arms, exhaling through your nose. “More like a discount wedding venue.”
“Either way, I already hate it.”
“Great. Common ground.” You stepped forward, plucking the envelope off the table, breaking the seal with a sharp tear. “Means we’ll get through this faster.”
Inside, a delicate pink card gleamed under the low lighting, its cursive gold lettering gliding across the surface like a whispered dare:
"To escape, one must first unlock the heart. Find the key, answer truthfully, and embrace the game."
You flipped the card over, your frown deepening. Blank.
“Well, that’s unhelpful.”
Sam leaned in over your shoulder, the warmth of his unwelcome presence creeping at your back. “Sounds like a load of nonsense.”
“Sounds like we need to find a key.” You tossed the card aside and swept your gaze across the room. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He followed at an infuriatingly lazy pace, hands tucked in his pockets. “You always this impatient on dates?”
You shot him a glare. “You always this obnoxious?”
“‘That a rhetorical question?”
You huffed, stepping toward the vanity. Its antique gold frame was chipped, and its once-opulent beauty weathered down to something just shy of decadent. Trinkets littered the surface—heart-shaped perfume bottles, a pearl necklace draped over a porcelain hand sculpture, and a plush teddy bear wearing a satin bow tie.
You picked up the bear, giving it a shake. Something rattled inside. Without hesitation, you grabbed the bow and pulled at it, to which the Avenger let out a sharp breath. “At least pretend to have some finesse. Poor guy.”
You turned, leveling him with a glare. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you prefer I politely ask the stuffed animal for the key?”
His smirk was all teeth. “Wouldn’t hurt to try.”
With an exaggerated tug, the bow finally tore away, revealing a tiny brass key stitched into the lining. Triumphant, you held it up between two fingers, letting it catch the candlelight. “Hah. Suck it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He nodded toward the oversized keyhole carved into the farthest door. “Moment of truth.”
The lock clicked smoothly, the door groaning as it swung inward to reveal the next part of your prison—a room bathed in deep red velvet, dimly lit by flickering candle sconces. A loveseat sat at its heart, a small pedestal beside it, where a single glass dome encased a perfect red rose.
You exhaled sharply. “Great. More romantic fuckery.”
Sam rolled his shoulders, his stance widening. “Starting to think this whole thing is just an excuse for people to make out in a locked room.”
You shot him a warning look. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Oh, trust me, you’re really killing the mood.”
Your attention shifted to the plaque beneath the rose. The words, engraved in curling script, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine: "A promise once spoken, never fulfilled, lingers in the heart forever." You took a step back, exhaling a little too precipitously. “Alright. Where’s the next clue?”
Sam didn’t move. His gaze lingered on the plaque before flickering back to you. “That bother you?”
“Nope,” you said too quickly. “Just wanna get out of here.”
He studied you, and for once, he wasn’t all for the laughs. “You’re lying straight to my face.”
You stiffened. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on.” His voice was laced with the same exasperation you remembered from years ago—when things were different. When things were good. “You think I don’t know? You think I don’t see it?”
You pivoted angrily towards him. “See what, Sam? I told you everything already. You want to talk about how years later, when you came back, I was the one whose name got dragged through the dirt because some paparazzi decided I made a convenient headline?”
His jaw ticked. “You think I wanted that to happen?”
“Well you barely did a damn thing to stop it, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, so that was my fault?” His voice rose, heat sparking in his eyes. “I was trying to keep you out of that mess! You think I had any control over what the media did?”
“Maybe not.” Your breath came hard now, uneven. “But you had control over what you did. And you chose to stay silent.”
The room’s candlelight flickered violently, shadows dancing along the walls that suddenly felt like they were closing in on you, encaging you in this intolerable and toxic chasm of tug-of-war fight. Sam’s hands flexed at his sides. He looked like he wanted to grab something—grab you, maybe, or stop himself from doing exactly that.
“Say it,” he finally murmured, voice rough.
You swallowed. “Say what?”
“Whatever it is you’ve been dying to say since I walked back here.” His gaze burned into yours. “Go ahead. Get it out.”
The pathetic words escaped before you could stop them.
“You lied to me and I hate you for it.”
Sam flinched, but you pressed on, voice breaking on the edges. “You promised I wouldn’t just be some forgotten thing in your past. And you never even tried.”
His nostrils flared. “You think I didn’t want to?”
“Oh, please.” You let out a bitter laugh. “You were fine. You left, became a hero, and forgot all about me until you came back wearing a fucking jetpack.”
“You were never something I could forget.”
You felt something crack in your chest. “You don’t get to say that now, Sam,” you whispered.
He stepped closer. Then again. You barely realized you were moving too, until the air between you collapsed, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the tension a live wire sparking between your ribs.
"Then look me in the eye," Sam rasped, his voice raw, teetering on the edge of something dangerous. "Look at me and tell me I’m lying and this doesn’t mean anything anymore. Tell me you don’t feel it—say the words, and I’ll walk away. But say them like you mean them."
Your throat worked, but no words came. Because as much as you wanted to deny the allegations, you did feel it. The frustration, the anger. And beneath it all—the wanting, the aching. The bone-deep longing for something neither of you had the courage to claim when it mattered.
In an unfurling of sudden movement, his back hit the wall with a dull thud, but before he could react, you were on him, fisting the front of his shirt and crashing your mouth against his, engaging in a battle more than a kiss. It was akin to a wildfire—scorching, desperate, all teeth and heat, the culmination of every regret and every second wasted.
The pilot groaned into it, his hands flying to your waist, strong and sure as he hauled you against him. A sharp gasp left you at the feeling of his body flush with yours, but he didn’t give you room to think or to breathe. He spun you, pressing you back against the wall, his mouth relentless against yours, moving with a punishing, consuming intent—like he wanted to devour you whole.
Your fingers twisted further into his meticulous white shirt, attempting to pull him impossibly closer than you already were. He swallowed the sound that escaped you, deepening the kiss like a starved man, like he needed this, needed you, needed to make up for all the time lost.
His lips dragged over your jaw, hot breath ghosting against your skin.
"Still mad?" he murmured against your lips, voice thick with want, teasing even now, even like this.
Your teeth sank into his bottom lip, seizing it and savoring how his breath hitched at your doing, the way his fingers flexed against your waist. "Furious."
Sam’s breath stuttered against your lips, a ragged sound caught between a groan and something dangerously close to surrender. His fingers curled into your waist, holding you like he needed to anchor himself, like if he let go, you’d slip through his grasp and take the last shred of his self-control with you.
The kiss burned, devouring, each second unraveling the years of restraint neither of you wanted to acknowledge anymore. You felt the tension in the way he pressed against you, in the way his hands slid beneath your shirt, palms searing against your skin. Your nails raked down his back, dragging over hard covered muscle, bunching the fabric of his shirt in your fists as if you could pull him deeper into you, as if there was any space left between you to close.
"Tell me to stop," Sam gasped through the clashing of your mouths, the words nearly lost to the breathlessness between you. His request went ignored as his lips traced a slow, punishing path down your jaw, his breath hot against your throat as his hands wandered, gripping, relearning, claiming back what was once his for a brief instance.
You tilted your head, granting him more access, shivering as he took it without hesitation, teeth scraping against sensitive skin. Your fingers roamed over his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt, the solid weight of him beneath your touch. It wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed skin, heat, the press of him without barriers.
Your hands found the first button of his shirt, fumbling in your urgency. One button slipped free, then another, the fabric parting under your fingers.
Until the door slammed open.
You barely had time to gasp before Sam reacted on instinct. In a blur of movement, he thrusted you behind him, body braced like a shield between you and whoever had just interrupted.
A pair of employees stood in the doorway, frozen like deer in headlights. One clutched a clipboard, the other a maintenance checklist, both staring like they had just walked in on a crime scene.
A heavy silence stretched between all of you.
"Uh…" The clipboard guy cleared his throat, his voice weak, almost apologetic. "This… isn't a private room."
Sam exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience clearly dangling by a thread. His chest still heaved with unspent frustration and the lingering burn of what had been seconds away from happening. He ran a slow hand down his face before fixing them with a dark, pointed look.
"Clearly," he said flatly.
The maintenance guy swallowed hard. "We—we knocked. Three times."
Clipboard guy shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting everywhere but at you and Sam. "Look, we know you signed up for it and all, but this is too much—you can’t stay here. We have to ask you to leave. Immediately."
The Avenger stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as he looked them up and down. The movement was subtle, but the effect was instant. Clipboard guy flinched. Maintenance guy tensed, suddenly looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.
"You saw nothing," he declared lowly. "And whatever you think you saw? No you didn’t." His gaze flicked downward, locking onto the phone peeking out of the employee’s pocket.
The guy scrambled to pull it out, hands shaking as he unlocked the screen. "N-Nothing there! See?" He turned it around in a panic.
Sam barely glanced at it before nodding, satisfied. "Good. Smart choice."
You bit your lip, caught between laughter and mortification as Sam slid an arm around your waist, steering you toward the exit with purposeful ease.
"Now," he continued, voice laced with something smug as he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, "if you’ll excuse us, we have somewhere else to be."
His grip on your hip tightened as he led you outside, your pulse hammering in response, the rest of the world fading as the need he had ignited moments ago roared back to life with a vengeance.
⠀
⠀
The ride back to the restaurant was enveloped in a heavy silence—not the brittle awkwardness of unspoken apologies nor the tenseness of imminent confrontation, but a solemn, almost sacred quietude laden with things neither of you yet dared to name.
You kept your eyes fixed on the road, though the lingering warmth of Sam’s hand on your waist remained—a memory of intimacy that had evaporated the instant you stepped out of that room. The echo of what had nearly transpired clung to your skin like a phantom caress, simmering just beneath the surface, an unacknowledged secret shared between you.
When you finally reached the restaurant, the usual mix of clamors of conversation and the tinkling of glasses felt jarringly discordant against the subdued cadence of your thoughts. You both hesitated at the entrance, lingering in the threshold. After a long pause, Sam sighed deeply, his hand drifting to his jaw as if to smooth away the remnants of the night’s turbulence. “Go wait for me,” he ordered you, “at our spot.”
That command stopped you in your tracks.
Our spot.
It had been years since either of you had dared to approach it, much less mention it aloud. The old corner by the water hidden from the prying lights of the city, where you had once spent long, languid nights nursing cheap beer, debating everything and nothing, and watching the world settle into quiet dreams. Back when neither of you had been bold enough to risk shattering that fragile haven.
You searched his face, but his eyes were fixed beyond you, as if he were still uncertain whether the words should have been spoken at all. Still, you nodded.
The dock greeted you like a cherished relic from a bygone era. Weathered wooden planks stretched over dark, rippling water, the faint, distant glow of the city shimmering in its reflection. The air was crisp and invigorating, hinting at the encroaching chill of night and making you wish you had remembered to bring a jacket.
You sank onto the edge of the dock, letting your feet dangle freely above the water, your fingers twisting together in quiet contemplation. Time slipped by in muted anticipation until, at last, the sound of footsteps echoed softly behind you. Then, as if conjured by the very night, a presence settled beside you.
Without a word, Sam pressed a cold bottle on your forehead that burned as it met your skin, making you almost jump out of your place before you took the flask of whiskey—and set another beside him. He then unfurled a thick, timeworn blanket, draping it over both of you with a fluid, almost reverent motion.
The warmth of the blanket combined with the closeness of his body seeped into you instantly, chasing away the chill of the night. For a long moment, you simply sat there, the dock creaking softly beneath your weight, the gentle lapping of water against old wood composing a quiet symphony for your shared solitude.
You sighed, rolling the bottle between your palms. “So..”
One simple word laden with the totality of everything left unsaid, a distillation of years of longing, regret and the raw, unspoken truth of your intertwined past.
You exhaled slowly, tightening your grip on the blanket as though holding it could tether you both to this moment. This was it—the precipice upon which you both now stood. There was no turning away, no hiding behind silence any longer.
“So,” Sam repeated, his voice tinged with playful mischief as he copied your idle toying with the cold bottle in his hand, “that was… something, wasn’t it?”
“Ugh, don’t say something cliché like that. But yeah, that was definitely something for the books, I guess.” You managed a shaky smile, your words emerging in a hesitant cadence. There was a lightness in your tone—a mirth that felt like a delicate mask over the swirling emotions that both terrified and enthralled you.
The Falcon grinned, arching an eyebrow. “You know, if it weren’t for how noisy Sarah is, we might have savored it in peace.”
You chuckled softly, the sound both amused and rueful. “She practically narrated our every move. You know she loves her piece of drama.”
“Exactly,” he agreed in a playful tone yet laced with something deeper—a hint of regret, perhaps. “I think she made sure we were loud enough for at least the entire escape room to hear.”
You shook your head, still smiling despite the vulnerability threading through your laughter. “I guess sometimes a little noise is inevitable. I mean, if everything were hushed, we’d never have the chance to remember just how messy and magnificent it all was.”
Sam’s eyes softened as he took a slow sip from the bottle, the amber liquid catching the light. “Sounds like the perfect way to put it,” he murmured absent-mindedly. Your fingers moved on to fidget with the edge of the blanket draped around you, and Sam’s gaze frequently wandered to your flushed face, as if silently pleading for some unspoken reassurance.
“Ask me,” he suddenly requested, his voice both gentle and edged with a trace of desperation, as though he believed that the right question might finally untangle the knots of regret and longing that had haunted you both for so long. “Ask me the question you’ve been holding back.”
Your heart pounded against your ribs, each beat echoing with years of missed chances and unspoken words. In a trembling rush of emotion, you blurted out, “What—uh, did you like it?” Your voice quavered, carrying the weight of the moment like a fragile plea.
Sam’s eyes shimmered with a mixture of relief and sorrow as he slowly shook his head. “No,” he replied, his tone soft yet resolute. “I mean—yes, but that’s not what I meant.” He paused, carefully choosing his words as if every syllable carried the gravity of the past. “Ask me the one you’ve wanted to ask for so long.”
A delicate tremor passed through you, and your breath caught in your throat. After a long, painful silence, you whispered, “Why didn’t you write me?”
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water against the dock, as if the night itself awaited his answer. Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and slowly extracted a tightly knotted bundle of papers. Unraveling the thread with careful fingers, he revealed a stack of letters, yellowed with time and crinkled at the edges.
“I did write you letters,” he softly admitted, his gaze fixed on the fragile pages as if they contained his very soul. “That’s what I wanted to tell you for so long. Three hundred and sixty-five of them… one for every day.” His voice trembled with both pride and regret. “But you have to understand—the Air Force policy was tight as fuck. I couldn’t send them, and once I realized that, I… I knew you’d resent me for not keeping in touch.”
He paused, running a hand over the neatly stacked pages. “This whole thing took a toll on me—physically, mentally. I was drowning in obligations and fear, and eventually, I stopped writing because I thought maybe it was the only way to spare you from more pain.” His eyes darkened as he continued, voice barely a murmur now. “And as for the paparazzi… I thought that by not speaking, by keeping my distance, I’d protect you. If I wasn’t seen with you, they’d assume there was no connection—no real relationship worth prying into.”
A single tear glinted in the corner of your eye as you absorbed his words, each one a quiet confession, a secret revealed in the darkness. The letters lay between you like relics of a lost time—a testament to love, duty, and the unbearable cost of silence.
Your fingers trembled as they hovered above the fragile stack of letters, each page heavy with the weight of stolen years and unspoken regrets. The unsent words pressed against your chest as though they carried every moment lost between you, every silent apology and longing unfulfilled. You swallowed hard, the night air thick with an unspoken tremor that danced at the edge of every exhale.
“Tell me about them,” you professed, your voice scarcely more than a whisper carried on the breeze.
The pilot exhaled sharply, his thumb absently caressing the frayed edges of one of the letters as if it were a relic of his former self. “You really want to know?” he asked, his tone tentative, laced with both caution and the burden of truth.
You nodded, your silence affirming that, despite your uncertainty, you needed to hear every word.
For a long moment, Sam’s eyes remained fixed on the ink-smudged pages, the ghostly script of his past gazing back at him in silent testimony. “One of the first letters was angry,” he began, a wry, self-deprecating chuckle trembling at the edge of his words. “Not angry at you. Never at you. I was furious at the situation. I remember that first night in my bunk, where all I could think was how I’d have to let you down. I thought I should’ve fought harder, found a way to make it work. So I wrote it all down and thought that I would probably be out soon enough to give you them in person.”
His fingers tightened around the bundle, as if the letters themselves could anchor him to a past he both cherished and loathed. “I started writing about the small, absurd things—like how the coffee on base was godawful, the jibes from the guys when I apparently mumbled your name in my sleep—which I did not, to make things clear. I even wrote about an old couple I saw on television one day and how it reminded me of when you joked that we’d be arguing over directions even when we were eighty.” His tone faltered, growing quieter, more solemn. “And then there were the letters where I just… missed you. God, I missed you so much.”
Sam’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and his grip on the letters slackened, as though holding them was too painful. “And it got harder. Days turned into months, and I convinced myself that you’d moved on—that I had no right to cling onto us. But even then, I never stopped wanting you.”
He turned his gaze to you then, the glow of unsent confessions and quiet grief shining in his eyes. “And it shouldn’t matter anymore because it’s over. Or at least, that’s what I should believe. But it does. It always has.”
The wind whispered softly around you, stirring the fragile pages in his hand and carrying away echoes of moments lost to time. Your heart clenched, caught between the relief of knowing and the heartbreak of what might have been.
In one sudden, desperate motion, he reached for you. His fingers brushed your jaw lightly at first, then cradled your face with a tenderness that belied the cool night air. His thumbs, warm and steady, traced gentle arcs over your cheekbones—anchoring you both to this moment, to the years lost and the yearning that had bridged every mile of distance between you.
His eyes, dark and unwavering, burned into yours with an intensity that stole your breath away. “Hear me out, please,” he murmured, his voice low and insistent, as though the very thought of you slipping away again was unbearable. “I was a coward. I should’ve done better than that but I let fear, and everything else, win. I told myself I was protecting you, that I was doing what was best. But all I did was make it worse. I made you think I didn’t care when the truth is... I never stopped.”
Your lips parted in a silent gasp, but Sam did not wait for you to speak. His grip on your face tightened, firm enough to keep you tethered to him without causing pain.
“I love you.”
The words fell between you like fragile glass shards, the shatter of the barriers of years resonating with their fall. “Yeah, fuck this corny shit. I have loved you every single damn day since the moment I let you go. I know it’s selfish to say it now, after everything, but I just need you to know that I love you. And I’m so goddamn sorry that I ever made you doubt that.”
A shudder ran through you, and your hands clutched his wrists as if they were the only lifeline in your storm of emotions. Every syllable struck like a slow-burning flame, peeling back layers of anger, heartbreak, and longing until all that remained was the undeniable truth—him, you, and a love that refused to fade.
“Sam—” you began, but your voice cracked, the word lost to the tumult of your feelings.
It didn’t matter anyway, because before you could speak another word, he kissed you with the same fervor from earlier, as if he were a man finally allowed to feast upon the love that had sustained him in torturous silence. His lips met yours with a desperate ardour that sent shivers racing down your spine, his hands roaming to trace the soft curve of your neck and leading you to melt into the perfect fit of his embrace.
The world around you—the creaking dock, the ghostly remnants of past regrets—faded into insignificance. All that remained was the kiss, deepening with every heartbeat, as if he were trying to reclaim every lost day, every stolen hour of absence. And you, with equal fervor and need, returned his kiss. Your hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, as if in that embrace you could mend the ruptures of time itself.
When you finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads pressed together in the cool night air. “Please, tell me that wasn’t a mistake.”
Your fingers trailed slowly down his chest, grasping the fabric as if to hold onto the fragile promise of the moment. “No,” you whispered back, your voice tender and resolute. “This time it wasn’t.”
A slow grin spread across Sam’s face, and relief flooded his features like the first rays of the morning sun after a long, storm-ridden night. He swept you into his arms, lifting you clear off the ground to bring you closer, almost sitting on his lap. The world tilted delightfully as a rich, unburdened laughter bubbled from his chest in a way you hadn’t heard in a while, full of joy and the promise of new beginnings.
“You’re gonna make me lose my damn mind,” he crooned against your hair in a husky blend of disbelief and something infinitely tender, a softness that belied the wildness of the moment.
A breathy laugh escaped you as your hands instinctively clinging to his broad shoulders as if anchoring you both to the present. “You’re acting like I just solved every world crisis,” you teased, even as your heart pounded in its rhythmic cadence.
“Nah,” he replied, his thumb traced reverently along your jaw, as though memorizing every curve and line of your face. “Just mine.”
A quiet ache formed in your chest at the way he looked at you, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real, as if he were etching every detail of you into memory in case the universe ever dared be cruel again.
Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, and with a voice steadier than you felt, you whispered, “I love you too, Sam.”
For a heartbeat, his lips parted as if to utter more, but before the words could spill, a familiar voice shattered the reverie.
“Hey, lovebirds! Dinner’s ready!” Sarah called from the restaurant’s back porch, her tone playful as she leaned against the doorway with crossed arms and a knowing smirk that practically screamed, took you long enough.
Sam groaned, tipping his head back. “Jesus, can I have one moment—just one?” he protested.
Laughing, you grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the warm glow of the restaurant. “Come on, loverboy, before she comes out here and drags us inside herself.”
The golden light of the restaurant melted away the coolness of the night, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. As you walked back to the shack, a spark of mischief danced at the edges of your lips. You shot Sam a sidelong glance, the playful glimmer in your eyes challenging him.
“Wait a second…” you drawled, narrowing your eyes and tilting your head. “Did you—did you quote The Notebook in your big, dramatic profession of love?”
For a moment, his grip on your hand tightened, and he faltered, pigment further coloring his cheeks. “What?” he managed, his tone caught between indignation and bashful amusement.
“Oh my God,” you gasped, pressing a hand to your mouth as barely contained laughter bubbled forth. “You did! That ‘it wasn’t over’ thing—straight out of The Notebook!”
His arm looped around your shoulders, drawing you closer with a quiet, playful threat. His large palm briefly covered the back of your head as he guided you forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Say one more word about that, and I swear I will stuff you so full of oysters you won’t be able to utter a single syllable for a week.”
You snorted. “Really? That’s your big intimidation tactic?”
“Ever tried eating twenty oysters in one sitting?” he shot back, arching a brow and letting his lips twitch in a smirk. “I don’t think so. Now, go sit down and eat before I make it happen.”
Grinning, you leaned into his side, feeling the easy warmth of his arm as it draped around you. After all the lost time and shattered dreams, everything felt achingly, irrevocably right. Perhaps the years apart had only deepened the truth: the time you thought was lost might, in fact, still be yours to reclaim, as you were fated to be stuck together no matter what.
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pairings: xu shang-chi x avenger!reader, ex!bucky barnes x avenger!reader
summary: when an unknown group of people go after what’s left of the avengers, you and your boyfriend shang-chi must flee to the avengers’ safe house leading to confessions about your past relationship with a certain super soldier
a/n: replies and reblogs are super appreciated!
word count: 3.2k
warnings: angst, mentions of getting attacked, starting a family, break ups
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“Shang-Chi?”
“Yeah?” Your boyfriend called from the passenger seat as he slipped the ten rings onto his arms.
You gripped the backs of his and Katy’s seat as a blast sent from the car chasing you shook the vehicle.
synopsis: When you moved in with Sam, you never thought about how differently you both decorated the Christmas tree. Thankfully Sam had an idea
tw: fem!reader, none other than reader celebrates Christmas, barely edited.
fic, ficlet, drabble, request
Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!!
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You hadn't decorated a tree with Sam yet, up until this year you two had lived separately. But when you both agreed it was time to move in together, you realized this would be your first year decorating together. You had to compromise, you came from a family that decorated after Halloween and he came from a family that didn't decorate until December 10th. You both agreed that you'd start decorating December 1st, but you were allowed to go through both of your decoration boxes to plan what you both wanted out.
The main decorations weren't the problem, Sam didn't have many and what he did have matched yours pretty well. It was the tree you both had problems with. Your family did color coded ornaments each year and Sam's focused on the more sentimental ornaments. You both wanted it your way, it was the way you had always done it. The actual tree wasn't the problem though, since you came from an apartment your tree was pretty small. So you two decided that it would look better to use Sam's tree.
It was Sam who came to the realization you two could mix the way you decorated the tree, but only after he realized you were used to a smaller tree and they would fit on his tree along with his ornaments. You could have your nice color coded ornaments and he could have his sentimental ones, you would both just have to pair down what went on the tree.
It started with you and your colored coded ones. "I'll use these to cover some of the bare spots from the branches, and then we can add yours to the areas around them," you offered.
Sam nodded, looking over the ornaments you both chose. "These work really nice together," Sam pointed out, seeing how his ornaments worked with yours.
You looked away from the tree to see what he was looking at. You smiled when you realized what he was talking about. "They do, don't they? I noticed it when I was laying my ornaments next to yours," you smiled at Sam.
Sam gave you a smile back, grabbing one of your ornaments and placing it on the tree. "I'm glad I thought of this, I really didn't want you to have to give up how you decorated the tree," Sam admitted.
You looked at your boyfriend, soon to be fiancé but you didn't know that, and gave him a small kiss. "Me too, I wanted you to have your sentimental ones up. Mine have no value except what I paid for them, yours tell stories," you told him.
The smile Sam gave you made butterflies erupt in your stomach. "Don't worry, we'll get ornaments that tell the story of us," he pulled you into a deeper kiss before you both went back to decorating. Ok, maybe there was more flirting than decorating but the tree got done eventually.
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What about Sam Wilson x reader and they’re having an arm wrestling contest
Arm Wrestle ~ Sam Wilson
synopsis: you tell your boyfriend Sam you could beat him in an arm wrestling contest
tw: fem!reader, established relationship, barely edited.
fic, ficlet, drabble, request
Hi!! I hope this was what you wanted!!
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You knew your boyfriend was stronger than you, he was Captain America for fucks sake, but you still liked to push your luck. Like now, you were sitting on the couch with him, his arms wrapped around you. He knew you had a thing for his biceps, the way you always held onto them and ran your fingers over them. You tore your eyes from the TV to his arm, your fingers ghosting over his biceps before an idea formed.
"I could totally beat you in an arm wrestling contest," you mused, it was a joke but one that Sam took seriously.
"I don't think you could, baby girl," Sam told you carefully.
"No, I think I could," you argued, it was enough for him to push you off him before sitting up.
"Ok, let's find out," he challenged and you smiled, you knew you were going to lose but you also knew he would let you pretend to be winning for a minute.
You two settled in front of each other, your hands intertwined with elbows resting on pillows. You gave it your all and Sam pretended that you were giving him a run for his money, not to say you weren't strong, you just weren't Captain America strong. You noticed right away when he was starting to put more effort in, your strength not enough. Your hand hit the pillow and you smiled up at Sam, your joy contagious.
"Told you I could beat you," you said with the biggest grin.
"I'm pretty sure I just did," Sam raised an eyebrow at you.
"Nope, I did because I got to watch my boyfriend be silly and display his biceps," you let out a breathy laugh at his face.
"You're a silly girl, baby," he shook his head but pulled you to lean back against him again with a smile on his face and a kiss pressed to your temple.
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summary: After years of no contact, your concern and worry for the man you used to be so close to become too much for you to stay away anymore. And after seeing you again, Bucky only realizes what he could have when he is close to losing it again
word count: 4.7k
warnings/tags: 18+, brief mentions of smut but nothing graphic, swearing, bucky is the biggest yearner ever, mentions of bucky’s mental health issues, reader is down bad for bucky, alpine is there too, a little bit of angst
author’s note: This was inspired by a TikTok I’ve seen about how Bucky lost his spark again after tftws and I really enjoyed writing this story, but I wasn’t as convinced by it anymore after I edited it. I honestly don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this one, but I hope you’ll like it anyway!
Even though Bucky hadn't been on a mission in what felt like forever, he didn't think that the instincts fighting had taught him were something he was ever going to lose.
It was already way past midnight when he unlocked the door to his apartment, the soft click a gentle reminder that the day was over now, that he had a few hours before he had to get back to Capitol Hill, a few hours of peace and quiet he got to spend with Alpine before he would go back to spending his whole day with the kind of people whose rules he'd neither cared about or played by when he had still spend his time on missions instead of long meetings with terrible coffee and even worse opinions.
When he'd first become a Congressman and was so busy navigating this unknown territory, he welcomed all the distractions like an old friend he was more than desperate to see again- a coping mechanism Dr.Raynor wouldn't approve of, but the only one that ever really managed to pull him away from the emotions that threatened to swallow him whole.
At the beginning, it had worked so well Bucky had dared to think that maybe, just maybe, this was his chance at finally having something good.
At finally having a life that brought him the peace he so desperately wanted.
He probably should've known that something that good wasn't something a man like him would ever deserve to have, but rationality had never been something that worked when it came to Bucky's feelings.
So now that he was trapped in the same tiring cicle he had tried to escape from when he decided to leave his life on active duty behind, the life that had included you, he was grateful for the exhaustion weighing his bones down now, because it usually meant that sleep would come to him more easily than it usually did, something you learn to cherish when being asleep is the only time your mind lets you have a break.
When he opened the door, ready to mindlessly kick of his shoes and greet his little girl, a shiver so cold and dreading rolled down his back, he reached for a gun he didn't even carry anymore.
It was quiet. Not the kind of quiet he'd grown so used to, though, not the one that cruelly reminded him the only company he ever got to have was the sound of late night traffic seeping though the window and soft paws padding against the polished floor.
This felt different. The air was still, charged with something Bucky couldn't exactly place yet but definitely implicated that he had company- not the kind anyone ever wanted to have.
He was painfully aware of it when he closed the door behind him, moving through the apartment with a kind of stealthiness you only carried after spending decades of your life as the most feared assasin in the world.
Honestly, with as many enemies he had, Bucky wouldn't be surprised if somebody came here for revenge, wanting to take from him what he took from them, wanting justice for something something as cruel as what Hydra had done to them, paying no mind to the fact that Bucky was as much a victim to Hydra's violence as they were.
Most people didn't understand that, though. He was the one stained by the blood Hydra had shed, the weapon they had used to get everyone and everything out of the way that didn't fit into their system of control.
And actions led by the need for revenge were barely ever ones that cared about logic, about whether or not he had any choice in what his body had been forced to do.
Bucky understood that better than he maybe should. And he was prepared for anything, because there were endless scenarios for what might happen if there was really someone in his apartment, just waiting for the right moment of distraction that made him vulnerable enough for them to charge at him.
That moment wasn't going to come, though. Vulnerability wasn't something Bucky did anymore, which left him prepared for whatever was to happen now.
At least, that was what he thought until he saw you sitting at his kitchen table like you owned the place, Alpine blinking at him like this was a completely normal situation and you didn't just break into his apartment after two years of no contact.
Maybe it would've been normal if the two of you hadn't seperated back then, both of your lives too much of a mess for this thing simmering between you to have any future. Maybe, if you had pushed through all issues and carried the weight both of you had to deal with together, this would be your shared home now, a place that offered the kind of security and comfort neither of you ever had much of.
But this probably was't the right time to think about that.
Some of the tension seeped out of his body, shoulders relaxing when his mind registered that the intruder wasn't one of his old handlers or someone who wanted him dead, but the longer he looked at you, the more he realised that a scenario like that might've been easier to handle than this.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
The lazy grin that spread across your face didn't do much to calm his still very much racing heart, his pulse stumbling in a way it hadn't in such a long time, he hadn't thought he would ever feel it again.
You truly were as beautiful as he remembered.
Still, you also were as infuriating as ever as you stretched in your seat, taking your sweet time to answer him like you weren't pulling feelings back up that he thought were long buried under layers of denial and him repeatedly telling himself that you were better off without him anyway, that him missing you was better than dragging you into his life, a place someone as good as you had no business being in.
And here you were anyway, completely unaware of his inner turmoil and as unbothered as ever.
"It's good to see you too, Barnes. Honestly, I expected a little more enthusiasm, but I guess this works as well."
Bucky could only scoff, because of course you would be the one making jokes in a situation like this.
It wasn't funny, though. Not at all.
Watching you here, your features illuminated by the warm light the street lamp provided, that was all Bucky had wished for and still the one thing he'd dreaded the most.
You looked the same, mostly, but there were a few changes he couldn't help but notice, especially not with how well he had every little detail about you comitted to memory.
There was a roughness to you there hadn't been before, the hard lines of your face catching him off guard a little, because even on the toughest missions and in the most dangerous situations, you'd never failed to lighten the mood with the wit and fire he adored so much.
Now, the light in your eyes seemed dimmed, almost like the last years had been as hard on you as they had been on him.
It was unnerving, seeing you look so similar and yet so different, but what really worried him was that you were here, for what reason Bucky didn't know yet, but it couldn't be good if you sought him out, even after such a long time of the two of you not talking to each other at all.
And whatever it was, Bucky was in trouble, that much he was sure of.
Because if you needed his help, he was more than willing to give it to you, no matter what it might mean for the political career he had worked so hard for. And knowing that, knowing just how much power you still had over him, even now?
That was dangerous.
If it was up to him, Bucky would ask you about it immediately, more than ready to go get the duffle bag he kept packed just in case, ready to follow you wherever you needed him to be.
But you didn't work like that. You were terrible at needing help and even worse at accepting it. Calling you out on it would do more damage than good, so Bucky did his best to just focus on the next best thing and let you navigate this, at your pace.
"Already made yourself comfortable, I see." He gestured towards the half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich sitting in front of you, something you used to eat all the time back when the two of you had still worked together.
Bucky didn't even like the combination all too much, but he kept it stocked anyway. Mostly because it helped lighten the heavy feeling in his chest, the one that usually got particulary bad when he was lying in bed at night, exhausted but unable to shut his mind off and painfully aware of how empty the king sized bed felt without you in it.
It was pathetic, eating the food you liked just to beat the lonliness for a while, but you'd always been good at making him feel the kind of things he never thought a man like him would ever get to feel again.
"Honestly, I thought with the amount of money you're making now you'd have all different kinds of fancy stuff stocked in your fridge, but you really don't have anything. What are you living off, coffee and thin air? That's just sad, Barnes."
"I eat out a lot." There wasn't even a reason for him to explain himself, but Bucky couldn't help it. Some part of him wanted you to believe that he was doing okay, that he wasn't as miserable as his apartment suggested he was, but who was he even kidding?
You'd always been able too see past his lies and performances, and with the way you were looking at him right now, it was safe to say that you knew exactly what was going on in his head.
You'd always been perceptive like that, understanding him in a way nobody else ever managed to.
And as infuriating as it was, he'd missed that.
"Sure you do, Congressman. I'm sure that these days, you're too busy for cooking anyway."
You didn't mean it in a mocking way, surely, but it irked him anyway, the way you called him Congressman. Like this version of him, the Bucky that was so lost in politics and running from his own life didn't have time for the things he used to love, that all the meals he used to cook after missions didn't have a space in this life anymore.
And maybe they didn't, now that he didn't have someone to care about and cook for anymore.
"Yeah well, some of us have more important stuff to do than that."
It was a stupid thing to say, unfair as much as it was wrong. What you did was important, even more so than the work he did, but Bucky was too stubborn to admit that the lack of quality his life really had didn't have anything to do with his job but everything with the lack if your presence in his life.
There wasn't any offense on your face, though- the exact opposite, actually. The smirk on your face only widened, an understanding look on your face which told him that you knew exactly what he was doing but didn't call him out on it anyway. Instead, you let your eyes fall onto Alpine and the small bowl sitting next to her, changing the topic for Bucky's sake more than it was for yours.
"I fed your kitty, by the way. The little thing wouldn't stop screaming at me." A chuckle slipped past your lips. "Guess you never lost the habit to surround yourself with stubborn women, huh?"
"I guess not, no."
The implication was more than clear and Bucky shouldn't engage with it, he shouldn't, but-
"There's just her now, though."
He didn't owe you anything, but it was important to him anyway that you knew there wasn't anyone in his life right now.
Not that there could be. Bucky was certain that there wouldn't ever be anyone else but you for him.
Your cocky expression turned into somethingg softer, something he hadn't seen in such a long time seeing it now felt as painful as it was refreshing. "Well, I'm sure she keepy you busy well enough."
"She sure does," Bucky agreed, also looking at Alpine now because that was easier to handle than looking at you. "You here for anything else than just the snack?"
You just shrugged, but the motion was jerky, too tense to actually count as casual. "I was in the neighborhood, figured I might as well say hi. I have to say, your security system wasn't as bad as I expected it to be but also really not as good as it should be, considering the amount of people who have a problem with you. Mediocre at best, if I had to rate it. You aren't getting sloppy, are you, Congressman?"
Hearing you call him that again was another poke at his already bruised heart, but Bucky forced himself to laugh anyway. "Well, mediocre for you is impossible to get passed for anyone else, so I think I'm good."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, but I'll take the compliment anyway," you shrugged, not letting him distract you with the praise and instead keeping your eyes trained on him, almost like you were… studying him. And that usually never meant anything good, especially not with how exposed he felt under your gaze. He was stripped raw, his emotions written in a language only you could understand, like it was the easiest thing in the world and you could read him like any other book.
It was impressive, really, but right now, he really didn't want you to be able do that.
"Talking about compliments, though- the suit looks really good on you, Barnes. Seriously, I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit before-"
"You did." The memory of that mission came crashing down on him immediately, the night that had followed something Bucky still thought about more often than he wanted to admit.
Dreamed about it, too, which usually ended with him waking up hard as a brick, the sight of your naked body almost glowing in the moonlight burned into his mind and usually leading to him taking a much needed cold shower immediately afterwards.
He couldn't tell you that, though, so he just watched as the confusion on your face was replaced by realisation as you understood what he was hinting at.
"The black suit you wore on that mission in Portugal, right?" You smiled at the memory of it, a mischievous look in your eyes. "Didn't really stay on for long thouh, did it?"
Apparently, you were thinking about the exact same thing he was.
"Not really, no." It was weird, discussing suck an intimate part of your relationship so intimately even though nothing about it had ever been casual.
But that was so typical for you, Bucky couldn't bring himself to be surprised about it. You'd always been terrible at expressing your emotions , quick to cover them up with a snarky remark or a witty joke so nobody would ever really pay attention to the mess going on inside of you.
But Bucky knew you better like that, he always had.
"Look, I really don't want to sound like I'm not glad to see you again, but-"
"That kinda sounds like the kind of thing you would say before telling me to leave."
Honestly, Bucky could've phrased that a little better because he could already see the first signs of you backtracking again. It was subtle, how you were trying to seem relaxed whilst tension coiled tightly in your shoulders, but so painfully obvious how prepared you were to bolt again, depending on what he would say now.
Again, it was really fitting for the woman he got to love all those years ago. Always ready to leave at the slightest chance of getting hurt, all the times you've been hurt before sitting in the back of your mind like a reminder you could never really seem to get rid off.
"I wasn't gonna say that. You know you're almost welcome here- you know that." Bucky wasn't sure if you really did know that, but he hoped that you did. All he ever tried to do was make sure you knew that no matter the situation, no matter what had happened or what you'd done, he would always have your back. "I don't mind you being here, I really don't- I just have a hard time understanding why exactly you would break into my place two years after we last talked to each other with your only reason being that you were in the neighborhood. I don't get that. Did something happen? Do you need my help?"
Bucky really didn't know how this could be funny in any way because he was being serious, but you chuckled anyway.
"Trust me Barnes, if I was desperate enough to seek you out for help, I wouldn't be this calm about it," you joked, but the humor seeped out of your feautures a moment later, your expression turning more serious than it had been ever since he'd first walked in on you.
When you got up from the chair, Bucky had to physically stop himself from backtracking. Not because he didn't want to be close to you-thatt wasn't it at all- but because he didn't know if he could stop himself from doing something stupid when you stood so close to him like that.
Now, with only a few inches of space between you, Bucky could see details he had missed before when you'd still been so far away, and for a moment, the two of you just… looked at each other,almost like you needed to see how much the person you used to know so well really had changed in the ast couple of years.
"I'm happy for you, you know that right?" It wasn't much more than a whisper, like saying those words too loudly was going to break something that was way too fragile to even begin with. "I really am. And I have to say, it's quite the impressive life you built yourself here. A steady job, a cat, a fancy apartment-"
"You know I never cared about that kind of stuff."
Maybe you didn't understand it, but Bucky coudn't just let you say those things, couldn't just listen to you counting off all those things that were supposed to show just how much of an amazing life he had right now, because it wasn't like that at all. Sure, he cared about Alpine, but not about the rest of it.
A good life meant absolutely fucking nothing if the loneliness ate at you so much, happiness didn't even have a chance to form with how rotten you felt most of the time.
"Well, maybe you should care. Maybe this is the kind of life you can finally enjoy, with the work you do now. Must be a lot more enjoyable than what we used to do, isn't it, Congressman?"
Again, hearing that term come out of your mouth like that was all he was to you now, a Congressman who switched his life of being an agent for this becauese he was searching for something better, for something more than what you used to have- it hurt more than he cared to admit.
"Quit calling me that." Maybe it shouldn't bother him as much as it did, because technically, that was his title now, but it just wrong to hear it come outt of your mouth.
He didn't care about the opinions other people had about him, he just cared about you.
He might be a weapon to some and a monster to others, but as long as you knew who he really was, whatever anyone else said didn't really matter to him anyway.
"What am I supposed to call you, then? You are a Congressman now, aren't you?"
God, you were such an infuriating, stubborn woman.
And Bucky couldn't be any more in love with you, not even all these years later.
"I was always just Bucky to you, wasn't I? You've never cared about that kind of titles before, so what is this about all of the sudden?"
It bothered him, how much of a distanc you were trying to put between the two of you with your words alone, but Bucky couldn't help but think that it was for a reason a little more complicated than just you trying to rile him up.
"I don't know, Barnes. Honestly, I don't even know what the fuck I am actually doing here, I just-" You ran a hand through your hair, a nervous habit he recognised immediately. "I'm glad that you got out of the bullshit Sam and I are still so stuck in, alright? I'm happy that your life doesn't consist of just fights and missions and waiting for the next job anymore, because you deserve this. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone else I know, there is no questioning that. And I know that this might not be my place anymore, but I know you, Bucky. And with all the stuff Sam has been telling me about how much you've been ignoring him again lately, it really doesn't seem like you're doing okay."
With every word that was coming outt of your mouth, the tightness in Bucky's chest only got worse, the concern on your face so visible now it was almost too much to handle for him.
With all the things you could've said and everything he might've wanted you to say, this really wasn't something he would've expected.
"I guess with all the things that have changed, that's a pattern that stuck, isn't it? You pulling away from the people you love when you're struggling?"
Again, Bucky had to stop himsef from taking a step back, from putting some distance between you as a desperate try to keeo you from seeing through him without him being able to do anything about it.
Damn you for seeing through all his pretense of wanting to seem okay in a time like this, when he was so fucking alone and miserable he didn't have the strength to pull himself out of the hole he felt so trapped in, because he didn't actually have anyone in his life to try to be okay for in his life, and doing it for himself?
Yeah, that really wasn't worth the effort.
The only constant people Bucky used to have in his life were you and Sam, but with how long he hadn't talked to you and how much of his time Sam spent in New York or Louisiana, it had been easy enough for Bucky to avoid him without seeming too suspicious.
Well, at least that was wht he had thought, but it wasn't like any tricks he tried to pull on others ever worked on you, anyway.
"Look, Buck, maybe we aren't as close to each other as we used to anymore, but I think it is safe to say that I know you. And whilst this is technically a very good life, with a routine you can rely on and nice company." Your eyes found Alpine for a moment, a small smile tugging on your lips. "You don't seem to be happy, Bucky. And that's all we ever wanted you to be- that's all I ever wanted for you. You've had enough years of your life taken from you, please don't spend even more trying to proof yourself to people who don't even care enough to stick around for the real you."
Your hand reached up, slow enough to let him pull away if he wanted to, but he didn't. He just watched as your fingers reached his cheek, so gently brushing against his skin, his knees almost buckled with how nice it was to feel it again.
"You're right, Bucky. I don't care about titles or whatever you might be to others- I care about you. And even though you might not believe it yourself, you are the best person I ever got to meet in my life, and you deserve to be happy, Buck. You really do."
Your touch was gone as quick as it came and Bucky knew that this was probably the time where he should say something, anything at all, but he couldn't bring himself to.
There just wasn't anything to say.
And before his brain could properly catch up, you already stepped away from him again, back to the window you've probably entered through, slipping through his fingers once again.
He could try to convince you to stay, just for a night so the to of you could maybe figure this out together, but Bucky knew that it wouldn't actually lead to anything.
Unfortunately, you'd never been good at staying when things got just a bit too real,and Bucky didn't have the strength to fight for someone he didn't believe he deserved anyway.
"Look, I'll be off your back now, you should probably get some rest," you said, pulling him out of his trance again, your hand already resting on the window frame.
"Just… take care of yourself, alright? That's all I'm asking for, James. And if you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me."
And with the echo of a name long forgotten echoing off the walls, the only thing Buchy could focus on was the space you'd been standing in mere seconds ago, before you vanished into thin air and left him in the state he'd been in ever since he'd brought you to that airport two years ago.
Confused, alone, and so utterly in love with you he was sure it was going to kill him one day.
Time passed again like it always did, after that night. Bucky got up the next morning, fed Alpine and made his way back to work, almost convinced that he was actually going insane now, that he'd just imagined you, his sleep deprivation and heartache so bad that his brain came up with the only thing that ever managed to bring him some comfort.
He knew that couldn't be what had happened, though, not with how much your scent ws still lingering in the air even though almost a month had passed already since you'd payed him that visit.
Your words had been playing on a loop in his head ever since, but he couldn't bring himself to act on them yet.
Not really, at least, but he also didn't decline his best friend's call when Sam's name popped up on his screen one evening, which Bucky would defintely count as progress.
"Buck?" Sam's voice sounded almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite grasp that his best friend had actually picked up, but there was also something more urgent underneath it, something that made his heart beat faster immediately.
"Holy shit man, I thought you weren't going to asnwer-"
"Sam, what's going on?" Maybe interrupting him like that was rude, especially with how avoidant Bucky had been for months now, but he really, really didn't like how upset Sam sounded.
"Look, just- how fast can you be in New York, Bucky?"
Not at all would've been the correct answer with all the workload he was facing right now because of the upcoming vote, but even though Bucky could be a really shitty friend sometimes, he knew that Sam wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.
And he would be damned if he ever let his friends hanging like that.
"Two hours, if I push it. Sam, you're really scaring me- what the hell is going on?"
The silence that followed was enough for Bucky's heart to nearly beat out of his chest, but what followed truly made his blood run cold, filling him with so much dread and panic he felt like he was going to throw up.
"She's at the hospital, Buck. A mission went wrong and- it's bad."
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