ℳ𝒶𝒹𝓈 ✪

There are exactly three kinds of phone calls that happen after 2:17am.

The first are emergencies. The second are mistakes. The third belong to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Your ears buzz with your ringing phone from beneath the dim blue glow of your apartment television, half-curled on the couch with paperwork balanced over your knees and takeout gone cold on the coffee table. Outside your windows, rain slicks the fire escape silver beneath the streetlights. Inside, your apartment smells faintly like coffee grounds, printer ink, and the lavender candle you forgot to blow out two hours ago. It would almost be peaceful until the screen flashes her name.

Because of course it does.

You let it ring once longer than you should before answering.

“Tell me you’re alive,” Valentina says by way of greeting.

You close your eyes. “Wouldn't answer if I wasn't.”

“Cute. I need Coney Island locked down by Friday.”

Your stomach sinks immediately.

There’s the rustle of papers on her end, heels clicking somewhere distant, voices moving around her like orbiting satellites. Valentina never really exists in silence, she exists in motion, in disruption. In perfectly sharpened smiles and impossible demands delivered like casual suggestions.

You glance toward the calendar taped beside your kitchen, every visible square is already full. Press conference Tuesday. Magazine interview Wednesday. Damage control briefing Thursday. A breakfast segment Friday morning where you'll have to remind John Walker to not call a reporter a communist on live television.

Again.

And somewhere between all of that, you’re supposed to sleep.

“Locked down for what?” you ask carefully, already knowing you won’t like the answer.

“The festival.”

Your face scrunches to yourself as you click the television off.

“The what?”

“The promo event for the New Avengers initiative.” She says it like this has always existed. Like you’ve simply forgotten. “Public morale is still shaky after New York.”

Shaky, that’s one word for it. Another might be catastrophic.

The Void incident had left the city bruised in ways news reports couldn’t fully capture. Broken storefronts, candlelight vigils, protestors outside federal buildings. Viral footage looping endlessly online and every headline asking the same question in different fonts:

Who cleans up the people meant to save everyone else?

Valentina’s answer, apparently, is a carnival.

You press your fingers against your forehead. “You want me to plan a festival in four days.”

“A patriotic community outreach event,” she corrects smoothly. “Family friendly. Charming. Nostalgic Americana. Think hot dogs, ferris wheels, smiling children.”

“You’re describing propaganda.”

“I’m describing public relations. Which is your department.”

Your department. Which, in practice, means every department. You handle schedules, rewrite interviews, stop Alexei from drunkenly live-streaming classified conversations. You remind Walker not to threaten journalists. You once spent six straight hours convincing a publication not to run an article titled THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You coordinate meetings, smooth scandals, track medication schedules, answer six phones at once, and carry emergency aspirin in every handbag you own because stress headaches have become less of an inconvenience and more of a personality trait.

Sometimes you think your real superpower is surviving on four hours of sleep and shitty vending machine coffee.

“You’ll have the team there,” Valentina continues. “Photo opportunities. Meet-and-greets. Humanize them.”

Humanize them as if they aren’t human already, messy and difficult and exhausted human beings carrying too much aching violence in their bones. You think of Yelena rolling her eyes through interviews while secretly making sure catering staff eat before security does. Bob nervously apologizing every time he takes up space in a room. Ava standing closest to exits without realizing it. Bucky Barnes sitting through press briefings with the expression of a man enduring minor dental surgery.

Your chest tightens a little at the thought of him. Not because you know him well, you don’t, not really. But you know the shape of him around the edges. The quiet way he lingers after meetings to stack abandoned coffee cups when nobody’s looking. The way he always notices when you haven’t eaten lunch. The low rasp of his voice saying your name carefully, like he’s worried about handling it wrong. You know he watches you when Valentina gets especially cruel. You know he hates these events, and now you’re about to force him into another one.

“There’s one more thing,” Valentina says.

Of course there is.

“The board wants something memorable.”

You stare blankly at your dark television screen. “…Define memorable.”

Valentina's laugh is all you get before the call clicks.

By the grace of cold brew and a supercharged energy drink, your own concoction that you only resort to in times of ultimate need, three days later Coney Island looks like someone tried to shove patriotism and Valentine’s Day into a blender.

Workers haul string lights across vendor stalls while event coordinators scream into headsets. Red-and-white banners snap violently in the ocean wind. Somewhere down the boardwalk, someone is testing a carousel organ loud enough to qualify as psychological warfare. Your clipboard is tucked against your chest while three phones vibrate simultaneously in your coat pocket and you haven’t sat down in nine hours. There are very few moments in life where you can physically feel a migraine settle in the back of your mind like a sedimentary rock, but this is definitely one of them. You pinch the bridge of your nose hard enough to see stars while the vendor beside you shifts awkwardly beneath your silence.

Behind you, Bucky's waiting beside a post. You can feel the weight of his stare somewhere between your shoulder blades. Not impatient or angry, just deeply suspicious in the way stray dogs eye thunderstorms.

You turn slowly, daring your approach.

The ocean wind catches strands of his hair as you walk over, dark and unruly from the humidity. He’s dressed down today—henley beneath a leather jacket, gloves tucked into one pocket like he’d debated wearing them and decided against it. The afternoon sun cuts sharp across the tired lines of his face, then his eyes flick past you toward the booth. Toward the giant pink sign with his name on it.

His expression goes completely blank which is somehow worse.

“Okay,” you say carefully. “Before you react—”

“Kissing booth.”

“Technically it’s more of a charity—”

“Kissing booth.”

You inhale slowly through your nose.

“It's a temporary kissing-adjacent promotional… station?”

Bucky stares at you, and you fearfully stare back. Somewhere nearby, Alexei loudly shouts something in Russian followed by what sounds suspiciously like metal bending. The boardwalk rattles with activity around you. Workers finish nailing the last of the stakes while vendors wheel carts into position. Someone tests the speakers again, blasting an aggressively cheerful rendition of Love Shack across Coney Island and you swear for a whole minute the universe is laughing at you.

Bucky gestures vaguely toward the booth like he’s not entirely convinced it’s real yet. “You want me to sit in there.”

“No,” you say quickly. “Well, yes. Kind of. This is just— there was a mix-up with the booth assignments.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Assignments?”

You pull the clipboard tighter against your chest.

Because, yes, assignments. The assignments you had spent the last forty-two hours fighting to organize while surviving exclusively on caffeine and stress. It had started reasonably enough, Valentina wanted a carnival and you had insisted if the Thunderbolts were going to do public outreach, they needed something interactive instead of forcing traumatized assassins on some stage for another dead-eyed press conference.

So you made booths.

Alexei immediately claimed the strength tester after nearly breaking it during setup. Yelena requested “something dangerous but whimsical,” which somehow became axe throwing and tightrope demonstrations after three separate insurance waivers. Ava chose disappearing tricks because, according to her, “I already vanish, might as well monetize it.” Walker took ring toss with the terrifying intensity of a man preparing for combat. And Bob—sweet, nervous Bob spent two entire nights teaching himself how to make balloon animals from YouTube tutorials because he wanted “kids to have a nice time.”

It should have worked perfectly and it almost had. Until Bucky never handed in his assignment slip. You had reminded him three times, once after a briefing, once outside the elevator and once while he was making coffee at two in the morning in the compound kitchen, sleeves shoved up his forearms while rain hammered the windows.

He’d looked exhausted that night. Distant. You remembered him rubbing a hand over his face and mumbling, “I’ll get it to you tomorrow.” Tomorrow had become three days later, three days later had become now, and now every booth was filled except one.

You clear your throat. “The thing is Mr. Barnes, since I didn’t get your slip back in time, you’re on the last rotation for the—”

“No.” The word comes instantly, flat and immediate.

You blink. “But Mr. Barnes—”

“No.”

The breeze snaps sharply through the velvet curtains behind you. Bucky folds his arms now, jaw tightening beneath the scruff.

“I’m not doing that.”

His voice isn’t harsh, and that’s the problem. If he sounded angry, maybe this would be easier. Instead he just sounds tired, sunken bone-deep tired. Like the very idea of sitting beneath a neon sign while strangers lined up to kiss him feels less embarrassing and more fundamentally cruel.

Guilt twists hot beneath your ribs and you lower your voice instinctively.

“We can figure something else out.”

And you mean it. You’ll rearrange the rotations. Move people around. Take over a booth yourself if you have to. You can fix this. You always fix this. But before another word leaves your mouth, heels click sharply across the boardwalk behind you and every muscle in your spine tightens immediately.

Valentina. Of course.

She appears beside you draped in cream silk and diamonds despite the salt-heavy wind, sunglasses perched elegantly atop perfectly styled hair. She takes one look at the booth, then at Bucky standing there like he’d rather be shot, and smiles.

Not kindly.

“Oh, good,” she says smoothly. “We’re discussing the crowd favorite.”

Bucky’s expression darkens instantly. “I said no.”

Valentina doesn’t even pause. “Put up or shut up, Barnes. You signed a contract.”

Silence drops hard between them, so hard that the nearby laughter buzzes faintly across the wind. The ferris wheel creaks overhead somewhere down the pier, each sound that once felt distant now nearly echoed in the silence.

Bucky stares at her with the particular stillness of someone barely holding himself together.

“You can’t seriously think this is a good idea.”

“I don’t particularly care whether it’s a good idea,” Valentina replies. “I care whether it works.”

“It’s humiliating.”

“It’s publicity.”

“It’s demeaning.”

“It’s one afternoon.”

You watch his jaw flex sharply as he looks away first out toward the ocean, toward gray water crashing endlessly against the pylons beneath the boardwalk and suddenly you remember that article again. THE WINTER SOLDIER: CAN HE FEEL LOVE? You remember ripping it from a reporter’s hands before Bucky could see it, remember staying late to bury the piece before publication, remember the way people look at him sometimes—not like a person, but like something to dissect. A weapon wearing human skin.

Your chest aches unexpectedly.

“Val,” you start quietly, “I can figure something else out, maybe we should just—”

“No,” she says simply.

Then, to Bucky, “You want the public to stop fearing you and seeing you as this weapon of mass destruction? Then give them something else to look at.”

The words land harder than she probably intends, or maybe exactly as intended. Bucky goes still, he's not angry or defensive, just closed off somewhere distant behind his eyes. You hate that expression. Hate how familiar it’s become around the compound. Because every time someone talks about him instead of to him, he gets that same look on his face like he’s already halfway gone from the room.

For a long moment, nobody speaks, then Bucky lets out a quiet humorless laugh and shakes his head once.

“Unbelievable.”

“You’ll survive.”

His eyes flick toward you then and somehow that’s worse. Because he isn’t looking at Valentina trying to asses the best way to dispose of her. He’s looking at you, not accusingly, he doesn't even look upset, really. Just tired. There's the gentle crinkle at the corner of his eyes that if you didn't know any better, looked apologetic, like he knows you’re caught in the middle of this too.

You swallow hard.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Something shifts briefly in his expression at that, something small enough you almost miss it. Then he sighs through his nose and drags a hand back through his hair.

“When do I start.”

Valentina smiles immediately, victorious. "Gates open in ten.”

By eight-thirty, Coney Island is glowing.

Not metaphorically, but literally glowing. Strings of carnival lights burn gold against the dark sky while neon signs flicker to life across the boardwalk. The ferris wheel spins slow and bright beside the ocean, all color and motion reflected against black water. Music drifts through the salt-heavy air—old pop songs, laughter, barkers shouting over games, the distant metallic scream of roller coasters cutting through the evening.

And somehow, it works. You stand near the main stage clutching your three phones and a clipboard while the crowd surges around the booths in thick waves of people. Families, tourists, influencers and reporters. Children running around with cotton candy bigger than their heads. Nobody’s yelling, nobody’s protesting, nobody’s asking who died in New York. For the first time in weeks, the New Avengers aren’t being looked at like loaded weapons. They’re just people. Messy, strange people at a carnival. Alexei becomes an instant favorite with teenage boys after “accidentally” lifting the strength tester clean out of the ground during a demonstration. He spends the next hour flexing for selfies while loudly insisting he could have beaten Steve Rogers in arm wrestling.

Ava disappears mid-conversation often enough to make children shriek with delight. Yelena’s booth develops the longest line after she starts mocking participants while perfectly splitting balloons with throwing axes.

“You throw like frightened raccoon,” she tells one businessman flatly. “But good effort.”

Walker gets weirdly competitive over ring toss and starts coaching children with military precision.

“Follow through, buddy. Commitment. Wrist control.”

And Bob ends up surrounded by kids hanging onto every balloon animal he makes like he’s performing actual magic. You buy a ticket from his booth for good measure after you catch him smiling to himself at one point while a little girl hugs a balloon dinosaur to her chest like treasure.

It’s good, better than good. It’s human.

Your chest loosens slowly throughout the evening in tiny increments you barely notice. Every successful interview, every laugh, every smiling photo opportunity. Every headline you know tomorrow won’t be catastrophic. Maybe this is what relief feels like you think, or maybe it’s just exhaustion finally numbing you properly. Either way, you’ll take it. You weave through the crowd toward the last booth on the pier, heels clicking over old wood planks sticky with spilled soda and ocean mist.

You already know what you’ll find before you get there. Chaos, soft red lipped line chaos. The line for Bucky’s booth stretches nearly halfway down the boardwalk because of course it does. The pink curtains glow warmly beneath hanging fairy lights while the giant KISSING BOOTH sign sways slightly overhead. Ticket stubs litter the counter. Someone has thrown rose petals everywhere for reasons you genuinely cannot begin to understand.

And seated inside like a deeply reluctant beauty pageant winner is Bucky Barnes. Miserable, popular, radiantly handsome and absolutely doomed.

You stop just outside the booth and watch for a moment unnoticed. He’d compromised eventually, after nearly an hour of arguing how the booth was going to run. No actual kissing, that had been the line. People could approach, take pictures, kiss his cheek if they wanted, maybe the corner of his mouth if they were brave enough and respectful about it.

That was it. No lap sitting, no flirting encouraged, no weird requests. And honestly? That restraint somehow makes the whole thing worse. Or better, you’re not entirely sure. Because Bucky sitting there all broad shoulders and reluctant charm while blushing every time someone kisses near his mouth has apparently become the event of the century.

A girl in her twenties leans over the booth counter carefully. “Can I kiss your cheek?”

Bucky sighs like a man moments from death. “Yeah. Sure.”

She kisses just beside his mouth instead and his ears turn immediately pink. The entire group of friends behind her starts screaming and you have to look away before he notices you smiling.

“You enjoying yourself?”

The voice startles you slightly, Bucky’s watching you now from beneath the booth lights, one brow lifted seemingly catching your not-so-slick smile.

You recover quickly. “I’m enjoying that nobody’s been arrested.”

“Still plenty of time.”

Someone shoves another handful of raffle tickets into the jar beside him so much so that the thing is nearly overflowing now.

You eye it suspiciously.

“You realize you’re winning by a concerning margin.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” you murmur. “You just accidentally became the main attraction.”

Another woman approaches the booth already clutching her phone for a selfie. Bucky gives you one last tired look before turning back toward the crowd. And maybe it’s the lights, or exhaustion, or the strange warmth of the evening settling around all of you. But something about him looks softer tonight, less guarded. Not happy exactly, just a little lighter maybe, like he’s forgotten to brace for impact for a few hours.

You leave before he catches you staring.

By the end of the night, the carnival's glow grows hazy and golden with exhaustion. Children sleep against parents’ shoulders, the boardwalk smells like sugar and salt and fried dough as workers begin shutting down smaller game stalls while music drifts quieter now beneath crashing waves.

You stand offstage near the raffle table reviewing final attendance numbers when Valentina sweeps past in her silk and diamonds like she personally invented public approval.

“Excellent turnout,” she says smoothly.

You glance at the overflowing crowd gathered before the main stage. “Shockingly.”

“I’m rarely wrong.”

“You’re frequently evil, though.”

She smiles. “Occupational hazard.”

Before you can reply, she steps onto the stage to thunderous applause and immediately slips into performance. God, she’s good at it too. Warm smile, measured pauses, the exact cadence of someone manufacturing sincerity in real time.

“Tonight,” Valentina announces smoothly into the microphone, “was about rebuilding trust. About community. About reminding the world that heroes do not stand above the people—they stand beside them.”

You nearly choke.

Nearby, Yelena mutters, “If I roll my eyes harder they will fall out of skull.”

Applause erupts anyway and Valentina continues effortlessly.

"We thank you humbly for your contribution tonight, all funds will proceed to the Rebuilding Manhattan Foundation along with a hefty donation from yours truly. But enough about our success. It's time to celebrate you!"

Two workers brought out matching clear globes full of tickets.

“And now—our raffle booth winner.”

Oh, you had forgotten about the raffle.

The booth competition had been a last-minute addition. Whichever Avenger earned the most tickets throughout the evening became the grand prize, and whoever held the matching raffle ticket would win “an exclusive evening experience” with them.

You’d assumed Yelena would win. Or maybe Alexei. Certainly not—

“And by overwhelming demand,” Valentina says dramatically, “our winner is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

The crowd loses its mind, actual screaming and cheering erupts across the pier while spotlights swing wildly toward Bucky near the side stage.

His face goes completely blank.

“No,” he says immediately.

Walker laughs so hard he nearly folds in half. “Oh my God.”

Yelena is openly crying from laughter while Bob claps supportively while somehow also looking apologetic about it.

Bucky gets shoved toward the stage anyway beneath deafening applause. You watch him climb the steps with the expression of a man approaching his own execution as Valentina beams beside him.

“Now,” she says, lifting the massive raffle jar from his booth, “let’s see who our lucky winner is.”

You barely pay attention at first. You’re checking engagement numbers on your phone while she digs dramatically through the tickets, then she reads the number aloud.

And your stomach drops clean through the floor.

No. No, absolutely not.

You know that number because you bought exactly one raffle ticket all night at Bob’s booth. Because he'd looked so proud of himself and that stupid dinosaur balloon. It was just one ticket. Your hand fumbles for the ticket in your pocket, freezing when you feel the paper brush against your fingertips. Around you, silence spreads slowly. People start turning and looking as your blood goes cold and Valentina repeats the number. You stare down at the crumpled pink ticket as you pull it from inside your coat pocket like maybe reality will change itself if you wait long enough.

It doesn’t, unfortunately. Walker notices first, the grin that spreads across his face is instant and catastrophic.

“Oh, this is unbelievable.”

Yelena physically doubles over laughing. Bucky looks confused at first then he sees your expression and realization hits him all at once. His eyes widen slightly.

“Oh no.”

The crowd begins clapping impatiently while you briefly consider faking your own death. Instead, against every survival instinct in your body, you slowly raise the ticket and the screaming somehow gets louder.

“Oh my God,” Bob whispers delightedly.

You want the boardwalk to split open and swallow you whole. Disappointingly it leaves you whole as you climb the stage steps feeling heat crawl violently up your neck while hundreds of people cheer like this is the greatest romance of the century.

Bucky stares at you as you step beside him. He doesn't look upset, he seems more stunned than anything.

“You bought a ticket?” he asks quietly.

“It was for Bob.”

“How does that somehow makes this worse.”

Valentina appears beside you both practically glowing with satisfaction.

“Perfect,” she says even though absolutely nobody agrees with her.

Someone shoves a bouquet into your arms. Another worker places ridiculous little carnival crowns onto both your heads to roaring applause from the crowd below. Then comes the champagne bottle, you stare at it in horror while Bucky looks like he’s dissociating.

"Now how 'bout a kiss? In honor of the booth." Valentina grins, all teeth like a predator closing in on its prey. It may have sounded like a question but there was only one answer allowed.

You dared a look over to Bucky who's eyes have now dropped to the floor, if looks could kill the stage would evaporate beneath you. Clearly charity wasn't enough for Valentina, and what's a successful Da Fontaine affair without a little public humiliation?

Slowly, with a crack of feedback from the mic, she starts up. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

And like sheep, the crowd follows behind her, a sea of echoing voices overlapping each other in front of you until it all blended into one symphonious torture device. You think you could die right here. There had to be a way to convince your heart to give up, maybe you can feign a drop in blood sugar and faint, though you're sure Valentina would spin it off as you swooning over the—

"Goddamnit."

You don't know how you heard Bucky's voice over the cries of the crowd. You also don't know when he got so close to you. And you definitely don't know what to do with the fact that his lips are on yours. His hand ghosting the side of your forearm, fingers just barely grazing the skin leaving a strange tingle of warmth in their wake.

Just as quickly as you realized what was happening, it was over. He had stepped back to his spot, plastic crown crooked on his head and eyes back to the floor.

“Enjoy your night!” Valentina announces brightly into the microphone, shocking you back to reality.

The crowd cheers again. Pictures flash endlessly from below the stage capturing your smile that feels medically concerning. Then Valentina leans toward you subtly while applause swells around the pier. Still smiling perfectly for cameras, she murmurs from the corner of her mouth,

“Stock and popularity reports on my desk by midnight.”

You blink at her.

“You’re assigning homework during my public humiliation?”

“Adaptability is important.”

Then she steps away smoothly to wave at the crowd while you stand there beside Bucky wearing a plastic crown and holding champagne like the world’s most exhausted newlyweds. For a long moment after you step off stage neither of you speaks. Then Bucky looks over at you, looks at the flowers, the matching crowns, the absolute despair on your face. And to your horror, he laughs. Quiet and dry, the closest thing to boisterous you think he's probably capable of.

The sound hits you strangely hard beneath all the carnival lights.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” he asks softly.

You stare at him flatly, the morbid embarrassment coursing through your body not even allowing you to register the nickname that he slipped out.

“No.”

Bucky only laughs again as he finally steps off the stage.

You stayed behind for a couple hours to make sure the cleanup of the fair went smoothly, watching the vendors roll out and the workers breakdown the booths and rides with practiced ease. There's a strange serenity to it, watching a near dozen people move so fluidly despite all doing different things. And the end result is well worth it, a glittering Coney Island all to yourself. There aren't many perks that come with this jobs as the cons often outweigh the pros but it's in the little moment like these that you find yourself lucky to do what you do.

The tower is quiet by the time you get back, not wholly silent but quiet enough. The New Avengers Tower never really reaches silence anymore—not with old pipes humming through the walls, elevators sighing faintly at odd hours, distant footsteps echoing somewhere several floors away. There’s always movement lingering inside the building like it hasn’t fully decided whether it’s headquarters or home.

But compared to Coney Island, the stillness as you walk in feels deafening. The carnival lights are gone now, no echoing music, no cheering crowds. No champagne bottles shoved into your hands while strangers screamed because apparently public humiliation counts as team bonding. Just fluorescent hallway lights and exhaustion settling heavy into your bones.

The others scattered almost immediately after returning as they usually do. Walker probably disappeared toward the gym swinging some rings around his fingers he took from his booth for "practice purposes only". Yelena likely stole three leftover funnel cakes from catering “for emotional recovery.” Alexei would loudly insist tonight proved he was “man of people" and you have no doubt that Bob carefully carried his remaining balloon supplies back to storage like they’re precious cargo.

And Bucky, you don’t know where Bucky goes. Not that you look when you get there, you head straight toward your office, even if you didn't have paperwork to do it's just second nature to you now. Your arms and legs strangely yearning for the hunch of your desk chair. The room greets you exactly as you left it: dim desk lamp glowing amber over scattered paperwork, abandoned coffee cups lining the windowsill, schedules pinned crookedly across the corkboard beside your desk.

Home sweet home.

You sigh quietly and set the ridiculous bouquet onto your desk and for a second you just stare at it. The pink roses, baby’s breath and tiny glittering ribbons curled around the stems. The thing looks aggressively romantic to the point where you almost throw it away. Yet after a long moment, you find an empty vase near the filing cabinets and fill it carefully from the office sink. The flowers settle into the water slowly, softening the harshness of the room in a way you immediately resent.

Then there’s the crown. Cheap plastic silver with fake rhinestones glued along the front. You turn it over once in your hands and a laugh nearly escapes you remembering the look on Bucky’s face wearing the matching one beneath all those flashing cameras. You should throw this away too. Instead, without entirely meaning to you place it carefully on the shelf beside your desk. Right between the “World’s Best Boss” mug Bob gave you ironically and a stack of outdated press binders. You stare at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you sit down and go back to work, because that’s what you do.

Hours blur strangely after midnight.

The tower grows quieter floor by floor while your office remains trapped in artificial daylight from computer screens and desk lamps. You build itineraries, rewrite schedules, confirm hotels. Cross-reference security routes and everything in between for next month’s national press tour. Florida. Louisiana. Texas. Nevada. California. Washington. Every city another performance as another attempt to convince the public the world is safe in the hands of people barely holding themselves together.

Your eyes burn by one-thirty. By two, your shoulders ache, by two-forty-seven in the morning, you’re staring blankly at a spreadsheet without actually reading it.

The knock at your open office door startles you anyway.

You look up too quickly, your eyes needing a moment to adjust to the sudden change in view, and when they focus they go wide in surprise. Bucky leans against the doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of gray sweats, dark t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders. His hair is damp like he showered recently, slightly curled at the ends. There’s still a faint crease between his brows like he's been contemplating something for far too long.

For one disorienting second, he looks soft and domestic. Dangerously human in the warm low lighting of your office. Then you notice the plastic crown still balanced crookedly on his head.

You blink.

“…You kept it.”

He reaches up absently, touching the crown like he forgot it was there.

“Yelena tried to superglue it while I was asleep. Waiting on the solvent to set in.”

“That tracks.”

A small smile tugs briefly at his mouth before fading. Then his eyes drift over the room to the stacks of paperwork, your open laptop, the half-finished reports. You watch as his eyes slow over the vase of flowers beside your desk and the matching crown on your shelf. Something unreadable crosses his face.

“You’re still working?”

You glance back toward your screen automatically at the mention of it, your brain shifting back into work mode.

“Unfortunately.”

“It’s almost three.”

“Mhm.”

Bucky stays quiet for a moment. “So.”

“So?” You keep typing.

“Aren’t you gonna collect your reward?”

Your fingers stop over the keyboard as you look up slowly.

He’s watching you carefully now, expression unreadable beneath the soft shadows of the room. The question settles awkwardly between you. He doesn't seem like he's teasing exactly or entirely serious either.

Your stomach twists anyway.

“That’s not…” You clear your throat lightly. “It’s not like that.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “No?”

“No.”

You look back toward the spreadsheet because somehow that feels safer than looking directly at him.

“The raffle thing was just publicity. If it’d been someone else maybe they would’ve wanted the whole grand-prize experience but…” You shrug lightly. “It’s just me. You can ignore it and go about your night.”

Silence.

When you finally glance back up, Bucky is still staring at you. You can't tell if he's offended or relieved or none of the above. He's just studying you with this strange quiet intensity that makes your chest feel suddenly too tight.

“Just you,” he repeats softly.

You immediately regret the wording. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

But something about the way he says it makes it clear he’s not entirely convinced. You turn back toward your laptop quickly.

“I still have to finish these reports anyway.”

Bucky steps fully into the office then, slow and quiet against the carpet.

“You work too much, y’know?”

The words are almost too gentle.

You huff faintly. “I don’t think I work enough actually. If it was too much all this would be done by now and I’d be in bed.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is in this building.”

He leans against the edge of your desk now, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement brings him closer, too close, because now you can smell soap and clean cotton and something distinctly him beneath it all. It dizzies you but your mind insists it's the lack of sleep and combined caffeine bombs running through your bloodstream instead.

“Valentina isn’t worth you being here losing sleep,” he says quietly.

The words hit harder than they should, making you stare down at the papers in front of you.

“I’m not here for Valentina.”

A beat passes.

“You’re her personal assistant.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m here for her.”

“Then what are you here for?”

The question should be easy. It isn't. Why isn't it? Your mouth opens automatically but nothing comes out and suddenly the exhaustion hits all at once. Not physically but emotionally, like a crack in the dam finally splintering beneath pressure of the water. You think about the last year, the endless damage control, the constant emergencies. The way your entire life has slowly narrowed into schedules and briefings and fixing problems before anyone notices they exist, how much of yourself you've carved out and sacrificed to the greater good of the team even when there was nothing left to give.

You think about tonight. About how happy everyone looked for a few hours, how they all seemed to just breathe and exist in peace beneath the lights, how Bucky laughed onstage beside you like he’d forgotten how tired he was. And for the first time since God knows when, you realize you genuinely don’t know why you’re still doing any of this.

The silence stretches too long.

Bucky watches you carefully now as concern beginning to soften the edges of his expression. And before you can stop yourself, the truth slips out quietly.

“…I don’t know anymore.”

The sincerity of it horrifies you instantly. You force yourself to recover after that, fast, too fast. Straightening in your chair and looking back toward your computer, rebuilding the walls before he can see through them properly. You gather the reports quickly into a neat stack.

“I’ve gotta go get these copied and fax them over to Washington,” you say lightly, voice suddenly professional again. “So feel free to let yourself out.”

You stand before he can respond.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.”

The formality lands colder than intended, you feel it immediately and so does he. But neither of you says anything about it, you brush past him toward the printer room with papers clutched tightly in your hands while the office door swings softly behind you.

And Bucky stays standing there beside the flowers for a very long time.

The thing about exhaustion is that eventually it stops feeling temporary. It settles into people, becomes them. Bucky's good at noticing these kinds of things. He sees it in you that night when you walked past him out of your office. That slight crease at the corner of your eyes, the gentle downturn of your lips. It's more than just tired. It's the same exact same way he used to be after missions. Not sleepy ,or overworked but worn down from within. There’s a difference.

And unfortunately for him, once he notices something, he can’t seem to stop noticing it.

It starts innocently enough, at least that’s what he tells himself. Two weeks after the carnival, he catches sight of you asleep in one of the conference rooms at six-thirty in the morning. Not properly asleep, but the kind where your cheek rests against folded arms beside an open laptop while a spreadsheet still glows across your face. Your coffee has gone cold beside you. One heel dangles half-off your foot beneath the table.

You wake the second he opens the door on instinct, sitting up as if you were trying to reject the sleep from your skin, like your body no longer trusts rest enough to stay in it.

“Sorry,” he says automatically.

You blink at him once, clearly disoriented, before straightening too fast.

“No, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“You were asleep.”

“I know.”

“You should probably do that more.”

You laugh quietly at that, not because it’s funny, because you’re too tired to respond properly. Then you grab your laptop and hurry toward another meeting before he can say anything else. And for some reason, that bothers him, more than it should.

And he starts noticing more things.

The way you’re always the first person awake in the tower. The way your office light stays on long after everyone else has gone to bed, the stack of dry-cleaning hanging behind your office door because you haven’t gone home properly in three days. How you survive almost exclusively on vending machine coffee and whatever leftovers the kitchen staff can force into your hands. How every time Valentina calls your phone, something in your shoulders visibly tightens before you answer.

And then there’s that sentence.

I don’t know anymore.

It stays lodged irritatingly somewhere in the back of his head. Because Bucky knows what it sounds like when someone loses sight of themselves. He’s spent years listening to that exact emptiness in his own voice. So one night, after watching you miss dinner again because you were reorganizing a diplomatic security route for the third time, he does something he absolutely should not do.

He starts digging.

Not maliciously, not even deeply, at first. Just enough to satisfy curiosity, that’s what he tells himself anyway. Turns out, you’re surprisingly easy to find once he starts looking. There’s an old university article buried online about graduating journalism students. Your picture sits beside it smiling brightly into the camera, younger and softer somehow, eyes alive in a way he’s never actually seen in person.

The caption beneath it reads: Aspiring investigative journalist hopes to focus on political corruption and humanitarian reporting.

Bucky stares at that sentence longer than necessary. Investigative journalist. Not PR manager, not assistant, not professional crisis cleaner. He keeps reading. There are archived campus articles under your name too. Human-interest pieces with local interviews. A profile on immigrant-owned bookstores in Brooklyn, an article about public housing funding cuts. One opinion piece angry enough to surprise a laugh out of him. Your writing was good, really good. Honest in a way most modern journalism isn’t anymore. There’s warmth in it and curiosity, the clear desperate hope of someone who thought words could still matter.

Bucky leans back slowly in his chair.

Huh.

The next part takes more effort. Internal employee records aren’t exactly public, but neither are most things he can access if he really wants to. The file paints the picture quickly. Originally: summer internship with government media relations, some resume padding. Temporary. Then came the first extension, then the job offer, then Valentina personally requested you transferred under her division after a year.

Four years later, you’re still here.

The timeline unsettles him more than expected. Because somewhere between those records, he can practically see it happening one delayed dream at a time. One promotion, one emergency, one “just until things calm down.” Until suddenly four years are gone and now you sit in fluorescent offices at three in the morning saying things like I don’t know anymore.

Bucky closes the file as agitated energy crawls beneath his skin unexpectedly. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how personal this feels when it shouldn’t. You’re not his responsibility. Hell, you work for Valentina which alone should make him keep his distance. Instead, he starts watching more carefully, not in a creepy way at least he desperately hopes not.

Just observant.

He notices your schedule before you even mention it aloud now. Knows when your meetings run long by the way you rub your temples afterward, knows you skip lunch on Thursdays because that’s when Valentina schedules back-to-back press briefings. Knows you take exactly nine minutes to drink your coffee every morning before the interruptions begin.

And eventually—because apparently he’s lost his mind—he taps into Valentina’s phone. It wasn't hard, not for him. He tells himself it’s because Valentina is secretive and manipulative and generally worth monitoring anyway. The fact that he immediately searches your name in her messages is entirely irrelevant.

Mostly, it’s work. Schedules, orders, and demands. Other texts read like dog commands. Move this meeting. Fix this interview. Get Barnes under control before he kills someone during press week. Bucky snorts quietly at that one, but underneath the logistics, another pattern emerges. Messages sent at absurd hours.

2:14 AM.

5:47 AM.

11:58 PM.

And every single time you answer. Immediately no matter the hour, no matter the request. One message in particular makes something cold settle heavily in his chest.

VALENTINA: Need revised public sympathy projections before morning.

YOU: Working on it now.

Timestamp: 3:11 AM.

Bucky checks the next message.

VALENTINA: Also your article draft for the congressional media package was overwritten. Rewrite before briefing.

Long pause.

Then finally:

YOU: Understood.

No complaint, no argument, nothing. Just understood. Bucky stares at the screen for a long time after that with his jaw tight because suddenly he understands something he hadn’t before. You aren’t staying because you love the work anymore, you’re staying because somewhere along the line, you stopped believing you were allowed to leave it.

And for reasons he absolutely cannot explain, that realization makes him angry.

The week the tour begins feels less like preparing for travel and more like trying to hold back the ocean with your hands. Every completed task reveals three more beneath it, every checked box spawns another checklist. You suppose that's the nature of public relations, nobody notices when things go right only when they go wrong.

So you sit alone in Conference Room Three at six-thirty in the morning surrounded by enough paperwork to qualify as structural support. The city beyond the windows is still waking up, sunlight creeps slowly between skyscrapers, painting the glass in soft gold, traffic hums faintly thirty floors below. Somewhere in the tower, coffee brews. The smell drifts down the hallway and for a moment, it reminds you of college. Early mornings in the journalism building, the campus newspaper office, stacks of articles spread across tables while everyone survived on caffeine and deadlines. Back then, exhaustion felt different, temporary and purposeful. You were tired because you were building something, not maintaining it.

The memory flickers briefly before another email notification drags you back to reality.

You sigh.

Florida. Louisiana. Flight manifests. Texas. Nevada. Security routes. North and South California. Washington. Hotel confirmations. Media schedules. Emergency contingency plans. It all blends together until the words feel foreign.

You move through the checklist automatically now, pen tapping softly against the table as you verify each item. Alexei's dietary accommodations. Bob's interview briefing packets. Yelena's legal waiver forms. Walker, God, Walker. You add another note reminding him not to argue with local reporters. Again.

The conference room door opens quietly but you don't look up.

"If that's another change request, I'm pretending not to speak English."

A pause.

"I don't think that'd work."

Your pen stills. Bucky. Of course.

You glance up briefly. He's dressed casually today—dark henley, jeans, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair's tied back into a low bun at the nape of his neck. He looks rested. You try not to resent him for it.

"Morning."

"Morning."

Neither of you says anything for a moment as Bucky steps further into the room.

You immediately notice he has coffee, and because the universe enjoys cruelty, he notices you noticing. Without a word, he slides the second cup onto the table beside your paperwork. You stare at it, then at him, then back at the coffee.

"...What is this?"

"Coffee."

"I know it's coffee."

"Then we're making progress."

You blink and Bucky looks suspiciously pleased with himself as a laugh almost escapes before you stop it.

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes."

"You're welcome."

You reach for the cup and take a testing sip, it's exactly how you take it. Not too sweet, not too bitter with just enough cream.

Your stomach does something strange. "You remembered."

Bucky shrugs. "You seem to live off this stuff, you always get the same thing every morning."

That shouldn't surprise you that he knows that, but somehow it does because most people only notice your mistakes, not your coffee order. You take another careful sip and warmth settles into your chest. Unfortunately, it also makes you realize how tired you are.

Bucky sits across from you, the chair creaks softly beneath his weight. You immediately know this conversation is about to become dangerous. Not dangerous in the life-threatening sense, dangerous in the personal sense.

The kind you've spent years avoiding.

"So," he says casually.

Your eyes narrow suspiciously.

"So?"

"What'd you do before this?"

There it is. You knew it was coming eventually, ever since that night in your office, ever since I don't know anymore slipped out and you accidentally gave the both you an existential crisis.

You return to your paperwork immediately. "Nothing exciting."

Bucky doesn't move.

"Everybody did something before they got here."

"Not me. I spawned fully formed from a spreadsheet."

His mouth twitches and you refuse to acknowledge it.

"You probably went to college, right? What'd you study?"

"Writing." Technically true, partially, somewhat. True enough for this conversation.

"That's it?"

"Mhm."

"Must've been some real interesting writing."

"Thrilling."

"What kinda stuff d'ya write?"

You look back down at the checklist. Florida press briefing. Check. Louisiana catering. Check. Avoiding conversations about yourself. Hopefully check.

"It's not important."

Bucky studies you for a second.

The problem with him is that he notices things, not loudly, not obviously but thoroughly. Like he's assembling a puzzle nobody else realized existed.

"Seems important."

"It's really not."

"Why not?"

Because once upon a time you wanted things. That's why. And wanting things feels embarrassing now, like showing someone an old diary. There was a time when your future felt bright and specific. You were going to write and travel, report stories that mattered. You were going to chase truth through cities and courtrooms and tiny towns nobody paid attention to.

You were going to make a difference. Instead you're color-coding transportation schedules for superheroes, which sounds cooler than it feels.

You push the thought away quickly. "We need to focus on the tour."

Bucky sighs.

The sound is deeply familiar now, you've learned there are different versions. Annoyed sighs. Amused sighs. This one falls somewhere between concerned and stubborn.

"The tour's done."

"No, it isn't."

"It starts next week."

"Which means it isn't done."

He opens his mouth.

You point your pen at him immediately. "Don't."

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"Probably."

"Exactly."

Bucky leans back in his chair and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Sunlight stretches further across the conference table, the room grows warmer. Outside the windows, Manhattan continues waking up as your checklist waits patiently.

Eventually Bucky nods toward the stack of folders beside you.

"How many pages is that?"

You glance over. "...Two hundred and twelve. Double sided though."

He stares. "You counted?"

"I printed them."

"That's horrifying."

"Thank you."

"You need help."

"I have help."

"No, you have stress."

You try not to smile. You fail a little. His expression softens immediately when he catches it and the realization makes you look back down at your paperwork far too quickly. A strange silence settles afterward as Bucky watches you work. You pretend not to notice. Every so often he asks another question, small ones, harmless ones completely unrelated to work. Favorite movie. Favorite book. Whether you ever travel anywhere for fun. Each time, you brush them aside gently, deflect, redirect and return to logistics.

Because talking about yourself feels strangely difficult now. As if those pieces of you belong to someone else. Someone far from the person you are now. Someone who still believed she'd become the person she planned to be. Eventually the others begin arriving for the briefing, voices echo down the hallway. Laughter and arguments, Alexei loudly demanding breakfast. The moment breaks and you straighten automatically. Professional again, clipboard in hand, schedules organized, walls rebuilt.

But as Bucky stands to leave, he pauses beside your chair just briefly. Long enough to say quietly,

"I still think it's important."

You glance up. "What is?"

"The stuff before this."

For a second, something in your chest tightens. Then the hallway fills with noise as the team arrives ready to get the start of this tour. And before you can think too hard about the look in his eyes, you're already moving on to the next thing that needs fixing.

The tour starts in New York beneath camera flashes and manufactured optimism.

Valentina brands it NEW AVENGERS TAKE ON AMERICA in massive red-white-and-blue lettering splashed across buses, billboards, and every social media platform imaginable. There are matching jackets, coordinated appearances, sponsorships and press packets thicker than small novels. And at the center of all of it you're running everything behind the scenes, the magic behind the curtain. You’re the first one awake every morning and the last one asleep every night. Coordinating flights and confirming hotel security. Rewriting interview questions at two in the morning because a senator decided “government-sanctioned enhanced individuals” sounded too threatening. You memorize everyone’s schedules better than your own. Alexei hates early flights. Yelena gets carsick if she reads in moving vehicles. Walker refuses sparkling water on principle. Bob forgets meals when he’s nervous. Ava disappears physically and emotionally when overwhelmed. And Bucky quietly starts watching you unravel without you even realizing.

Florida comes first.

Warm ocean air and blinding sunlight. Endless beachside photo ops where reporters practically trip over themselves trying to re-brand the Thunderbolts as approachable. You stand off-camera the entire time holding three phones and an emergency schedule binder while makeup artists swarm the team beneath umbrellas. When a reporter corners Walker with a question about civilian casualties, you intercept the conversation before it can spiral. When Alexei drunkenly wanders toward a jet ski rental booth, you redirect him with the ease of long practice. When Bob panics before a televised interview, you crouch beside him backstage speaking so softly Bucky can’t hear the words from across the room—but he sees Bob visibly steady afterward.

Nobody thanks you, not really. Because by now everyone just expects you to catch disasters before they happen.

Louisiana is worse.

The BBQ festival turns into an overnight public event after attendance doubles unexpectedly. There’s live music, politicians, influencers, too many cameras and too much noise. You spend nearly fourteen straight hours on your feet rerouting security because protestors gather outside the venue. Bucky catches you sitting alone behind the catering tents around midnight afterward eating cold cornbread straight from the tray while typing one-handed on your laptop.

“You know they got tables inside, right?” he says quietly.

You don’t even look up. “Tables inside have senators.”

Fair enough.

Texas somehow becomes the breaking point.

Because apparently somebody thought it would be patriotic to put the New Avengers on a ranch. There are horses, lasso demonstrations and an event coordinator who says “yeehaw initiative” with complete sincerity. You haven’t slept more than four hours in three days. Bucky realizes this because you stop blinking normally sometime around Dallas.

You’re standing near the arena floor fixing Walker’s tie before a press appearance when your knees nearly buckle outright. Not dramatically but just enough, a tiny dangerous sway. Bucky catches it immediately from across the room and nobody else, because nobody else is paying attention to you. Why would they.

“You alright?” he asks later when he corners you briefly beside the equipment trailers.

You’re typing an email while transcribing a call simultaneously. “Mhm.”

“That wasn’t convincing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You almost fell over.”

“I’ve done worse.” You say it casually like it’s normal, like exhaustion is just another logistical inconvenience. And something in Bucky’s chest twists unpleasantly.

Vegas comes next.

Bright lights and champagne, galas filled with rich people pretending they’ve always trusted the team. You spend the entire evening moving through the casino ballroom like a ghost in heels, fixing problems before they fully form. Someone spills wine on Ava’s dress—you replace it. A reporter leaks the wrong attendance numbers—you correct it before publication. Valentina changes an entire speech thirty minutes before showtime and hands you handwritten notes expecting a miracle, and you deliver one anyway.

At one point Bucky finds you standing alone in an empty hallway outside the ballroom just standing there with your eyes closed. Like you forgot where you were for a second.

“You should sit down.”

Your eyes open immediately. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I sit down I think I might actually stay there.”

The honesty of it lingers between you, just like that night in your office. And there's that familiar twist in Bucky's chest. Then your phone rings again and you leave before he can answer.

North and South California blur together after that.

Interviews, photoshoots, crowds and handshakes. You become smaller somehow as the trip stretches on, not physically but emotionally. Like pieces of yourself are being traded away for efficiency. Bucky notices you stop laughing entirely around San Francisco, not that you laughed much before, but now even your smiles look scheduled.

Washington is the final stop.

A massive gala followed by a national press conference closing out the tour. Everyone’s exhausted at this point. Everyone except Valentina, who somehow feeds off chaos like a cryptid sustained entirely by public relations. The gala goes perfectly because you made sure it would. Bucky watches you from across the ballroom while senators shake his hand and cameras flash endlessly around him. You stand near the back wall beside the press table, headset crooked slightly over your hair, eyes fixed on three different problems at once. You haven’t touched the champagne in your hand all night, you haven’t sat down once, Bucky's not even sure if you've taken a breath longer than a second. And suddenly Bucky realizes something that settles heavy in his chest, you’re carrying this team in ways nobody notices because if you do your job correctly, nobody ever sees the weight of it.

Including him. Especially him.

That realization follows him all the way back to New York.

Three nights later, your office light is still on at eleven forty-three. Naturally.

Rain taps softly against the tower windows while the city glows gold below Manhattan. Your office smells like paper and coffee and exhaustion again because some things just never change. You’re halfway through next quarter’s budget reports when the office door opens without warning.

You don’t look up immediately.

“If this is another scheduling conflict I’m going to fake my death.”

“I'm sure we could work something out.”

You blink and finally look up. Bucky stands in the doorway wearing a dark suit, not mission tactical gear or his usual jacket and henley. A proper suit. Dark navy, slightly loosened tie, sleeves pushed back just enough to expose metal at his wrist. Hair slicked and styled back.

He looks unfairly good.

Which is irritating because your brain is too tired to handle that information responsibly.

You stare at him blankly. “…What's all this?”

“Come with me.”

You frown slowly.

"What? Where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Kinda does.” You turn back toward your laptop with a tired sigh. “Listen, I have a lot I need to get done so whatever it is you need just write it down or have Valentina text me.”

Bucky doesn’t move from the doorway. Instead, he leans against it with casual air.

“I’m cashing in your reward.”

Your fingers pause over the keyboard. "My what?”

“Your reward from the carnival.” His mouth twitches slightly. “You won a free night out with the winning booth. That’s me. I’m cashing it in.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes quietly. “I don’t think that’s how it was supposed to work, Mr. Barnes.”

“It is now.”

You shake your head immediately. “No, absolutely not.”

“Get your stuff and meet me at the elevators.”

“But I—”

“I can also just shut off the WiFi to the building.”

You stare at him flatly. “You’re bluffing.”

Bucky lifts one shoulder casually.

“Wanna find out?”

Honestly? You’re not entirely sure he is bluffing, which is deeply concerning. You eye him suspiciously for a long moment while rain patters softly against the windows behind him. Then you look back at your screen. Thirty-two unread emails, three unfinished reports, tomorrows itinerary half-completed. Your entire body aches and somewhere beneath all that exhaustion something quieter stirs unexpectedly, something warm and curious. Because Bucky Barnes is standing in your office at midnight trying to drag you away from work like this matters to him for some incomprehensible reason. You don’t understand it and you’re not sure you want to. But after weeks of airports and crowds and fluorescent conference rooms you realize you can’t remember the last time someone asked you to leave work for something that wasn’t another obligation.

You exhale slowly through your nose. “…Fine.”

Victory flashes briefly across his face before disappearing almost immediately.

“You got ten minutes.”

“You know you’re very bossy for someone kidnapping me.”

“You’ll survive.”

You grumble under your breath while shutting your laptop and reaching for your coat.

The elevator ride down is painfully quiet, not awkward exactly, just strange. You can't remember the last time you've left your office before midnight. You stand beside Bucky clutching your coat and purse while fluorescent lights hum softly overhead. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls—tired eyes, wrinkled work clothes, tension still living stubbornly between your shoulders.

Bucky glances over once, then again.

“You look exhausted.”

You deadpan immediately. “Gee, thanks.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

“It sounded like one.”

“It was concern.”

The word lands oddly between you as you meet his eyes. Concern, like he’s allowed to have that for you, like that's something that matters to him. You look away first.

The elevator dings softly when it reaches the underground garage. Bucky gestures toward a black town car waiting near the far wall.

Your brows pull together instantly. "Why is there a car?”

“So we can drive places.”

“You’re being weirdly mysterious.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I literally work in intelligence-adjacent public relations. Questions are my whole thing.”

Bucky opens the back door for you anyway and inside, neatly folded across the leather seat, is a dress box.

You stop and slowly look at him. “What is that.”

“Your outfit.”

“…My what?”

“You can’t wear office clothes where we’re going.”

Suspicion floods you instantly.

“Where are we going?”

“Get in the car.”

“Mr. Barnes—”

“Bucky.”

You narrow your eyes. “Kidnappers have to earn their first-name privileges.”

Something dangerously close to a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Get in the car.”

You should say no. Probably. Normal people would definitely say no to mysterious late-night kidnappings involving unidentified dresses and annoyingly handsome super soldiers. Instead, exhaustion apparently kills survival instincts because you climb into the car anyway. The dress box sits in your lap accusingly as Bucky stands at the door, the divider rises immediately once Bucky gives him the go ahead.

Your suspicion deepens.

“You’re not gonna answer a single question, are you?”

“Nope.”

“This feels illegal.”

“You’ll survive that too.”

You glare at him while opening the box.

Then immediately forget how to breathe for a second. The dress inside is beautiful. Dark satin the color of midnight with soft draping fabric and delicate straps, elegant without being overly formal. Simple in the kind of expensive way that makes your stomach tighten immediately.

You touch the fabric carefully. “…Mr. Barnes.”

“No questions.”

“How did you even—”

“No questions.”

You look up at him slowly as realization hits all at once.

“The tour.”

His silence answers for him. And suddenly you remember all those weeks of fittings and event prep. Designers taking measurements backstage before galas while you balanced schedules against your chest. You hadn’t realized anyone else paid attention.

Your throat feels strangely tight.

“There’s a privacy screen,” he says quietly, nodding toward the divider window. “You can change if you want.”

“If I want?”

“Or I can tell the driver to head home for the night.”

The thing is, you know he means it, that’s what gets you. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation. Just an offer.

You look down at the dress again then at your reflection faintly mirrored in the tinted window beside you. You can’t remember the last time you dressed for something that wasn’t work. Can’t remember the last time someone planned an evening for you instead of handing you another responsibility to carry.

“…Fine,” you murmur quietly.

Bucky nods and shuts the door almost immediately after that, giving you privacy without making a show of it. Your chest aches unexpectedly.

The dress fits perfectly, of course. The satin settles smoothly against your skin, cool and soft as water. You let your hair down and try to ruffle some life into it. When you finally sit back down, carefully smoothing the fabric over your knees, you knock on the door and Bucky opens it.

And visibly stills.

The reaction is brief, barely there but you catch it anyway. His eyes flick over you once before settling carefully back on your face and something warm and unreadable flashes there.

“…Okay,” he says quietly.

You blink. “Okay what?”

“You look nice.”

The compliment lands embarrassingly hard after months of being perceived exclusively as overworked office furniture.

You glance down awkwardly. “Thank you.”

Then you notice the roses that somehow magically appeared in his hands, deep red roses tied together with black ribbon.

You stare at them. “Where did you get those?”

He stays quiet, holding the bouquet in his arms.

"Right. No questions."

You laugh softly before you can stop yourself. And for the first time since you're not sure when, Bucky smiles fully, small but warm. Beautiful enough to briefly ruin your ability to think coherently. He slides into the seat next to you and the driver pulls away from the tower.

The jazz lounge sits tucked into the lower streets of Manhattan beneath soft golden lights and old brick. The moment you step inside, warmth wraps around you. Low music hums through the room beneath the soft cry of a trumpet, dim amber lamps glow against polished wood tables. The air smells faintly like whiskey and candle wax and expensive food.

It feels far away from your life somehow, like stepping briefly into somebody else’s memory. Bucky keeps one hand lightly against the small of your back guiding you through the crowded room, the touch burns straight through the thin satin of your dress. You try very hard not to think about it.

Dinner is easy in a way you don’t expect.

That’s the dangerous part. You spend so much time around Bucky professionally that you forgot he can actually be funny when he’s relaxed, that quick but witty dry humor and quiet observations muttered beneath his breath. Stories from the forties so ridiculous you genuinely can’t tell when he’s lying anymore. At one point you laugh hard enough to snort into your drink, it should've been mortifying. Bucky nearly chokes laughing himself afterward.

“You absolutely cannot judge me,” you whisper harshly across the table.

“I’m not judging,” he grins. “I’m enjoying myself.”

And somehow that feels worse.

Hours pass without you noticing, and that alone feels miraculous. After dinner he takes you walking along the boardwalk downtown, city wind curling cold around both of you while music and traffic hum softly below Manhattan lights. You end up at a tiny old photobooth tucked near an arcade.

“Absolutely not,” you say immediately.

Bucky’s already pulling the curtain open.

“You survived the carnival. You can survive this.”

“That carnival psychologically damaged me.”

“C’mon.” You let him drag you inside anyway because apparently this evening has become one long series of terrible decisions.

The booth is tiny, painfully tiny. Your knees bump his immediately once the curtain slides shut, thighs pressed against his as you sit shoulder to shoulder. The flash startles you during the first photo, breaking that first wind of embarrassment as the two of you adjust to being so close. Bucky makes a joke about the booth taking compartmentalizing a step to far as the second flash clicks, the photo catching both of you laughing, a curled wide smile on your face that you haven't felt in years. By the third, the laughing has died down and you’re turned toward each other too closely, breathing the same recycled air, the city noise muffled outside the booth curtain. Bucky’s gaze flicks downward briefly and your stomach flips violently. Then there’s this horrible suspended second where your eyes drop down too and you think, maybe if you lean in just a bit more—

But then the camera flashes again and both of you pull back slightly too fast.

The tension afterward feels thick enough to touch, so naturally you get ice cream. Because apparently that’s how you handle almost kissing your coworker. You sit beside him on a bench outside a tiny twenty-four-hour shop while melting vanilla drips slowly down your hand.

“This is the nicest night I’ve had in years,” you admit quietly before thinking better of it.

Bucky looks over at you softly beneath the city lights. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.” You nod once.

Something shifts in his expression then, into something gentler, almost relieved.

The drive to your apartment passes too quickly for your liking afterward but you don’t want to acknowledge that realization. Bucky walks you all the way to your building door despite your insistence that he doesn’t need to. The city is quiet this late, streetlights painting everything gold.

You turn toward him at the steps and for a second neither of you speaks.

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” You smile softly. “I really did have a good time.”

“Bucky.”

You blink. “What?”

“Call me Bucky. If I've earned it, of course.”

The words settle warm somewhere beneath your ribs. You look down briefly, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“Oh.” You fully ignore the blush crossing your face, because if you don't acknowledge it then it's not real, right? “Well… thank you, Bucky.”

The smile he gives you afterward feels dangerously intimate. You escape before your brain can fully process it, keys fumbling slightly as you balance them between the flowers, heart beating embarrassingly fast as you step inside your apartment and shut the door carefully behind you.

The second there's a safe enough barrier between you and him you lose it. A ridiculous giggle slips out your lips as you immediately lean against the door with burning cheeks.

Oh no. Oh, this is bad. Because you’re smiling. You touch your face like maybe you can physically stop it. You can’t smile like this. Smiling means thinking and thinking means feeling and feelings… well that just can't be. You try to stifle as much of those feelings as you possibly can, but every time your eyes catch the roses on your table it all bubbles back over the surface again.

And unbeknownst to you outside your apartment door, Bucky hasn’t left yet. He stands there quietly for another moment listening to your footsteps move softly through the apartment beyond the wall. Listening to drawers open, shoes kicked off, the muffled sound of you laughing once under your breath at seemingly nothing.

Then finally the lights click off and only then does he leave.

The ride back to the tower feels strangely quiet afterward, not uncomfortable, just full. Like something settled into place inside his chest without permission.

Bucky stares out the car window at sleeping Manhattan while your bashful smile and blushing cheeks replays endlessly in his head, and somewhere deep down beneath years of grief and exhaustion and carefully guarded distance—something reluctantly warm begins to bloom.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ bonus june note ꒱ ˎˊ˗ ── fun fact! parts of this story are inspired by this kdrama i watched called king the land, and the mmc gu won is SOO bucky coded i actually love it i was watching his grumpy traumatized ass like.... i know where ive seen this before LOL

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Not that he knew you. That was the cruel logic of it all. To Sergeant James Barnes, you were nobody. Nothing but a nurse he'd been introduced to twice, and forgotten both times. A face in a crowd of pretty faces, but by no means the prettiest.

You had stopped being able to feel your own face somewhere around the third song, no longer pretending to smile.

"You gonna dance, or you gonna be a wallflower all night?"

You turned. One of the girls— Doris, or maybe it it was Lilian, you weren't paying attention— was smiling at you with the social grace that women in this time seemed to possess effortlessly. They belonged in a way you never would. You gave her something that was probably a smile.

"I'm alright watching."

"Watching him, you mean." She followed your gaze to where Bucky stood in his dress uniform, left arm braced against a pillar as he leaned down to murmur something into the ear of a redhead who laughed like he'd hung the moon. "Half the room's watching him. Don't feel bad, sweets. He's real generous with the old charm."

Generous! You laughed to yourself, that was certainly one word for it.

You'd been in 1943 for eleven days. Eleven days since the machine in your lab had done whatever it was that it did. There had been a surge of power, a blinding flash of light and the smell of ozone that still hadn't left your nostrils. You had woken up staring at a strange sky, in an alley between two buildings you didn't recognize.

Eleven days later, you had talked your way into a nursing post with the competence that only came with training from a program that wouldn't exist for another sixty years.

The first time you had seen him, you hadn't been able to move. You almost walked past without a backward glance. The thing that had gotten your attention wasn't how he looked, it was his voice. It hadn't changed. What had changed was how freely he laughed

It was all you could think of as you lay on a narrow rented bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking: He's here. He's alive and whole and here, and he has no idea who I am.

You'd thought seeing this version of him would be a comfort.

You'd been so stupid.

So there you were, contemplating your existence, a woman out of your own time. And you realized that the thing nobody told you about time travel was that it was mostly waiting.

You had managed to track down a physicist— a nervous, but brilliant scientist who was well ahead of his time and happened to work for Stark Industries and liked to carry out experiments in his basement.

When you'd described the machine, he had gone very pale and very quiet and then become very interested. He offered to help you. He thought it would take weeks. He speculated a great many things, and every one of them required you to stay close to the war effort, close to the base, close— by fate or by accident— to Bucky-freaking-Barnes.

You should have quit, but you needed the money and a place to stay. So you saw him. Constantly. At the mess, in the corridors, at these godforsaken dances the other nurses dragged you to. And every time, the same knife went in.

Because Bucky Barnes flirted with everyone.

You watched him do it like a case study you had a vested interest in. In a way, you did.

He flirted with Lilian and Doris and Elizabeth, with Marian and Margaret and even Sandy. He flirted with the girl who sold cigarettes and the middle-aged woman who ran your boarding house who flushed like a school girl every time he tipped his cap.

He flirted with the same energy that other men breathed— unconsciously, effortlessly and with enthusiasm. With the whole world except you.

With you he was polite. God, the politeness was utterly devastating. Every 'ma'am.' Every 'miss.' Every nod.

Once— and only once— he caught you looking at him for too long across the mess hall and you had noticed a flicker on his face. It wasn't interest, no you knew his expressions well enough, it was something closer to confusion. Almost as though he couldn't quite figure out why this particular nurse kept staring at him like she was drowning.

You'd looked away so fast you'd spilled your coffee.

So here's the thing you could quite wrap your head around. It was the splinter which kept digging it's way deeper. He was still Bucky. Before the fall. Before seventy years of ice and torture. Before his free will had been ripped away. It was still him. The same kind man you loved.

And this man had looked at you and felt nothing.

"You look like you're thinking too hard," Lillian said. "Never a good idea at a dance."

"Sorry." You forced a smile and made yourself relax. "Long shift," you lied with a shrug.

She patted your arm sympathetically and drifted off in the direction of a corporal who had been eyeing her from across the hall. And then you were alone. Again. Listening to Bucky laughing at something across the room, his eyes crinkled and nose scrunched. You had to close your eyes.

In the present, you told yourself, he loves you.

But did he?

This thought was the poison of the past, the reason the past eleven days had hollowed you out and given you reason to doubt. Because you'd met your Bucky broken. You'd met him after— after the Soldier, after the torture, after the long slow work he had done to put himself back together, with therapy and effort and the kind of hard-won stillness that made his rare smiles feel earned. Your Bucky was quiet. He was careful. He loved you the way a man loves the shore after a shipwreck— grateful, fierce, like something he'd been afraid to hope for.

When you thought back, this stillness had always felt like the depth in your relationship. That his quiet devotion was the shape of a man who had survived far too much to be careless with his heart. That when he reached for you in the dark, when he said your name with reverence, when he told you that he loved you, it was the truest thing in him.

Only now you'd seen the before.

Now you'd seen who he was when the world hadn't broken him yet.

And that man— that carefree, radiant, flirtatious man— he wouldn't have looked at you twice. That man had a type, and you were watching him charm her across the dance floor right now, and it most decidedly wasn't you. It was never you.

So what did that make what you had back home?

It was the ugly thought. The one that had been circling your brain in different iterations for the last eleven days.

He's with you because you were there.

Because you'd been kind to him at the worst point of his life.

Because you were willing, and steady, and you'd stayed when staying was hard.

Because a drowning man doesn't check whether the hand pulling him up is the one he'd have chosen.

He grabs what's offered.

You were what was offered. Convenient. Present. Undemanding.

Not chosen. Settled.

You believed it completely, while standing in that dance hall. It sank deep into your bones, like the weight of something you'd always half-known and finally let yourself see.

"You're that nurse."

You startled so badly at his voice that you knocked your purse off the table. Bucky was standing in front of you— right in front of you, close enough that you could smell the pomade and the wool of his uniform. And he was looking at you with that faint, puzzled crease between his brows. He bent down and retrieved your purse without a second thought.

"I— yeah. Sorry. Yes. I'm a nurse."

Brilliant. Very cool. Totally nailed that response. You mentally face palmed yourself.

"You keep looking at me." He said it plainly, without judgement. "All week. At the mess, and now here." He paused, studying your face. "Do I know you? From somewhere? I feel like I oughta, and it's drivin' me half crazy tryna figure it out."

You don't know me yet, was the thought didn't say. You won't know me for another eighty years.

"No," you managed in a flat tone. "You don't know me."

He studied you. And for one horrible, hopeful second you let yourself imagine that something would spark between you. That he would recognize something buried deep inside himself, the one who would one day become the man you loved. That he'd feel it, the way you felt it. The impossible gravity that existed between you.

He didn't. You watched him not feel it. He just gave you a small, courteous, sorry-can't-place-you smile and the last shred of hope shattered in it chest.

"Well," he said. "You alright? You look a little—" he gestured vaguely at all of you, "—pale. Rough night on the ward?"

You laughed dismally. "Something like that."

"You want some air? You look like you want some air."

And there it was. Not attraction. Kindness. The reflexive decency of a good man toward a woman who looked unwell. He'd have offered the same to Doris or Evelyn, to the redhead or the blonde, to anyone really. You knew it, and you took it anyway, because you were weak and you loved him and this was the closest he'd stood to you in eleven days.

Outside, the night was cold and wet and smelled of the harbor. Bucky lit a cigarette, offered you one, seemed unsurprised when you shook your head. For a while neither of you said anything.

"You got somebody?" he asked finally, and your heart lurched dangerously. "Back home, I mean. You got that look. Like half of you is somewhere else."

You laughed and it came out wrecked.

"Yeah," you said. "I've got somebody."

"He treat you right?"

He loves me like a man loves the thing that saved him, you thought. And I don't know anymore if that's the same as loving me for me.

"I don't know," you said honestly. "I used to think so. Now I'm not sure he'd have picked me. If things had been different. If he'd had… options. I think maybe I was just… the one who was there."

Bucky was quiet a moment. When you looked at him he was frowning— not the usual puzzled frown, it was something more thoughtful.

"That's a helluva thing to carry," he said. "You wanna know what I think?"

He looked at you, barely waiting for you to answer before he continued.

"I flirt with every dame in that room. You've seen me, don't pretend you haven't." He gave you a rueful half-smile. "It's easy. Don't cost me a thing. You smile, they smile, everybody has a nice night, nobody gets hurt. It's—" he searched for the right word, "—it's cheap. You understand? It's the cheapest thing I got."

You stared at him.

"You know what's not cheap?" he went on, looking out into the night. "The stuff that costs you something— and that's not the girl you charm across a dance hall. That's the one you'd still want around when there's nothing charming left in you. When you're scared, or sick, or done things you can't take back."

He exhaled smoke. "A fella who's had it easy, he'll flirt with anybody. Don't mean anything. But a fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person—" he shrugged, "—seems to me that's the only kind that counts. The rest's just… noise."

You couldn't breathe.

He didn't know how deeply what he'd said had resonated with you. He couldn't have. He was just a kind man being kind to a sad woman outside a dance hall, offering the accidental wisdom of someone who'd one day live every word of it. But he'd reached across eighty years and removed the splinter from your heart.

A fella who's been through the wringer, and he still reaches for one particular person.

That was your Bucky. Not a drowning man grabbing for the nearest hand. A man who had been through the absolute worst the world could do. A man who had every reason to be closed and cold and careful with the little warmth he had left. And instead who spent it, deliberately, expensively, on you.

Not because you were convenient. Because when everything cheap had been burned out of him, you were what remained. You were the thing that counted.

The flirtation you'd been grieving wasn't the love you knew. It never had been. It was the noise. And your Bucky had gone silent with everyone else in the world and still turned, in the dark, toward you.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Bucky looked faintly bewildered. "For what? I didn't do anything."

"You'd be surprised," you said, tears slipping down your cheeks before laughing at the way he was hastily patting his pockets for a handkerchief with the flustered gallantry of a man way out of his depth

And for the first time in eleven days the ache in your chest had somewhere to go.

The scientist sent for you nine days later. You had pulled yourself away from the pub, one last glance at the Sergeant before you scurried away under the cover of darkness.

The machine hummed and the basement reeked of ozone. Suddenly your heart was pounding and you were looking back at the strange world you were leaving. At the war that hadn't broken him fully yet. At the still charming boy who would become, through unspeakable years, the quiet man who loved you.

I'm coming home baby, you told him, across the space-time continuum. I finally understand what I'm coming home to.

With that vow, you stepped into the light.

When you opened your eyes it was day and you were back in your lab, surrounded by your things and there— there was already someone crossing the room toward you at a dead run. Someone with a metal arm and a face raw with grief and terror that lasted twenty days. Someone who caught you and held you like the shore holds the shipwreck.

"You're back," Bucky said into your hair, over and over, wrecked and reaching only for you. "You're back, you're back, you're back."

"I'm back," you said. "I know exactly where I am."

“You’ve already had three,” you reply, nudging your plate toward him anyway. “You planning to eat the table too?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, grabbing your fork before you can change your mind.

Across the booth, Steve snorts into his coffee, the sound half amusement, half warning. “One day she’s gonna stop letting you steal her food, Buck.”

“One day,” Bucky agrees around a mouthful, “but not today.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore how familiar this feels—how safe. The three of you have been orbiting each other for over a decade now, since back when Bucky used to yank Steve out of street fights and you used to bandage them both with whatever scraps of cloth you could find. Somehow, even after all the years, all the growing up, the rhythm never changed. Steve’s the cautious one, always watching out for everyone. Bucky’s the charmer, always grinning through the chaos. And you—you’re the one trying not to think about how the table feels emptier every time one of them leaves.

“You hear about that new Stark show next month?” Steve asks, leaning his elbow against the table. “Supposed to be even bigger than the last one.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, swallowing the last bite of your pancake. “They’re doing some big fireworks display, I think. You should come, doll.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Who else?” His voice is light, teasing, but his gaze lingers. There’s something behind it—something that’s been hovering there for weeks now, maybe months. You don’t let yourself name it.

“Maybe,” you say, pretending to think it over. “If you ask nicely.”

Steve hides a smirk behind his mug. “Careful, Buck. Sounds like she wants you to grovel.”

“I can manage that,” Bucky says, leaning forward, his smile all mock sincerity. “Please, sweetheart, grace me with your presence at the Stark Expo.”

You try to roll your eyes again, but the way he says sweetheart knocks the air out of you just a little. You tell yourself it’s the coffee—too hot, too strong. “You’re impossible,” you say.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, “but he’s charming, and he knows it.”

That makes Bucky grin wider. “Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You want to laugh, but instead you find yourself studying him—the crease of his smile, the faint scar above his brow, the way his hair keeps falling into his eyes. He looks older than he did last year, the war having carved faint shadows beneath the jokes. It’s subtle, but you see it—the flicker of something unspoken that sits behind the bravado.

When he catches you looking, he smirks. “What? I got syrup on my face or something?”

“No,” you say quickly, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You just—never mind.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Just what?”

“Just... look like you’ve been through a lot lately,” you finish softly.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His grin falters, just slightly. Then he shrugs, eyes dropping to the chipped edge of his coffee cup. “Yeah, well. Guess we all have.”

There’s a beat of quiet. The jukebox flips to another slow tune, and you can feel the weight of the world creeping in—the draft, the headlines, the growing ache of goodbye that none of you want to talk about. Then Steve, ever the peacekeeper, breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, pushing his cup aside, “when all this is over, we’re gonna go dancing again. Like we used to. Whole gang back together.”

Bucky glances at him, a spark of his old grin returning. “You promising that, punk?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I am.”

“Then it’s a date,” Bucky says, and his eyes flick back to you when he says it.

Your stomach twists. He doesn’t mean it like that—not really—but the words settle somewhere deep anyway. “Alright, soldier,” you say, trying for levity. “But you better not step on my toes this time.”

He leans closer, that familiar mischief in his eyes. “I never do, doll. You just get nervous.”

You scoff, pretending you don’t hear the double meaning in his voice. Outside, snow begins to fall again—soft, fleeting, like the moments you’ll soon lose.

---

The Stark Expo glows like it’s been dipped in starlight. The air hums with the crackle of machinery and laughter, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band blares out a tune half-swallowed by the roar of the crowd. You can smell popcorn and oil and the faint sweetness of hot sugar in the air. Brooklyn’s never felt so alive.

You walk between Bucky and Steve, both of them looking like they’ve stepped out of two different worlds—Bucky polished and confident in his pressed uniform, Steve still small, shoulders drawn tight in his oversized coat, his eyes bright with determination. They keep pace with you through the sea of people, shoulders brushing now and then.

Bucky keeps stealing glances down at you. It’s not subtle—it never has been—but tonight, there’s something heavier in the air between you. The way the light hits him makes his hair shine like warm bronze; there’s a smear of oil on his sleeve from helping a mechanic earlier, and the sight of it, ordinary and real, does something strange to your chest.

The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, crisp and clear, “welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow! A greater world. A better world.” You tip your head back, watching the lights dance off glass and chrome. The future looks dazzling and impossible, and for a moment, you forget about the war creeping closer every day.

Bucky nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You think Stark’s gonna make one of those flying cars work this time?”

“I think he’ll pretend it does,” you reply, smiling. “And half the crowd’ll believe him.”

“That’s optimism,” he teases.

“That’s experience,” you shoot back, and he laughs—that easy, golden sound that’s always been your undoing.

When Howard Stark strides onto the stage, the crowd cheers, and Bucky’s boyish excitement sparks. He’s leaning forward beside you, eyes shining, jaw slack like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Holy cow,” he breathes as Stark gestures toward his levitating car.

You glance up at him—because of course he’d be more interested in the machinery than the spectacle—and for a moment, you just watch him. His expression is so open, so full of wonder, that it squeezes at something deep in your chest. The car sputters and drops with a metallic clank. Laughter ripples through the crowd. Bucky shakes his head, still grinning. “Guess it’s not ready for takeoff.”

You start to reply, but when you turn to Steve, he’s gone. “Steve?” you call, rising on your toes to scan the crowd.

Bucky curses softly. “Of course he—” He sighs, eyes already darting toward the nearest exit. “I’ll bet he went to the enlistment tent.”

You look at him. “Again?”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustration simmering under his calm. “He’s nothing if not stubborn.”

“Sounds familiar,” you murmur.

That earns you a look—half amused, half warning—and then he’s threading his way through the crowd, motioning for you to follow. You find Steve exactly where you expected—standing in line for enlistment, jaw set, chin high, ready to argue his way into a war he has no business fighting. Bucky reaches him first, the argument spilling out just like it always does, Steve insisting, Bucky trying to talk him down, the air between them thick with worry and loyalty and love.

You hang back a little, watching the two of them. You’ve seen this scene play out before—Steve’s fire meeting Bucky’s steadiness. You know how it ends, Bucky hugs him, the two trade barbs about stupidity and bravery, and Steve stays behind while Bucky walks toward the future with a rifle on his shoulder.

Except this time, you’re part of it.

When Bucky pulls away from Steve, you’re standing just beyond the gate, arms wrapped tight around yourself, trying not to think about how little time there is left. He spots you and the teasing grin he wore a second ago softens into something almost shy. “Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Sorry about that. He’ll be alright.”

You nod, though the words feel stuck in your throat. “He always is.”

You fall into step beside him as the crowd begins to thin, the noise of the fair fading behind you. The night air is cool and damp, the city skyline a jagged cut of shadow against the sky. For a long moment, neither of you speak. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s familiar, like a melody you’ve both known for years. Then Bucky breaks it. “You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about asking you to dance back there.”

You glance at him. “Why didn’t you?”

He kicks at a loose bit of gravel, shrugs. “Didn’t want to make a fool of myself before I ship out. Gotta let you remember me as dashing and graceful.”

You laugh, soft and a little sad. “Oh, I think that reputation’s already in pieces.”

He grins, the sound of your laughter tugging one from him in return. “Guess so.”

The two of you reach the corner where you’ll part ways—your apartment’s only a few blocks down, his barracks in the opposite direction. You stop under a flickering streetlamp, its glow painting the edges of his face gold. He shifts, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and suddenly the air between you changes. The world narrows to just the sound of the wind, the buzz of the light, and the pounding in your chest. “You’ll write?” you ask, your voice small.

He nods. “You bet I will. And when I come back, you and me—we’re going dancing. For real this time.”

You smile, though your eyes sting. “You’d better keep that promise.”

He steps a little closer—close enough that you can see the pulse in his throat, the faint line of worry between his brows. “I always do.” For a second, neither of you move. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t quite dare. The silence stretches, thick with everything you’ve never said. Then he exhales, low and rough. “You know, doll… if things were different—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, even though part of you needs to hear it.

He swallows hard, searching your face. His voice drops to a rasp. “I just—I don’t wanna go off thinkin’ you don’t know how much you mean to me.”

Your heart stutters. “I know, Buck.”

But that’s the lie you both settle for.

He leans in just enough that his breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faint traces of smoke and coffee on him, familiar and grounding. For one suspended heartbeat, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he steps back. “I’ll see you when I get back,” he says, his smile small, almost fragile.

You manage a nod, even as your throat closes. Your hand grips his arm for just a second before letting go. “Be careful.”

He salutes you with two fingers, that old playful gesture that’s always been yours, and then he turns away, his figure swallowed by the night.

You stand there under the streetlamp long after he’s gone, the world around you humming with the distant echo of laughter and music, the ghost of what might have been lingering like the last note of a song that never quite finished.

---

The stench of iron and smoke clings to the air. The sound of metal striking metal echoes through the cavernous facility—steady, relentless, like a heartbeat that refuses to die. Bucky’s palms are raw. The skin at the base of his fingers is split and burned from gripping tools that sear hotter than they should.

He’s been here long enough that time doesn’t make sense anymore. Days and nights blur together under the artificial light. There’s no sky, no wind—just the crackle of electricity and the cold bark of orders in German. The name Hydra carries through the hallways like a curse.

“Keep your head down,” Dugan mutters from beside him, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “Don’t give ‘em a reason.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s too busy forcing his hands to keep working—tightening bolts, fitting metal plates, assembling pieces of a machine he doesn’t want to understand. He knows it’s a weapon. Everything here is.

He’s lost count of the days since they were captured. The tank had come out of nowhere, cutting down their unit, and then there was the flash, the fire, and the smell of burning oil. They’d run, ducked behind the wreckage, but the ground had shaken beneath their feet. And then—capture. The moment his wrists were bound in cold metal cuffs, he’d known that whatever this place was, it was worse than death.

Now, he works. Because working means living a little longer.

There’s a guard—Lohmer—who seems to have made it his personal mission to break him. The man’s boots are always somewhere nearby, pacing, stopping, waiting for a mistake. The first time Bucky faltered, Lohmer’s fist drove into his ribs hard enough to make him choke. The second time, it was a rifle butt to the jaw.

Tonight, the bruises have gone purple, deepening like shadows.

When the shift ends, they’re herded into a cramped barracks room with cracked concrete floors and rows of cots that smell of sweat and rust. The guards shove the last of them through the door and lock it behind them. The clang of the bolt echoes.

Bucky sits, breath ragged. He stares down at his hands, still trembling from the cold and the strain. Across from him, Jacques murmurs something in French that he doesn’t catch. Falsworth coughs into his sleeve.

“You alright, Sergeant?” Dugan asks, voice quiet.

“Yeah,” Bucky says automatically. “Peachy.”

He’s not. He hasn’t been for weeks.

When the others drift into uneasy sleep, he stays awake. There’s a small window high up on the wall—just a slit of glass—and through it he can see a sliver of sky, faint and pale. He stares at it until his eyes burn.

That’s when he thinks of you.

The memory of the Stark Expo hits him hard, sudden and vivid. The lights, the music, the way your laugh had rung out above the noise. You, standing under the streetlamp, looking at him like maybe you saw something worth waiting for. He can still see the way your breath had fogged in the cold air, the way his fingers had twitched with the urge to touch your face.

He should’ve kissed you.

God, he should’ve kissed you.

He presses the heel of his hand to his eyes, jaw tightening. The air smells of sweat and rust, but in his mind, he can still smell the faint sweetness of your perfume—that soft, lilac scent that clung to his uniform after you parted ways. He remembers the weight of your hand on his arm, the tremor in your voice when you told him to be careful.

He’d laughed. Told you not to worry. Told you he always kept his promises. Now he’s not sure if he’ll ever see you again.

He thinks about how you’d smiled that night, the corners of your mouth trembling just a little. He wonders if you’ve been reading the papers, if you know where the 107th was sent, if you flinch every time another list of casualties gets printed. He imagines you sitting by the radio, he imagines you crying. And it guts him.

Somewhere down the hall, a guard shouts. A man screams—short, sharp, cut off too soon. Bucky stiffens, every muscle coiled tight. He knows that sound. He’s heard it too many times. A moment later, the door to their barracks bangs open. Lohmer strides in, baton swinging against his thigh. His smile is all teeth. “Barnes,” he says, pointing. “You. Up.”

Bucky rises slowly, every bone in his body protesting. Dugan starts to say something, but one look from Bucky silences him. He’s learned there’s no point in fighting unless you can win—and tonight, he can’t. Lohmer drags him into the corridor, past other cells, past the smell of ozone and blood. When they stop, it’s in front of a steel table lined with restraints.

Zola stands on the other side, adjusting his glasses, his face unreadable. “The Sergeant has shown… resilience,” he says mildly. “Let’s see what makes him special.”

Bucky’s breath catches. “I’m not—”

Lohmer hits him before he can finish. When the pain comes, it’s all-consuming—white-hot, blinding, tearing through his veins like fire. He tries to hold onto something, anything, but his mind scrambles for an anchor and finds only you.

He sees you in the crowd at the Expo, face glowing in the electric light. He hears your voice—soft, teasing, alive. He remembers the way you’d said his name, how it had sounded like a promise.

If he lives through this, he swears, he’ll tell you. He’ll find you. He’ll ruin whatever’s left of that friendship if it means feeling your hands on his face just once. Then the pain swells until he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t remember anything except your smile as the world fades to white.

---

The rain comes down hard over London, steady and cold, washing the last of the Austrian mud from the tanks that line the courtyard. The SSR base is alive again—shouting soldiers, whirring engines, the metallic clang of repairs echoing through the night. For the first time in months, there’s warmth. Food. Beds. Music crackling faintly from a radio in some nearby tent.

Bucky sits on the edge of his cot, staring down at his hands. They still shake, sometimes. Not from cold—not anymore. From something else. The serum that Hydra forced into his veins still burns beneath his skin, a restless thrum he can’t quite quiet. The medics said it was a miracle he survived. They don’t know the half of it.

He’s alive. But it doesn’t feel like it.

He runs his thumb along the edge of his dog tag, tracing the worn letters. Barnes, James Buchanan. He’d stared at it every night since Steve pulled him out of that facility, just to remind himself that he was still him. That he hadn’t been erased and rebuilt into something else.

Outside the tent, he hears laughter—Dugan’s booming voice, Steve’s steadier one, Peggy’s dry humor cutting through the rain. It’s comforting and sharp all at once. They’re celebrating a victory, the kind of moment that should feel like redemption. But all Bucky feels is distance.

He hasn’t slept more than an hour at a time since Austria. Every time he closes his eyes, he’s back there—the flicker of the lab lights, Zola’s voice, the metal biting into his wrists. And always, always, your face, like a ghost that won’t leave him alone.

He remembers how you looked the night he shipped out—the streetlight catching on your skin, the tremor in your smile. He remembers the promise he didn’t make. The kiss he didn’t take. He’d thought about you every day since.

When the war ended in the papers, you were supposed to be the reason to come home. But now, home feels like a foreign word. He hears footsteps crunch outside and doesn’t need to look up to know who it is. Steve’s gait hasn’t changed—measured, steady, and too big for the narrow tent aisles. “You look like hell,” Steve says lightly, brushing rain from his jacket as he steps inside.

Bucky huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk, punk.”

“Fair,” Steve admits. “Peggy says we’re supposed to be wheels up for London command in an hour. You ready?”

Bucky shrugs. “As I’ll ever be.”

Steve’s quiet for a beat, watching him. “You been sleeping?”

“Define sleeping,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Steve doesn’t push, just nods. That’s the thing about him—he never pries, but he always knows. “We’ll be home soon,” he says. “Brooklyn, maybe. You can see her again.”

Bucky’s stomach tightens. Her. You. The word itself feels like a wound. “Yeah,” he says softly. “If she even remembers me.”

“She will,” Steve says, firm but gentle. “You’re hard to forget, Buck.”

He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking—that the man who left Brooklyn isn’t the one who’ll be coming back. That you deserve better than someone who can’t close his eyes without hearing screaming.

When they reach London, the city is gray and alive, a strange mix of celebration and mourning. The SSR sets up in a refurbished government building near Piccadilly. There are briefings, missions, late nights in smoky war rooms. But there’s also laughter again. Steve’s grin. Peggy’s dry wit. The sound of rain on the windows.

And every night, when the noise fades, there’s you.

He catches himself imagining it—walking through your neighborhood again, knocking on your door, seeing your face when you realize he made it home. He imagines you laughing, hugging him, maybe calling him “idiot” for scaring you half to death. He imagines you still wearing your hair the same way, still smelling like lilacs. He imagines kissing you this time—no almosts, no stopping himself.

But every time he lets the thought take shape, something else follows, the look on your face when you see what’s left of him. The scar at his temple. The thinness from weeks of starvation. The tremor in his hands when he tries to button his uniform.

What if you flinch? What if you smile, but it’s pity? What if you’ve moved on?

He thinks about writing—just a letter, something to tell you he’s alive. But every time he picks up a pen, he can’t find the words. What do you write to the person who used to feel like home when you don’t know if you’re still the man she’s waiting for?

So he doesn’t.

He fights, he follows orders, he cracks jokes with the others when he can. But when night falls, when the rain starts again, he lies awake staring at the ceiling and whispers your name into the dark like a prayer he doesn’t deserve to have answered.

It’s nearly dawn when Steve finds him again, sitting alone on the edge of a cot, cigarette burning low between his fingers. “Couldn’t sleep?” Steve asks. Bucky shakes his head. Steve hesitates, then says quietly, “you know… when we get back home, she’s gonna be real glad to see you.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. The smoke curls between them, soft and ghostlike. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I just hope I don’t scare her off first.”

Steve frowns, but before he can answer, the radio crackles with new orders, and the moment passes like everything else in war—half-lived, half-lost.

---

The train screeches into the station under a bright, brittle Brooklyn sun. The platform is overflowing—mothers, wives, siblings, children—all craning their necks for a glimpse of someone they prayed would come home. Flags wave, whistles blow, and through the chaos, the air thrums with a kind of happiness that feels almost unreal.

You stand near the edge of the platform, hands twisting in the fabric of your coat. You’ve been here since dawn, unable to sit still, unable to breathe properly since the radio announced that the 107th—the Howling Commandos—were finally returning home.

You’d heard the stories, of course. Whispers in the papers. The rescue at the Hydra base. The new Captain America leading impossible missions. It sounded like something out of a comic book—Steve, the sickly boy from Brooklyn, a hero now. And Bucky…

Bucky, who’d been captured. Tortured. Presumed dead.

The first time you saw his name in the paper, you’d gone still, coffee spilling down your wrist, the world narrowing to a single line of print. Then came the silence. No letters, no news. You’d mourned him quietly, privately—because no one had told you to stop hoping.

And now—now he’s on that train. Alive.

You spot them before anyone else does—the tall figure in the blue uniform, unmistakably Steve, waving off the applause, and beside him, a man in an olive coat, his cap pulled low. For a moment, you think your eyes are playing tricks. He looks older, thinner, his face marked by shadows you don’t recognize. But then he lifts his head, and you see it—the same crooked smile, the same soft blue eyes.

Your heart breaks and heals in the same instant. “Bucky!”

You don’t remember moving. One second you’re frozen, the next you’re running—pushing past the crowd, calling his name again, louder this time. He looks up, startled, and when he sees you, something inside him cracks open.

He steps off the train just as you reach him, and before he can say a word, you throw your arms around him. It’s not graceful. You hit his chest hard enough that it knocks the air out of both of you, but his arms come around you immediately, strong and sure, holding you like you’re something he’s dreamed of and never expected to touch again.

“Jesus, doll,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “You’re really here.”

You laugh through the tears you didn’t realize were falling. “You’re—you’re alive.”

He chuckles softly, the sound trembling. “Guess I am.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still fisted in his coat. There are scars at his temple now, faint lines etched around his mouth that weren’t there before. He looks like a man who’s seen too much and survived it anyway. “You look—” you start, then falter.

“Terrible?” he offers with a wry grin.

“Different,” you whisper. “Older.”

His gaze softens. “So do you.”

Behind you, Steve clears his throat, smiling that earnest, boyish smile that doesn’t quite match his broad new shoulders. “You gonna share, Buck, or is this a private reunion?”

You laugh again, turning to hug him next, and Steve wraps you up like the brother you never had. “You did it,” you say against his shoulder. “Both of you. You came home.”

“Told you we would,” he says. “Didn’t I?”

“You said a lot of things,” you tease weakly, pulling back to look between them. “Not all of them true.”

Bucky chuckles. “She’s got you there, pal.”

The three of you stand there for a while, letting the noise of the station swell and fade around you. For a few blessed minutes, it’s almost like before—three kids from Brooklyn again, laughing about nothing, forgetting the rest of the world exists.

When you finally leave the platform, Bucky keeps close. He walks beside you and Steve through the busy streets, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, smiling politely at the strangers who nod or wave. But every now and then, you catch him looking at you—quick, quiet glances that hit like a pulse beneath the skin.

It’s like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

You lead them to the corner diner, the same one you used to haunt before the war. It’s changed a little—new paint, new jukebox—but the smell of coffee and bacon grease is the same. The waitress recognizes Steve immediately, gushes about the newspapers, and sets you up in your old booth by the window.

When the coffee arrives, Bucky’s hand lingers on the cup for a long time before he drinks, as if relearning the taste of ordinary life.

“So,” you say, trying to fill the silence. “What happens now? You two back for good?”

Steve nods. “That’s the plan. The SSR’s wrapping things up here in the States. They’ll probably find something else for us to do, but—”

“Home’s home,” Bucky finishes for him, voice low.

You smile. “Good. I missed this.”

Steve grins, leaning back. “What, me and Buck bickering over pancakes?”

“Among other things.”

For a moment, it really does feel like nothing’s changed. You catch Bucky’s eye over the rim of your cup and he smiles—small, private. You feel warmth bloom in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous. Then the bell above the diner door rings. You glance up, and the world shifts again.

Andrew steps inside—tall, clean-cut, still in his office clothes. His eyes find you immediately, and he smiles. The engagement ring on your finger feels suddenly, painfully heavy. “There you are,” he says, crossing the diner. “I stopped by your place—they said you’d come down here. I thought I’d find you with—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the men at your booth. Recognition flickers in his eyes. “Captain Rogers,” he says, extending a hand. “An honor.”

Steve stands, polite as ever, shaking it firmly. “Just Steve, please.”

Then Andrew turns to Bucky. “And you must be Sergeant Barnes. She’s told me about you.”

Bucky rises slowly, every trace of warmth gone from his face. He takes Andrew’s hand, grip measured, voice smooth. “All good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Andrew says with a tight smile.

You can feel the tension rolling between them—two different kinds of manhood colliding. Bucky’s eyes flick to your ring before he looks away, and something in your chest twists painfully.

Andrew drapes an arm around your shoulders, casual and proprietary, and presses a kiss to your temple. “We should get going,” he says softly. “Dinner at my parents’ tonight.”

You nod, but your throat feels tight. You turn back to the table. “I’ll see you both soon, alright?”

Steve smiles, warm and oblivious. “You better.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He just gives a small nod, eyes unreadable.

When you step outside, the air feels colder. Andrew’s talking—something about promotions, a friend’s engagement party—but his voice fades into a blur. You glance back through the diner window. Bucky’s still watching you. For a heartbeat, you meet his eyes—the same blue that once promised laughter and mischief and safety. Now they’re tired, sad, full of things you’ll never be able to say.

Then Steve says something, Bucky looks away, and the moment breaks.

You turn, forcing a smile for the man at your side, and walk away—the ring cold on your finger, the ache in your chest sharp and familiar. Behind you, in the glow of the diner window, Bucky’s still there, his coffee untouched, and tells himself he’s happy just to see you again.

---

The weeks that follow are an echo of a life you all once knew—familiar rhythms layered over a city trying to remember how to breathe again. The war is over, but Brooklyn still hums like it’s waiting for the next siren. Windows are patched with new glass, ration posters fade on the walls, and people fill the streets again with laughter that still sounds uncertain.

For the three of you—you, Steve, and Bucky—it’s as if the world has been rewound, though the edges don’t quite line up anymore. The diner booth is still yours, the coffee’s still weak, the jukebox still sputters out old love songs. But Bucky doesn’t joke as much now, and Steve sits taller, his shoulders too broad for the space. You try to ignore the differences—or maybe you just pretend not to notice them.

It starts small. You thread your arm through Bucky’s as you always did when you walk down 39th. He still lets you, though now his body goes a little stiff at first, then softens as if he remembers he’s supposed to. Sometimes you’ll reach for him without thinking—to tug him across a street or to steady him when he’s distracted—and the jolt that runs through him is subtle but real.

He hides it well. He always did.

What gets him most isn’t how you’ve changed, but how you haven’t. You still hum under your breath when you’re nervous. Still tap your nails against your cup while you talk. You laugh easily, throw your head back the same way you did when he’d tease you before the war. You still look at him with that same open warmth that once made him feel like the luckiest man alive, and now it just makes him ache.

He doesn’t know how to fit himself into this version of Brooklyn—this version of you.

You’re engaged now. He reminds himself of it every time he sees the ring on your hand. Sometimes it catches the light and glitters against your coffee cup, a tiny cruel flash that digs under his ribs. Andrew is polite enough, decent enough, the sort of man who never raises his voice and always says please and thank you. He brings you flowers, takes you to dinner, shakes Bucky’s hand and calls him “pal.” Bucky shakes back, every muscle in his jaw tight.

He tries to be happy for you—really tries. You deserve safety, something whole. Not a man who wakes up drenched in sweat, fists clenched around ghosts. He tells himself that every time he sees you laughing at something Andrew says. It doesn’t make it hurt less.

There’s a night in late August when the three of you go out for drinks, the kind of night that used to belong to another lifetime—before uniforms, before blood and cold and loss. The bar’s crowded, cigarette smoke curling in the air, the jazz band so loud you have to lean close to be heard.

Steve’s grinning, shouting over the music about some newspaper interview he’s been roped into, Peggy’s name slipping into the conversation now and then, unguarded. You tease him mercilessly, and he blushes red as ever.

Bucky watches, smiling, sipping his whiskey too slowly. When you lean against him to whisper something—a joke, a memory—your hand finds his arm like it used to, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. It’s innocent. It always is. You don’t see the way he freezes for a half-second, the way his breath catches before he forces a smirk in return. “You always were the funny one,” he says softly, almost lost beneath the brass.

“Only because you two were hopeless,” you tease back, and he grins—that old, dangerous grin that used to get him out of trouble and into more of it.

The moment stretches a little too long. Then Steve says something that makes you laugh again, and Bucky looks away. Later, when you all spill out into the street, the night air cool and damp against your skin, you loop your arm through his again without thinking. “Will you walk me home?” you ask, same as you always did.

He wants to say no. He wants to say he shouldn’t. But he just nods. “’Course.”

Steve peels off in the other direction, calling something about meeting tomorrow, and then it’s just the two of you.

You walk in silence for a while, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, your hand light on his arm. The city hums around you—car horns, laughter, music drifting from open windows. Everything feels the same, except it isn’t. “You seem quiet tonight,” you say finally, glancing up at him.

He shrugs. “Guess I’m still getting used to being back. Feels strange.”

“I can imagine.” You hesitate, then smile. “But it’s good. Having you home. I missed this.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Me too.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the streetlight painting your face in amber and shadow. For a moment, he forgets how to breathe. You’re looking up at him like you used to—the same soft tilt of your head, the same easy trust in your eyes.

And then he sees the ring glint again and feels the ground tilt beneath him. He forces a smile. “Your fiancé treating you right?”

You blink, surprised by the question. “Of course. Why?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No reason. Just—you deserve good things, is all.”

You smile faintly, a little shy. “He’s kind. Steady. My family likes him.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Sounds perfect.”

He means it to sound light, teasing even, but it lands heavier than either of you expect. You both fall silent. The only sound is the rumble of an approaching trolley and the faint hum of music from somewhere down the block.

When you reach your door, you turn to face him, still holding onto his arm. “You’ll come by again soon, won’t you? For dinner maybe? Andrew’s been wanting to cook for everyone.”

He almost laughs. Andrew’s cooking? The thought alone feels wrong—some man he doesn’t know standing where he used to, in your kitchen, touching the things that used to belong to the three of you. But he just nods. “Sure, doll. Whatever you want.”

You smile, squeeze his arm, and then, as if you don’t know what you’re doing to him, you step close and kiss his cheek. “Goodnight, Buck.”

His breath catches. It’s so quick, so ordinary, but it burns straight through him. He watches you disappear behind the door, the soft click of the latch echoing louder than it should. He stands there for a long time afterward, hands in his pockets, staring at the space you left behind.

When he finally turns away, the night feels colder. He tells himself that this is fine. That this—your friendship, your laughter, the arm he’s still sure he can feel linked through his—is enough.

But as he walks back down the quiet street, he knows it isn’t. Not anymore.

---

There’s another night in September, one of those in-between evenings when summer hasn’t quite let go. You, Steve, and Bucky are back at the diner—your diner—sharing a plate of fries while the jukebox hums some slow swing tune. The booths are full, the air smells like coffee and salt, and for a while, it almost feels like before.

You’ve kicked off your heels under the table, your feet brushing Bucky’s every now and then. You don’t even notice, but he does. Every time.

Steve’s talking about some meeting with the SSR, something about military reorganization and “civilian roles.” You’re listening with a faint smile, chin propped on your hand, your other hand absently tugging at the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, straightening it like you always did when he wore his old coat crooked.

He watches your fingers instead of listening. The sight of your hand on his arm—small, certain, unthinking—stirs something both grounding and unbearable in him. When you glance up and catch him staring, you give him that same teasing grin you always used to. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice rougher than he means. “Just… forgot how much you talk.”

You laugh, a quick, bright sound that draws a few curious looks from other tables. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You two sound exactly like you did when we were fifteen.”

“Means we haven’t aged a day,” Bucky says with a smirk, though the weight in his chest says otherwise.

You smile at that, soft and fond. Then your gaze flicks toward the window, and you sigh. “Andrew’s picking me up soon.”

Bucky’s smirk falters. “Right. Of course.”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” you tease, nudging his shoulder.

“Just jealous the guy gets to drive that fancy car of his while I’m stuck on the trolley,” he says easily. But the joke doesn’t land the way it used to.

A silence settles—not awkward, but charged. You look like you might say something, but then the bell above the door rings, and Andrew walks in. He’s polite as always, all charm and pressed shirts, waving to Steve and offering a quick handshake to Bucky. “Evening, fellas.”

“Andrew,” Bucky says evenly. “How’s work?”

“Busy. But I can’t complain.” He smiles at you then, and the way you light up—not as bright as you used to, maybe, but still real—is enough to make Bucky’s chest ache. “Ready to go, sweetheart?” Andrew asks.

“Yeah,” you say softly, standing and slipping on your coat.

Bucky stands too out of habit, like the gentleman he used to be. “See you around, doll.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder and smile. “You will.”

When the door closes behind you, the air feels heavier. Steve looks at him, knowing but kind. “You alright, Buck?”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “Never better.”

After that, he starts seeing you less. Not because you’ve changed anything—you still invite him for coffee, for dinners, for quiet evenings where you, Steve, and Andrew talk about nothing at all. But Bucky starts finding reasons to miss them. He tells you he’s got work, or errands, or that he’s tired.

The truth is, every time he sees you with Andrew, it kills him a little. The way Andrew’s hand rests casually on your back when you walk through a door. The way you lean toward him when you laugh. The way you still look at Bucky like you’re waiting for him to say something that he never will.

He spends more time at the docks now, helping unload cargo. The physical work keeps him grounded. He doesn’t talk much to the other men—they all recognize him as the war hero from the papers, whispering his name like it belongs to someone else. Maybe it does.

Sometimes, late at night, he takes the long way home past your street. The windows are lit warm and soft, and he can almost hear your voice drifting out through the open glass. It’s masochism, maybe, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel real.

A week later, Steve finds him on a park bench overlooking the river. “You’re torturing yourself,” Steve says, sitting beside him.

Bucky doesn’t look at him. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do.”

The water glints silver under the moonlight. Bucky flicks his cigarette into it, watching the ember vanish. “She’s happy,” he says finally. “That’s all that matters.”

Steve’s quiet for a moment. “You sure about that?” Bucky glances at him then, brow furrowed. “I see the way she looks at you, Buck,” Steve says. “The way she lights up when you’re around. You really think it’s just friendship?”

Bucky’s throat tightens. He wants to deny it. Wants to say it’s all in Steve’s head. But the truth sits heavy in his chest, undeniable. “It doesn’t matter,” he says at last. “She made her choice.”

Steve studies him, sympathy in his eyes. “Maybe. But maybe she’s waiting for you to give her a reason to make a different one.”

Bucky laughs softly, humorless. “Yeah? And what then? I ruin what’s left of the only good thing I got?”

“Maybe you fix it instead,” Steve says quietly.

They sit in silence after that, the wind carrying the smell of salt and the faint sound of distant laughter. Bucky doesn’t answer, but Steve doesn’t press.

That night, Bucky dreams of you again. Not the war, not the pain—just you. Standing under that streetlamp, same as before, smiling up at him with eyes that look like home. He wakes before you can speak, the ghost of your touch still burning on his skin.

He sits up, heart pounding, and realizes that whatever he’s been trying to bury all these months—all these years—isn’t going anywhere. The war might be over, but he’s still fighting the same battle. And this time, the only thing he’s in danger of losing is you.

---

Late autumn settles over Brooklyn like a sigh. The air has that crisp edge that smells faintly of rain and coal smoke, and the trees along the sidewalks have begun to let go of what’s left of their color. Every street corner feels familiar, but quieter—like the city itself is still learning how to live again after the war.

You’ve spent the last few weeks tucked into wedding plans, your days filled with appointment books, fabric samples, and letters from relatives who suddenly remember your existence. The apartment smells faintly of starch and lavender, and the table is perpetually buried under swatches of ivory silk and lace.

Andrew’s handwriting covers half the notes in a neat, efficient scrawl: dates, times, addresses. You fill in the margins with doodles—vines, petals, tiny hearts—absent-minded things you used to sketch when you were supposed to be paying attention to something else.

And when you’re not working on the wedding, you’re with Steve and Bucky. The three of you still orbit each other, even if the rhythm has changed. Steve helps where he can—moving furniture, offering his larger-than-life charm to shopkeepers who’d otherwise ignore you in crowded stores. Bucky tags along sometimes, quieter now, his smile a little tighter around the edges.

He doesn’t say much these days, but you still feel him—the weight of his gaze when you laugh at something Steve says, the way he steps instinctively closer when you’re walking down a busy street, like his body’s still wired to protect you even when there’s nothing left to fight. You notice, though you don’t let yourself linger on it. You can’t.

It’s one of those chilly afternoons when the three of you end up downtown, balancing boxes full of wedding supplies between you. You’re moving through the narrow aisles of a florist’s shop, the air thick with the scent of roses and damp earth. “I don’t know,” you murmur, studying the bouquet in your hands. “These seem too stiff, don’t they? I want something softer, more natural.”

Steve, ever practical, squints at the arrangement like he’s inspecting troop formations. “Looks fine to me.”

You laugh. “You said that about the last three, too.”

“Well, they all look fine,” he says, a little helplessly.

Bucky smirks faintly, leaning against the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands tucked into his pockets. “You’re askin’ the wrong audience, doll. Between the two of us, I don’t think we’ve bought flowers that weren’t apologies.”

You glance up at him, caught off guard by the flicker of humor—the first real one you’ve seen from him all day. “Is that right?”

He shrugs, but his smile lingers. “Pretty sure every girl I ever gave flowers to had just finished tellin’ me off.”

“That’s because you deserved it,” Steve mutters.

Bucky grins. “Yeah, maybe.”

The sound of your laughter fills the small shop, and for a moment, it’s like time folds back on itself—the three of you as you were before the war, teasing and bright, untouched by the years between.

But then the florist asks about delivery dates, and the spell breaks. You glance down at your notes again, biting your lip as you try to recall the schedule. Bucky watches the motion, the way your teeth catch the soft skin, and something unravels inside him.

It’s the same nervous habit you had when you were sixteen, sitting at that diner booth and worrying about school, or the future, or whatever small storm was brewing in your head. You’d always do that—chew your lip until it was raw—and he’d tease you, reaching out to nudge your chin lightly with his thumb until you stopped.

He used to know everything about you. The songs you hummed when you cooked. The way you liked your coffee. The sound you made when you were trying not to laugh. Now he stands three feet away and feels like a stranger.

Later, after you’ve settled on a bouquet and paid the deposit, the three of you step outside. The cold air hits hard, sharp with the smell of rain. You draw your coat tighter around yourself and glance up at the sky, half-expecting snow. “Thanks for coming,” you say, glancing between them. “I know this stuff isn’t exactly your idea of a good time.”

Steve smiles. “You kidding? Beats punching Nazis.”

Bucky gives a quiet snort of amusement but says nothing. He shoves his hands deeper into his coat pockets and looks down the street instead. “You sure you don’t mind helping with deliveries next week?” you ask. “The caterer’s sending samples, and the venue wants us to test the layout.”

“Course not,” Bucky says, still not meeting your eyes. “Just tell me when and where.”

Something about his tone makes you pause. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t want to take up your time.”

He glances at you then, his eyes soft, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it, doll. I got nothin’ but time.”

You try to return the smile, but it falters. There’s something behind his words you can’t quite name—a tiredness that doesn’t belong to a man his age. You want to ask him what’s wrong, but Steve’s already talking about dinner plans, and Bucky’s gaze has shifted back to the street.

That night, you’re sitting at your kitchen table, flipping through your notebook. The apartment is quiet—Andrew’s out late again, working—and you find yourself staring at your lists without reading them. The flowers, the venue, the dress… it’s all supposed to be exciting, but it feels like you’re building something in the wrong shape.

You think about Bucky—the way he’d smiled today, the way he’d looked at you when you laughed. The way he’d gone quiet again afterward. You shake the thought away, turning another page, but your pen hesitates above the paper.

You still write his name sometimes. Just his initials, tucked into corners, the way you used to when you were a teenager doodling in the margins of your homework. You tell yourself it’s habit. Nostalgia. But it feels like something more—something fragile, dangerous, and alive.

Across town, Bucky’s sitting on his narrow bed in the boarding house, the lamp beside him casting a weak yellow glow. He’s got an envelope in his lap—an invitation to your wedding, embossed and perfect, the edges faintly smudged from where you must have handled it.

He turns it over in his hands for a long time, his jaw tight. Then he sets it on the nightstand and leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. It should make him happy, seeing you getting everything you’ve ever wanted. It should feel like closure.

But instead, it feels like the world is slowly erasing him —like he’s watching the one thing that tethered him to his old life slip quietly out of reach. He closes his eyes and tells himself he’ll keep helping. He’ll keep smiling. He’ll be your friend. He’ll do all the right things.

Even if it kills him.

---

The following week arrives gray and drizzly, the kind of November day where the streets shine wet and the light never quite breaks through the clouds. The city hums quietly—horns in the distance, footsteps on slick pavement, the smell of roasted chestnuts from the corner cart.

You’ve invited Steve, Bucky, and Andrew to your apartment for a small “planning dinner.” Nothing formal—just a way to go over some details before your mother and Andrew’s parents join for the final tastings next weekend.

The dining table, usually cluttered with fabric swatches and half-burned candles, is covered now with plates and notebooks. You’ve spent the whole day rearranging, making sure everything looks right. There’s a neat little spread of sandwiches, cookies, and tea laid out, and your engagement ring glints whenever you reach for a cup.

Bucky’s the last to arrive. He hesitates on the landing before knocking, half tempted to turn back. But then he hears your voice through the door—that light, hurried tone he’s heard a thousand times—and he knocks once before he can talk himself out of it.

You open the door with a smudge of flour on your wrist. The smell of something warm and buttery drifts out from the kitchen. “Buck!” you say, smiling. “You made it.”

He grins back, awkward and genuine all at once. “Wouldn’t miss it, doll.”

You let him in, taking his coat and hanging it carefully beside Andrew’s. The apartment feels cozy—too small for four people, maybe, but bright and alive with the hum of conversation. Steve’s sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea, papers spread over his knees. Andrew’s standing by the table, sleeves rolled up, carefully arranging sandwiches on a platter. “Glad you could join us,” Andrew says pleasantly, looking up. “We were just about to talk food.”

“Dangerous subject,” Bucky says, pulling out a chair. “You sure you want my opinion?”

“Only if it’s good,” Andrew jokes.

You laugh, and the tension eases for a moment. They spend the first twenty minutes talking about seating charts and table settings, Steve occasionally chiming in with comments that make you laugh and roll your eyes. Bucky mostly listens, offering a word here or there when you ask him to weigh in.

He watches the way you move, the way your fingers hover over the list as you read it aloud, how you press your lips together when you’re thinking. Every detail feels sharper than it should, like his mind’s cataloging every part of you to hold onto later.

Then Andrew says, “Oh—speaking of food, I talked to my mother today about the luncheon menu.”

You glance up, smiling. “Oh? What did she say?”

“She’d love to prepare some of the dishes herself. Thought it’d be a nice personal touch,” Andrew explains, flipping through his notes. “You know, her cucumber sandwiches, that salad she makes with the dill dressing—your favorite.”

Bucky’s fork stops halfway to his mouth. He doesn’t say a word, but something in his chest goes still. Your expression flickers—not enough for Andrew to notice, but Bucky sees it. A tiny hesitation. A half-second of polite confusion. Then your smile smooths back into place. “Right,” you say gently. “That’s lovely.”

Andrew beams. “I told her you’d be thrilled. She’ll start prepping this week.”

Steve nods approvingly. “Sounds fancy. I’ve never had cucumber sandwiches before.”

“Oh, they’re very refreshing,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Perfect with tea.”

“Sure they are,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his tone too quiet for anyone but you to catch.

You shoot him a look, small but sharp, as if to say don’t. He gives a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair. The rest of the conversation moves on—table linens, music, who will walk you down the aisle—but the air feels different. Bucky can’t stop hearing Andrew’s voice echoing that one word, favorite.

He remembers the real story. The diner, years ago. You’d ordered a sandwich with cucumbers and took one bite before making the most disgusted face he’d ever seen. He’d teased you for it, and you’d shoved your plate at him, muttering something about “texture” and “godawful smell.” He’d laughed until you threw a napkin at his head.

It was such a small thing—ordinary and stupid—but somehow, it feels enormous now. Because Andrew doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the girl who once snuck a stray cat into her parents’ kitchen, who carried three pairs of gloves every winter because you always lost one. He doesn’t know that you used to hum Gershwin when you cooked or that you hated thunderstorms but loved the smell of rain after.

He doesn’t know you. And Bucky realizes, with a quiet ache that steals the breath from his lungs, that he’s the only one left who does.

After dinner, Steve leaves first, promising to help you haul boxes to the venue next weekend. Andrew lingers a few minutes longer, kissing your cheek before heading home. You see him off at the door, murmuring soft goodnights, and when you turn back, Bucky’s still sitting at the table, arms folded, eyes fixed on the empty plate in front of him. “Thanks for helping tonight,” you say, voice careful. “I know it’s not the most exciting thing in the world.”

He looks up slowly, a faint, wry smile on his lips. “Exciting’s overrated.”

You roll your eyes affectionately and start gathering the dishes. He stands to help, wordlessly taking a stack from your hands. The quiet between you feels different now—heavier, but not uncomfortable. Familiar, almost. You wash, he dries. It’s easy, practiced, like slipping back into an old song you both know by heart. When the last plate’s done, you lean against the counter, exhaling. “Andrew’s mother’s really going all out. It’s sweet of her.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says lightly, though something sharp threads through his tone. “Sweet.”

You glance over at him. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’.”

“Bucky,” you press, arms folding. “Don’t do that. What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Just funny, s’all. You always hated cucumbers.”

You blink. “What?”

“Cucumbers,” he says again, half-smiling. “You used to pick ’em off your sandwiches and dump ’em on my plate. Said they tasted like cold soap.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard. The memory is so vivid it startles you—the diner, the cheap plates, his teasing grin. “I… guess I did.”

“Guess you forgot,” he says quietly. You open your mouth to answer, but the words stick. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, too quiet. His eyes are on you, steady and sad, like he’s seeing something you’re only just starting to remember. He clears his throat, looks away, and grabs his coat. “Anyway, I should go. Long day tomorrow.”

You nod slowly. “Right. Of course.”

At the door, he pauses. “Goodnight, doll.”

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

When the door closes, you stand there for a long time, your back to it, the faint smell of soap and tea still clinging to the air. You don’t know why the stupid detail bothers you so much—why it leaves your chest tight and your eyes stinging. But you can’t shake it.

Because he’s right. You do hate cucumbers. And you can’t quite remember when you started pretending otherwise.

---

It starts as something small, almost imperceptible—a ripple under the surface of a life you’ve been trying to convince yourself is whole. After the night of the cucumber remark, everything feels… tilted. The moment itself had been nothing, really. A few harmless words in a quiet kitchen. But they’d cracked something open that you’d spent months keeping tightly sealed.

Now, the smallest things catch at you. Andrew’s laughter, too practiced. His kisses, always polite and brief. The way he talks about the future in tidy, well-planned sentences—his job, the house you’ll have, the way “Mrs. Reid” rolls so easily off his tongue.

You smile when he says it. You always smile. But inside, there’s this quiet voice that keeps asking, when did you stop belonging to yourself?

You start noticing how often you nod when you don’t agree. How many times you laugh even when something doesn’t strike you as funny. How you smooth over the rough edges of who you are to fit the life that’s being built around you.

It isn’t bad, you tell yourself. Andrew is a good man. Gentle, thoughtful. He works hard, treats you well, makes sure you never walk home alone. He listens when you talk—or at least, he listens enough to respond in all the right ways.

But sometimes, when he looks at you across a dinner table or from the driver’s seat of his neat little car, you get the sense that he’s seeing a version of you that isn’t real. A woman built from good manners and careful words. A woman who never picks fights, never rolls her eyes, never swears when she drops something heavy.

And every time, you think of Bucky. Of the way he’d grin when you cursed, teasing you just to see if he could make you do it again. Of how he never flinched when you disagreed with him, never made you feel smaller for it. Of how, somehow, he could read your silences better than most people could read your words.

You try not to think of it, but the thought follows you like a shadow.

You see Bucky again a week later, almost by accident. You’re on your way back from the tailor with your arms full of packages—bolts of fabric, invitations, a box of new gloves. The wind’s sharp and biting, tearing at your hat, and you’re juggling everything when a voice behind you says, “you always did try to carry the world by yourself.”

You turn, startled—and there he is. Bucky stands a few feet away, collar turned up against the cold, hair mussed by the wind. He looks better than he did last week, or maybe it’s just that he’s smiling, a little shyly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Buck,” you breathe, shifting the packages. “What are you—”

“Was passin’ by,” he says easily, stepping closer. “Figured you could use a hand.” You start to protest, but one of the boxes slips, and he catches it before it hits the ground. He looks at you with that same half-smirk he’s always had—the one that makes your heart stutter for reasons you don’t want to name. “Still stubborn as ever,” he murmurs.

“Still nosy,” you shoot back automatically, though the words come out softer than you intend.

He grins, just a little, and takes the rest of the boxes from you before you can argue. “C’mon, doll. I’ll walk you home.”

The walk is quiet at first. The city hums around you—the whistle of a streetcar, the chatter from shop doors, the faint smell of roasted nuts from a vendor down the block. The two of you move in step like you used to, your gloved hand brushing against his sleeve every so often.

It feels almost normal. Almost easy. He asks about the wedding, and you tell him bits and pieces—the dress, the flowers, the venue—but even to your own ears, it sounds rehearsed, like you’re reading from someone else’s script. When you trail off, Bucky glances at you sideways. “You happy?”

The question lands like a pebble in a pond—small, but the ripples keep spreading. You blink, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

He shrugs, eyes on the pavement. “Just seems like a thing a guy oughta ask his friend before she gets married.”

You laugh, but it doesn’t sound right. “Of course I’m happy. Why wouldn’t I be?” He doesn’t answer, just nods slightly. The silence stretches between you until you add, “Andrew’s good to me. You’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’ve seen it.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach twist. The rest of the walk is quieter. You talk about safe things—the weather, Steve’s latest SSR gossip, a new bakery opening down the street. When you reach your building, you pause at the steps, clutching your packages tighter than necessary. “Thanks for helping,” you say.

“Anytime,” he replies.

You linger a moment longer, the wind tugging at your coat. “You should come by Sunday. We’re having dinner with Steve. Just the three of us, like old times.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, finally, “alright. Sunday.”

You smile, relieved. “Good.” When you go inside, you can feel his gaze following you up the stairs. You don’t look back.

Sunday comes, and with it, a quiet warmth you didn’t know you’d been missing. The three of you sit around your little kitchen table, laughing about nothing—the way Steve still can’t cook, the way Bucky still eats like a man starved. For a few hours, it’s as if the years between you’ve been peeled away.

You pour coffee while Bucky leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, telling a story about one of the guys from the docks. His voice is rich and low, easy with laughter. You’ve missed that sound more than you realized.

When the story ends, Steve gets up to wash dishes, leaving you and Bucky alone for a moment. You watch him quietly. The curve of his jaw. The scar by his temple. The way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You shouldn’t look at him like that, but you do anyway.

He catches your gaze and holds it. Something flickers between you—familiar, dangerous. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but Steve comes back, clattering dishes, and the spell breaks. Later, after the dishes are done and the laughter’s faded, Bucky lingers at the door. You walk him down to the stoop, saying goodnight like always. The street’s quiet, washed silver by the lamplight. “You really are happy?” he asks again, voice almost lost to the wind.

You hesitate. “I’m supposed to be.”

He studies you for a long moment, then nods, as if that’s answer enough. “Take care of yourself, doll.”

He starts to turn away, but you reach out, catching his sleeve. The fabric is rough and warm under your fingers. “Bucky.” He looks back, and for a heartbeat, everything stops—the air, the sounds, even your own pulse. You want to say something. To tell him that you don’t know how to do this—how to want two different lives, how to stop pretending. But the words won’t come. So you just let go. “Goodnight.”

He hesitates, then tips his head slightly. “Goodnight.”

When he walks away, you stay there for a long time, the cold biting through your coat, your heart pounding like it’s trying to tell you something you already know. And somewhere down the street, Bucky doesn’t look back—because he’s afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to keep walking.

---

The afternoon is one of those deceptive early-winter days—bright sun, brittle cold, wind that nips at your cheeks but never quite steals the warmth from the light. The four of you—you, Andrew, his mother, and Steve—have spent the better part of the day at the reception hall, finalizing decorations and seating arrangements. Bucky had tagged along under the excuse of “lifting heavy things,” but truthfully, he just couldn’t stay away.

The hall itself is beautiful in that sterile, echoing way—pale walls, high ceilings, windows that catch every bit of sunlight and spill it onto the polished floors. There are samples of floral arrangements along one wall, stacks of folded linens, a small buffet table with coffee and pastries that have long gone cold.

You’ve been moving nonstop for an hour—bending, rearranging, lifting centerpieces, trying to visualize how it’ll all come together. You’re tired, your hands ache, and the hem of your skirt keeps catching on your heels.

Bucky watches from the side, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed. Steve’s beside him, dutifully holding a roll of seating charts while Andrew and his mother discuss silverware with the event planner. “Careful, sweetheart,” Andrew calls as you lean over to move a stack of chairs. “You don’t have to do that yourself.”

You smile, trying not to sound as breathless as you feel. “I’m fine. Just making sure the space works.” It’s right about then that your purse slips off the chair where you’d set it—and the entire contents scatter dramatically across the floor. Lipstick, coins, a small notebook, a handful of folded receipts. You let out a startled sound, bend to grab it—and promptly hit your knee on the edge of the table. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that the word slips out before you can stop it. “Goddammit.”

The sound echoes, far too loud in the open space. For a second, the entire room freezes. Andrew’s head snaps up from where he’s been talking with his mother. She blinks, the faintest twitch of disapproval crossing her expression—not much, just the tightening around her mouth, a small flicker of polite discomfort that might have gone unnoticed if Bucky hadn’t been watching her.

Steve looks like he’s about to laugh, then catches himself. Bucky turns away, biting down on the grin that’s already threatening to break loose.

You flush hot, half from embarrassment, half from frustration. “I—sorry. Table jumped out at me.”

Andrew recovers quickly, his voice smooth, reassuring. “It’s alright, darling. Maybe watch where you’re stepping next time.”

You nod, forcing a small laugh, and crouch to gather your things. You can feel your face burning. Bucky moves forward before you can stop him, crouching beside you. “Here,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear it. His gloved hand brushes yours briefly as he hands you your lipstick. “You kiss your fiancé with that mouth?”

You shoot him a look, half scandalized, half amused despite yourself. “Don’t start.”

He smirks. “Couldn’t help it. Been too long since I heard you swear.”

“Should I be flattered that you missed it?”

He shrugs, sliding a coin toward you with one finger. “Maybe I just missed you.”

The words hang in the air a moment too long. You swallow, eyes flicking to his, but before you can respond, Andrew’s voice cuts across the room, “everything alright?”

You stand quickly, clutching your things to your chest. “Yes. All fine.” Bucky rises slower, expression carefully neutral, though you catch the flicker of amusement still dancing in his eyes.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of polite conversation and half-hearted planning. Andrew’s mother offers notes on napkin folds, Steve provides the occasional grunt of agreement, and you smile so much your cheeks hurt.

But you feel Bucky’s gaze every time you speak. Every time you laugh too softly or fidget with your gloves. When you finally leave the venue, the daylight’s already fading into that soft gold that makes everything look warmer than it is. Steve walks ahead with Andrew and his mother, deep in conversation, while you and Bucky lag behind, the cold air frosting your breath. He glances sideways at you. “You okay?”

You exhale a laugh. “Just humiliated myself in front of my future mother-in-law. Totally fine.”

“She’s gonna live,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I think it was worth it just to see her face.”

You groan. “She looked like I’d cursed out a priest.”

“She kinda did,” he teases. “Never thought I’d say this, but I missed hearin’ you swear.”

You glance at him, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But you used to call me worse than that.”

You roll your eyes. “When you deserved it.”

He laughs, genuine this time—the sound so warm and familiar it hits something deep inside you. “You got a mouth on you when you’re mad, sweetheart. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I was sixteen,” you protest, shoving your hands in your coat pockets. “Everyone had a mouth at sixteen.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking ahead. “But you had fire.” That quiet tone—low, almost reverent—steals the humor right out of the air. You look up at him, but he’s not smiling anymore. His eyes are distant, thoughtful. You walk the rest of the way in silence. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy. The kind of silence that carries too many words neither of you can afford to say.

When you reach the corner where you’ll part ways, you stop. “You’re walking the wrong direction again.”

He smirks faintly. “Never said I was goin’ anywhere in particular.”

You hesitate. “You didn’t have to come today, you know. I know it’s not exactly your kind of thing.”

“I didn’t mind,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you lie automatically.

He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re allowed to be more than ‘fine,’ you know.” You open your mouth, but no answer comes. He gives you a small, tired smile. “See you soon, doll.” You watch him walk away, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure fading into the crowd until he’s gone.

That night, Andrew calls—his voice smooth, polite, talking about dinner with his parents and the guest list. You listen, answering when you need to, but your mind drifts elsewhere. You think of the way Bucky had knelt beside you without hesitation. The quiet teasing. The memory of your younger selves flashing between you for one breathless second. You think of how Andrew had said, “watch where you’re stepping,” and how it had sounded less like concern and more like correction.

You hang up the phone with a headache and a hollow ache in your chest. When you turn off the light, you whisper into the dark—a soft, frustrated word that you’d never say out loud. Bucky would have laughed. And for the first time in a long while, you do too—quietly, bitterly, but real.

---

The night of the dance comes almost by accident—one of those things Steve insists on, claiming it’ll “do everyone good to get out.” He’s been helping with a fundraiser for returning veterans, something organized at a converted ballroom downtown. There’ll be live music, dancing, food, and a chance, he says, to feel normal again.

You’d refused at first. Between fittings, dinner invitations, and endless lists from your mother and Andrew’s family, your days already feel like borrowed time. But Steve is relentless—and Bucky, of course, is going. So you give in.

The evening is cold enough that your breath ghosts in the air as you step from the cab. The building glows warm through tall windows, laughter spilling onto the street in bursts as couples sweep in through the doors. Music drifts faintly out—brass and strings, something upbeat and elegant.

You smooth your gloves, nerves prickling under your skin. Andrew couldn’t come; a late dinner with a client, he said, promising to make it up to you over the weekend. He’d kissed your cheek on the way out the door, already thinking about something else.

Now, standing under the soft halo of the marquee lights, you almost turn back—until you hear a familiar voice. “Hey, doll.” Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe, coat open, tie slightly undone. He’s smiling—that lazy, easy grin that used to make your stomach do strange things when you were younger.

You exhale. “You look—”

“Don’t say it,” he warns playfully. “I already know.”

You grin despite yourself. “You were going to say it anyway.”

“Maybe,” he admits, pushing off the wall. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

It’s simple, unembellished, and it lands harder than it should. You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Thank you.”

He offers his arm with a flourish. “Shall we?” You take it before you can think better of it. The hall inside is alive—bright lights glinting off polished floors, the air full of warmth and perfume and brass. A small band plays near the stage, their instruments gleaming under the glow. Couples swirl across the floor, the sound of laughter weaving with the rhythm of the music.

Steve finds you both near the entrance, already grinning, already holding two glasses of champagne. “You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling.

Bucky raises a brow at the glasses. “Since when do you drink the fancy stuff?”

Steve shrugs. “Figured I’d start celebrating before anyone gets sentimental.”

“You’re the sentimental one,” Bucky teases. “You cried when you saw that puppy in the paper last week.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two haven’t changed a bit.”

For the first hour, everything feels easy. You sit together at a table near the floor, watching dancers spin, the band switching between swing and slower numbers. Steve gets dragged onto the dance floor by a brunette in a red dress, who you’re pretty sure is Peggy, leaving you and Bucky to nurse drinks and trade quiet jokes.

But as the night wears on, something shifts. The music slows. The lights dim slightly, turning everything gold and soft. Couples begin to drift together, the chatter thinning into quiet laughter. You’re fiddling with your glass when Bucky stands. “Come on.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

He nods toward the floor. “Dance with me.”

“Bucky, I don’t think—”

He extends his hand, palm up, eyes steady. “It’s just a dance.”

Your heart stutters, but you take it. His hand is warm around yours, solid. The other settles lightly at your waist as he guides you into the rhythm. It’s slow, easy—the kind of song that sways more than moves, leaving space for breath between every step.

You haven’t danced together since before the war. Back then, it had been all laughter and clumsy steps—your heels on his boots, his grin bright enough to fill the room. This feels different. Older. Heavier. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as you try to keep your eyes anywhere else. “So,” he says quietly, his voice just audible over the band. “Big day’s coming soon.”

You nod. “Two months.”

“You nervous?”

You laugh softly, though it sounds a little hollow. “Should I be?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking down to yours. “Guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re happy.”

You swallow. “You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Maybe,” he says, smiling faintly. “But you still haven’t given me an answer.”

You look away, focusing on a couple nearby, the woman’s patterned dress catching the light as she spins. “It’s not that simple, Bucky.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

The music slows further, the last few bars stretching out. His thumb traces an idle circle at your waist—so small you almost think you imagined it. You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I’ve spent half my life lookin’ out for you, and the other half trying not to.”

Your breath catches. “Bucky—”

He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can say more. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna ruin your night.” The song ends, but neither of you move right away. You’re still caught in the slow sway of it, the warmth of his hand, the nearness of him. Finally, he steps back, the loss of his touch like stepping into cold air. “Thanks for the dance, doll.”

You nod, voice soft. “Anytime.”

He smiles—that quiet, sad smile that doesn’t reach his eyes—and turns away before you can say more. You stand there, trying to steady your breathing, watching him move toward the bar. The crowd shifts around you, but everything feels strangely far away—the music, the laughter, the shimmering gold of the lights.

When Steve returns, flushed and grinning, you force yourself to smile. You make small talk, you drink another glass of champagne, you laugh in all the right places.

But every time you glance across the room, Bucky’s already looking at you. And when the band starts another song—something slow and aching—you can feel the pulse of it in your bones, the echo of his hand still at your waist. You know, with sudden terrible clarity, that the world you’ve built is about to crack.

The cold hits like a slap when you step outside the ballroom, the sudden quiet almost deafening after the swell of brass and laughter. The sky is a heavy gray-black, the kind of night that promises snow. Streetlights cast soft circles on the pavement, and the air smells faintly of salt and smoke.

You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders and exhale, trying to steady yourself. Inside, the party is still going strong—laughter, footsteps, clinking glasses. You can still hear the echo of the band through the doors. The sound feels far away, like it belongs to someone else’s life.

You hadn’t meant to come out here. You just needed air. Space to breathe. You’re halfway down the steps when the door swings open behind you. “Figured I’d find you out here.” You turn. Bucky stands in the doorway, coat over one arm, his expression unreadable. His hair’s a little messy from the heat inside, his tie loose. He looks nothing like the man who’d smiled and danced with you an hour ago. He looks like someone who’s come to do something he can’t take back.

“Hey,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. “Needed a minute.”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping down beside you. “Me too.”

The silence stretches, filled with the low hum of the city and the distant sound of a passing car. You look out toward the street. “It’s getting late. I should—”

“Don’t go yet.” It comes out sharper than he means, and he runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. Just—just wait a minute.”

You hesitate, then nod. He steps in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. The lamplight catches the faint scar at his temple, the sharp line of his jaw. You can see the muscle in his throat move when he swallows. “You can’t marry him,” he says quietly.

The words hit like a physical thing—not shouted, not dramatic, just certain. You stare at him, the wind tugging at your shawl. “What?”

He exhales hard, almost laughing, not because it’s funny, but because he’s run out of ways to hold it in. “You heard me.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t.” His voice cracks slightly, the word raw. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been pretending long enough.”

You step back, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You don’t,” you repeat, louder this time, the tremor in your voice betraying you. “You had years, Bucky. Years to say something, and you didn’t. You went off to war, and you didn’t write, you didn’t—”

“I thought I was dead!” he shouts, then lowers his voice quickly, the sound cracking in the cold air. “I thought I was dead, and when I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to come back. You think I wanted to ruin what we had?”

“You already have,” you whisper.

He laughs—quiet and bitter. “Yeah. Guess I did.” You turn away, hugging your arms around yourself, staring out at the blur of passing headlights. Your breath clouds the air, your chest tight. He steps closer, voice low again. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, doll. I just—” He stops, searching for the words. “Every time I see you with him, it feels like I’m watching somebody else live your life. And I can’t keep doin’ it.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then lets his hand drop. “You think I don’t see it? The way you look when you’re with him—polite, careful. Like you’re walkin’ on glass. You used to laugh with your whole body, you know that? You’d throw your head back and snort like it was the funniest thing you ever heard. You don’t laugh like that anymore.”

You blink, and your vision goes blurry. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

You shake your head, half laughing, half crying. “God, you think you can just come back and tell me I’m unhappy? You think you can just say that and everything changes?”

He takes a step forward, closing the space between you. His voice drops, rough and steady. “No. I think I can tell you the truth. I love you, and I have since before I even knew what that meant.” The words hang there, suspended in the cold air, heavy enough to change the shape of the night. You stare at him, heart pounding, your mouth open but no words coming out. He laughs again, softer now, broken. “I know. I know I’m too late. But I’d rather ruin what’s left than spend another day pretendin’ I don’t still feel this way.”

You whisper, “Bucky, stop.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Not this time.”

“Don’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doin’ anything to you,” he says quietly. “I’m tryin’ to be honest. For once.”

You step closer without realizing it, until you’re only a breath apart. The air between you feels electric, sharp, full of everything you’ve both been avoiding. “You don’t get to tell me you love me now,” you say, voice shaking. “Not after all this time.”

He swallows. “I know.”

You look up at him—his eyes, his face, the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and painful all at once. “Then why are you saying it?”

“Because I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.”

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You should pull away. You don’t. The touch is so light it barely registers, but it’s enough to make your heart lurch. You realize you’ve been waiting for it—for years, maybe.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t careful. It isn’t perfect. It’s desperate, aching, years of silence collapsing into one impossible moment. His hand finds your face, yours fists in the front of his coat. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and regret.

For a second, you let yourself fall into it—the familiarity, the warmth, the terrible rightness of it. Then reality slams back. You break away, breathless, trembling. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Please.”

He takes a step back immediately, hands raised like surrender. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, voice thin. “No, you’re not.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

You stand there in the cold, neither of you moving, the echo of the kiss still pulsing in the space between you. Finally, you turn. “I have to go.”

He doesn’t stop you this time. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

You walk away, your heels striking the pavement, each step harder than the last. You don’t look back, because if you do, you’ll break. Behind you, Bucky stays where he is, the wind tugging at his coat, the sound of the music from inside drifting faintly through the doors. He runs a hand over his mouth, as if he can still taste you, and lets out a shaky breath that turns white in the cold air.

When Steve finds him later, still standing outside under the lamplight, he doesn’t ask what happened. He doesn’t need to. “Guess she went home,” Steve says quietly.

Bucky nods, staring down at the street. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

Bucky laughs once, soft and bitter. “Not even close.”

Steve doesn’t say anything after that. Just claps a hand to his shoulder, solid and wordless, before leading him toward home.

That night, you sit on your bed in the dark, your shawl still around your shoulders, your hair still styled from the dance. The mirror across from you reflects a version of yourself you don’t recognize—flushed cheeks, tear-stained eyes, a ring on your finger that feels heavier than gold.

You press your fingers to your lips and close your eyes. The ghost of him is still there—the warmth of his hand, the tremor in his voice when he said your name. You tell yourself it was a mistake. That it won’t happen again. That it doesn’t change anything. But deep down, in the place where you’ve hidden everything that still feels alive, you already know it does. Because no matter what happens next—no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise—that kiss didn’t feel like the end of something.

It felt like the start.

---

The morning after the dance dawns gray and breathless, the kind of quiet that feels like the city itself is holding still. You wake long before your alarm, eyes open to the dim light filtering through the curtains. The bedsheets are cold beside you—Andrew had stayed at his parents’ house last night after the dinner he mentioned, something about convenience, early meetings. You’d told him it was fine. You’d meant it.

But now, the silence in the apartment feels unbearable.

Your shawl is draped over the chair where you tossed it last night. One glove sits on the floor, half under the bed. Your lipstick is still smudged faintly around the corners of your mouth. You stare at your reflection in the vanity mirror for a long time—your eyes red-rimmed, your hair a little messed up from sleep.

You look like a woman who hasn’t slept. You look like a woman who’s done something unforgivable. You press your palms flat on the table, forcing a breath through your lungs. You should feel guilty. You do feel guilty—but not in the way you expected. The shame sits alongside something else, something more dangerous. You feel awake.

You make it through breakfast without tasting a thing. The paper sits unread beside your plate, the coffee untouched. Every tick of the clock seems louder than the last. You keep hearing his voice, low and rough.

You can’t marry him. You used to laugh with your whole body. I’d rather you hate me for it than never know.

You try to drown it out with reason. Andrew is good. Steady. The kind of man your parents dreamed you’d marry. He’s kind to you, even if his kindness sometimes feels more like careful politeness than love. You’ll have a warm home, safety, a life without turbulence.

Bucky is none of those things.

He’s reckless, restless, full of jagged edges and ghosts that won’t leave him. His hands still tremble when he doesn’t sleep. He disappears for hours to “walk,” though you suspect he’s not walking so much as running from his own mind.

But when he’d kissed you—God, when he’d kissed you—there had been no distance, no pretending. Just truth. Raw, terrible, beautiful truth. And now you can’t un-feel it.

You find yourself outside his building before you realize you’ve even left home. The cold gnaws at your fingers; your breath fogs the air. You’re in your best coat, a hat tugged low, gloves clasped tight as if they’re the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the door. Every part of you is screaming not to go inside—but your feet move anyway. The hallway smells faintly of tobacco and cheap soap. The floorboards creak underfoot. You reach his door, heart hammering, and knock before you can talk yourself out of it.

It takes a moment. Then footsteps. Then the latch.

When the door opens, he looks… wrecked. Bucky’s hair is rumpled, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes red-rimmed like yours. He blinks when he sees you, caught between surprise and something softer—something like disbelief. “Doll.”

“Can I come in?”

He steps aside wordlessly. The apartment is small—one room with a narrow kitchen, a half-drawn curtain separating the bed from the rest. There’s a record player on a crate, a mug on the windowsill gone cold. Everything smells faintly of metal polish and smoke.

You take off your gloves, set them down on the table, and stand there, unsure what to do with your hands. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s afraid if he blinks you’ll disappear. “I shouldn’t be here,” you say first.

He nods once. “Probably not.”

Neither of you move. The silence stretches. Finally, you force the words out, “what happened last night can’t—”

“—be undone,” he finishes for you. His voice is steady, quiet. “I know.”

You swallow. “Andrew—”

“Doesn’t love you the way you deserve,” he says, too quickly.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t make him the villain. He’s good to me.”

“I know he is,” Bucky says softly. “But he doesn’t see you.”

You turn away, pacing to the window. “You keep saying that. That he doesn’t see me. What does that even mean?”

He moves closer, not touching you yet. “It means he doesn’t know the way your hands shake when you’re excited. Or how you hum when you cook. Or how you hate cucumbers but love the smell of mint. He doesn’t know how you look when you’re mad and trying not to cry. He doesn’t know you fall asleep reading, or that you talk in your sleep sometimes.” You close your eyes. “He doesn’t know you,” Bucky finishes, voice low. “Not the way I do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whisper. “People change, Bucky. I’m not who I was before the war. Neither are you.”

“Maybe not,” he says, and now he’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back. “But you’re still you. The real you. And I’m still the fool who fell for you before either of us knew what love was.”

You turn around, ready to tell him to stop—but he’s looking at you with that same quiet honesty that’s always undone you. No pleading. No bravado. Just truth. Something in you breaks. “You think this is easy for me?” you snap, tears stinging your eyes. “You think I haven’t spent every night trying to make myself believe that I can do this—that I can marry him, smile, build a life that’s good, even if it’s not…” You trail off, breathing hard.

“Not what?” he asks softly.

“Not you.” The words hang there like a confession torn from your chest.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes darkening. “Say that again.”

You shake your head, tears slipping free. “Don’t make me.”

He takes a step closer. “Say it.”

You look up at him, voice trembling. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just studies your face—every tear, every tremor. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, “then don’t marry him.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Bucky—”

“Don’t marry him,” he repeats, firmer now. “Don’t spend the rest of your life pretending this never happened. Pretending you don’t feel it too.”

Your throat closes. “You’re asking me to destroy everything.”

“I’m asking you to be honest,” he says. “For once. Just with yourself.”

The silence that follows feels like standing on a precipice. You can hear the tick of a clock somewhere, the distant sound of a car outside. Finally, you whisper, “if I walk away from him, there’s no going back.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “But maybe that’s the point.”

You meet his eyes, and for the first time in months—maybe years—you feel something that isn’t fear. You feel clarity. You leave his apartment an hour later, the sun beginning to rise pale and pink over the rooftops. The streets are still quiet, the city half-asleep. You walk the whole way home.

By the time you reach your door, your fingers are numb, your heart raw. You set your ring on the table—gold glinting in the soft morning light—and sit beside it, staring until the sun burns through the window. When the phone rings, you don’t answer. Not yet. You don’t know what you’ll say to Andrew, not really. You just know it has to be true. And for the first time in a long, long while, that feels like enough.

That afternoon, Bucky finds Steve at the diner, coat unbuttoned, eyes still tired but different now—lighter somehow. Steve raises a brow when he slides into the booth. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “I didn’t.”

“She come by?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah.”

Steve studies him for a moment. “You tell her?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Bucky looks out the window, where sunlight spills across the street, turning everything gold. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “But for the first time since I came home… it feels like maybe things might be right again.”

Steve smiles faintly. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, fingers curling around his coffee mug. “It is.”

Outside, the city hums to life again—the promise of something new on the horizon. And somewhere across town, you sit by the window, your ringless hand resting over your heart, breathing in the quiet morning air. You don’t know what comes next.

But you know who you want to face it with.

---

It happens on a Sunday. The kind of pale, overcast morning that seems to hum with quiet finality—the sort of day that feels like the closing of a chapter, even before anything has ended. Your hands tremble only once when you lace your gloves. Then again when you look in the mirror and see the faint indentation where your ring used to sit. It’s strange how something so small could leave a mark so deep.

Andrew had called three times since last night. You’d answered none of them. You’d written him a letter—neat, careful handwriting, the kind of letter that doesn’t waste words. You apologized, you explained just enough, you didn’t say Bucky’s name. You thanked him for being kind. For being safe. For giving you a life you could have loved, if your heart hadn’t been somewhere else.

When you finished, you folded it, sealed it, and set it gently in his mailbox before you lost your nerve. Then you walked. The city feels softer than usual—washed clean from an early morning drizzle, streets gleaming faintly under the muted sun. People bustle past you in coats and scarves, voices muffled, the world continuing as if nothing monumental has shifted. But for you, everything has.

Bucky doesn’t hear the knock at first. He’s just come back from the docks, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the mist. There’s a record playing—something scratchy and old, the kind of jazz you used to hum when you worked beside him at the old diner near Flatbush.

He’s been trying not to think about you; he’s failing. So when the knock comes, soft but steady, he almost doesn’t answer. Some part of him is terrified to open that door, afraid that seeing you—or not seeing you—will finally undo him for good.

But he does. And there you are. Your coat’s damp at the hem, your cheeks stinging from the cold. There’s no ring on your hand, and your eyes—God, your eyes—look clearer than he’s ever seen them. “Hey,” you say, voice small but sure.

He blinks, then steps aside automatically. “You came.”

You nod, stepping inside. “I did.” The air in the room feels charged, the same way it did that morning in his apartment. But this time, there’s no hesitation between you. No guilt. Just a quiet certainty settling in your bones. “I ended it,” you say.

Bucky freezes. “You what?”

You meet his gaze. “With Andrew.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, struggling to find breath. “You sure?”

You nod once. “I told him the truth.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then Bucky lets out a slow, unsteady breath and takes a step forward—one, then another, until you’re standing close enough to feel the warmth of him through your coat. “What did you tell him?” he asks softly.

“That I couldn’t marry someone I didn’t love,” you whisper.

He searches your face, voice barely a murmur. “And who do you love?”

You don’t look away this time. “You.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s full. Alive. Like the first inhale after years of holding your breath.

And then he’s kissing you.

It isn’t desperate this time. It’s steady. Sure. The kind of kiss that feels like coming home after too long away. His hand slides up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing the tear that slips free. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he murmurs against your lips, “hey, hey. Don’t.”

You laugh, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

You nod, smiling through the tears. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He exhales shakily, relief breaking over him like sunlight. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that.”

“Maybe I do,” you tease gently, your hand resting over his heart. He covers it with his own, fingers threading through yours. His pulse beats strong under your palm. You stay like that for a long time—standing in the quiet of his apartment, the city noise drifting faintly through the window. It feels fragile, this peace, but also real. Earned.

Eventually, he guides you to the small kitchen table, sets a kettle on the stove, and makes tea—the way he used to when you were kids, strong and too sweet. You sit across from him, elbows on the scarred wood, steam curling between you. He watches you for a moment, eyes soft. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smile. “You’ve asked me that three times.”

“Can’t help it.”

“I know.”

You reach across the table, covering his hand with yours. “I think I’ll be okay, Buck. For the first time in a long while.”

He nods slowly, thumb tracing circles against your wrist. “You know this won’t be easy.”

“I know,” you say. “But at least it’ll be real.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and you see the weight lift from him. The guilt, the fear, the quiet ache that’s been hiding behind his smile since the war. “Real sounds good,” he murmurs.

The weeks that follow aren’t simple. There are whispers, of course. Muted condolences from neighbors who think you’ve been jilted. Polite confusion from Andrew’s family. Your mother’s disappointment—quiet, tight-lipped, the kind that cuts deeper than yelling.

But there’s also laughter again. You and Bucky and Steve falling back into a rhythm that feels like the world before it went to hell—coffee at the diner, evenings spent walking home through the city, warmth slowly replacing what had been hollow.

Sometimes, it’s quiet—hands brushing on park benches, shared cigarettes in the cold, Bucky’s coat around your shoulders. Sometimes, it’s loud—dancing in his room to bad jazz, arguing about who cheats at cards, Steve rolling his eyes fondly from the doorway. And every now and then, when you least expect it, he’ll reach for your hand—just a touch, light and unassuming—and it’ll still take your breath away.

It’s early spring when you wake in his bed for the first time with sunlight spilling through the window, his arm slung across your waist. The city hums faintly outside—car horns, laughter, the world moving on.

You turn your head, watching him sleep. He looks younger like this. Peaceful, almost. You reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. His eyes open slowly, blue and soft, and he smiles—that same crooked grin that’s undone you a hundred times over. “Mornin’, doll.”

You grin back. “Morning.”

He leans in and kisses you, slow and easy, the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything except the promise that you’re both still here. When he pulls back, he murmurs, “you know, I still think about that night at the Expo sometimes.”

You laugh, low. “When you vanished to find Steve?”

“Yeah,” he says, smile widening. “Should’ve kissed you then.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “You made up for it.”

He hums, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Not done makin’ up for it.”

You smile against his skin. “Good.”

Outside, the city keeps moving—trains and laughter and sunlight spilling over everything. The world isn’t perfect. It never will be. But for the first time, it feels like yours again. And when Bucky pulls you close, his voice low against your ear, you know with absolute certainty that you did the right thing.

extra notes: this fic has been done for months, probably since tloas came out in october. i still think months later it's one of my favorites so i hope y'all liked it as much as i do <3

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

Bucky’s mind has been in a haze.

It’s been reeling, like a dog chasing its tail ever since he spotted that man. He has no clue who he is, but there are little fragments of soft blue eyes forged into his brain.

“Bucky?”

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

He doesn’t understand what is going on as he sits like a lab rat in front of all the doctors. You’re standing quietly in the corners behind a doctor, eyes downcast as usual like you were trying not to take up space or even make yourself known.

Bucky’s memories come in parts that don’t make sense. One second, he’s falling through a train, and he hears the man he saw today calling out for him. Then, he’s being dragged through the snow, blood following him and dripping from his arm.

But it doesn’t stop there, his head turns sharply when he remembers how they placed him in the cryogenic freezing. He remembers the cold that seeped through his bones, the way his hand reached out and was stuck frozen on the miniature window in there. 

He remembers panicking, and feeling helpless.

The memories become too much to bear, and he finds himself pushing a doctor that was sitting next to him roughly off his chair. The man collapses on the floor, and all the armed men raise their guns. Breathing heavily, his eyes found yours and he watched as you tense, shaking your head.

He knew they wouldn’t shoot him. No, he’s too valuable for that, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t torture him physically and mentally. One of the men raises his gun at you, yet you keep your eyes on the man, unblinking.

Raising his voice, he tells you, “I thought you had him under control, huh?” 

“That’s not how it works. That’s not my job-” You argue, but quickly shut up when Alexander Pierce strides through the door with Brock Rumlow following behind him like an obedient dog. With a motion of his hand, he tells him to put down their guns as he grabs a chair and pulls himself in front of Bucky. The armed men put down their guns and step back, allowing space for Alexander.

All his life, Bucky devoted himself to HYDRA, though, right now, he doesn’t know if it was right. He’s been killing innocent people left and right, submissively accepting missions, even though he had no choice, and following orders from people who could care less about him.

Bucky’s eyes are still on you even when Pierce is sitting right in front of him. Alexander raises his eyebrows, and turns his head to look at you. You quickly avert your eyes from his to the ground, suddenly finding it much more interesting. Alexander returns his eyes back to Bucky, and he finally looks back at Pierce.

“Mission report.” Pierce demands in an authoritative tone, his voice not allowing any disobedience. However, Bucky is lost, not physically, though. His eyes are defeated and confused, like his programming has malfunctioned. Pierce does not have the patience for the games Bucky is playing and so he demands for the second time, “mission report. Now.” 

Normally Bucky replies in a heartbeat with a monotone voice as the doctors fix him up. Usually, you’re the one fixing him up with your healing powers, or even erasing some of his memories, but that was just when Pierce was trying to train you.

Bucky doesn’t understand you. Everyone around him has rough cold fingers that are always touching him. It doesn’t matter who they are, someone always has to have a hand on his body. He doesn’t like it, nevertheless they never care. The first and last time he told one of the guards to get his hands off, he spent the night in his freezing cell without any clothes as he heard the guards laughing outside. He was sure they were watching the cameras and laughing at his shaking body.

But you always ask him if it's okay to touch him before your hands caress the wounds on his body.

Slap!

You flinch when Alexander’s dirty hand slaps Bucky in the face. Your hands are clasped together in front of your chest to hide how shaky they are. Pierce isn’t here to play, and he’s making sure Bucky knows that. 

Alexander is an organised man, and he doesn’t like when one of his missions doesn't happen as planned. Bucky doesn’t react, his head turning to the side and he catches your eyes once more before dropping it to the ground. He’s used to it by the now; the hitting, the scars, and even the insults that the people around here spew at him. 

Bucky’s eyes furrow when his head turns back to Pierce, his lips moving on their own accord. “The man on the bridge. . . who was he?” 

Alexander tells him cooly, “you met him earlier this week on another assignment.” But Bucky believes that’s bullshit. He knows that man. He knows him, and he doesn’t understand why. 

Replying with confusion in his words, “I knew him.” But, unsurprisingly, Alexander doesn’t care.

“Your work has been a gift to mankind, you shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time. Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push, but if you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And hydra can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Classic Pierce speech. He has this way of turning anything huge into something so small it could be stepped on by a bug. He doesn’t care, and never will. He also has this way of speaking to Bucky as if he was a toddler.

The look on Bucky’s face twists your heart, it’s hurt and perplexion mixed into one in his face as he adamantly tells him, “but I knew him.”

Sighing, Pierce stands up and starts to walk away. There’s only one way he could solve this, and it’s by wiping Bucky’s memory again. If he wants Bucky to complete tomorrow’s mission, then he can’t have him doing it while old memory fragments of Steve Rogers are placed in Bucky’s mind.

He says, “prep him.” Without wanting anyone to disobey. One of the scientists dressed in all white argues,

“he’s been out of the cryo for too long. . ."

“Then wipe him and start over. And bring me the girl.” Pierce turns his head to you briefly before he utters that sentence. Your heart pounds, sweat starting to form on your forehead.

HYDRA doesn’t know, but while healing Bucky you’ve been quietly telling him pieces of his past. You have been looking through his files, swooping around when you shouldn't have been.

They didn’t know what you’ve been doing, but you’re starting to doubt if you were really doing it quietly. 

Bucky’s distressing eyes turn to your figure as one of the guards grabs you by the white gown. He watches as you try to fight against the guard, yelling and screaming as his nails dig into your arms. They drag you after Pierce by your hair while you fuss and raise your voice. You scratch the guard’s legs but you’re too weak.

In the meanwhile, Bucky’s scream also fills the room as they wipe him again, just like they always do.

The verdant field stretches on for miles, tall grass weaving with splashes of white and yellow: daisies. The sun pulses amongst the clear, blue sky, but your frilly hat blocks it out.

The aroma of fresh floral is welcomed into your senses, a contradiction to the powerful medical scents you’re accustomed to smelling while staring at the same mundane walls. The company you acquire is favourable too. Instead of sick patients coughing away, informing you that could be your fate one day, you’re graced with the crickets of grasshoppers and your best friend who’s carrying you on his back.

You giggle, your little arms around his neck tightening slightly, “There’s no one else around, who are you showing off to?”

“I thought you were smart.”

“I am smart!”

“Then how can you not see I’m tryna show off to you?”

Shyness creeps into your bones, making them feel light and fuzzy, and you bury your face into his neck. A laugh, so childlike and blissful, escapes him. It’s contagious, encouraging a smile to spread across your mouth.

He has no obligation to flex around you. You already comprehend he’s the utmost wondrous person to walk on this earth.

Your parents are at work despite it being a weekend. Your mother a waitress and your father off mining coal. They need the money to pay for medical bills and your diagnosis’s. Your family isn’t poor. You have a nice home with nice things. Your father engraves that into you when the kids at school mock you for wearing handmade clothes your mother stitched herself.

Yet, you’re defective and it’s high-priced.

“Where are we going anyways? Your mom said not to go too far.” You ask curiously as you lift your head, scanning the surroundings. His house is in the distance, and you can faintly view the outline of little Rebecca Barnes through the window, playfully tugging on Winnifred’s hair.

You’re not worried though. You know Bucky will never take you somewhere an adult isn’t able to reach you quickly in case something bad happens.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Bucky, tell me.”

“No.”

“Bucky.”

“Don’t say it like that!” His resolve always crumbles around you, “You sound like a weepin’ puppy and I love puppies.”

“And me. You love me too.” You teasingly quip.

There’s no hesitation when Bucky answers, “More than a dog with its bone.”

“You’re strange.”

Before he can reply with something witty, something to knock the cotton socks off your feet, he reaches the top of the hill and halts.

Your eyes widen.

An oak tree stands, so vast and beautiful it appears as though it’s from a fairytale. Spirally, green leaves wave hello on the thick branches that loop and intertwine with others. Acorns form a group in every nook and cranny while its bark wears age lines. Dandelions sprout from the dirt beside the stump, swaying gently under the shade it’s protected by.

“Cool, right?” You can hear the grin his voice, eager to have shown you this, “Reminds me of the front cover of that book you’re always readin’.”

Cheeks flushing at his memory, you slide off his back and grab his hand, dragging him into the bed of grass and soil.

It’s usually been like that. Wherever your feet step, his does too.

Time passes, the dirt blemishing the hem of Bucky’s shirt that’s become untucked proof. Your fingertips are stained with pollen from linking daisies together, creating a crown.

“Here, lemme…” Bucky gently takes the completed flower chain from you and sets it upon your head, “…there,” he grins triumphantly, “You’re just missing a ring.”

“A ring?” You tilt your head in confusion.

He plucks another daisy, it’s stem tall, and ties it carefully around your finger.

"Yeah. The crown is your veil, and this is the ring. Now, we're married." He says simply, as if it's the easiest decision he's ever made.

Laughter bubbles within your chest, “That’s not how it works, Bucky.”

“Pretend then.”

“Okay, husband.”

“Okay, wife.”

Your cheeks ache from smiling incessantly. You part your lips, words on the tip of your tongue, but your eyes flit towards a low branch that quivers mildly.

A chrysalis stands out amongst the greenery, and a gasp escapes you at the sight of a wing emerging, ocean waves swirling with black accents. The faded blue of the lower wings that appear suddenly glint off the sunlight.

A beacon of new life.

Then, it flies away elegantly.

“Bucky, Bucky, look!” You excitedly exclaim, swiftly rising from the ground.

You don’t give him a chance to turn his head, you just begin chasing after it, ignoring the scuff of his shoes and his worried yell.

“Wait— you’re not supposed to run fast!”

You run through the field, your eyes set on the creature. You laugh as it swirls in the air, and it almost seems like it’s inching closer with each moment. The grass tickles your legs, the gentle breeze letting wisps of your hair dance.

You keep following it like it’ll lead you to a covert cove that’ll unveil a magical world, and, just for a moment, you wonder if this is what it’s like to experience a normal childhood.

“Bucky, come on!” You call back, “It’s… it’s…”

Your words are stolen as your lungs feel as though they’re being stretched then compressed, closing in second by second as your ankles radiate pain, an invisible rope tightening around your skin, leaving a burning ache.

You slow down.

The butterfly soars further.

The ringing in your ears is faint.

Are you coughing?

Your legs give out.

And, through the heaviness of your eyelids, the butterfly disappears.

Before you can hit the ground, arms tuck under yours and gently lowers you with him, your back against his knees. Your heart thumps swiftly. Harshly. You’re sure the organ wants to jump out of your chest and nestle in another body—a healthier, fitter one.

Bucky settles your hat aside so he can see you better, his hands hovering in the air, unsure and hesitant, “Hey, hey, you’re breathin’ funny again. Should I go fetch my Ma?” He tries his hardest to sound calm, but the slight crack in his tone reveals the inner-panic.

No!

If he gets his mother then she’s going to call yours at work and she’ll take you home. You can’t be the reason she loses pay or worse: fired.

You cause her enough trouble already, and you want more time with Bucky.

You shake your head frantically against his stomach, eyes wide and breathing stertorous. Your body is hungry for air, yet it’s not being served.

Until his hands carefully cups the back of your neck, his thumb a feathery motion soothing over your pulse point.

It jumps back into place.

“Okay, okay,” he reassures, “How does it go again? Uhm— relax your neck and shoulder.”

You focus on his touch, his voice, the way his face blocks out the rest of the world as you gaze up at him. His fingers are soft, not hardened by the working universe yet. He’s upside down in your vision, a crease in his forehead that shouldn’t be there for someone so young.

Gradually, your limbs grow slack.

“Good… good. Now, breathe in through your nose for two counts.”

The fuzziness clouding your mind is pierced while you repeat his instruction. You remember what to do, so you purse your lips and exhale slowly through them to the count of four.

Minutes pass, but the air no longer rejects you. Your chest rises and falls into a steady rhythm, your heartbeat returning to as regular as it can be, and all that remains is the fatigue.

The world comes back into motion, and a tranquil silence surrounds it. A peaceful apology for the disruption of your fun.

“That butterfly wasn’t worth it,” Bucky states, breaking the quietness, “Y’know how scared I was for you just now?”

Guilt glazes over your eyes, your bottom lip wobbling. You can bear the weight of your episodes, and you can handle the medicine you’ll no doubt be ingesting tonight instead of cookies and milk other kids receive.

But, you can’t handle him upset because of you.

“Sorry.” You whisper, voice slightly scratchy.

His shoulders lower, the crease hiding away until another moment like this occurs. You witness him soften like snow melting under the sun.

“Just… don’t do that again, okay? Please. I don’t wanna lose you,” he quielty and pleadingly says, “You’re my best friend.”

A beat passes.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah?”

“You reminded me of that butterfly.”

“I reminded you of an insect?”

A small smile graces your face at the amusement in his tone, the atmosphere shifting back into place like nothing happened.

“Not like that,” you softly say, rubbing your eyes gently, “Butterflies represent good luck sometimes. And, when I’m with you, I’m lucky.”

“How’re you lucky?” Bucky questions, the light in his eyes shining as bright as a firefly.

“I can breathe with you.”

SEPTEMBER 21ST, 1935

The autumn air nips at your nose, the bustling noise of cars in the distance intertwining with the sound of a rake scraping against the cobblestone to rid the mahogany nature from being stepped on.

Ten minutes have been swept away, but it‘s akin to a year for you. Everything’s slowed, every little noise muffled. Your eyes are glued to the ground as you’re perched upon a ledge outside the hospital. To anybody passing by, they’d assume you’re watching the earlier morning rain residue that’s stuck between the pavement and the road.

To you, however, you’re thinking. And, right now, alone, that’s a dangerous place to be.

Your mind feels like it’s been split into two, battling against each other to infiltrate every nerve in your system.

One side is a maddening, heavy flurry. It’s concrete crumbling as the hammer swings down on it. Future plans are gone, abandoned in a pile of rubble.

The opposite side is light. A relieving sensation that the carry-on of your body working overtime has finally been identified.

Heart valve disease.

That’s what you’ve been diagnosed with.

The balance between crying and smiling rages within you, but luckily you don’t have to focus on it for too long as a voice, as warm as honey, encourages your head to rise.

“Hey, honey,” Mrs. Rogers, clad in her nurses uniform, greets kindly. Her bouncy, blonde curls frame her features, an angel in disguise that roams through the hospital halls, offering comfort to anyone in need, “Do you need a lift home?”

You choose to smile, because why dampen someone else’s day?

“That’s okay, Mrs. Rogers. I’m just waiting for a friend, thank you though.”

“How long have you known me, hm? Six years and you still call me that. Sarah will do just fine.” She says, voice tinged with a hint of playfulness.

Before becoming best friends with Steve Rogers on the playground, there was his mother. A sweet soul who sat with you when your parents conversed in a hush discussion with the doctors. She would never ask how you’re doing, but instead inquired about your interests and favourite foods, making you feel like an actual human being and not just a patient.

A knowing glint shines in her sky-blue eyes, “Say hi to Barnes for me, will you, hon? And that he owes me a batch of lemon squares.”

The mere mention of him has your heart skipping, a small laugh tumbling from your mouth. The memory of him ‘taste testing’ one lemon square at Steve’s ended up turning into accidentally eating them all, while sneaking their golden retriever some crumbs, is still fresh in your mind.

“Will do, Mrs— I mean, Sarah.”

She gifts you one of those fond, mothering gazes before walking away.

The light at every corner of the earth dims again. Flickering. Waiting.

Yet, the dullness fighting to accompany you loses at the sight of Bucky jogging over. You smile at the sight of his trousers damp at the hem due to working at the docks.

“Did you go swimming in your clothes?” You quip, swaying your legs back and forth gently.

“Hm?” His chin tips downwards at himself, then chuckles, “Oh, right. I was searching for pearls to give to you.” His flirtatious, oceanic eyes meet yours, and everything stabilises.

“Any luck?”

He shakes his head and clicks his tongue at the roof of his mouth, perching beside you, shoulder brushing against yours, “I didn’t look hard enough.”

Are you imagining the hint of disappointment in his voice?

“My mind was too preoccupied with how you’re doing.” He says, tranquil yet worried.

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a thick lump in your throat that’s forbidding the words to roll from your tongue.

How do you tell the boy you’ve watched grow into the purest form of a gentleman that you have a life-threatening disease?

It’ll tone down his laughter. It’ll sprout worst case scenarios into his mind until they’re suffocating every cell in his brain. It’ll puncture his amiable heart until it eventually mirrors yours.

…Right?

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, your silence hurting his ears, “You don’t have to tell me right away, peach. I can wait.”

For the moment, all of the weight you’ve been carrying dissipates, replaced by a gooeyness.

His calloused hand lays upright in the air and you instantly intertwine your fingers with his. Gently squeezing your hand, he tucks them both away into his toasty pocket.

“Peach?” You repeat the nickname he called you, brows raised.

“Yeah,” he nods adamantly, “You’re a little bruised, but the marks on the outside don’t define the sweetness inside. Like a peach.”

A beat passes.

“Couldn’t just stick with ‘doll’?”

“Too common nowadays,” Bucky brushes it off, “‘Sides, you deserve your own nickname.”

You take a moment to just gaze at him.

Raven locks, mussed as though he ran his fingers through them endlessly. You appreciate how he didn’t brush his hair before arriving. That he just let himself be with you. You count the faint creases by his eyes—there from illuminating the world with his smile when the sun hides from the fog.

His lips, a shade of maroon under the golden rays of autumn, are a pair you won’t dare kiss, because they’re probably stained with someone else’s.

Clearing your throat quietly, you slip your hand away from his, goosebumps rising to plead with the bitter air.

“How was your date last night?”

You don’t sound jealous. You have no right to be. However, a sense of longing wraps around your words. A yearning for what you forbid yourself from having.

You force yourself to ignore the way his brows knit together when you pulled away. How his fingers left his pocket and twitched towards you, but stopped.

“It wasn’t great,” he exhales a long breath. “Terrible, really.”

Concern strikes you like a lightning bolt, pupils dilating, “Why? What happened?”

“She wasn’t you.”

She. Wasn’t. You.

Three words that can spark a generator back to life.

But you make it stall.

For years, Bucky has been confessing his feelings for you like it’s the only thing he knows. If he’s not outright saying it, then he’s slipping sweet notes into your bag as he walks you to the Library where you work, or he’s attempting to draw butterflies for you that you stow in your purse.

His love is loud, whereas yours is quiet.

It wasn’t thrusted into your palms, but it was something that brewed throughout the years. Slow, delectable, with time mastering it until your thoughts became enshrouded with him.

Yet, you’ve always shut him down. Guilt gnaws at you, the fabric of yourself growing threadbare. You know you’re letting him down. You’re aware you’re crushing him despite the unruffled demeanour and boyish grin he wears after.

You just can’t condemn him to a life of misery.

You clutch the edge of the ledge tight, “Why do you think they have cobblestone as a path to the hospital?” You ask, changing the subject, “They should really replace it with a flat walkway.”

“You can’t avoid me, this—” Bucky gestures between the two of you with his index finger, “—us forever,” his voice softens, “I won’t let you anymore.”

Frustration becomes your defence despite no attack taking place.

“I don’t understand you sometimes, Bucky.” You mutter, hopping onto the ground and dusting your hands on your coat.

“Why not, huh?” He mimics your movements and falls into step with you as you begin embarking down the path, “I make myself clear everyday how I feel about you.”

“Well, then, maybe you should stop.” You firmly say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“…Yes.”

He laughs humourlessly, grasping your elbow gently and halting you both, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You falter by his warm touch, but you shrug yourself from his grasp, forcing yourself to put space between you, “I refuse to hold you back in life, Bucky.”

Stilling and shoulders tensing, Bucky blinks in bewilderment, “Hold me back in life? You know I could listen to you for hours, but what are you talking about? And will ya—” his chest rises and falls with a pained breath, “Will you quit pulling away from me, please?”

“You need someone fresh,” your wavering voice betrays the confidence of your tipped chin and feet firm against the pavement, “And that’s not me. I’m a wilting flower. Not enough sun or water is going to keep me alive for long.”

The pain of not merely today, but your past and future, is infused into a singular tear that trickles down your cheek.

“I’d just be a burden to you.”

The sky fades into mesmerising swirls of pink and orange, a dusk worshipping the pumpkin patch behind the nearby cafe. It’s bell hanging on the door dings faintly, muffled noises of greetings flowing into your ears.

And Bucky stands there.

Quiet. Calm.

No fisted hands, no clenched teeth, no darkening eyes.

His breaths are steady and gentle, and a part of you selfishly wishes his oxygen could hug you.

Then, he speaks, his voice a soothing wave that laps at your ankles, inviting you deeper into the ocean. His ocean, “Why don’t we get a drink, okay?”

“Now who’s avoiding talking.” You cross your arms, looking away.

“I’m not avoiding us, peach,” Bucky says, achingly soft, “I just don’t want you standing in the cold anymore.”

You close your eyes momentarily, exhaling through your nose, and nod feebly as the world is revealed to you again.

A brush paints the canvas of his face in relieved colours, and his steps fall in rhythm with yours as you embark slowly towards the cafe, granting you enough time for your head to clear.

Opening the door for you, Bucky follows you inside, warmth caressing your skin and the aroma of coffee wafting into your nose. Muted, checkered tablecloths layer over evanescing, wooden tables that waitresses weave around. A radio poses underneath crinkled parchments of posters hung upon cobweb-collected, brick walls.

Harmonies of jazz plays tenuously in the background, interlacing with Bucky’s voice, “Go sit. I’ll order for us.” He murmurs, but he doesn’t meet your gaze.

He’s lost somewhere.

As thought it’s muscle memory, you slip into the booth by the window, your ankles sighing in relief. They’ve been swelling all day, caged as a prisoner beneath the straps of your shoes.

Not much time passes until Bucky’s returned, setting your favourite drink in front of you, and a black coffee for him as he settles opposite.

His fingers interlock around the mug, pads of his skin tapping against it.

This is unbearable.

“Can you say something, please?” You softly ask.

Finally, his eyes flit to yours. A world of emotions on display, yet the strongest of all is what you’re afraid of.

“Do you honestly believe that I’ll agree with everything you said?” He rhetorically questions. “That I think of you like that?”

He’s calm as he speaks, and you’re beginning to wonder if he brought you here so you’d remain calm in front of others too. Not just for his sake, but for yours also, because arguing with him are like needles pricking under your skin until eventually the sharpness bursts through.

And he knows you’d bleed for him.

You part your mouth to converse, but close it, knowing now is Bucky’s time to talk.

“You’re grieving something—us—while we’re still breathing.”

The truth of his words makes you look down. You won’t deny it. You’ve already picked up a shovel and began digging deep into the dirt, ready to bury dreams and hopes you won’t experience. Maybe one day someone else would uncover it and have it as their own.

But Bucky won’t allow that. He’s taking the shovel from you and guiding you away from the wreckage, with your future still cradled to your chest.

Your vulnerable defences are slipping.

Sitting up straighter, his thumb and forefinger grip you chin, tilting your head up to face him. The hitch in your throat wasn’t unnoticed by him—his eyes momentarily darting down to your neck, and he soothes his thumb under the curved of your bottom lip.

“To me, you are so strong. Storms will pass by but you stay firmly planted in the ground. And that strength is admirable, peach,” he earnestly says, “I want to be by your side throughout it, even on the worser days so you can lean against me. In sickness and in health.”

James Buchanan Barnes’ loyalty is greater than the cosmos. Cowards shrivel up under in his presence, his shine burning them, and other men aspire to be a star like him.

His loyalty to you is locked tight. Nothing can break through it. Not the plans God has, not the course of turbulence expected to come, and definitely not your stubbornness.

“You’re acting as if we’re married, Bucky,” you say, “Not that we could afford that with all my medical bills.”

One last humoured try.

A mix of fondness and miff rolls around in his eyeballs, “For richer for poorer, peach,” he responds, “I’d spend my entire life’s worth of earnings if it means you’ll get better.“

He lowers his hand, grasping yours and stroking your ring finger. Your heart stutters as he traces a daisy, the same one that you wore until it wilted on your finger when you were kids. You never informed him you kept the petals in a small pouch under your pillow.

“I take vows very seriously,” he winks with a smirk, “And, when we were nine, I declared I was going to marry you. Nothing is ever going to change my mind about that.”

Alone in your bedroom, when you’d picture marrying someone, Bucky always sprung to mind. But your coughing would quickly turn your imagination to grey until it disappeared.

Now, it’s glowing bright. Staying.

Your lips turn upwards.

“You’re not proposing to me in a coffee shop.” You state, and he chuckles.

“Of course not, but I am plannin’ on kissin’ you in front of all these people.” He grins, achingly sweet your suprised his teeth haven’t rotted.

Your mug, raised to your mouth, quakes slightly at his sudden declaration.

Probably how you’ll be feeling in a minute.

“Wha—”

Before you can react properly, he sets your drink down and slides out of the booth, wrapping an arm around your waist and gently tugging you up.

Everything moves too fast until it slows down when he quietly asks, “Can I?”

You nod immediately.

His lips connect with yours. Slow and tentative. He’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your arms snake around his neck while his palm sends ripples of warmth through your clothing. He presses into your lower back, inching you closer, chests brushing.

His lips feel like the finest of silks against your lips, velvety and warm. You yearn to be wrapped in him forever, keeping you safe from the coldest of evenings. The dash of bitterness you taste from his coffee grounds you from getting lost in the moment—remaining with him.

You can feel the thumping of his wild heart, the passion in his movements, the adoration he’s pouring out and into your mouth.

It’s raw and undeniable. A poet’s love confession floating down your throat and resting beneath your ribs, healing where once was an ache.

“Aww’s” from kind voices and “get a room” from grumpier one’s sound out over your mingled, soft breaths, but you and Bucky simply grin against each other’s mouth before parting for air.

Nothing else matters but this.

Your touch soothes the goosebumps that have risen on the nape of his neck, your lovesick gaze matching his, “I love you, Bucky.” You whisper, only for his ears.

He cups the back of your head, fingertips sifting through your hair, and guides your forehead to his lips, his words seeping through your skin and becoming the forefront of your mind.

“I love you too, peach.”

Butterflies dance and cheer in your stomach. They don’t just represent luck, but new beginnings too.

DECEMBER 23RD, 1941

Every night, when you drift off into the realms of sleep, you relive your wedding. It’s not a dream. You’ve done enough dreaming for it to finally come true. It’s Polaroid photos projecting off your eyelids, and you flick through every single one, studying carefully, never missing a detail.

A pathway of petals trailed to the oak tree, bushy leaves parting for golden rays to gleam upon you and Bucky standing front-centre of the trunk. The flowers and grass settled behind, amongst the guests, silently commending.

The neckline of your wedding dress was a scoop, fitting the high-back. Your collarbones were bare, for you desired them not to be marked with jewellery, but the summer air’s congratulations. A waterfall of white cascaded to your ankles—pure, ivory linen with net lace protecting it. You requested your mother to embroider florals around the upper chest and sleeves that reached your elbows.

He didn’t waste a dime on his suit, not a missing piece, needing to be complete. Trousers that fit like a glove, a collar waistcoat, and blazer, all executed in the smoothest of grey fabric, with a white shirt and navy tie. A daisy peered out from his chest pocket too.

His feet were clad in the shoes his father wore when he wed Winnifred ( which were stored away in her attic ). They were vintage and decrepit, not enough polish to make them proper, but they were meaningful, and it reminded you of the tree’s aging bark.

Slicked-back hair you were desperate to run your fingers through, his gaze fixated on you the entire time.

Enamoured, zealous, proud.

You saw him in a different glow, and it was heavenly.

His vows held buckets of emotion it began welling in his eyes. His touch was incredibly tender as he slipped the ring on your finger.

But the kiss? Oh, it was passionate. It felt like pouring every ounce of yourself onto a love letter.

The branches shook their leaves in applause while others clapped, the sunlight burned brighter, failing to out-do you two, and the coldness of his ring against your cheek was a sighing relief against the air’s humidity.

It wasn’t a grand wedding, but it was yours.

Before another moment your sleep-induced mind can spectate, it costively flickers then disappears upwards as your eyes open by a light weight against your head.

Blinking a few times to rid the bleariness of exhaustion, your husband is crouched by the bed, stroking your hair lullingly. The decorative bulbs on the Christmas tree filter through the open door and into the darkened bedroom, enlightening his features.

“You were smiling in your sleep again,” Bucky says, before a teasing lilt takes over, “Dreaming of me?”

You shift so your face isn’t half-covered by the pillow, “Our wedding day.”

“Oh, so you were dreaming of yourself?” He grins, “‘Cause you were the brightest there. No one could even look at me.”

The giggle that escapes you is frangible. If you reached out to touch the sound, it’d crack.

Bed rest. That’s what the doctors prescribed you ever since tornados of dizziness struck you. Black pixels would invade your vision, closing in, making your feet sway until you’ve hit the ground. Yet, overtime, you’ve learnt to carry yourself to the couch.

When you’d return to reality in a cold sweat, a headache would arrive, pounding like an incessant drum within the left side of your head.

You continue carrying on with life, picking up the odd few jobs since you were laid off by your work, but lying in the haven of your bed has been occurring more frequently than not recently.

“What’s the time?” You quietly ask.

“It’s six, baby.”

“Six?!” You spew out too quickly, coughs following soon after that you cover with a frail hand. Bucky rubs your back soothingly, “I’ve been asleep for six hours… I haven’t even started dinner yet.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” He soothes, “It’s fine, peach. You must’ve needed the sleep. ‘Sides, we can cook together now.”

He’s so understanding it hurts.

You hum languidly. Then, slowly, your brows knit together.

“If it’s six, you should’ve been home an hour ago.”

A smirk graces his devishly handsome face, “I was doing some last minute shopping.”

“Bucky…”

“I know, I know,” he holds his hands up in mock defence, “You said you didn’t want anything, but I’m going to give you everything you don’t ask for anyways.”

Shaking your head with a feeble smile, you muster the energy you always reserve for him and grasp his collar, pulling him onto the bed and slowly slotting your lips against his as you recline against the pillows. His body hovers over you, and you feel as though you may become one with the plushness of the mattress.

Bucky’s hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head so he can delve deeper into the velvet walls of your mouth. Meanwhile, you grip his waist, urgent he moves closer, needing him to consume you whole. You don’t care if you lose any air, or if your heart can’t candle the exertion. If kissing him is the last thing you do, you’ll kiss him like you’re marching into battle.

You’re so lost in the precious whirlwind of him, you don’t feel your hair being brushed to the side, nor the sound of something skilfully clipping around your neck until a chilled weight rests on your chest.

Gasping when you break the kiss, you glance down as he tattoos your skin with his lips against your temple, cheek, and finally the corner of your mouth.

“Merry early Christmas, baby.” He whispers against your mouth.

A delicate chain glints off the celestials peeking through the window, and, in the centre, sits a butterfly charm.

“James.” You whisper in awe.

He props himself up with his arm by your head, “You couldn’t catch that butterfly, so I thought I’d buy you one.”

Describing love is tough, because there's not enough words in the dictionary. But you know how it feels. You know that your illness has become bearable, almost forgettable at times, all because of Bucky.

Carefully, as though it’ll crush under your touch, you trace the ridges and lines of the wings.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” you whisper, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. You lightly pat his chest, “Sit up, I have something for you too.”

Raising an inquisitive brow, he obliges, “Yes, ma’am.”

Your limbs protest as you sit up before he can help you, wanting some form of independence that keeps you sane. After turning the bedside lamp on with quivering fingers, you rummage through the bottom drawer of the nightstand and grasp an envelope, extending it to him.

“What’s that?” Bucky curiously asks, taking it, letting his fingers linger against yours.

“A pigeon,” you sarcastically murmur, “It’s a letter, darling.”

He shakes his head, smiling at your regular self making an appearance.

It’s rare nowadays.

“I know it’s a letter, but what kind? A cheesy love one?”

“No, I only send those to Steve.”

He lightly pinches a space of your calve that isn’t littered with bruises and you yelp.

Inspecting it as he turns it over, noticing it’s already been opened, he takes the paper out, and you nervously analyse how his eyes scan the inked words.

How his breath hitches.

How his fingers grip the paper tighter.

How the world shifts.

“Surgery?” He swallows thickly, eyes slowly darting to yours, a sheen of water glossing over.

“I’ve been put onto a waitlist,” you carefully admit, “They don’t know how long it’ll be, but I have a chance to get better. To be me again.”

His Brooklyn accent is prominent as his voice wavers, “You’ve always been you, peach. You just had some obstacles in the way.”

“…Bucky?”

“The survival rates are low, baby.”

He rubs at his chest like his words have physically injured him.

“Since when did you look on the bad side of things?” You inquire worriedly.

“Since this letter is saying a surgeon is going to jam their finger into my wife’s heart,” concern poisons his words as he stabs his own finger against the parchment, “What if they make a mistake, hm? What if this doesn’t help, but makes it worse?”

“Bucky, listen to me,” you cradle his face in your hands, “There are numerous what-if situations. The only one I’m thinking about right now is what if this makes me healthier? I could finally work again, I could breathe normally, I could live instead of survive.”

Bucky rests his forehead against yours, seeking solace, “You truly want this?” He asks quietly.

“I do,” you honestly, pleadingly, say, “I’m so tired. I can’t walk for more than thirty minutes without feeling like I’m going to collapse. I just want to be normal.”

It’s evident that your words strike a chord in him, coaxing a tear to trickle down his face which you wipe away.

“Okay, baby,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and gently pulling you onto his lap, “So damn proud of you.”

Relief courses throughout you. He buries his face into your neck and presses a kiss to your pulse point.

“We’re going to be okay.” You whisper, gliding your hand up and down his back, feeling him melt under your touch.

“I know we are, peach. You’ve always been strong enough for the both of us.”

You don’t comprehend how true that is until two days later and Bucky’s own future is being determined by a letter.

Drafted into the Army.

JUNE 14TH, 1943

“Bucky, I’m recovering from surgery, not incompetent.” Your laughter, a sound full of life, bounces off the walls.

Four months has passed since your surgery took place, a scar on your chest to prove the events. Within two of those months, you remained at the hospital for recovery, medication pumped into your system and therapies to coax your body into regular movements flowing.

Every day, Bucky was by your side. Holding your hand and replacing the vase of flowers with fresher ones. He voiced his contemplation of quitting his job just so he could spend more time with you, to which you gave him a firm no as a response.

You can’t be more thankful to have him in your life, to be so lucky that he stayed throughout the whole journey.

You returned home three months ago. The process of healing is long, but gradually, your limbs are no longer bruising, but clearing up. And your heart is beating normally. No more of those random skips, no more of it feeling like it was being dropped from a mountaintop.

For once in your life, you’re happy with your body.

Make-up, hair products and handed-down jewellery are spewed across the bed which you’re perched upon, the bright evening sky casting light into the bedroom.

“I know, but this is my last night until being shipped off, and if I wanna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you.” Bucky asserts with a cheeky smile.

“There’s a difference between taking care of me and dolling me up.” You joke, smiling knowingly.

You’re aware of why he’s being like this—why he’s determined to ensure you won’t lift a finger right now. It’s not because he thinks you’re delicate, and it’s certainly not because he thinks you can’t do things for yourself.

Bravery is mustered from experiencing fear, and apart of his brave-self, there’s cracks of fear that he won’t have the chance to do anything like this with you again.

So you let him, because he’s entering a place where his life will be risked every second.

He’s done your make-up surprisingly well due to watching you apply it throughout the years. You only needed to touch it up a little, but the lipstick is faded—most likely from him kissing it off.

Next is…

“Hair,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I only know how to braid hair from Becca.”

You shrug, “You can braid my hair.”

Swivelling around, your back to him, you gaze towards the open window, allowing the slight breeze to wash over you. The air is a sweet relief to your lungs, poison ivy no longer tightening around them until its bitterness has bled through.

His fingers entangle in your hair, weaving and letting his fingertips brush the back of your neck. It’s a simple action, but every stroke of his touch feels like he’s connecting to your soul.

“You’re going to be tripping all over my feet.” Bucky teases, his breath fanning the back of your head and encouraging wisps of your tresses to dance.

“Are you doubting my dancing skills?” You ask, feigning hurt.

“Baby, you haven’t danced in nearly three years.” Bucky points out.

A beat passes.

“I have a good memory. It’ll be fine.”

“Hmm, and if my feet are bruised by tomorrow, I’m blaming you,” he lovingly tugs on your completed hairstyle, “There. Now, I’d like my payment in the form of a kiss.”

Facing him, a grin hurting your cheeks, you slowly dive in for a kiss, before swiftly turning and kissing his cheek.

“Tease.” He mumbles.

You rise and approach the tall mirror, admiring your braid and emphasised features, “You could run a salon, you know.” You compliment while beginning to undress.

“And ruin my street cred?”

“Street cred?” You raise your brows, “You mean punching people in alleyways.”

You can recall the generous amount of times he’s returned home with bruised knuckles you’ve cleaned up.

“Punching douchebags in alleys.” He corrects slyly.

Rolling your eyes jokingly, you slip on the dress that was hung on the mirror. You reach around to do the zipper, but fall short, sighing quielty.

“Bucky?”

“Already on it.”

He towers behind you, zipping the back of your dress antagonisingly slow. You watch him through the mirror, watch as he ducks his head and kisses your shoulder, feel how his hand glides across your shoulder, down to your arm, then wraps both of his around your midsection.

“Your wings are growing, peach.” He quietly praises, swaying you both side-to-side in a steady rhythm.

Your body melts into his warmth, your back against his chest, your head against his collarbone.

“We can always stay home if you’re not feeling up to tonight,” Bucky offers, “I’d still be just as happy as long as I’m with you.”

“I know, Bucky. But my body is itching to dance, okay?”

“That’s my girl.”

۶ৎ

Dancing was made for you and Bucky. You spun together like everyone else disappeared into thin air. You laughed together in harmony of the music. Where your steps went, he followed. When your hands intertwined, so did the ocean meeting the shore.

You didn’t dance in the shadows, but front and centre, under the gleaming yellow lighting. You were a whirlwind of starlight, dazzling in every movement, and Bucky was by your side, burning with merriment.

It had been so long since you let yourself be carefree, and you had never felt more beautiful.

The loud of the night fades as you enter your home, shutting the night away as Bucky closes the door and locks it. Immediately, your arms snake around his neck as he turns, crashing your lips against his. He stumbles momentarily, before pressing his hand’s against your lower back, melding you closer together.

Your heart bucks wildly, gallivanting in ways you didn’t think possible. Fingers sift through his hair in rhythm with his sliding across and caressing your waist in burning strokes.

The kind of burn inside of you that you enjoy.

You half expect him to move this forwards as your mouths reconvene the dance your bodies did earlier, but as he departs from the kiss… he doesn’t.

A loving brush of his lips against your forehead and a light, almost apologetic, squeeze of your hip is all you receive, then he trudges off into the kitchen, putting distance between you physically.

Your shoulders slump dejectedly, mirroring the downturn of your lips. You can’t recall the last time he carried you to bed and undressed you with a fervour of lust. Perhaps on your wedding day? It’s not a necessity you’re desperate for—his profound love is more than enough. Yet, as you stand alone while the faint sound of cupboards closing and pill bottles rattling reaches you, insecurities invade your mind.

‘Did I become too sick to be looked at in that sense now?’

‘Is he repulsed by me? Worried I’ll ruin it by having a coughing fit?’

The thick layer of hurt stuck to the roof of your mouth is a harsh swallow, but you do it anyways and venture to where your husband is, desperately needing to quarrel these intrusive thoughts of yours.

You don’t believe them—you’re making yourself not to believe them, but him turning away at any given opportunity is beginning to toy with your head.

Stepping into the homely kitchen and rounding the counter, you poise near the sink, where Bucky is turning off the tap. A light thud and the drip of excess water reverberates after he sets a glass beside your medication.

But those pills can’t help the mental storm brewing inside you.

He parts his mouth to speak as his head raises to meet yours, but his features instantly change at the sight of your hurt expression, “Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, taking a concerned step closer.

Exhaling steadily, you cross your arms in attempts to appear confident when all you yearn to do is fall into his chest. But you can’t always rely on him. You need to do this for yourself.

“James,” you begin, tone forcefully even, “I’ll respect your decision if you don’t want to touch me, okay? I just need to understand why. Do…” Ignoring his perplexed, widened eyes, you continue, “…do I disgust you? Has my appearance changed—”

"Peach."

"—changed for the worse? Is this something you've been carrying for a while? Do you need my permission to go off with other—"

Before you can feel the tears stinging your eyes, his lips collide into yours, silencing you. The impact is harsh at first, knocking your breath away, but as it achingly softens, your heart restarts.

So does your head.

Your arms grow slack by your sides, and his large hands smooth up them, skating across your shoulder blades and cupping the nape of your neck. His thumbs press into either side of your jaw, tilting your head up further so there's barely any space between you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your mouth, nudging his nose against yours tenderly, "I just had to stop you from speaking about yourself like that."

"James." Your voice finally wavers.

Your plea must have flowed into his mouth, because he bitterly chews on it that his jaw trembles and squeezes his eyes shut briefly.

"God, baby, I'm so fucking sorry for putting those thoughts into your head," his voice is thick with guilt and regret, "I've been so busy worrying about how sex might affect you physically, I overlooked how me pulling away must've been messing with this beautiful mind of yours."

His thumb rubs circles into your temple while slowly opening his eyes. They're consumed with emotions a man wouldn't normally share in this day and age, but he does because he isn't like any other man.

He's yours, and with you, he can express himself liberatingly.

"What if it gets too much and your heart can't take it, hm?" The question leaving his mouth breaks into tiny pieces, yet you cradle each one so you can mend the outcome together.

"My heart can't take this distance, Bucky." You whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek.

Bucky catches it with the tip of his thumb instantly, and you turn your face ever-so-slightly and brush your lips against his skin.

The collapse of his shoulders is enough to inform you the guilt of potentially harming you has been haunting him for a while.

Carefully, you cradle his hand and slowly guide it down. You press the warmth of his palm where your heart lays beneath the surface of yourself and feel his fingers expanding to touch more of you.

"It's beating to its fullest potential because of you," you earnestly admit, "Yeah, I had surgery, but I couldn't have survived this long if you weren't by my side."

"Peach..." He trails off, doubt burdening his tone.

"It's true!" You exclaim, the corners of your swollen mouth upturning, "I'm alive because you, my husband, have been my biggest supporter since we were kids. You have been my lifeline, darling, and as long as you're alive and happy, then so am I."

This time, his care for you is expressed in a globule escaping the corner of his eye after blinking. You watch it slide down his cheek before you poise on your tip-toes and kiss it away.

Your lips linger against his face long enough for his breathing pattern to change. It remains steady, deliberate, but peeking between each exhale is a quivering hunger that went into hiding, now coaxed out by your deep devotion.

Pulling back your face, your small and nimble hand covers the back of his against your chest, "You told me my wings are growing, and they are, but they flourish with you.”

"I love you," Bucky confesses for the umpteenth time, though now it’s layered with his insecurities bare and open, "I love you so damn much that I don’t even think the word love is strong enough to describe how damn mad I am over you."

His thumb and index finger pinches your chin, inching your faces closer, breaths becoming one. Both of your cravings are edged further, and you lock your fingers between the gaps of his, trailing his hold on you further down until a heat strokes your lower abdomen.

"Then show me,” honey drips from your voice, sweet and addictive, “Show me how much you love me, Bucky."

Your encouragement beholds an undeniable strength, alleviating the hesitance inside of him. He carries you to your shared room, he cradles you ever-so protectively, and he unveils every pent up desire in caresses and strokes—in edges of lust that are softened with his undying love.

Every sound coaxed from the depths of your chests—breathy and low and extremely unfiltered—have become your new favourite melody. Every passionate movement between yourselves, wrapped in each other’s embraces, is the epitome of comfort and pleasure rolling around together. Every reassuring word spoken, or kiss peppered against your scar, gifts you the most safest crescendo one can possibly experience.

Throaty laughter arrives afterwards, rippling through the haze of serenity. Bucky smoothes his palm over every inch of yourself, leisurely gliding over bumps and crevices, checking for anything amiss, but all that remains is your blissed-out self and his proud grin.

And when the dreaded day of his departure reaches, he disembarks from the very docks he helped build, carry the memory of the night before closest to him.

Because it marks the night you finally started soaring.

AUGUST 2ND, 1943

Two months have slipped by without the warmth of your husband by your side. All that remains is the ghost of his presence wherever you venture, the letters stacked neatly in a wooden chest, and the sneaky, hushed telephone calls.

Closing the front door behind you, you waste no time in tearing the seal apart and unfolding the crisp parchment. His handwriting coaxes a smile on your face, the bold strokes carefully crafted despite his cursive being a tad bit sloppy.

Your eyes begin ingesting the words he’s unleashed from the depth of his soul. The last time you heard his voice, it was muffled through the terrible signal of the General’s telephone.

Now? Now, it echoes clearly in your ears, so close you can almost feel his presence.

My love,

The camp is bleak and pitiful, hope ebbing away the further we advance to the front lines. I try my hardest to maintain morale and uplifting the other soldiers, but even my struggle is becoming noticeable the more I’m away from you.

I wake up on this stiff cot, facing the roof of the tent, and being reminded of where I am. I close my eyes in the few moments I have to myself and picture us sprawled out in the field we claimed as ours. The image of the sun casting golden rays against you remains vivid in my mind. All seasons compliment you, peach, but summer bathes you in a newfound light.

How is Brooklyn’s Summer this time around? Is it warm enough for you? You know I’m not the religious type, but I pray each night you’re able to fall asleep without any trouble. I know how the steam from the scolding roads used to affect your breathing.

You were fighting a war every day, and you came out victorious. It’s your unyielding strength and bravery that encourages me to lead myself and my infantry into battle.

I will win this war, peach. I’m not winning it for my country anymore, I’m winning it for you: my beautiful, one of a kind wife who I love more than a dog with its bone.

Your darling,

James.

Exhaling shakily, you press the paper to your chest, as though the ink will bleed off the page and sink into your heart.

Bucky Barnes has been your crutch for as long as you can remember, and while you’re his too, you just wish it was under different circumstances—not the fear of death looming over him every second he’s separated from you.

Thoughts spark in your mind, each one illuminating another idea of how to make sunshine pour into your letter so his bleak whereabouts will have a bit of shine.

You take a step towards the living room when a searing pain slices through your chest, reopening what was mended.

A pained whimper rips from your throat as your nails dig into your chest instinctively. Your feet stumble. The letter drifts onto the floor as your other hand uses the coat hanger for stability.

Everything rotates fast. You squeeze your eyes shut, denying the dizziness of its foggy, enclosing effects. You’re still standing, two feet firmly planted into the floor.

“I’m okay, I’m okay.” You choke out through laboured exhales.

The technique of settling your strenuous breathing slips back into place with ease, and you familiarise it for a few moments before you’re stable enough to slowly crack your eyes open.

The ache in your chest fades, replaced by a hollow dread. You shove it down immediately. It’s just high emotions physically pulled out from Bucky’s sentimental letter, that’s all….

It’ll pass soon.

Everything will return to normal when he’s home.

OCTOBER 17th, 1943

The campsite is peculiarly quiet this evening, no alarms shrieking nor any barked orders making the weeds flinch. While his comrades have ventured to town, gulping down what could be their last drink, Bucky stayed behind.

Something off has been accumulating in the pits of his stomach all day.

It could be nothing. It could simply be the enemy inching closer each day, as that’s become the normal nowadays, but his mind wanders to you and your most recent letter.

Shoulders hunched and perched on the edge of his cot, he grips the paper firm enough so the gust of wind drifting through the tent won’t snatch it.

It’s still your enchanting words, each stroke of ink letting him in on a glimpse of warmth. However, overtime, your handwriting has grown noticeably shaky, no longer appearing neat and barely readable.

He manages too, anyways, because he’d be damned if a letter of yours isn’t deciphered like it’s full of important codes.

Determining he’s just overthinking, he sighs and shakes his head. You’re a woman made of iron that's been hammered and molded into something even stronger.

He swaps your letter on the rickety nightstand for the polaroid of you he’s kept close. The glow of the lantern illuminates your gorgeous features, but a photo can only do so much. It doesn’t capture the playful melody of your teasing, and it doesn’t play your dance movements.

Luckily, every moment spent with you was unforgettable. A picture can only do so much, but it can also evoke memories that stretches a smile across his mouth.

In a feather-light motion, his thumb traces every curve and crevice of yourself, worshipping you even when your physical self is nowhere in sight. The entrance of the tent flaps in defence of the force of nature picking up, but if he just pinpoints his focus on the image of yourself, he can almost hear the thrum of your heartbeat.

Almost.

Quickly replacing it is a rough clearing of a throat, though Bucky’s brow perks up at a second one following. Softer, perhaps sympathetic, trying to override the first one.

He lifts his head and straightens up at General Smith entering. A solemn expression is written into his face, rubbing out the typically guarded one he equips.

Bucky rises to salute him, but is stopped halfway by a slow raise of Smith’s palm, “Sit, Sergeant.” He orders calmly.

For a man who usually reeks of confidence, hesitance conflicts Bucky’s senses as he slowly sits back down.

“Sir?”

Marching the front lines seems dauntingly in front of him.

“Bucky… hell, there’s no easy way to say this,” General Smith sighs and shifts uncomfortably, “Your mother-in-law rang.”

Rocks have piled onto Bucky’s tongue, his next three words managing to slip out through the cracks, “Is everything alright?”

“No, son,” he replies in a fatherly tone, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you…”

Bucky pales.

“Your wife passed last night.”

Those five words don’t reach his ears correctly.

They’re blocked out, muffled by the pounding of his heart while yours apparently lays still.

No.

Nonononononono.

He watched you wave him off at the docks. He listened to you converse about your day through the phone. Your heart was fine then. Cracked from his departure, but thumping healthily.

Speaking suddenly feels like the most strenuous action he can do, “She— ah…” his voice breaks, “She had a successful surgery. She can’t… she can’t have…”

A life without you doesn’t make sense.

Pain shoots through his chest, but he can’t see any bullets flying around.

His vision blurs with unshed tears. His lungs are too tight to accept breath properly.

The General’s voice remains a faded cadence, fragments piercing Bucky’s soul deeper.

‘Failed surgery.’

‘Couldn’t retain enough oxygen.’

‘Wasn’t alone.’

Head hanging low, eyes reddening swiftly, a broken noise is tugged from his throat. It doesn’t reach the sound-waves just yet, trapped in the confines of his aching self.

“It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s not true.” He mumbles repetitively and brashly cards his fingers through his hair.

The hollow pit inside his stomach fills with nausea.

You were suffering and he was unaware.

Angels recruited you and left him behind in the trenches… a place fit for a guilty man like him to be buried in.

OCTOBER 26TH, 1943

Rage never correlated with Bucky Barnes. His emotional intelligence didn’t let it simmer for long, but you were the one feeding him knowledge. Without you, the fury arose to the extremity of public humiliation.

At the time, he didn’t care when he stormed into the hospital, a body functioned by grief spitting at the ones who should’ve done more to save you.

Because they failed you.

He failed you.

No one flinched at his outburst, except for your father who heartbreakingly dragged him outside. To the medical workers, it was if that’s an every day occurrence and your death’s just another percentage in the charts.

He’ll go back and apologise later, comprehending how unfairly he directed his blame onto them. It takes the remains of his willpower not to blame you either for your stubborn mouth that was sealed tight throughout the months of his departure.

A weekend off was granted to him to get his head ‘straight.’ His teeth grind at the thought of returning to a place with hollowed men and no one yelling his name during mail-calls anymore.

Being drafted stole the time he had left with you, so a weekend to himself is a generous gesture.

Except, no one writes a manual on how to grieve properly. He’s transitioned into a new part of life without his permission, leaving him utterly lost and unable to cope.

Bucky’s legs forbid him from entering the Barnes home. The closest he reached was the door, thudding his bag to the ground in sync with the collapse of his knees.

An unopened letter of his, curled at the corners and dampening from his downpour of tears, taunted him from the welcome mat.

Now, he ventures where his heart navigates.

The oak tree slouches on the faded hill, silently battling against the invisible pollution that’s accumulated due to the war. The leaves are paralysed and the acorns have sorrowfully dropped, buried beneath layered of time and dirt. Weeds surround the stump like soldiers guarding their barracks, forbidding anyone from trespassing.

His boots are heavy against the cracked soil. A thick lump shapes in his throat and he forces it down. A ghost of vows and daisies flicker before him, but the grief rips it apart.

Bloodshot eyes roam the aging tree, noticing the lines in the bark have grown profusely. Maybe if his heart were to be x-rayed, there’d be jagged strikes too.

A sudden gust of wind pushes against him, or perhaps it’s trying to envelope him in a hug he’s unconsciously rejecting. The tickle of the breeze coaxes a twitch from his reddened nose, and his eyes drop to the ground as something featherlight sways in the air.

Immediately, Bucky glances upwards to the branch you once gazed at with child-like wonder, then drops his eyes to what’s fallen before him.

An envelope.

Shaky cursive writing.

James.

His hands tremble beside him.

You knew he’d visit.

He crouches down to pick it up, but it slips from his grasp.

“Shit,” he curses, vigorously wiping the specks of dusty soil off it.

When he’s sure it’s safe in his grasp, he slowly lowers himself to the ground, the bark brushing against his back like a reassuring pat.

After rubbing his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger, clearing any tears so he can read clearly, he expels a forced, steady breath. He doesn’t wish to have a heavy conscience when your literacy can float inside his chest instead.

My darling James,

A choked sound claws from his throat already.

He looks away, the taste of salt poisoning his lips as trails of pain dampen his face. It takes every bit of strength in him to return to reading.

My darling James,

I remember when you first introduced me to the oak tree. I had never felt so special in my life. I had already felt rejected by the world, barely scraping by, but you carried me outside and showed me there’s still hope and beauty out there.

That’s a feeling I’ll never be able to repay, no matter how much you say my love is enough, and I’m so sorry for the heartache I’ll leave behind when I’m gone.

I couldn’t tell you the surgery had failed. Selfishness took over; I didn’t want our final months together to have the impending grief looming over us. I was terrified it’d affect your sanity out there, and I needed you focused so you won’t lay to rest like me.

I lived longer than I expected. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I know loving you gave me a purpose and I was clinging onto that for as long as my heart could. Being with you made the pain bearable. I even forgot it at times when you’d hold my gaze with eyes the colour of the butterfly I chased.

You never left me, but I’m afraid if you’re reading this, I have left you. Butterflies are doomed with a small lifespan. I can relate to that a bit too closely.

When I pass, I will no longer experience that crushing sensation in my lungs. I’ll be light, soaring with my fully-grown wings, only feeling the comfort and safety you gave me.

I know it’s a lot to ask—you’ve done so much for me—but please keep that bravery inside of you pumping. Please live for me as I lived for you.

I love you with my entire being.

Goodbye, James.

Your love, peach.

Everything’s quiet.

The word has stopped to mourn you with him.

Yet, something foreign flushes throughout his body, lulling his aching bones. Closure’s arrival isn’t loud; it creeps in, slow and steady, and will take time to grow, but it’s a brave start, and he promises to forever be brave in your honour.

A slow, fluttering melody drifts into the environment. Landing on the parchment, littered in tiny damp splotches, is a butterfly.

A butterfly.

For the first time in days, Bucky’s lips curve upwards.

Neither of you mention the kiss. And he doesn’t press for another, doesn’t mention how your lips had parted beneath his, or the way your fingers had curled into his chest. What he does instead is stay a little longer each time. Not conspicuously, nothing that could be pointed to as a specific thing, but the visits that used to end professionally, with a nod and a see you tomorrow, now end with him lingering by the basin, helping you organize glass vials of antiseptic or wiping down the metal trays without being asked and saying something about the weather or a story about his friend Steve (you have heard a handful of those by now).

You realize, with a faint ache in your chest, that Bucky is letting you set the pace. Doesn’t crowd our space; if you step back, he stays put. If you put on your professional face, he meets you with quiet respect. He’s showing you that he can be trusted with the territory you have given him.

And because he gives you room to breathe, you find yourself loosening your grip on your own secrets.

One afternoon, in the midst of applying a soothing salve to the reddened skin around his healing wound, you start talking. The tent is quiet, and you want to convince yourself that that is the only reason why you say anything all, but you know better.

“My mother used to make a salve out of clover and beeswax,” you whisper, mind wandering before you could stop it. “Whenever I fell out of the cherry tree in the backyard, she’d slather it on. Smelled God awful, like old honey and dirt.”

Usually, you didn’t talk about home. Didn’t talk about your mother, or the life you had left behind in a white-picket box across the Atlantic. Yet here you are now, saying things without being asked, without really meaning to, simply saying them because it feels comfortable to share them with this soldier.

“Sounds like a luxury compared to this government-issued grease,” Bucky says with a soft chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You tumble out of that tree often?”

“Often enough,” you reply, voice dropping a little lower as you tie off the bandage. “I don’t have any siblings, so I had to invent my own trouble. My parents nearly went gray trying to keep me in one piece before I went off to nursing school. I suppose they’re waiting for me to go back home in one piece, now, too.”

Bucky doesn’t offer a platitude. He knows, better than anyone, the agony of the families left behind, staring at the mailbox every morning. Instead he reaches out, thumb gently catching the side of your wrist and he presses down just enough for you to feel the reassuring warmth of him.

“They’ve got a tough girl watchin’ over an entire regiment out here,” he says, looking up at you with those blue eyes that you’ve already learned are nothing but trouble. “I bet they’re real proud of you. I know I would be.”

The sudden stinging heat behind your eyelids is too much for you to bear, and you have to look way, pulling your wrist back from his hold. The difference is that this time you do it gently; not a rejection, just a retreat to gather your senses.

The second week of August arrives with the kind of heat that has no manners about it, summer turning fully cruel. It settles over the camp by mid-morning and stays, turning the inside of every tent into something very similar to an oven, and even the shade offers no real relief, serving only as a slightly darker heater than the open sun. Nurses have taken to rolling their sleeves as high as propriety allows, and most soldiers have abandoned propriety altogether.

You are in between tasks, a rare lull in a day that was otherwise consumed by heatstroke cases and salt-tablet distributions, moving through the rows of tents in camp. A hand comes up to your forehead to wipe a bead of sweat, and you inhale, looking for a breath of wind that doesn’t exist, when you spot him.

Bucky is in his usual spot, the big tree at the edge of the camp’s quieter side, the one with a root system that makes a reasonable seat if you know how to position yourself. His back is braced flat against the rough bark, one knee hooked up to prop up a small wooden crate he’s using as a desk, the other leg stretched out in the dry grass. In concession to the stifling heat, his uniform jacket is long gone, and his olive-drab shirt is half-unbuttoned, exposing the damp skin of his collarbones and the dark hair of his chest, and his hair is a little disheveled. A sheen of sweat makes his skin glisten in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. There’s a letter in his hands, a few pages long already, and there’s creases in his forehead as he seems focused on reading through what he has already written, stubby pencil held between his fingers.

Despite his absorbed expression, Bucky looks entirely at ease, which is something you don’t see often enough on the faces of the men in this camp, and which does something unhelpful to your already compromised ability to think clearly in his vicinity.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

You stand there for a moment and watch him, an action you allow yourself only because no one is watching, and see him turning a page, and smiling at it. Stepping out of the sun, you finally walk over, boots crunching softly on the ground, a sound that catches his attention when you approach close enough.

Bucky looks up, blue eyes blinking at the sudden shift in light as you step into his shade. The easy smile blooms across his face immediately, cutting through his fatigue. “Look what the breeze blew in.” He shifts slightly, kicking a stray canteen out of the way. “Looking for a spot that isn’t boiling?”

“Yes, but apparently here isn’t it,” you admit with a smile, but you’re already folding your skirt beneath you as you sink down onto the grass beside him. The bark of the tree is rough against your shoulder, but not enough that it becomes uncomfortable. “Who’s the letter to?”

His eyes look down at the page, pencil tracing the edge of the crate. “My ma,” he says softly. “Gotta let her know I’m still eating, still keepin’ my socks dry. The usual lies.” And he smiles when he says it, warm, tinged with a fond sort of longing you recognize easily, then tilts the paper toward you. “Listen to this. ‘Tell Becca that if I find out she touched my book collection while I’m gone, I’m gonna make sure she doesn’t get a dime of my back pay. Especially the copy of The Hobbit. It cost me almost three bucks, plus shipping. If she ruins the spine on that one we’re no longer related.”

You blink, a soft laugh catching in your throat as you look from the paper up to his face. “You have an edition of The Hobbit?” you ask, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. “Sergeant Barnes… I never expected you to enjoy dwarves and dragons.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush an endearing pink beneath his tan, and he looks away, suddenly very interested in a bush a few feet away. “It’s a good book,” he mutters, though a sheepish grin breaks through his defense. “Cost me some good money. And Becca’s careless, she uses old sandwich wrappers as bookmarks. Can you believe that?”

Finding out that the camp’s resident heartthrob, the man who can apparently charm the stripes off a tiger, is fiercely protective of a fantasy novel is almost too much. Too sweet, too close to tapping into feelings you can’t afford to tap into in a warcamp. Hearing him talk about his family, about ordinary squabbles over books, made the distance between this camp and reality feel a little less vast. Brooklyn isn’t just a place he mentions to be charming; it’s real, waiting for him, and he carries it with him in the neat rows of his handwriting.

Bucky is mid-sentence, gesturing with his pencil as he explains how his sister had once accidentally dropped one of his books in the bath, and how he doesn’t really believe it was an accident to this day, when an overwhelming urge hits you.  

Not quite your usual calculated decisions. It doesn’t come with the usual warnings or your frantic inner monologues reminding you of the war or the dangers of getting attached to a soldier who might not make it to autumn. It is simply an urge that settles in your bones and seeps into your bloodstream, immediately tainting your thoughts: you want to kiss him.

So you lean over and do it.

Bucky goes still. For a fraction of a second, he is genuinely surprised, a rare crack in his usual demeanor, and you find, with a small thrill in your veins, that you like catching him off guard like this.

It’s not a long kiss. Just a press of your mouth against his, warm, over almost before it’s begun, but still giving him enough time to melt the shock and kiss you back, hand dropping the pencil onto the crate and then coming up to brush his knuckles against your jawline and then moving to the back of your neck, head tilting to drink you in.

When you pull back and smooth down your skirt, you look at him, expression perfectly calm as if you didn’t just set his quiet afternoon upside down. He’s looking at you, eyes slightly blown out, cheeks flustered, lips still parted as if waiting for you to chase him again. His tongue licks over his bottom lip in a nervous tick.

“What was that for?” he asks, and you learn that you also like the way his voice sounds slightly different than usual.

“I simply felt like it,” you say.

A beat of silence.

“You simply felt like it,” he repeats.

Another beat, and  Bucky just stares at you as if you just hung the entire sky for him right here in the middle of a blazing August afternoon, completely awestruck by the sudden grace of you. Like maybe you are the most remarkable thing he has encountered in his considerable experience of the world.

You look away before he can see that you are smiling, focusing on the dry grass between your boots.

“‘s warm out today,” you say to the middle distance.

“… It is,” Bucky agrees, and you can hear it in his voice, that his mind is miles away from weather talk. “Real warm.”

The two of you side under the tree for a while longer. He picks up the letter again, reads you one more passage that makes you laugh, and he tries to memorize that sound simply by being right next to you.

It’s late by the time you get back to the sleeping tent that night, later than usual, the camp having already settled into its quiet nighttime sounds by the time you have finished your last round and washed your hands. The heat of the afternoon stayed in the canvas of the tent long after the sun went down, making the night air thick and sluggish. Some nurses were already snorting softly, faces pale in the amber wash of the kerosene lamp hanging from the center pole.

You sit on the edge of your cot after changing clothes, fabric of your nightgown sticking slightly to the small of your back, slowly unpin your hair, and you are almost convinced you have made it through your arrival without incident when Beth’s voice comes from the cot across from you. She’s lying on her side, head propped up on her hand, looking at you with an expression that is considerably more cheerful than her usual careful neutrality whenever she tries to pry. Like she has been waiting all day to have this conversation and has been enjoying the anticipation.

“Something’s different,” she says directly, voice dropping to a late-night murmur.

You don’t look up from your lap, keeping your fingers busy playing with the wrinkles in your skirt before folding it over the foot of the cot. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re almost in a good mood,” she replies with a stubborn smile tucking into the corner of her mouth. “Have been since about four o’clock this afternoon when you came back with dirt stains on the hem of your skirt.”

Your fingers still against the cotton fabric. You had cleaned those stains off with a damp rag the second you got back to the washbasin, or at least you thought you had. Leave it to Beth to notice the state of your skirt’s hem and associate it with anything else happening in your life.

“I’m frequently in a perfectly adequate mood, Beth,” you deflect, voice thoroughly rehearsed. “And the shade by the supply tents is entirely dirt. I remember I tripped near the ditch.”

"Uh-huh, tripped," Beth lets out a dry chuckle that she quickly smothers with her hand so as to not wake the nurses next to you. Shifts closer to the edge of her mattress, eyes open wide. “Nothing to do with a certain Sergeant who's been finding increasingly creative reasons to be wherever you happen to be?”

The memory of Bucky’s face, flustered, lips parted, tongue darting out nervously after you had pulled away, flashes behind your eyelids vividly. You say nothing, which is obviously not enough of an answer for Beth.

“Has something changed?” She asks, and her voice has shifted slightly, less teasing, more genuine. Are you alright? Is this good?

Your eyes find Beth’s and you simply look at her for a moment, at the fond expression of a woman who has watched you maintain your walls for months now and is watching in real time as they begin to crumble.

“We kissed,” you whisper.

The confession slips past your lips before your mind can construct its usual barricades, words dropping into the heavy silence like pebbles into a pond. Maybe the August heat has left you too tired to fight it. Beth freezes, head tilting slightly as if she isn’t entirely sure she heard you correctly. Teasing grin vanishes, replaced by a look of sheer shock.

“You what?” her voice cracks slightly before she catches herself and lowers it to a frantic whisper. “When? Today?”

“Today,” you admit, cheeks flaring with sudden heat that you’re grateful is mostly hidden by the low light in the ten. “And last week.”

Beth stares at you, jaw slightly slack. As a woman who prides herself on always having an observation prepared, she is remarkably empty-handed. “Twice,” she repeats slowly. “And you sat there with your little hair pins and wrinkly skirt, telling me you tripped in a ditch.”

“It was an impulse,” you defend quickly, voice hushed but fierce. “Today, at least. He was reading me a letter he’s writing to his mother, complaining about his sister ruining the spines of his books. He has a copy of The Hobbit, Beth. Paid three dollars for it.”

Beth blinks, smile faltering into an expression of profound confusion. “He… what does a fantasy book have to do with you kissing him under a tree?”

That gives you pause. “…Nothing.” Though you know it has everything to do with it. The absolute lack of war in that moment, the jarring reminder that Bucky Barnes exists outside of field dressings and casualty counts. “It was just… sweet. He was flustered. He’s… cute, when he’s flustered,” you add, admission slipping out quietly.

Beth’s confusion dissolves almost instantly, morphing into a look of of pure warmth. The gossipy edge she usually keeps in this camp completely melts away.

“I’m really happy for you,” she says softly, voice carrying a weight that makes your throat tighten.

Your fingers tangle awkwardly in the cotton of your nightgown, a blush spreading across your cheeks and down your neck, hot enough to rival the midday sun. Looking down at your knees, you are suddenly unable to meet her eyes, utterly flustered by how easily she has seen through you, and how thoroughly Bucky Barnes has managed to scramble your senses.

But beneath the burning heat in your cheeks, and despite the frantic inner voice telling you to pull the walls back up, there is a strange lightness in your chest. You could try to press it down, assume your usual rigid posture, but your shoulders are loose. Beth is right. You are happy, happier than usual. It’s a terrifying thing to recognize in a place like this, but as you sit on the edge of your cot, you can’t deny it.

“So, I suppose all that shameless chasing he did was worth it after all,” Beth purrs, continuing with a wicked spark returning to her tone. “Sergeant Barnes was practically setting up permanent residence in the infirmary just to get you to look at him.”

“He did not chase me,” you huff, trying for a stern tone but failing miserably. Finally, you decide to lay down, and you pull the thin sheet up over your legs, tucking yourself into the cot as if that was enough to shield you from Beth’s knowing look. “And I told you, I’m still not looking for anything in this camp. Men still leave, Beth. Trucks still roll out at dawn and we’ll be back to cleaning wounds.”

“Of course you’re not,” Beth says, with the serenity of someone who is deciding to let you have this particular story you have told yourself as long as you need it.

“I’m not,” you repeat, a little weaker, words as fragile as they have ever been. You know it’s a lie. Beth knows it’s a lie. Territory has been surrendered, ice has broken, and no amount of distance is going to erase the memory of his hand resting against the back of your neck, or the way his lips tasted when he kissed you, or when you kissed him.

“Whatever you say,” she murmurs into the dark, voice thick with an unbearable amount of satisfaction. “But you know… if you ever did want something. You know you can always talk to me, right? For… whatever. Advice. Friendly word. Whatever you need. We’re friends.”

You turn onto your side, facing away from her, and stare at the silver sliver of moonlight on the dirt floor. A hand drifts upward, fingertips lightly brushing against your lips, where the faint, warm taste of him still lingers. Then you close your eyes, heavy thrum of the camp fading into the background, and in the quiet safety of the dark, you let yourself smile.

Next morning, you are heading back from the supply depot, a heavy stack of freshly laundered bed linens balanced against your chest, with fabric smelling faintly of harsh lye and sun-baked canvas, while your mind is wandering some place else, thinking about Beth’s words last night, and the warmth of Bucky near you. You’ve found your mind often drags itself there, these days. While taking the long way around the motor pool, moving quickly to escape the mosquitoes buzzing near the water barrels, you end up hearing voices.

It isn’t an intentional thing. In a camp this crowded, privacy is a myth constructed out of thin cloth, and the rumble of soldiers unwinding is simply the background noise of your life. But as you round the corner of a parked deuce-and-a-half truck, a familiar cadence catches your ear, anchoring your boots to the floor. You don’t mean to stay and overhear, really, you don’t, but you do it anyway.

A cluster of men from the 107th are loitering in the shadow of an armored car, their silhouettes dark against the blue sky. A few of them are smoking, orange-red tips of their cigarettes pulsing. In the center of them, leaning back against the metal bumper with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, is Bucky.

“Come on, Barnes,” a voice jeers, and though you can’t quite see him from your spot, it sounds like Gabe Jones, thick with a camaraderie-laden grit. “You’re slipping pal. We saw you sweatin’ through your shirt under the elm yesterday like a schoolboy.”

A chorus of rough chuckles goes up from the group.

“I was writing my mother,” Bucky’s voice floats back, perfectly smooth. “A man can’t show his Ma some respect without his squad acting like a bunch of hens?”

“You weren’t looking at no letter when the nurse walked by,” another voice, higher and sharper, chimes in. “You always act different with her, Sarge, like you’re trying to remember your manners or something.”

Without meaning to, you settle against the back of the truck, bend a little, trying to prolong how much longer you can hear this conversation without being caught. The stack of linens feels very heavy, pressing against your ribs, trapping the air in your lungs. Or maybe it’s something else taking your breath away. You know you should keep walking. Professional distance, your own sanity, everything is demanding that you step out of earshot. But your feet refuse the order.

“She’s a lady,” Bucky replies, his tone light, deflecting the jab with practiced ease. “Unlike the lot of you, I gotta remind myself what civilized people act like so I don’t turn into a grease-monkey like Dugan.”

“Don’t give us that,” Jones pushes again, tone shifting from teasing to blunt, honest curiosity. “Every time we see you with her, you look like a dog waiting for its owner to give him an order. What’s the story?”

You find yourself holding your breath, rough cotton of the sheets scraping against your chin. You expect another joke. A smooth line that would minimize yesterday’s afternoon under the tree, something to keep his reputation intact among the men who look up to him. You brace yourself for it.

But it never comes.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, rough edge of a genuine admission in his words. “She doesn’t give an inch. Looks right through the mouth on me. But… there’s something. About her. I think… I think the might be the o—"

With a sudden, violent jolt of panic, you force your boots to move, spinning on your heel and walking away into the afternoon shadows before the next word can leave his mouth. You move quickly, your stride frantic, stack of linens trembling slightly in your grip as you practically flee toward the safety of the hospital tents.

Not because you don’t want to hear it. God help you, it’s because you do. Because you can feel the shape of that unfinished sentence like a hand pressed flat against your sternum and you know that hearing the rest of it would do something to you that couldn’t be undone. Whatever he had been about to put at the end of that sentence, whether it was one, or only, or something else entirely, it would permanently dismantle the fragile fiction you built up to survive this war. That you weren’t looking for anything, still aren’t, and that this thing between you and Bucky is something you can keep perfectly bottled up, buried, controlled.

And you’re not ready for what comes after that. With admitting that wanting Bucky Barnes means admitting you could lose him.

Then the opportunity to continue exploring those feelings that have begun settle arrives on that same week, three days later, on a night carried on by a merciful breeze that breaks the stagnant heat of the afternoon.

You and Bucky find each other not by arrangement, but more by gravitational pull, one that causes you two to end up in the same place way past eleven, when the camp has died down and most people are asleep or awake but quiet in their cots. You are sitting behind the supply tents in the dark, staring up at the stars in the dark sky, back against the wooden slats, when you hear his boots on the dry ground. Bucky drops down beside you without needing an invitation.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, by way of explanation.

“Me neither.”

This wedge-shaped pocket of darkness behind the auxiliary supply tents is a spot you found because you weren’t quite ready to head to bed yet and decided that maybe the night air would be good to let you reflect on the last few weeks. A spot completely shielded from the main thoroughfare by a stack of empty wooden crates and a row of inactive water trailers. It is out of the way, and for the first time in weeks, it feels entirely private. Even when Bucky sits there and occupies that spot with you.

The two of you sit together for a while in the comfortable night, talking about small things, nothing consequential. Bucky tells you a ridiculous story about how Steve once tried to fix a bicycle in Brooklyn with nothing but a rusty wrench and ended up with grease behind his ears for a whole week. You tell him about a soldier today who had a clearly broken finger, but still refused to let you set it, until you asked him to try to button his own shirt and he couldn’t. That makes Bucky laugh, and the sound of it settles somewhere in your chest, something slotting into a place it was made for. The unfinished sentence you didn’t allow yourself to hear lingers in the back of your mind, still, but you ignore it.

Then Bucky goes quiet mid-laugh, his eyes catching the silver gleam of the moon reflecting in yours. You wonder, when you look at him and find him already staring at you, if he knows that you know something. If he knows, or suspects, that you heard something that hadn’t been meant for your ears. If he does, he doesn’t say it. Instead, he simply reaches out, large hand coming up to cup the side of your face, thumb smoothing over the apple of your cheek with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

When he leans in, you don’t brace yourself. Don’t count the seconds, or think about the war. You just meet him halfway.

Bucky lets out a soft breath against your mouth, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head just enough. The kiss deepens naturally, the way a kiss does when neither person is busy pulling back. His other hand finds your waist, and you let it, because you have come to find that you trust him with this part of you, a part no one has reached before.

You feel him shift slightly, turning more toward you, and you turn toward him too, leaning into the heavy heat of his mouth against yours, allowing your body to melt into the cool night air and the sharp scent of his minty soap. Whatever is happening, you are following his lead. His hand on your waist curls softly, tightening his hold on you, and you whine softly into the kiss, the sound immediately drowned by his mouth. But he hears it.

Goodness, he hears it.

His lips pull away from yours, and instead he tilts your head and brings his mouth down to your neck, tracing a burning line down the column of it, tasting your skin as he kisses it softly. On your waist, you feel the fingers moving, hand slowly traveling downward, hesitant in a way that Bucky rarely is, very aware of what he is doing and very uncertain how you will receive it. The action slows down, the air warms. His knuckles brush the hem of your skirt, and then, so slow you begin to question if time has transformed itself, they disappear under it, touching your knee, then moving just a bit up to your leg. Something in you clenches at the sudden, barely obscene touch. You don’t recognize the sensation at all; an entirely foreign language your body has suddenly started speaking without your permission. A tight heat blooms right through your middle, sinking low in your stomach and burning with a strange intensity that makes you want to curl inward. It feels like it hurts. Not the sharp sting of an injury, but an ache-like pressure that takes your breath away and makes your pulse hammer.

Feeling completely unmoored, you pull back slightly.

Not away. Just enough to create a small space, enough to see his face in the dark. Bucky goes still immediately, hand stopping where it is, eyes finding yours with an expression that is already apologetic, already prepared to retreat entirely without being asked.

“Bucky,” you whisper, and then stop, because the words that come next require a particular kind of honesty that you are still assembling. “I don’t… I don’t quite know what I’m doing. I’ve never… there hasn’t been anyone else. Not… not like this.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t make any kind of easy remark to smooth over the moment, and doesn’t make it feel strange or foolish. Instead, he moves his hand up from your thigh, a loss you mourn immediately, and he settles it on your jaw, fingers tucking under your chin. Very gently, he moves your face until your eyes have no choice but to meet his.

“Okay,” he says. Simply. Like it's the easiest thing in the world.

His expression makes your throat squeeze, and you insist. “I’m not—”

“Thank you for tellin’ me, but you don’t have to explain anything,” he continues. “There’s nothing for me to know. You don’t have to be anything different than you are right now. You can just be here with me. I like you just like this.”

You let out a shaky breath, your forehead leaning forward to rest against his for a fraction of a second, feeling the steady thump of his heart against your chest. Bucky stays perfectly still, letting you find your bearings, hand on your cheek. When he speaks again, his voice is somehow lower, but carrying a quiet reverence that makes your skin tingle.

“Can I make you feel good? Nothing more than you want, my dove. I’ll stop the second you tell me to, I swear,” he tells you, small crease between his brows where he seems to be dedicating all his serious thought to this specific situation. Your hands settle on his chest, over his shirt. He calls you my dove. The world around is quiet for a while.

“Yes,” you say, somehow, not nervously this time. “Yes, Bucky.”

The moment you say it, tension leaves him in a quiet exhale. He doesn’t move fast. Consent isn’t treated like a green light to be rushed into; instead, he shifts his weight, large hands sliding under your arms to lift you up and guide you effortlessly onto his lap. He settles you over one of his large thighs, your skirt bunching between you and the world narrowing down to the broad expanse of his chest and the protective bracket of his arms. One of his forearms winds securely around your waist, anchoring you against him, while his other hand goes back to your hair, fingers tangling gently in the strands to tilt your face back up to his.

When his mouth meets yours again, the kiss is different. Slower, with a new kind of sweetness, his lips parting yours with a patient pressure that seems designed to soothe the agitated beating of your heart. And then it starts. The hand on your waist tightens its grip, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress, and then he applies just enough force to prompt you, coaxing your hips forward until you are shifting over the heavy muscle of his thigh.

The rough fabric of his trousers presses right against your center, separated only by the fragile barrier of your underwear. As he guides your body to rock against him, the blunt counter-pressure rubs directly against the tight ache between your legs.

A sharp gasp is wrung from your throat, fingers instantly clutching at the fabric of his shirt, bunching the olive-drab cotton into tight fists. The sensation is blinding, the same peculiar heat you hadn’t recognized before flares up instantly, but this time, under the steady pressure of the movement he is helping you make, it breaks into a rolling wave that ripples all the way up to your chest. Your hips twitch against him instinctively, chasing the friction even as the sheer intensity of it frightens you. You slide forward again, entirely driven by his guiding hand, and another gasp slips past you, this time a little louder, something that is definitely closer to a moan, though you have never heard your mouth produce such sound before.

“Bucky—” you choke out against his lips, voice laced with overwhelming sensation. You feel entirely too exposed, even though you are fully dressed, body coming undone in ways you can’t exactly control or predict, the rigid composure you had maintained for months liquefying under the steady heat of his body.

“Shhh, we’ve gotta be quiet, dove,” Bucky murmurs against your lips, his voice strained, too. He keeps his thigh perfectly unyielding beneath you, all solid muscle underneath, and his hand on your waist remains firm, prompting another slow slide that makes your toes curl inside your boots. “Feels good like that?” His eyes track your reaction, and when you let out another desperate whimper in response, he just holds you closer. “Yeah, okay.” And then, before any other noise slips past your lips, his palm presses flat over your mouth to smother the noise.

Your muffled gasp vibrates directly against his skin. Completely at his mercy now, riding his heavy muscle in the dark as the fabric of his trousers relentlessly catches the agonizingly sweet focal point between your thighs, you cry out from pleasure but his palm catches the sound, locking it away between the two of you. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, just with enough volume that you can hear it. “Keep your eyes on me. Trust me.”

His blue eyes are blown wide as they watch you, memorizing the way your eyebrows knit together in desperation, pleasure, your body hyper-sensitized. Your body moves with his help, chasing pleasure in a rhythm you don’t understand, driven solely by the heat pooling in your lower belly.

Whatever innocence you maintained by keeping your clothes on did nothing to dampen the intimacy of this moment. If anything it made every press of his hard muscle against your aching core feel magnified.

Your fingers curl harder around his shirt, and he smiles, a sight so devastating that it makes your stomach flip. Your hips roll forward again, a clumsy mimicry of the movement, driven by the need to ease the throbbing pressure. Bucky leans up, press his lips against your forehead, faintest stubble scraping pleasantly against your skin. “Just lean into it. Let me do the work.”

His own composure starts to fracture at the sight of you coming undone on his leg. Slowly, he uncurls his palm from your lips, but before you can let out the sob building in your chest, he slides two fingers directly into your mouth.

The intrusion is surprisingly gentle. His knuckles brush against your lips, fingers settling over your tongue and instantly providing a new anchor for your senses.

“Y’can bite down if it’s too much,” he whispers, thumb stroking the side of your flushed jaw.

Your mouth closes around his fingers then, teeth catching the blunt pads of them as another wave of blinding friction hits you from below. You can’t think anymore; can’t calculate the risks of the camp, proximity to the tents, or any other negative thought you have ever had since coming here. All you can do is suck clumsily on his fingers, tongue swirling around them in a helpless motion that only barely matches the desperate rolling of your hips against his thigh. You, entirely inexperienced you, completely oblivious to the way your own biology is surrendering, begin to drool around his fingers as the heat inside your stomach tightens into a sharp ache. Slick, warm moisture slips down the corner of your mouth, wetting his hand.

A jagged breath hitches in Bucky’s throat as your lips tighten around his fingers. For a man with his level of experience, the clumsy heat of your mouth is unexpected, an instinctual reaction from someone who has never been taught how to undo a man, yet is managing to completely shatter his defenses anyway. He hadn’t anticipated the way your innocence makes the unpracticed drag of your tongue feel ten times more devastating than any calculated move.

“Look at you,” he rasps, eyes darkening as he watches you drink him in. “Don’t know what you are doin’? My favorite nurse is a natural.”

Beneath you, Bucky shifts his weight with a short jerk of his hips, jaw clenching as he forces himself to adjust his position. He is getting aggressively, uncomfortably hard against the fabric of his trousers, the movement of your body threatening to rip his ironclad control from his grip. He realigns himself, but deliberately tilts his pelvis back just a fraction, ensuring that the rigid length of him doesn’t demand a single thing from you. His fingers twitch inside your mouth as his hand on your waist presses you down harder, driving you firmly against his leg to meet the crest of the wave.

And then, with a sharp intake of air, the knot snaps. Blinding, golden burst of heat ripples out from your center, a shiver being sent straight up your spine. Bucky recognizes it when your head falls back against his arm, and your mouth tightens around his fingers, eyelids fluttering shut as your body pulses helplessly. “That’s it, dove, let go for me… you’re okay.” The throbbing ache dissolves into a melting sweetness as you ride out the waves against his leg. Muscles clamp down around nothing, a flutter that burns and rips through you, radiating outward from your core until a soft paralysis seems to leave your limbs locked into place only to turn them into liquid right after.

You sit there on his lap for a long time afterward, Bucky keeping up a micro-movement, a soothing rub against your sensitive center to help you ride out the peak of your release until the tremors finally begin to fade. Completely spent, you collapse forward and bury your burning face into the crook of his neck, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. Night is still warm, the camp still at war, but as you close your eyes and feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, whatever is waiting for you across the Atlantic and whatever is happening in Europe just a few kilometers from where you are matter very little, compared to the universe Bucky has just given you room to breathe in.

“No one can know,” you whisper weakly against his skin, but Bucky is chuckling and wrapping his strong arms around your back, pulling you flush against his chest.

“But I’d love to let every muttonhead in this camp that you’re mine.”

You lift your head from his neck just enough to look at him, and he has the expression of a man who is very pleased with himself, so you just make a face. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“I’ve had worse, haven’t I?”

You scoff. “Sure. Inventing a splinter.”

“And it worked,” he points out. “Besides, I didn’t say I was going to announce it at roll call. I’m just saying I’d like to let everyone know that the prettiest nurse in camp is mine, now.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip, dragging it inside your mouth before you lean forward and kiss him, long enough to feel him chuckle into the kiss and the pads of his fingers digging briefly into the muscles of your back, before you pull back. His arms tighten around you slightly then.

“No one can know,” you repeat, but it comes out even less stern than the first time.

“Whatever you say, dove,” Bucky murmurs, and you can hear the smile in it before you see it, warm and unrepentant.

You stay exactly where you are, with his heartbeat under your palm and the quiet in the night camp. Things keep moving between the two of you, tectonic plates shifting and finding new positions until the earthquake comes, except every time it feels significantly less terrifying.

“Bucky,” you say very quietly, leaning against his shoulder again.

“Mm.”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Warm lips press into your hair, and you feel him inhale slowly. “Will try my best, darlin’. I don’t wanna lose the best damn thing I’ve got now.”

Neither of you say anything else, and you just let the night hold you both.

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Ruffled, sleep mussed, dark brown hair. Slightly squinted, soft, deep blue eyes. A white sleep shirt that loosely clung to the hard ridges of a muscled body. Grey sweatpants that hung dangerously low and showed the shape of him if you stared longer than was appropriate.

And, god, the low, husky voice that you could feel rumble through your body from metres away. The slender, strong, veiny hands that didn't hesitate to grab the box slipping from yours. The pink lips that stretched into an easy smile, pearly white teeth dazzling and rendering you speechless for a minute.

The heat that crawled up your back was instant—your body reacting to your new roommate before you even knew his name.

Attractive men existed, you knew that. The bar you worked at had handfuls of them come in every night, some that even flashed you a flirty smile with interest in their eyes. But you didn't live with any of them—you didn't see them when they were half-awake, their rough edges softened by sleep and early morning light.

He introduced himself as James Barnes, but he requested you call him Bucky—"only my ma calls me James"—, and mentioned he worked as a physiotherapist at the VA.

He was quick to put the box in your new room, running out to the curb to grab the rest of your belongings from the rental van. You stood near the entrance, frozen in shock. Words failed you, your brain failed you—the only thing you could think about was the shift of his back muscles beneath his shirt as he hauled boxes through the door. It was an intoxicating sight, one you didn't even know would affect you.

You quickly came to learn that the problem was Bucky—everything he did had an intoxicating effect on you.

The smile he flashed you as he handed you your morning coffee, the wink he tossed your way when he took your side in your weekly movie night debate with Sam, his laughs that you could hear through your shared wall when he gamed with his friends.

His laughter was one of the most intoxicating things about him. There were the low, deep huffs when he was tired. The louder, harsher ones when he was caught by surprise. Then your favourite—the long, slightly breathless giggles that crinkled the corner of his eyes and had his nose scrunching. Every time you were blessed with them, you could only think about how cute he looked. It made him even more attractive, and you even more infatuated.

When your friend and roommate said that she was going to move into her partner's apartment once your lease was up, the first thing you felt was dread. You didn't know anyone who was looking for a room, nor did you know anyone who was looking for a roommate. The last thing you wanted was to move in with a stranger—having already lived with complete strangers in the past you could not say it was a pleasant experience. Your friend—an absolute angel—was quick to tell you that a coworker at her law firm was looking for a roommate, and she assured you that Nat would not break into your room and steal your jewellery like your first ever roommate did.

While you weren't exactly ecstatic to move in with four best friends, Nat had quickly won you over when you met for coffee. You sat down feeling like a complete contrast to her—sporting an old sweatshirt over your sweaty work uniform while she was in a creaseless emerald pantsuit. But she made you feel completely at ease—offering up embarrassing college stories about her and the guys, asking you about yourself and actually seeming interested, talking about the brownstone with so much adoration in her voice you couldn't help but love it already.

You felt awkward living with the close knit friends at first—shuffling on your feet as the four of them lounged on the couches, pulling at the loose threads on your sweater as you sat and listened to them bicker.

Fortunately, it didn't take long for you to find your place in the group. Sam played a big part—his teasing and infectious personality making you feel at home within a week. He didn't let you retreat into yourself; he pestered you with a mix of random and personal questions—"what extinct animal do you most identify with" followed by "what was your first heartbreak"—, teased you about your cooking (to which he always stole a mouthful), and was just warm—and yeah, slightly chaotic.

Nat and Steve quickly became one of your favourite couples. They weren't heavy on the PDA—unless red wine was involved—and they balanced each other out perfectly. She was loud, he was quiet. After a few too many on a night out she was ready to start a fight with any asshole who dared to look her way, and he was there to gently steer her away by the shoulders and remind her it wasn't worth ruining her fresh manicure.

Despite having some opposite traits, they were both incredibly kind and comforting people—truly living up to their titles of being the household's mom and dad. Nat was there for you after your gruelling shifts, holding either a glass of wine or mug of hot chocolate. Steve was the one knocking on your door with a bowl of soup and bag of medicine when you had the flu.

And then there was Bucky. He was just as kind, a good middle between Sam's chaotic nature and Steve's quiet one, and he made you feel seen.

Uncomfortably so.

He was the one next to you during social gatherings, gently nudging his shoulder against yours in a silent check in. He was the one suggesting fresh air when your breathing picked up incrementally. He was the one staring at you like he was captivated, sitting forward as you rambled about your niche interests.

Bucky noticed you, paid attention to you, like no one else had in your life.

He remembered what mugs you liked, making sure to use one of them when he made you both coffee—he remembered that too, the way you liked your coffee made. He bought you more body wash when you complained about running out but not having time to go to the shop before your shift. He sat next to you as you rewatched your comfort shows for the fifth time, asking questions like he was genuinely interested—a welcome contrast to Sam's mocking comments.

Each day he was in your life, looking at you like you were worth knowing, was just another day you fell deeper.

And then there were the moments. There weren't many, only a handful, but they were burned into your memory.

The first was when you came back after brunch with old friends, wearing a white sundress that made you feel pretty.

Bucky was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while eating an apple. You smiled in greeting as you walked in, grabbing a glass to fill with water. You sneaked a side glance at him like you always do when he's in the same room as you, catching his eyes already on you—drifting from the bottom of your dress up to your chest. You watched his adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallowed.

"That's a nice dress, sweetheart."

Goosebumps erupted across your skin at his low drawl, a warmth spreading in your core from the pet name. He had never called you that before.

He pushed off the counter and walked out of the kitchen, acting like those five words hadn't changed your whole day—your whole life.

Where once you thought the dress was pretty, you now saw it as a lifeline—tethering you to the hope that Bucky might just like you back. You found reasons to wear it more often; making an effort to hang out in the common spaces when you came back home wearing it, delaying changing into your comfortable clothes because Bucky wasn't home yet and you wanted him to see it. To see you.

The second moment was when the five of you were at a birthday party for one of Sam's army buddies.

Nat and Steve had left after only being there for half an hour—Nat giggling to you on their way out, telling you and the boys to hold off on coming back home for a couple of hours. Sam was in the lounge with a large crowd hanging on to his every word as he retold his war hero stories— to which Bucky was quick to throw you a look, raising his hands to mimic being strangled, making you laugh and receive dagger eyes from Sam.

The two of you made your way outside towards the game of beer pong being set up. Bucky was quick to accept their offer to join in and that's how you found yourself standing opposite him, a sticky fold out table between you—the ping pong ball in your hand shaking, your breath catching as his lips tilted into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as the sky, the moonlight making them twinkle with their own constellations—staring straight into yours with a silent challenge, daring you to miss your next shot. His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip stole your attention and your hand faltered, the ball almost dropping out of your grip.

"You got this, sweetheart."

Time slowed down as the ball left your hand, your eyes watching it sail through the crisp night air while Bucky watched you. It dropped to the table with a pathetic, dull tock—inches away from any of the red solo cups. Bucky's smile grew even more lopsided, his eyes gleaming with mirth.

"Better luck next time, angel."

What the fuck was with him calling you these stupid, heart stuttering, knee trembling pet names?

Your beer pong partner was quick to brush off your missed shot, chuckling at your flustered expression and offering to help you with your stance. The game continued with you almost missing every shot, your partner guiding you with hands on your hips in the hopes of you sinking a cup. His arms wrapped around your waist when you made your first successful shot, but it wasn't his attention that had your mind clouding—you couldn't even say it was the alcohol flowing through your veins. No, it was the look of pride on Bucky's face that had you freezing, everything else around you fading away until all that remained was shining midnight eyes and curved pink lips.

God, how you wished the arms around your waist were his.

The guys you were playing with retreated inside after the game ended, with your partner telling you to find him before you left, throwing you an easy smile over his shoulder.

Bucky and you lingered in the fresh air, slowly walking towards the backdoor, your bare arm brushing against his denim jacket with every step. Music and laughter trickled out of the open windows, the noise softening in the cool breeze before it reached you. Despite the calm, you felt your body vibrate with a persistent buzz—Bucky's close proximity and the beer you downed making it hard to find the line between your feelings and reality.

"You do realise he was flirting with you, right?" Bucky's voice broke the silence. You turned your head to find him already gazing at you—soft eyes a contradiction to his clenched jaw.

You scoffed, looking at him like he'd grown another head. "What, no he wasn't."

"Uh yeah, he definitely was. The 'let me fix your stance' play is the oldest trick in the book and has a pretty decent success rate." He chuckled softly, shaking his head with an uptick of a smile. "Not with you, though." He paused, giving you a teasing wink. "I'll keep that in mind."

The wink had your body flushing with heat, the words I'll keep that in mind burrowing into your lovesick heart and amplifying the buzzing. Your words stumbled on their way out."Th-there's no way he was flirting with me—he's way out of my league."

Bucky stopped in his tracks, turning to face you fully with a deep crease between his eyebrows. The gentle breeze swept a strand of hair over his face, your hand twitching with the need to brush it behind his ear.

His voice dropped low, the teasing tone subduing. "What are you on about? Tell me you know that's not true, doll."

You crossed your arms over your chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable under the intimacy of the dark sky. You shivered, not just from the cooling wind caressing your bare arms. You gave a small shrug in response.

Bucky started to take his jacket off, exposing the black t-shirt that hugged his biceps a little too tight for your sanity. "While I don't believe in the whole people being in different leagues thing, I can confidently say you are so far out of his league you're on a whole nother planet."

"…Are you saying I'm an alien?"

"If the shoe fits," Bucky responded, a fraction of his seriousness easing into a cheeky smile. He draped his jacket over your shoulders, his thumbs brushing the sides of your neck as he fixed the collar—another shiver running down your spine from his faint touch. The warm, rich scent of his cologne and him wrapped around you and dragged you under—the scent that you now associated with home.

Bucky's eyes met yours, the starlit blue swirling with something you couldn't quite decipher. His hands moved from the collar of his jacket to the hem, fingers toying with the rough fabric. "No, what I'm trying to say is that you're—" he licked his lips, trying to find the right words. "Any guy would be lucky to have you, but I don't think anyone is deserving of you."

Your brain short-circuited, the haze of rose coloured glasses starting to fall over your eyes—threatening to distort the Bucky in front of you with the one you stayed up late daydreaming about.

You found a smaller version of your voice. "I…I'm not that special, Buck."

He tugged on the hem, the force pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. "No? Then why are you the only person—other than Steve—that I let call me Buck?"

You stared at him, unblinking. You didn't realise other people didn't call him Buck—the nickname just slipped from your lips so naturally after the first month of living with him.

"One of these days, I'm going to make you see yourself how I do."

He leaned in, brushing the faintest of kisses on your forehead—the mere ghost of his lips burning your skin, eliciting a cascade of sparks to run down your body. He stepped back, stuffing his hands in his pockets and tilted his head towards the door.

"Let's get back inside before Sam tells everyone about the time he had to save you from a raccoon."

"He had very sinister looking eyes!" You cried indignantly. "And I was really stoned—remind me to never have one of Nat's brownies ever again."

The third moment happened during your bar's weekly quiz night.

The four of them were in their usual booth for the night—the one Sam demanded you reserve for them ever since you mentioned your work had a quiz night on Tuesdays. Nat and Steve were sitting on one side, each nursing a pint of craft beer, with Sam and Bucky sitting opposite them—the latter half hanging out of the booth with his hand raised in a beckoning gesture, shooting you one of those irresistible half smiles that made the butterflies in your stomach flutter.

You rolled your eyes at him, knowing exactly what he wanted—but you couldn't stay away from that smile, even if it was starting to get you in trouble at work.

You walked over to them, pocketing your pen and notepad before stopping next to Bucky, your eyebrows raised and arms folded.

"What do you want now?"

"Can I please place an order for the answer to question five?" Bucky held the quiz sheet up to you, pointing at the blank space next to number five like it was a menu. "Oh, and question eight." His smile evolved into a endearing grin, your heart aching traitorously at the sight.

"No."

The smile dropped a fraction, not expecting you to say no to his charm. "C'mon, you're the one here who knows niche pop culture the best—even Sam is stumped. I know you know the answers."

You nodded, looking at the sheet in his hand before his puppy dog eyes made you crumble. "You're right, I do. I'm not giving them to you, though."

"I thought I was your favourite." His voice dropped like he was genuinely upset, but his twitching cheeks gave away the smile he was suppressing. Sam scoffed next to him, Nat and Steve exchanged a knowing look. You ignored them.

Bucky put the sheet on the table, patting it softly like he was about to make a deal. "How 'bout this—I'll make you dinner for a week." He carefully watched your face, trying to find a crack in your resistance. "Two weeks."

You sighed, dropping your arms to your sides. "Bucky, the prize is only a fifty dollar bar tab."

Bucky shook his head. "It's not about the prize, it's about the glory of winning four weeks in a row." He squinted his eyes, tilting his head in the way you knew meant he was thinking—probably something stupid, too. "Wait—is there another prize for that?"

You scoffed, tempted to hit him with your notepad. "Yeah, you get put on the no entry list."

Nat and Steve snickered at Bucky's clearly offended face, and you bit your lip to hold back your smile—he looked too cute, it was tugging at your heart strings.

"Besides," you continued, "you only won them because you cheated."

He raised his hands in mock defence. "Hey, not my fault the pretty waitress was more than willing."

Sam choked on his beer, spluttering a mouthful onto the table. Your eyebrows skyrocketed, heat rushing to your cheeks and ears at his choice of words.

Bucky's cheeks lit up red and he ran a hand through his hair. "No—wait, I didn't—that wasn't what I meant." He nervously chuckled. "What I meant was that you're more than willing to help—help us…" He trailed off, turning and shooting Steve a look.

Some of the tension left your shoulders, along with some of the hope you always carried that Bucky liked you more than a friend. You cleared your throat, your heart rate struggling to slow down after 'pretty waitress'.

"Maybe I've grown a conscience." You looked slightly to your left, your eyes flicking to your manager standing at the end of the bar, narrowing her eyes at you.

Bucky chuckled softly, his confidence back even with his cheeks still glowing. He crossed his arms on the table, leaning towards you. "Are we gettin' you in trouble, sweetheart?"

"There's no we in this, Barnes. It's all you." Nat interjected, pointing a perfectly manicured finger at him. He gave her a dismissive wave, his eyes still looking at you expectantly.

"She said if you win one more time then she's going to put me on the bar for quiz nights—something about testing a theory…" You admitted quietly. You watched his blue eyes soften, his previous amusement dissipating.

"Well, we can't have that happening." He said, serious. "I would stop coming to quiz night."

"Yeah, right." Sam muttered into his beer.

"You'd be on the no entry list anyways, Buck." You said to Bucky, your tone lilting jokingly.

He tilted his head, the right side of his mouth twitching, his eyes looking like a sky full of secrets.

"You wouldn't do that to me, doll. You like me too much."

Your stomach dropped at his low voice, his words piercing right into the chamber of your heart he had unknowingly etched his name on. A breath got stuck in your throat, your usual witty banter getting lost in the sea of thoughts that only screamed his name.

Like an angel pulling you from a seizing riptide, your managers voice called out your name—saving you from saying something stupid, something that exposed how you had gone past the boundary of like six months ago, stepping into a dangerous territory that could tear you apart.

"Duty calls," you laughed out breathlessly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder. You turned on your heels and walked away like you were on fire.

Sam's low mutter made its way to you through the hum of soft pop music and chatter. "Get a room already, for fuck's sake."

Your shoe scuffed on the hardwood floor, your feet almost tripping over each other. You caught your balance—narrowly avoiding falling and making a fool of yourself in front of the guy you're hopelessly in love with.

You reached your manager waiting at the end of the bar, overcome with the desire to kiss her in gratitude.

"I need you to cover the bar while Dean has a smoke. He'll be ten minutes, tops."

You nodded your okay, used to covering the bar for your coworkers breaks. "Unless a pretty girl walks past, then he'll be at least thirty."

Your manager hummed in agreement. "Remind me to dock his pay for pulling that shit on Saturday. Boy gets enough tips from his flirting to make up for it."

You exchanged a small laugh, walking around her to go behind the bar. She touched your forearm as you passed, stopping you with a gentle touch.

"Word of advice?" She started, voice a little quieter. "Don't screw the crew."

You stared at her with furrowed brows, confused. "What? I would never sleep with Dean, that's just—ew, who knows how many untreated diseases he has." You visibly shuddered your disgust at the idea of hooking up with your coworker who was always chasing tail.

She nodded her head in the direction you came from. "They're your roommates, right?" You nodded slowly. "Hon, you look at him like you can't decide whether you want to run in the opposite direction or get on your knees."

Heat rose beneath your skin, your body freezing in mortification. You gaped at her, your mouth opening and closing until you pushed out a forced laugh.

"What—you're—that's ridiculous. You should get your eyes checked because that's, like," you laughed nervously, panic starting to burn through your rib cage, "he's like…a brother to me?" You phrased it like a question, your voice rising uncharacteristically high at the end.

She gave you a deadpan look, not buying a lick of your bullshit. Your shoulders dropped in defeat, your teeth starting to tear at your inner cheek.

"Is it…am I really that obvious?"

She sighed, her hand on your arm giving a reassuring squeeze. "I've worked with you long enough to know when someone is making you uncomfortable, when you're seconds away from exploding at a condescending customer, or when you want to jump over the bar and climb a guy like a tree." She paused for a second, pursuing her lips in thought. "Funnily enough, they all looked like him."

She let go of your arm, nodding towards the bar. "Now, stop thinking about fucking your roommate and get to work. I'm pretty sure table seven just ordered six espresso martini's." She gave your ass a friendly swat, pushing you behind the bar and making you throw your head back with a startled laugh.

You grabbed the docket from the POS printer, seeing an order for five espresso martini's and one spicy mango margarita. You walked down to the cocktail section, hands moving on autopilot as you prepared the margarita first.

Your eyes flicked up out of habit, your attention drawing towards the booth your roommates had practically scratched their names into—finding a pair of piercing blue eyes already gazing at you. The tequila bottle in your hand shook.

Don't screw the crew.

The last moment occurred during a typical movie night, where yours and Sam's raised voices warranted a domestic disturbance call from your neighbours.

"Oh my god, we are not watching Top Gun for the third time this month!" You exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing your head back against the couch with a groan.

Sam scoffed from his spot sprawled on his stupidly large beanbag—the one you're fairly certain is a dog bed for a Great Dane. "Oh, like your suggestions are any better? You made us sit through a fucking Twilight marathon a couple weeks ago! That's precious time I'll never get back."

You glared at him. "That's bullshit, Wilson—I didn't make you do anything. You chose to sit in that exact same spot and watch all five movies." A mocking smile twitched your lips. "And, if I remember correctly, you were the one asking me to pause the movie while you went to get more snacks."

Sam shook his head adamantly. "No, what's bullshit is your taste in movies—I only sat through it so you wouldn't feel bad!"

Nat and Steve were cuddled up on the couch perpendicular to you, their eyes darting back and forth between you and Sam like they were watching a tennis match. Bucky was sitting on the other end of the couch you were on, legs spread wide with a soda in one hand—his eyes shooting daggers at Sam.

You let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, really? So you crying when you thought Carlisle was dead was just you not wanting me to feel bad?"

"Yes!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Then he paused, processing what you just said. "Wait, no—there was no crying! I just acted sad for your benefit."

You opened your mouth to refute his statement when a deep, husky voice rumbled out from next to you.

"Sam," Bucky started, tone low and final, "stop lying, I saw you wiping your eyes." He continued glaring at Sam, his shoulders more tense than they were a minute ago. "Apologise to her so we can move on."

Sam looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Apologise? What the fuck do I have to apologise for?"

Bucky nodded towards you, darkened blue eyes still narrowed at Sam menacingly. "You said her taste in movies was bullshit. Apologise."

You were suddenly speechless—not sure how your usual movie night bickering with Sam led to Bucky being so…commanding. Protective.

You looked over to the other couch, catching Nat's eye—her mouth overtaken by a knowing smile. Your eyes darted to Steve next to her, his cheeks tinted pink and eyes squinted as he looked at his best friend—a sly smile partially hidden by the can he brought to his lips.

Sam shook his head with a disbelieving laugh, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table.

Bucky reached out a long leg, giving Sam's beanbag a firm kick. "Now."

"Jesus," Sam dragged out, "chill out, man." He turned to you with a sigh, brown eyes glinting as he gave you his best puppy dog expression. "I am truly sorry for calling your movie taste bullshit. I will gladly sit through ten Twilight marathons if that's what you want."

He turned to Bucky with a smug grin. "There, I apologised to your girl. You happy now?"

A breath hitched in your throat, your brain freezing and going offline.

Your girl.

Said so easily, so naturally. Like it was a fact and not a mocking taunt.

Goosebumps prickled across your skin, a pleased shiver running through you at the thought of being Bucky's girl.

Bucky glared at Sam, the apples of his cheeks dusting pink. "Very." He said before leaning forward and snatching the remote out of Sam's hand. He turned to you, cheeks still flushed but eyes considerably softer. "What do you want to watch, doll?"

"…Shrek 2."

Groans erupted from three of your roommates, the fourth keeping his eyes on you while he shook his head with a fond laugh—the one that showed his pearlescent teeth and crinkled his eyes. The one that was your damnation, sentencing you to a life of yearning and false hope.

"It's the soundtrack, right?"

You nodded eagerly, a bright smile making your cheeks ache. "I knew you would get me, Buck."

You faintly heard a fake gagging sound come from the nuisance being swallowed by a beanbag, but you couldn't care less. Not when Bucky was looking at you like you were an astronomical phenomenon.

Condensation beaded glasses stained the wooden tabletop, chewed paper straws slowly disintegrating in melted ice. A half eaten bowl of fries grew stale in the middle of the table—your manager's attempt to get some food in her staff while they abused the (prepaid) leftover function alcohol, yourself included. The disco ball was still spinning, sending a thousand shards of light dancing throughout the empty bar, while an ABBA track murmured softly beneath laughter and gossip.

"I'm telling you," Dean said, spreading his arms over the back of the booth, "the ladies can't get enough of me."

The booth packed full of your coworkers vibrated with long groans, someone to your left loudly booing and your manager threatening to throw her gin and tonic in his face. You shoved his arm off the seat behind you, earning yourself a pinch to your cheek as his arm retreated.

"I'm serious!" Dean continued, pulling his phone out of his jean's pocket. "One of them even left a review about me last week—hold up, I'll get it." He squinted against the glowing light from his screen, bringing up the bar's google page to show everyone.

"Here it is—last Saturday: bartender was cute, would drink here again. Five stars." He leaned back in the booth with a smug smile, barely reacting when your manager ripped his phone out of his hand.

"Did you see who left the review, dingus?" She asked him, her mocking smirk overpowering his. "I don't know about you, but I don't know any ladies who go by the name James." She waved the phone in his face before going back to reading the review.

Dean recovered quickly, holding his hands up with a shrug. "I'm not opposed to having male admirers—they're some of my biggest tips."

You snorted a laugh. "Oh, I bet they are."

The table dissolved into laughter around you, the liquor and line cook's joint lowering everyone's inhibitions.

Your manager looked up from the phone at you, her eyes lighting up. "Weren't you also working on the bar last Saturday?"

You took a sip of your drink, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I think so? Was that the night we had two bachelorette parties come in?"

"Yeah, we ran out of cold brew because of them." Dean said. "I set a new record for how many numbers I could get in one night."

You rolled your eyes, choosing to ignore him like everyone else at the table. "Yeah, I was definitely on the bar—my arms are still aching from shaking espresso martini's all night."

Your manager leaned forward, her glassy eyes glinting at you teasingly. "I think this review is about you," she said in a sing-song tone.

You couldn't help but feel a little giddy at someone leaving you a review calling you cute, even if they were most likely stumbling drunk.

Allie—your fellow waitress who was sitting on the other side of Dean—grabbed the phone and read the review herself, scrolling on the screen with her eyes growing wider until a delighted gasp left her.

She looked at you with a beaming smile. "This James guy has been leaving reviews about you for months."

"What?"

She nodded eagerly, a small squeal leaving her. "This is so good, nothing this exciting ever happens here!" She was almost bouncing in her seat as she looked back at the phone, her excitement shaking the booth. "Okay, this one is from Valentines Day: waitress's frown is cute, I still should've bought her flowers." She fell back against the booth seat, clutching the phone to her chest with a dreamy sigh.

Your heart stuttered, the tipsy fog in your head clouding further. "That's—it doesn't say my name…" you trailed off with a nervous laugh. "It could be about any of the waitresses."

Your manager snorted. "We called you sourpuss the whole shift, you wouldn't stop frowning."

Before you could start your rant about how Valentine's Day is just another highly commercialised holiday and people shouldn't need a specific day of the year to celebrate love, Allie started reading out another review.

"This one is from four months ago: come to this bar if you want to see a real-life angel."

Dean groaned, "that's so fucking cheesy." He turned to look at you, "I hope you're not falling for this shit."

"We don't even know if it's about me!"

"I think it's cute," the new waitress piped in from the other end of the booth. "You've got a secret admirer."

"More like a stalker." One of the line cooks mumbled.

"Oh," Allie gasped, "this man has it bad. These are borderline love confessions." She reached past Dean, handing you his phone with the review page still open.

You hesitantly grabbed the phone from her, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. There's no way some guy was leaving these reviews about you…right? That just seems insane, like something out of a romcom. Or something that will end with a restraining order and you moving states away.

The phone faintly trembled in your unsteady hands, your eyes narrowing against the screen's bright glare.

James B.

★★★★★ a month ago

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

Oh.

That's maybe the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about you.

You don't know if it's about you.

You exhaled shakily, shrugging nonchalantly as you handed the phone back to Dean. "He could be talking about any of the waitresses." You repeated your earlier statement. And then for good measure—"It's hardly a compliment—wars are started over literally anything."

Allie looked at you with wide eyes, bringing her hands up and shaking them in a strangling motion.

"Do you know anyone called James?" Your manager probed, clearly invested.

"No." You answered, ignoring the dull, tingling sensation at the back of your head. "No one significant."

"Well, even if he does turn out to be a stalker, at least he boosted our ratings."

Over the next few weeks, your coworkers had made it their personal mission to find out the identity of James B. Your manager had the brilliant idea to set up a weekly bar tab giveaway—for people to be in the draw they just needed to put their business card in a jar on the bar. What your customers didn't know was that every Friday after close, Allie and Dean were emptying the jar not to find a lucky winner but to look for any cards with the name James B.

It turned out there were a few more James B.'s than they were expecting, and there were no other parameters to narrow down their search. And much to their chagrin, you didn't recognise any of their names.

"Wait!" Dean exclaimed, holding a finger in the air. "Why don't we just reply to one of his reviews?"

"Oh," Allie said, leaning forward in her chair, "that's actually kind of smart. Maybe we could say we have a thank you gift for our number one fan?"

"Or we could just ask who he is."

Something about that made you uneasy.

After the night you all first discovered the reviews, Allie had drawn up a timeline of them which revealed this James guy had been leaving reviews for a year. And while they never mentioned your name, everyone knew they were about you—but you didn't want to believe that; it felt absolutely insane.

Majority of the reviews were brief and mundane, similar to the first one Dean saw. But a few of them…they read like poetry, like the pages out of someone's journal. They mentioned your smile, how your laugh could cure any ailment, that being in your presence was like witnessing a supernova.

It was beautiful and terrifying.

And every day it was looking more like a stalker than someone you knew—you didn't want to give him attention in fear that it could evolve from something harmless to dangerous.

"Already tried that," your manager sighed next to you. "He didn't reply."

Something in the atmosphere felt off when you shouldered the brownstone's front door open with a heavy sigh. It was well past midnight on a Saturday, and the soft murmuring you would usually hear coming from the lounge—Sam had a habit of passing out in front of the TV on Saturday night's—was nonexistent. You didn't think much of it, your mind single-focused on needing a scolding hot shower to wash away the ten hour bar shift.

Your work uniform was drenched and sticking to you uncomfortably, a crust of sugary cocktails and beer lining your skin. It had been one disaster after another—the beer keg soaking you as you tried to tap it, the cocktail shaker exploding in your hands, the new waitress who failed to call out "behind" and you ended up covered in a customers chili cheese fries.

You welcomed the boiling water, scrubbing your skin until it was red and raw. Visible steam swirled from your body even after you retreated into your room, and only then did some of the tension ease from your shoulders. Your fatigue ran bone deep—it felt like you were dragging your feet through mud as you slowly started your nighttime routine.

A noise cut through the eerily silent night, soft and faint, but an unmistakable echo from the room next to yours. It made you pause, your eyebrows drawing together. Then more noise followed, three breathy high pitched moans that the wall separating your rooms failed to drown out. A hot realisation curdled your stomach, rising through your body until it settled in your chest and throat—a tight, unrelenting fist clenching and making it harder to breathe.

Bucky had company.

Your ears zeroed in on the noises against your wishes. The last thing you wanted was to hear the guy you had a debilitating crush on fuck someone else. And yet, you stood frozen—your towel still wrapped around you, water dripping onto the floor, heart trying to beat out of your chest. Your nervous system had entered fight or flight mode, triggered by the sounds of another woman's pleasure.

Sweat started to line your back, your hands trembling where they were clutching the towel, chest stuttering as your breaths turned sharp and quick.

The moans grew in volume and soft thuds reverberated against the wall—then, a faint low murmuring graced your ears. A deep voice you would recognise anywhere, that you had heard through the wall plenty of times during your one year living there.

You snapped out of your shock, ripping open your work bag to find your headphones. Your phone shook in your hands as you searched for 'calming' playlists, your thumb jabbing violently at the first result. You turned the volume up loud enough to vibrate your eardrums, but the damage was already done.

You paced the length of your room, clenching and unclenching your fists in an effort to calm down—to will your racing heartbeat to slow, to tamp down the spiralling thoughts that made you feel like you were drowning.

You got ready for bed in a blur, trying to stay as quiet as possible with your heart beating wildly in your throat. The exhaustion that had your bones aching after your shift was lingering, but had been overwhelmed by the adrenaline surging through your veins. You laid in your bed, trying to concentrate on your breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three, four.

Hold. One, two—

It didn't sound like she was faking it.

The breath rushed out of you quickly.

You squeezed your eyes shut tight, clenching your fists and trying to focus on the sensation.

Inhale. One, two, three—

Bucky's bed is pressed up against your shared wall.

You grabbed the pillow next to you and pressed it against your face, something between a pained whimper and frustrated groan leaving your throat.

Did he like to talk? Was he whispering dirty things in her ear, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her? Did she get to hear him moan and whimper?

The music in your ears had become irritating, overstimulating you even more. But there was no way in hell you were taking your headphones off—your heart was already broken enough.

Did he call her sweetheart, too?

You slept for two hours, maybe three if you were being generous. The exhaustion won out against the anxiety around two am, only for you to jerk awake two hours later when the same noises echoed through the wall. At some point in the night your headphones had slipped off and you were defenceless against the noises your body had already filed as a threat.

Your nervous system reacted as if you were being hunted down by a lion, not overhearing your roommate-slash-crush have sex. It was a horrible way to wake up—your body pumping full of adrenaline and cortisol before you even took a deep breath.

The headphones went back on a second too late—leaving a scratched record of giggles looping through your head that the music couldn't drown out. One giggle that you knew well, that had you beaming with pride whenever you coaxed it out of him.

A silent tear slid down towards your ear, disappearing into your hairline as you stared at the ceiling.

Hours passed before it felt safe for you take the headphones off, and even then anxiety gripped your chest whenever you thought about leaving your room. Everything that had once felt safe, had once felt like your solace, now felt like a prison.

You knew you were being dramatic, knew that your jealousy and hurt was unreasonable. Bucky wasn't yours, he would never be yours—you knew that, you'd always known that. But that's the thing with crushes—they are irrational, uncontrollable beasts that mistake kindness for attraction, that disguise inevitable heartbreak as fluttering butterflies.

Opening your bedroom door slowly, you saw the flash of a towel dart into Bucky's room—two faint sets of giggles sounding behind the closed door, slicing into your aching heart. Heat burst behind your eyes and you willed the tears to stay at bay—at least until the shower could drown out your sobs.

You sat on the floor of the shower, staring at the wall while hot water rained down on you, each drop feeling like a knife piercing your skin. You sat there, unblinking, as your vision blurred—the water washing away your endless tears. You sat there as the shower stream changed from a burning fire to an icy bite, your body shivering but unmoving.

Nat's banging on the door about rising water prices snapped you out of your dissociative daze.

"Bucky! Oh, fuck—don't stop, please—"

"Yeah? You like that?"

"Yes—god, so much!"

"You feel so good, baby."

Thump, thump, thump.

You had taken your headphones off for half a minute while getting changed. All it took was thirty seconds for tears to swell in your eyes and a silent scream to claw at your throat.

It had been four weeks since you first heard them. Four weeks of knowing your crush was fucking someone else less than three metres from your bed. Four weeks of debilitating anxiety and heartache consuming you until there was nothing left to take.

You knew their routine; she came over every Wednesday and Saturday, always after ten pm. Depending on your roster for the week, sometimes you were home when she came over—subjected to hearing Bucky's low baritone greet her at the door, their footsteps padding down the hall past your room, the soft click of his door closing and the giggles that followed.

You fucking hated giggles.

By the end of the second week, you had put in a request to work the closing shift every Wednesday and Saturday. The tightness in your chest and churning in your stomach never faded, but you took some comfort in knowing you would only be in the same house as her for a few hours. You hadn't met her—you didn't even know her name—but you were envious of a faceless woman, a voice you heard in the dark, because she had the one thing you wanted but could never have.

No one brought her up—there were no casual chats between the boys, no probing questions from Nat. Apart from the first time, she was out of the house by six am—narrowly avoiding Sam and Steve leaving for their morning run. You weren't even sure they knew she existed—not until Nat gave you a sympathetic smile over a glass of wine, confirming that they did in fact know without uttering a word.

The usual nights the five of you spent together continued as normal. Or, at least as normal as you could manage. The space between you and Bucky grew—he stopped trying to charm quiz answers out of you, and you hugged the arm of the couch like it was a life preserver during movie night. The soft conversations over morning coffee ceased to exist, the nights of you two reading together in the lounge just a hazy memory.

The distance made your heart yearn for him while his proximity made your nervous system overload. It was a push and pull that sucked the life out of you, exhausting you until you were a shell of who you used to be.

When Sam asked you what your first heartbreak was you instantly thought of Liam Turner from the sixth grade. He was the classic class clown that both charmed and annoyed all the girls in your grade. He sat next to you during History and English, always pestering you for help and trying to make you his partner in crime. You did what any smitten eleven year old girl would do—you handed him a note. It was simple, you didn't even write your name—just "do you like me" with tick boxes for yes and no. You handed it to him before recess and watched with bated breath as he ran to his group of friends, watched as all of them turned to you and fell into hysterics. You crashed into your mom's arms once you got home from school, sobs wracking your body as you felt like you were going to die from the crushing sensation in your chest.

What you felt that day wasn't even a drop in the agony that consumed you when you walked into the lounge for movie night.

"You're late!" Nat yelled, her voice travelling down the hall as you rushed through the front door.

"I know, I know," you yelled back, heading for your room and changing out of your work clothes in record time. You made your way towards the lounge once in comfy clothes. "The health inspector would not stop asking me questions, no matter how many times I told him I'm not the—"

Your feet and words came to a halt once you reached the doorway to the lounge, your heart dropping to the floor and shattering into a million pieces.

Because there she was—sitting in your usual spot with her feet resting on Bucky's lap, one of his hands engulfing her ankles.

She was beautiful. And the complete opposite to you in every way possible. From the texture and colour of her hair to the shape of her body. From the clothing and jewellery she wore to the colour of her eyes.

The two of you weren't even comparable—you were from completely different planets, different universes.

It hit like a sucker punch. You weren't his type, not even close.

You're a fucking fool.

She smiled brightly at you, the white of her teeth glaring. You faintly heard her great you through the ringing in your ears, offering you her name. You managed a meek hi in response, dragging your wide eyes away from her over to the other couch.

Big mistake.

Nat and Steve were already looking at you with pity in their eyes, a silent "are you okay?" written all over their faces. Nat scooted closer to Steve, tilting her head towards the small open spot next to her on the couch. You knew the second you sat next to them that her comforting presence would wrap around you and tear away the last of your fraying composure. So, you did something you had never done before.

"Move it, bird brain." You muttered to Sam, squatting down next to his beanbag and shoving his shoulder to make room for you.

"You ever tried not being bossy?" He grumbled in reply, shuffling to the right so you could collapse down next to him.

Normally you would respond with something just as snarky. But that required mental energy that you did not possess—energy that was being drained with each passing second she sat behind you.

You settled into the beanbag, the rustling of polystyrene beads filling the quiet room. You tried to take calming breaths as subtly as possible, the blood from your broken heart clogging your throat and lungs.

"We're watching Interstellar tonight," Nat spoke softly. "Steve's pick."

You hummed, keeping your eyes glued to the TV screen as Steve navigated through the streaming app.

Sam stiffened next to you, turning to you with a peculiar look on his face. "What? You got nothing to say to that?"

You sighed. "Every white guy's number one film on letterboxd. Try being less predictable next time, Rogers." You said in a flat monotone.

A deep, breathy chuckle sounded behind you, and it took all of your diminishing willpower to not turn and get a glimpse of the soft smile that haunted your dreams.

You tried your best to focus on the movie, you really did. You tried to focus on the press of Sam's shoulder against yours, something tangible to keep you grounded. But nothing could distract you from the soft murmuring behind you, the sound of her giggles as Bucky provided commentary throughout the movie. It was something that you normally didn't mind, something you indulged in, even. Not tonight. Thirty minutes into the movie, your eye had developed a constant twitch from suppressing the urge to turn around and tell them to shut the fuck up.

At one point Sam's hand had fallen over both of yours, stopping you from picking at your bleeding hangnails. You didn't even notice the sting from the exposed wounds—too preoccupied with gnawing on the inside of your cheeks.

You walked into your shift the next day with another request.

You clocked into your shift on Tuesday afternoon with a sinking pit in your stomach. A feeling that you had become accustomed to over the last couple months, a feeling that had you walking the scenic route home at night, delaying your arrival. It was the feeling that you had started associating with home, along with the ache in your chest.

You loved quiz night—you loved seeing what stupid team names people came up with, loved judging them when they got such an obvious answer wrong. Once upon a time, you had loved seeing Bucky's handsome face sitting in your section, waving you over with an up to no good smile stretching his lips. Now, it all felt like a taunt.

Nothing was out of the ordinary—the opening shift said it had been quiet as usual, there had been a couple bookings from newcomers for quiz night, and the tabby cat that wandered the block came in to say hi.

And then, she walked in. Strolling in behind Nat and Steve, her arm looped through one of Bucky's, flashing you a kind smile as they made their way to their usual booth. In your section.

You wanted to scream. Cry. Jump into the East River.

The bar had become your safe place—which honestly sounded crazy, you hated half of the customers. But your home hadn't felt like your home since she walked through the door. And now she was in the one place that hadn't been tarnished.

She was nice, you knew she was. But she was a constant reminder that your heart belonged to a man who never looked at you twice.

You rushed over to Allie who was standing at the bar waiting for Dean to finish garnishing cocktails.

"I need you to swap sections with me—please." You said in a frantic breath.

She turned to you, her face already telling you her answer. "Hell no! I've got two tables of big tipper's—I am not giving that away."

Dean leaned his elbows on the bar. "I'll swap with you."

Your head whipped to him at a comical speed, your wide eyes meeting his unbothered grin. "…But you hate working the floor."

He nodded towards one of your tables—one of the newcomer bookings, a booth full of girls in their early twenties. A few of them were already looking over at your trio—more specifically, looking at Dean. You turned back in time to see him flash them a wink.

Your chest deflated with a relieved breath. "This is the only time I am ever going to be grateful for you being such a dog."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't." You and Allie said at the same time, matching deadpan expressions on your faces.

Allie turned to you, squinting suspiciously. "Why do you want to swap?"

You shrugged, looking at her forehead to avoid eye contact. "Just felt like a change."

"You said please—pretty desperately, too. It was kinda hot." Dean piped in.

You glared at him, choosing not to acknowledge his comment. You turned back to Allie looking at you expectantly. "Variety is the spice of life?"

She hummed disbelievingly. "Mhm, sure. We'll talk later."

Working the bar brought you no reprieve; every time you walked to the cocktail station, they were in your direct eyeline. Every time you poured a cosmo, shook a lemon drop, garnished a mojito, you could hear them laughing. You watched how she fit in like the missing puzzle piece, her body slotting perfectly under Bucky's arm—like that's where she belonged. You watched your roommates welcome her in with open arms and crying laughter, the realisation hitting you that she replaced the temporary hole your absence had opened.

Your knees were shaking while you closed up the bar, your hands scrubbing the beer grates with an urgency that was cause for concern.

"Hey, hey, woah that's—" Dean came up next to you, his hands gently clasping your wrists. "That's enough," he said, uncharacteristically gentle, "your hands are bleeding." He brought your hands up, your unfocused eyes seeing spots of red raised on your knuckles.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh. What's up with you today?"

Dean led you away from the bar, grabbing a first aid kit on your way over to where your manager and Allie were sitting, working through the next week's orders. He pushed you into a chair, stepping back with an awkward pat to your head.

"I'm sensing that this is a girl talk so I'm just gonna finish closing the bar."

The two women turned to you with concern painting their faces. Allie glanced down at your hands and opened the first aid kit, pulling out supplies to treat the cuts. Neither of them spoke while she tended to your hands, watching your face closely.

"These aren't too bad, just scrapes." She said softly, packing the kit back up and sitting it out of the way. She clasped your hands lightly, her thumbs rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hands. "What's going on, sweetie?"

You looked up from where you had been staring at the table, seeing her eyes and your manager's shining with worry. A silent tear slipped from your eye, leaving a damp path in it's wake.

"Whose kneecaps are we busting?" Your manager demanded.

That broke you.

Your shoulders started shaking, your throat closing in on itself in the form of a sob. Your heart escaped from your chest cavity, rising up like bile. Your vision was completely blurred, hot tears taking your eyes hostage. You caved in on yourself, wrapping your arms around your body as your frame trembled like a leaf.

You couldn't even feel embarrassed about bawling like a baby in front of your coworkers, the pain you had been sheltering for months overruling any other emotion. Allie wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into her warmth and making you cry harder. Your manager placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her thumb rubbing calming patterns as they both whispered words of comfort to you.

You gasped for breath, trying to get some air past the ball in your throat. "I-It's so—" your words broke with a hiccup, "it's so fucking stupid." You rushed out. "We were never—ugh!" You wiped at your cheeks furiously, willing the tears to stop. You gulped down a deep breath, trying to focus on the comforting touches and not the agony vibrating every cell in your body.

"We were never anything. God, I'm sobbing over a guy that—he was only being nice, and I made it into something it wasn't." You garbled out, the brine of tears lining your lips.

You opened up to them, telling them about how deeply you fell for Bucky in between sobs. How you felt like a goddamn fool, your lovesick heart reading into things and mistaking your strictly platonic relationship as something else entirely. You told them how you hate going home most nights, finding it harder to breathe the closer you got to the brownstone. You admitted to them that it's not just jealousy over him with another girl, it's something deeper—the fear that you've been replaced, that he doesn't need you anymore.

"…my sleep is fucked, I'm on high alert every second I'm home—I don't feel safe in my own home. Which—I know, it sounds so fucking dramatic. But it's like she's seeped into every crack, changing the foundations I built over a year ago. Now she's turning up here—on fucking quiz night, my night—and I just can't escape." You finished with a deep breath, feeling drained from your emotional monologue.

Allie, who had kept her arms wrapped around you throughout your rambling, lifted her head and looked at you with a mix of understanding and sympathy. "That's why you wanted to swap sections, because she was here." You nodded meekly.

She sighed and sat back in her chair. "Give me a couple days to clear out my spare room. You need it more than I need a second closet."

Before you could start sobbing over her offer a muscular arm reached in front of you, depositing a vodka cranberry onto the table.

Dean's voice rumbled behind you. "If it makes you feel any better, I've wanted to sleep with you since my first shift."

"Dean," both women next to you hissed. You turned to look at him, catching that easy-going smile of his and you started laughing—the first genuine one in weeks.

Thursday 6:18pm

Nat: Hey, you working late tonight? The boys are getting restless, Sam is threatening to watch Top Gun if you're not home in 10…

You: shit i forgot to tell you i'm working thursday nights now! sam can watch whatever mediocre garbage he wants :-)

Nat: We can change movie night to another night! Maybe Sunday? Whatever works for you x

You: don't worry about it, thursdays work for everyone else!

Nat: Is everything ok? I feel like I hardly see you anymore :(

You: aw i'm sorry natty :-( just been picking more shifts up at work - boss has me training the newbies! promise we'll have a wine night soon xx

"I'm moving out."

It was the Sunday after that fateful quiz night, the sun beating down on your four roommates as they laid out in the backyard. Sam was going on about some barbeque he had been invited to—telling the other three that if they behaved he would let them join him. Nat's head was resting on Steve's chest, half asleep while he massaged her scalp. Bucky was lying with a hand behind his head, shirtless, and reading his well-loved copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

Allie had sent you a photo of her spare room an hour before, a bottle of Tito's sitting on the floor the only thing in the empty room. You couldn't put off telling your roommates any longer, knowing that once you moved out you would start feeling like a human again. You stood in the doorway, arms tight across your body—fearing for their reactions.

Sam stopped talking abruptly, Nat jolted awake and sat up from Steve's chest, Bucky slowly lowered his book to his chest. Nat was the first to speak.

"What?" She asked softly.

You started to shuffle your feet, looking around the backyard—at the fairy lights that flickered like dying stars, the small veggie patch Steve cared for like it was his child—avoiding eye contact with them. "You remember Allie from the bar? We've gotten really close these past few months and she was looking for a roommate—kinda felt like a no-brainer, y'know?"

You finally looked at them, your heart beat rattling your jaw. Sam looked speechless, his face frozen in confusion. Nat was looking at you with that assessing gaze, her eyes squinting like she knew something else was going on. Steve nodded his head solemnly, his features pulled into a frown that looked out of place on him. Bucky had abandoned his book completely, sitting upright with his pretty lips downturned, his sunglasses hiding whatever emotions swam in his cerulean depths.

"I can sort out getting the room filled—can probably pay double rent if necessary—"

"I'll handle it." Bucky cut you off, his tone gruff and curt.

You wrung your hands together, hating being under the spotlight of your roommate's attention. "Are you sure? It's a bit late notice so it might be hard to—"

That same curtness cut you off again,"I said I'll handle it, didn't I?"

He probably wanted his girlfriend to move in.

Your three other roommates momentarily directed their bewildered stares to him, just as surprised as you at his bluntness. Just like Steve frowning, this was out of character for him. You could feel his eyes glaring holes into you through his sunglasses.

Nat shook her head at his attitude, turning her attention back to you. "I didn't know you wanted to move out."

Okay, time for the lies—just like you practiced in the mirror.

"It's not about wanting to move out," you started softly, "it's just something that naturally unfolded. Her landlord upped her rent last month and she can't afford it on her own anymore." Steve and Sam nodded along, while Nat was looking at you with that unwavering stare. You didn't even want to glance at Bucky. "She jokingly asked me over drinks a couple weeks ago if I was looking and after thinking on it, I think it's the best choice for me. It's closer to work, cheaper than what I currently pay and, as I said, we've become really good friends."

Nat continued squinting her eyes at you, watching as you fidgeted with your fingers—your tell that you would rather be anywhere else.

"Okay," she acquiesced. "When are you moving? We'll throw a little goodbye party."

"Great idea," Sam mumbled.

"Sometime in the next week." Everyone's eyebrows shot up at that. "And that's not necessary—I'd prefer it if you didn't do anything; it's not like I'm leaving the city, I'll only be a few blocks away."

Steve recovered from the brief shock at how soon you were leaving them. "Let us know what day and time, we'll help you move your stuff."

"I appreciate the help, really I do, but my coworkers have already offered—we have Dean to do all the heavy lifting."

That made Bucky stir, standing up with a scoff and arms folded across his chest. "Did you think about us at all? Sounds like you can't wait to get away from here."

You froze, the ice running through your veins equal to the frost in his tone. "That's not—I didn't want to bother you—"

"How can you think you bother us after all this time?" He asked, the frost melting into water—revealing something that trembled close to desperation.

"Bucky," Nat warned.

"I just don't understand," He snapped, shaking his head and walking towards where you were stuck in the doorway. He paused in front of you, his sun slicked chest making your heart gallop. You kept your eyes on his chin—locking on the clef still visible through heavy stubble, resisting the desire to glance at his naked chest, or worse, look into his eyes. "Mind letting me through?" He muttered lowly, his frame now blocking you from the sun. You ducked your head, pressing your back to the doorframe to give him space.

"Buck—"

"Not now, Steve." He bit out, your body absorbing the heat radiating from him as he brushed past you. You stood still, head tilted to the floor until you heard his door slam closed.

"Well, that was…" Steve started, his uneasy chuckle filling the heavy atmosphere.

The shock of his attitude left you dazed. You expected some blow back from Nat—she could read you like her favourite book, knowing the emotions you held within yourself better than you did. You expected—hoped, really—that they might be a little down about your departure, but Bucky acting like this wasn't even in your realm of possibility.

"What was that about?" You muttered to yourself.

Sam stood up with a huff, grabbing a beer from the cooler near the table. "Fucking idiots, the pair of you."

You timed the move for the following Wednesday, not wanting to risk another night of hearing what you had labelled your own personal torture. You had been working nights since Sunday, avoiding any interactions with your roommates. The vibe in the brownstone felt off, the air tasting stale even when you were the only one home. Nat had been texting you for updates, apologising for Bucky's strange behaviour, and assuring you your friendship with her wouldn't slip away after you were gone. Sam continued to send you memes—he had an affinity for the gradient instagram reels—and Steve saved you the best strawberries from his garden, hiding them in the fridge for you.

Bucky was radio silent.

Tuesday 5:36pm

Nat: Just spoke to Allie - apparently you're not working quiz night anymore?? What's going on?

You: we thought the new waitress should work it for a bit! good experience :-)

Nat: You should come join us then! We would be unstoppable with you on our team xx

You: maybe another time? don't want the other teams to think you have an unfair advantage lol

Nat: Fuck what they think. We miss you! Movie night was not the same without you last week :(

A month passed before you saw Bucky again.

You had been texting Nat on and off, feeling an awful reluctance to seeing her. It had nothing to do with Nat and everything to do with you continuing to avoid the problem—your feelings. Because you still thought about him, religiously so. You hated yourself for it—hated your brain conjuring up scenarios of him and her, replaying the happiness that glowed on his face the couple of times you saw them together.

Your sleep had improved, at least. There was no anxiety constricting your chest when you walked home, no fear for what you might hear through the walls. Allie encouraged you to cry it out on the bathroom floor, over tubs of ice cream on the couch. While it was horrible to address and to actually feel the heartbreak instead of intellectualising it, you had to admit you did feel lighter. It was a weight off your chest for someone else to know your secret, to let you speak about the pain and not forcing you to move on.

Your manager was quick to approve your request to work the day shifts—asking if you wanted to get your managers license, to be her dependable day shift manager. You were elated to have something else to focus on, and the pay rise wasn't bad either. Working the days also meant you weren't there in case your old roommate's called in for a drink on their way home from work.

But you knew your luck was going to run out some day soon.

It was on a quintessential late summer evening—the kind where the sun was low enough to shine through the tree canopy, casting the ground in a scene of dancing light and shadows. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you ambled through Prospect Park, listening to the harmony of kids laughter, dogs barking, and a busker playing guitar. Walking through the park lengthened your journey home by twenty minutes, but on a day like this it was hard to resist.

You heard him before you saw him, too lost in appreciating the world around you to notice him strolling towards you on his trek home. He called out your name softly, hesitantly. And you would recognise that husky baritone even if you were locked in a soundproof pool drowning underwater.

Your gaze ripped away from watching a pair of swans glide along the shimmering lake, your heart jumping into your throat as you saw Bucky a few metres in front of you. He was wearing his gym clothes, the black compression top clinging to his chest with light patches of sweat. His hair was tied back in a small bun, a few strands stuck to his dewy forehead and your fingers twitched to brush them back. Soft sapphire eyes roamed the valleys of your face, his shoulders dropping with an almost relieved sigh.

You hated how your body heated under his watchful gaze in an instant—hated that he still had control over you and he didn't even know it.

"Hey," he said quietly, a small smile tugging his lips. He hesitated for a moment, doubt flickering across his face before he shook his head and stepped closer, lifting an arm and placing his hand between your shoulder blades to pull you into his embrace.

A startled gasp escaped you at the contact, blood pulsing in your ears as his warmth enveloped you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, his hand resting on the small of your back to pull you in closer. Your traitorous body relaxed in his hold, the heady scent of sandalwood, spice, and his sweat clouding your mind.

Fuck him for always smelling so irresistible.

"Hi." You murmured, muffled by his shirt. You kept your arms at your sides, knowing that if you felt his body beneath your hands you would backtrack all the progress you had made over the past month. You could already feel yourself slipping—comparing being in his arms again to lying in front of the fireplace while rain pelted the windows and thunder clapped outside. The feeling of being warm and safe despite a raging storm.

He rested his chin on your head, his chest expanding underneath your cheek as he inhaled deeply. The hand between your shoulders flexed, pushing you further into him. His chest rumbled below you and you felt his words more than heard them. "Missed you."

You stepped back quickly, stumbling out of his embrace. His brows pinched together and his lips turned down with a frown. He took a small step back and cleared his throat, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I—uh—how, how have you been?"

You folded your arms across you chest, focusing on the light freckle on his neck. "I've been okay."

"That's good, great. I—we've missed you." His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and his voice dropped lower, softer . "Place isn't the same without you."

You had to leave before you did something foolish—before you dropped to your knees and pleaded for an ounce of his affection.

You cleared your throat, trying to rid the sudden emotion clogging it. "How have you been? How's the new roommate?"

Bucky's eyes flicked away from you, a hand leaving his pocket to rub the back of his neck. "Fine—they're fine." Splotches of red coloured his cheeks. "They don't compare to you, though."

What the fuck did that mean?

"Um—okay, well, that's good? I should—"

"Listen," Bucky interrupted you before you could flee from the increasingly awkward encounter. He stepped closer, his eyes locked on the gravel lining the earth. "I—I want to apologise for my behaviour, when you told us you were leaving." He looked up at you, remorse and distress bleeding from him so viscerally you could almost grab it. "I was in shock, I think—it doesn't really matter, I'm not trying to excuse it. I just wanted you to know that I really am sorry and you didn't deserve that." He closed the distance between you more, hands raising towards you before they dropped to his sides. "I—um, I would hate for that to be the reason you haven't come 'round—if you felt uncomfortable because of me."

It was resting on the tip of your tongue, the truth. It was begging to spill out, to tell Bucky that you were uncomfortable because of him but not for the reason he believed. You could handle a little attitude—what you couldn't handle was hearing the guy you're in love with treat another woman the way you had fantasised about since the day you met him.

Grateful for the fact you had been getting enough sleep to keep a grasp on your filter, you accepted his olive branch instead of starting a confessional. "Thank you, Bucky." You looked into his eyes, trying to express your sincereness. "I appreciate it, really."

Hope flared bright across his face. "So, wanna join us next Thursday? Your pick—I'll tell Sam to keep his comments to himself."

Guilt curdled your gut. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't make it, sorry. I already have plans."

If sitting in front of the TV watching New Girl and doomscrolling on your phone constituted as plans.

And just like that, the flame was extinguished. "Oh."

You interrupted before he could say more. "It was good seeing you, Bucky, but I have to get going." You stepped around him to continue home, giving him a small wave goodbye before focusing forward—walking brisker than the tranquil evening called for, your shoulders too tense for the serene landscape.

"Bye," he murmured, the sound drifting towards you with the light breeze.

You kept your head straight forward the rest of the walk home.

You expected the text from Nat the next day, knowing that Bucky would've told your former roommates that he ran into you. She demanded you meet for brunch at your earliest convenience, and given that it was Saturday and you had no plans you couldn't deny her any longer.

You were sitting on the couch putting on your shoes when Allie burst through the front door, her hands full of bags from the morning market and mouth stuffed with cake from the pâtisserie around the corner.

"Oh my god," you heard her mumble around frosting and sponge. "Guess what I just found out."

"Apparently not what decent manners are. Swallow before you talk."

A mop of floppy blonde hair appeared in your doorway. "That's what he said."

You rolled your eyes as Dean sauntered in with a wolfish grin, closing the door behind him. "What the hell are you doing here?" You shot wide eyes at Allie, wordlessly demanding an explanation.

She took your advice and swallowed before speaking again. "I ran into him at the market—he has an update on James B!"

A mix of anticipation and dread made your morning coffee stir. "I thought he stopped leaving reviews?"

Dean collapsed next to you, eyeing the dress you were wearing with approval. "You dress up for me, angel?"

You shoved his shoulder. "Not in a million years. What's the update, dumbass?"

He pulled his phone out with a sigh. "He left a review last night—don't look at me like that, I set up notifications for this very reason." He tapped on his phone before handing it to you, the screen displaying the latest review.

James B.

★★★★★ 13 hours ago

Quiz night isn't the same without her. Nothing is.

Your heart rate picked up, sweat gathering at the back of your knees.

What the fuck?

"But last night wasn't quiz night?" Was the only thing your dumbfounded mind could vocalise.

"I mean, yeah, but you're missing the point!" Allie interjected, standing behind the couch and leaning her head down to read the review. "Now we know he's a quiz night regular! That narrows the search pool down so much."

"Ooo, what if it's one of the old dockmen?" Dean giddily queried.

"They do normally sit in your section—or, well, what used to be your section." Allie supplied, wandering back to your kitchen to put away whatever trendy new chutney she bought from the market.

Your eyes followed her, catching sight of the clock hanging on the wall. "Shit—I'm going to be late." You jumped off the couch, frantically grabbing your phone and shoulder bag. "We can theorise more later, Nat is going to murder me for being late."

"Bye, honey!" Dean yelled as you ran out the door—stopping for a second to throw him the middle finger.

Nat was sitting at a table towards the back of the cafe, her crimson hair a stark contrast to the soft pastel interior. The atmosphere was buzzing and lively—every table occupied, with laughter and heavenly aromas wafting out the open door. It was the go to brunch spot for Brooklyn natives, it's covered outdoor courtyard an enticing location on a warm summer's morning—you were surprised Nat even managed to score a table.

Her face lit up once she saw you, standing to welcome you with a hug. "One more minute and I would've thought you were ghosting me."

You hugged her just as tight, the smell of her perfume relaxing your shoulders and making your heart clench—you shouldn't have gone this long without seeing her. "God, I know, I'm sorry. Allie came home with gossip before I could make my escape."

You both pulled away and sat down, reading the menu like you hadn't looked at it online on your walk over.

"Gossip? Anything interesting?" Nat asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

You let out a deep sigh. "It's a long story. One that's better told over a bottle of wine."

"Okay, now I am beyond intrigued—you better not leave me hanging for another month." She shot you a small glare, the smile on her face lessening it's sharpness.

The waitress came over and took your orders before the two of you fell into easy conversation. She updated you on what trouble the boys—Sam—had gotten into, and you told her about the time you and Allie were locked out in your pyjamas and tried to scale the fire escape. Neither of you broached the subject of why you moved out, but it was lingering in the air—in the soft way Nat said Bucky's name. Throughout the hour you spent chatting you noticed she didn't mention their new roommate once, and the curiosity was making you restless.

"So, how's the new roommate, really? Bucky didn't say much about them."

An out of place nervous hesitation tightened Nat's face, her eyes darting between yours as she bit her lip. After a tense few seconds her shoulders dropped with a sigh.

"Honey, there is no new roommate."

You reared back, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What? But Bucky said yesterday—he said they were fine."

"Of course he did," she muttered under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looked at you with a huff. "The room is empty. Bucky…he's been paying for it."

"What?" You nearly exclaimed, your body temperature rising.

"Look, I don't know why he didn't tell you the truth—I honestly don't know what goes on in his mind, he has made some terrible choices the last few months." She placed a gentle hand on top of yours, her tone softening. "Choices that had you leaving us."

"I don't understand." You muttered quietly.

"I probably shouldn't be the one to tell you this, but—Steve and him were drinking after work last week and he admitted he's paying for the room—saving it in case you want to come back."

Shock rendered you speechless—frustration climbing up from your gut, opening the partially healed scars seared into your heart. Confusion, irritation, and heartache swirled together until they formed one emotion—anger.

Your hands balled into fists, your clenched teeth making your jaw ache. "I'm sorry, what?" You bit out.

You barely noticed the smirk twitching her lips, red starting to blur your vision. "Sam and Steve are out fishing today—he's home alone if you want to go bite his head off."

You didn't need to be told twice, the red-hot fury bringing you to your feet quickly. You grabbed your stuff with urgency, your hands already starting to shake.

"Brunch is my shout—go knock some sense into him."

It took you less than ten minutes to reach the brownstone, outrage powering your legs with a speed you didn't know you were capable of. The fresh air did nothing to calm you down—you were too consumed by the memories from the past year, the heartache you endured, your utter confusion at Nat's revelation.

Your fist pounded on the wooden door, not stopping until it swung open to reveal a puzzled Bucky.

His eyes widened at the sight of you, pink lips stretching into a knee trembling smile. Your dress caught his attention, his smile freezing as blue eyes trailed down and back up your body.

He cleared his throat before speaking. "What are you doin' here, doll?"

"Don't fucking call me that," you seethed, pushing him out of your way to storm inside. You barged down the familiar path to your old room, ignoring Bucky as he called out your name behind you.

You opened the door to find the room exactly how you left it—empty. You whipped around to see Bucky standing a few feet behind you, looking down at the ground with a hand rubbing his neck and a fire overtaking his cheeks.

"Why the fuck are you paying for an empty room? No, better yet, why did you lie to me about it?" You loudly demanded, just shy of shouting.

He stumbled over his words, looking up to see you with your eyebrows raised, arms folded across your chest, hip jutted out—the perfect picture of barely contained rage.

"Well, I—you see, it's—" he dragged a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath. "It's complicated?"

"Yeah, no shit. You were so pissy about me moving—it makes no sense! Just tell me the truth for once, Bucky!" Your voice raised higher, your hands flying around as the confusion and aggravation took hold of you.

Bucky's own frustration started to seep through, the volume of his voice a notch below yours. "I was upset because you were leaving—and you didn't seem to care about us, just running straight to Dean for help!"

He was upset? He had no fucking right to be upset.

Hot, frustrated tears flooded your eyes without your permission. "I left because of you, Bucky! No one else, just you." You stepped toward him, pushing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest. "And I didn't run to Dean! He offered to help after he watched me have a fucking breakdown over you."

His glistening eyes stared into yours, his eyebrows drawn upwards in distress. "…What?"

A crack had fractured the dam keeping you contained, your pent up thoughts and feelings crashing through and destroying the concrete barrier.

"Every fucking day I came home feeling like my world—my heart—was being torn apart—" your voice cracked and you turned around, starting to pace the length of your old room. "And I know, I fucking know, it's not your fault—that my delusional mind and hopeless romantic heart are to blame for reading into things that weren't there, for creating a fantasy of you—of us."

You wiped away your flowing tears, sniffling as you tried to catch your breath. "But now, you expect me to, what—feel bad for leaving? I was barely human." You let out a wet, humourless laugh.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded desperately, his face shining with frustration and something akin to hope.

"I'm talking about the goddamn walls, Bucky! I don't know if you know but they're pretty fucking thin! And every Wednesday and Saturday night I heard you and her—I heard the guy I was obsessed with fucking somebody else and it killed me."

"I only started seeing her to get you out of my head!" Both his hands found their way to his hair, tugging the dark strands in frustration. "And maybe I wanted to make you jealous—which I know is a terrible—"

You closed the distance between you in two quick strides, reaching out to shove his chest. "Jealous? You wanted to make me jealous?!" You seethed out, your fists hitting his chest as your vision blurred. "Are you blind?! Everyone could see how infatuated I was with you." Your hits lost their strength, your cheeks growing even more wet.

"Hey," Bucky whispered softly, his hands gently encircling your wrists and his thumbs rubbing tender patterns on your radial pulse. "Breathe for me."

"No," you stubbornly whispered back, despite your panting breaths slowing to match his. You drew in staggering breaths, finally noticing how hard your heart was beating—your body shaking with every thump. Your fists unfurled, your palms resting flat on his broad chest—the fast pounding of his heart a near match to yours.

He let go of your wrists, his hands cupping your face delicately. He wiped your tears away with such care it made your heart ache. Your vision cleared enough to focus on his face, seeing his eyes shining with their own tears.

"I think we're both a bit blind, sweetheart. Everyone can see how smitten I am with you." He rested his forehead against yours, the space around you two growing charged in the aftermath of your anger. "Sam gives me shit about it every day." His breathy laugh ghosted your lips, leaving tingles in it's wake. His voice dropped low, "I'm so fucking in love with you I was leaving reviews about you like some—like a hopeless sap, hoping you would realise it was me."

His confession of love flew over your head, incredulity controlling your mind. "That was you?!" You gasped, pushing his chest lightly. "I thought I had a stalker, you idiot."

The memory of the night you and Allie read all the reviews ran through your head, remembering the disturbingly romantic details written; remembering the reviews you secretly reread like a guilty pleasure, going to sleep with a giddy smile and fluttering butterflies because someone was noticing you.

"That's all you took from that?" He shook his head minutely, one of his hands brushing down your back to cradle your waist. "I'm trying to tell you I'm in love with you here."

You stepped out of his embrace, your mind still picking through all the small details. "But—the first review was, like—" you started to pace again, your hands resting atop your head. "It was well over a year ago!" Your voice raised again, recalling how horrible you felt only a month ago—the heartbreak you could've avoided. "Why did you never say anything?!"

"Because I was scared!" His voice raised to meet yours. "I didn't want to ruin things and lose you forever!"

"Yeah, well look at how that turned out!" You gestured wildly to the empty room.

"Why are we shouting again?" Bucky walked towards you, reaching for your hands. You were both breathing heavily, the sound of your pants echoing in the emptiness as your chests heaved up and down.

"Because I'm mad at you." You finally met his eyes, the blue bleeding with regret and sorrow. Your voice dropped lower, timidness starting to creep in. "You…you broke my heart, Buck."

He gripped your hands tighter, raising one to rest on his chest—right above his heart. "I am going to spend every day until I die trying to make it up to you." His remorse polluted the air around you, tears welling in your eyes once again—this time from the pain clouding his. "If you'll let me."

"That's a bit dramatic," you mumbled, sniffling lightly. "Until you're fifty is fine."

He laughed, wet and husky. He let go of your hands to cup your face again, smoothing his thumbs along your cheekbones. Your breath hitched at the touch, the pain in your system being diluted by the drug that is Bucky.

He leaned in closer, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. "I'm gonna kiss you now, okay?"

You managed a small nod before his lips were on yours—desperate and aching, stealing the breath from your lungs. One of his hands shifted to the back of your neck, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. Your hands found his chest again, fisting his shirt and causing a groan to sound in the back of his throat. He took control of the kiss with no complaint from you—happily letting him suck your bottom lip before nipping it, opening for him when his tongue grazed your lips.

The first touch of his tongue against yours had fire scorching down your body, the intensity of his kisses settling in your gut and awakening the need you've had for him for over a year.

The annoying human need for air had you pulling away from his lips, gasping as you tried to catch your breath. His stubble scratched your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, tilting your head to reach the sensitive spot below your ear. He gave it a soft experimental kiss, his tongue darting out and drawing a small whine from you.

His chest rumbled beneath your hands. "You talk about the walls being thin—trust me, I know." He stepped forward, his fingers dancing down your sides to grasp your hips, backing you into the wall. "I know you like to beg, what pretty sounds you make when you're about to come." He trailed his nose back along your jaw and down the other side of your neck, nestling into the crook and sniffing deeply with a small moan.

"Wh-what? I haven't—I never brought anyone home." You stuttered out, head starting to feel heavy from the lust fogging it.

"No, but you still have needs, don't you?" He let out a small chuckle, trailing feather-light kisses along your collarbone. "You thought you were alone, thought it didn't matter how loud you let yourself be." He pulled back, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers along your cheek, making their way down your neck. Onyx eyes met yours—a shiver racing down your spine at the barely contained hunger in them. "I came home with a migraine and you were so wrapped up in pleasure you didn't even hear me—but I heard you. And shit, doll, the noises you made cured my migraine faster than any pain meds ever have." He dropped his forehead to yours, his breath fanning your lips. "I had to fuck my fist three times that night. I replayed every little whimper, moan, every gasp of please until it drove me insane."

A gasp escaped you at his admission, heat rolling through your body—a mix of embarrassment and hunger swirling in your core.

"And then, like it was the universe's sole purpose to bring me to my knees, you walked in the next day wearing this dress." His fingers drifted to the neckline of your dress, toying with it as your breasts moved rapidly beneath. "Looking like a fucking angel sent here to torture me. Like sin wrapped in white lace. I had to leave before I dropped to my knees and begged for a taste—to let me worship you."

Your heart was trying to beat out of your chest, the throbbing in your core escalating with every word he murmured into your lips.

"You kept on wearing it, and I had to pretend like I wasn't replaying those sounds every time I saw you—like my dick wasn't rock hard at just a glimpse of this fucking dress." The hand on your neckline travelled down to the line of lace below your breasts—his thumb stroking along it making your breath stutter and nipples harden. "I had to do something, I felt like I was going insane. I started seeing her to get you out of my head—didn't fucking work now, did it?"

The mention of her cut through the Bucky induced haze, and you hesitated—needing clarification before you could let him consume you.

"Are you still seeing her?" You whispered.

"Fuck no, we were strictly casual. I broke it off the day you left."

Your head reared back an inch, hitting the wall lightly. "You know that doesn't make me feel better, right? That you only wanted to sleep with her because I was in the next room."

Both his hands gripped your waist, squeezing gently. "Okay, that—that wasn't what I was trying to get at." He lifted his head to stare into your eyes. "What I meant was that you leaving really showed how much of an idiot I'd been, wasting my time with her when you were right next door."

"Why didn't you reach out, then?"

He shrugged, his eyes darting away nervously. "I didn't think I had a right to. I wasn't exactly proud of how I acted the last time we spoke."

You saw Bucky almost every day for over a year—you knew he didn't get outwardly nervous often, and you knew when he was being vulnerable and honest. The Bucky in front of you wasn't lying—you could tell he was genuinely worried he'd messed everything up.

You relented with a sigh, lacing your hands around his neck. "I think it's time you start making it up to me."

"Gladly," he said before pulling you into him and kissing you deeply. He pressed his hips against yours, pushing you harder into the wall. You gasped at the feeling of his bulge against your stomach, your core trembling and aching in anticipation.

The pace of the kiss picked up, Bucky's tongue licking into your mouth with a deep moan. His grip on your hips tightened and he spun you around, walking you backwards towards his room without removing his mouth from yours.

He kicked the door shut behind him, leading you towards his bed with his hands drifting down to squeeze your ass. You broke away with a moan, your lips swollen and chin tender from his stubble.

"Sit down for me, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out. You quickly obliged—your need for him making you ready to do anything he said.

He kneeled on the floor in front of you, slowly taking your shoes off. His hands trailed up your bare legs, stopping when they reached the hem of your dress.

He pressed a soft kiss to your knee. "You gonna let me make you feel good?" He mumbled into your skin.

You nodded rapidly, your hands clenching his sheets in desperation.

He clicked his tongue. "I need words, angel."

"Yes, Bucky—please. Please touch me," you gasped out, the sight of him on his knees robbing your intelligence.

His mouth tilted into a smirk, his eyes gleaming. "There you go with that begging again."

He clasped your knees, spreading your legs open. His breath tickled the sensitive skin on your inner thighs, goosebumps erupting and surging up to your core. He pressed light kisses along one thigh, stopping when he got to your dress and switching to the other.

You could feel slick leaking out of your cunt, your clit pulsing from the lack of attention.

"Buck, stop teasing, please." You whined softly, lifting a hand to push the hair away from his eyes. He nuzzled into your hand, turning to press a kiss into your palm. Your hand vibrated as he hummed low.

He grasped the hem of your dress, lifting it slowly up to your hips. "Lean back f'me."

You leaned back on your elbows, your body trembling with need as his hands scorched paths up your thighs.

He let out a low groan once your dress was up past your hips—revealing your soaked panties to him. His eyes locked onto them, his pupils dilating until only a sliver of blue remained.

"All this from a little kissing?" He brushed a thumb along the wet patch, grazing your clit. Your head fell back with a loud gasp, your hips twitching towards his touch.

"Sensitive," he mumbled. His hand moved, tracing the edge of your panties—you were sure he could feel the heartbeat pulsing in your core. "How long has it been?"

You lifted your head up, looking into his dark eyes—the desire in them reflecting your own. "Since before I—"

You cut yourself off with a soft moan, your body jerking as Bucky pressed his thumb to your clit through your underwear—circling it with a steady pressure.

"What was that?" He asked smugly.

Your chest heaved as you tried to wade through the sensations buzzing through you. "Since before I moved in," you rushed out quickly, another moan escaping you at the feeling of his touch directly on your pussy—his hand slipping underneath the wet fabric.

"Fuck," he breathed out through clenched teeth. He grabbed the waistband of your panties and pulled them down your legs quickly. He groaned out looking at your exposed cunt, and you tried to close your legs on instinct.

He gripped your thighs to stop them from closing. "None of that," he growled out lowly. "Let me look at her."

His hands trailed up your thighs until they reached your bare hips, yanking you closer to the edge of the bed. You fell onto your back softly, your breath shaking from the impact.

He pulled your lips apart and moaned loudly. "She's fucking dripping, sweetheart."

You clenched at his words, his teasing leaving you aching and squirming. He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss millimetres away from where you needed him most. He breathed you in deeply making your hips buck up with a needy whine.

"Bucky, please."

He dragged a single finger from entrance to clit, pulling it back with a string of your arousal connecting the two of you. You sighed at the small touch, opening your eyes to see Bucky suck the tip of his finger.

He groaned at your taste, hands grabbing the back of your thighs to push your legs back and spread you wider.

"Gonna make her feel so good, pretty girl." He slurred out, his lips trailing a path of fire up to your core. "Be a good girl and make those noises for me again."

He dove in, licking the same path as his finger. His groan vibrated through you and your hands flew to his hair, gripping the strands as you gasped.

"Taste so fucking good," he mumbled before latching onto your clit. He sucked gently, circling the nub with his tongue. You rewarded him with a tug to his hair and a shaky moan.

He picked up the pace, moaning as he went from tasting you to devouring. He thrusted his tongue into you, lapping up everything he could. The room filled with the lewd sounds of your slick and his saliva coating your pussy—with your unabashed moans and gasps bouncing off the walls.

He pulled away from you, his chin and beard glistening. "That's it, pretty. Being such a good girl." You whined at the praise, using your hold on his hair to push his face back into you.

Your hips rocked against his face, the flame in your core growing fast. He moved an arm to your hips, holding them down to keep you still. He sucked your clit harshly, your back arching at the pleasure he was unleashing on you. You gasped out his name as your orgasm built rapidly.

"Fuck, Bucky—right there! Please, I'm gonna—" you cut off with a loud moan, your body jolting from him lightly biting your clit. Stars started to dot your vision as he continued to feast on you like a starved man—like you were his first sip of water after wandering the desert.

The knot in your core clenched tight before it unravelled, Bucky's groans vibrating through you pushing you over the edge. You came with a cry, your hands yanking his hair hard. A blissful fire spread throughout you, making your toes curl and head float.

Bucky drank up your release, prolonging your high until you were shaking and trying to push his head away. He relented, moving back to kiss and nip your inner thighs. Your heavy panting filled the room, your pussy twitching as you came down.

You propped yourself up on weak elbows, your droopy eyes meeting his glazed, pussy drunk ones.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispered reverently. He moved back in closer, his breath fanning your cunt making you clench around nothing. "Another one."

He slowly licked at your hole, leaving your overstimulated clit throbbing painfully. Your arms gave out, a whimper crawling up your throat. You brought a hand up to your chest, squeezing a breast over your dress—trying to relieve the ache in them.

"Fuck, look at you," Bucky cooed, pulling away from you to stand up. "As much as I love this dress, I think you'll look even more beautiful without it."

You nodded, sitting up slightly so he could pull it over your head. Your eyes were level with his crotch, seeing the large bulge tenting his pants—your mouth salivating already. Once your dress was off you reached a hand out, palming his hard dick over his pants. You gasped at the heavy feel of him, your walls clenching at the thought of him stretching you open.

His head rolled back with a moan, a hand catching your wrist to stop your movements. "Not right now." You let out a displeased whine and his mouth twitched with a smirk. "Later, promise. Lay back down so I can worship you."

He grasped the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head, leaving you to gape at his insane torso. You had seen it before but you always adverted your eyes quickly, scared of getting caught staring. Now, you could stare and touch all you wanted.

You leaned up to run a hand over his bare chest, his body scorching beneath your skin. You trailed a finger down the hard ridges lining his body, a thrill running through you as his muscles rippled and breath stuttered. Your mouth found his pecks, lathering them in wet kisses while your hand teased the waistband of his pants. He grasped your chin, jerking your head up to look at him. His jaw was tense and eyebrows furrowed, a slight darkness shadowing his face.

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips. "What did I just say, sweetheart?" He mumbled, his tone laced with warning.

Before you could reply, his hands grasped your waist and pushed you up the bed until your head met his pillow. He crawled on top of you, kissing your neck.

"Thought you were gonna be a good girl." He mumbled, biting the spot below your ear and making you gasp. He pulled on one of your bra straps, letting it snap back onto your skin. You gasped louder at the small stinging sensation, the slight pain dousing your core in gasoline.

"Please, I am—I will be. M'sorry." You whimpered out, tilting your head back as he continued his assault on your neck.

He hummed in response, sucking on your pulse point before trailing lower—his stubble scraping the top of your breasts. He reached a hand behind your back, unclasping your bra with ease before pulling the straps down your arms slowly.

Your nipples hardened more once exposed to the cool air, begging for Bucky's attention. He lavished your breasts in kisses, covering every inch of skin with his spit. One of your hands clutched onto his bicep while the other wound into his hair again. He continued to avoid your nipples and you squirmed underneath him, trying to move his head to where you wanted him.

He relented, licking a nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moaned from the relief and the zaps of pleasure racing down your torso. He pinched your abandoned nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger as he bit down on the other one. You arched off the bed with a loud whine, the pain and pleasure morphing into one. He switched nipples, dolling out the same sweet torture with moans lodged in his throat.

Once both your nipples were raw and aching he kissed down your abdomen, hands clutching your hips as his mouth worshipped your stomach. You giggled at his beard tickling your sensitive skin and he lifted his head, his blown out eyes meeting yours with a soft—almost unbelieving—smile.

"You're breathtaking," he whispered. "And you're all mine, yeah?"

"Yes, Buck. Only yours."

He hummed in approval, pressing a light kiss to your hip. "Good. 'Cause I'm yours, angel. I'm sorry it took so long for me to say."

He moved back down to where you were dripping onto his sheets, your body wound tight from your first orgasm and his teasing. He licked into you without hesitation, drawing out loud noises from you as he sucked your sensitive clit.

"You're so wet—wanna live between these thighs, doll."

A hand left your hip to poke at your entrance, one finger sliding in easily before your walls squeezed at the intrusion. He pumped it in and out slowly until you were begging for more. A second slipped in, both of them curling upwards and grazing the spot that had you arching off the bed with a sound you'd never made before.

He lifted his head up, praising you for how good you were being—telling you how pretty you sounded. His mouth descended on your clit again and his fingers picked up their pace.

Your head rolled around on his pillow, the dual stimulation to your pussy making a heat rush through you like you'd never experienced with anyone else. You could feel how he was paying attention to you, altering his movements to gauge what sounds he could pull out of you—getting to know what you liked.

The ball tightened faster than the first time, your body edging on being overstimulated. Both your hands were fisting the sheets, your hips grinding against Bucky's face and fucking his fingers—the obscene squelch of your pussy soaking his hand mixing with your moans and gasps.

"Let me come—please. Been s'good for you, Buck—"

You know you didn't need his permission to come, but begging and submitting to him felt so good. Your own words pulled the coil in your core tighter—his resounding moan shaking through you telling you how much they affected him too.

A third finger joined in and you clenched down hard, the stretch almost throwing you off the cliff. They curled into your spot over and over, his other hand moving to push down on your lower stomach—causing something between a moan and squeal to leave you.

"Course you can come for me, sweetheart. I want nothing more than this sweet pussy drenching me."

With one last curl of his fingers and suck to your clit, your body started to shake, the ball bursting and sending waves crashing through you. Your eyes rolled back and your ears started ringing, deaf to the borderline animalistic noises you were letting out. You clamped down on his fingers hard, your juices gushing out and coating his hand—dripping and staining his sheets.

Your head was up in the clouds, cotton filling the space your brain used to be. You briefly registered his mouth leaving your overstimulated and raw nub, his fingers still moving slowly as you floated through your high. Small, gentle kisses across your cheeks, nose, and eyelids had you giggling breathlessly. Your body felt heavy, your eyelids struggling to open.

"You doin' okay?" Bucky whispered into your temple, peppering more light kisses to your forehead. You hummed softly.

"Need'a minute," you slurred out.

His fingers slowed and then left you, a whine slipping past your lips at the emptiness. You felt a hand rubbing soothing circles onto your scalp, your body turning towards his warmth. You slowly opened your eyes to find him staring at you, electric blue lazily roaming around your face.

"Hi," you whispered, lifting a heavy hand to push hair behind his ear. He grabbed your hand and covered it in soft kisses, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Hi. How you feeling?"

You leaned in, nuzzling your nose against his. "Good—really good," you muttered before kissing him softly. Your hand weaved into his hair, pulling him in as your kiss grew more passionate.

One of his hands cradled your jaw and the other spanned the small of your back, pushing you into his bulge. You bit his lip teasingly, revelling in his body shuddering and drinking down the moan he let free.

You grinded your hips against his—gasping and whimpering at the rough fabric of his pants dragging against your oversensitive pussy. He responded in kind, rutting his bulge into you with a groan.

"Want you inside of me," you mumbled into his lips, throwing a leg over his to roll your hips harder.

"Fuck—okay," he breathed out. He pulled away to reach for his bedside drawer but your hand on his chest stopped him.

"Are you clean?"

His eyes widened and he nodded dumbly. "I got tested the other week—wait, I'll show you." He reached for his phone but you stopped him with a giggle.

"I believe you. I'm clean—obviously. And on birth control."

His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, pupils dilating until they physically couldn't anymore.

"Are you sure?" He gripped your face in his hands, eyes darting between yours. "I only used condoms with her so I understand—"

That fact pleased you absurdly, your hand trailing down his chest to his groin—squeezing his heavy bulge. "I'm sure. Wanna feel you, all of you."

He pulled you into a searing kiss, rolling you onto your back and hovering over you. Your mouth moved against his eagerly, both your hands on his waistband to unbotton and unzip his pants. You reached a hand into his boxers, a gasp leaping out as you wrapped your hand around him—his cock throbbing and big. You briefly worried about the limp you'll have later.

He panted above you, his eyes closing as you stroked him slowly. You could feel his boxers damp with pre-cum, beads of it dripping from his tip. You brushed your thumb over it and he moaned gutturally, eyes opening as you pulled your hand out. You kept eye contact with him as you brought your thumb up to your lips, licking his pre-cum before sucking it into your mouth with a satisfied moan.

He pulled your thumb out, tracing his own along your lip before you sucked on it—twirling your tongue around it.

"You're gonna be the fucking death of me, angel." He groaned out.

He pushed away to pull his pants and boxers off, throwing them behind him carelessly. Your eyes zeroed in on his cock standing proud—your mouth somehow simultaneously drying up and drooling at the sight. He was the biggest you'd ever seen—long and thick, the tip flushed red with his need. Your knees fell apart on instinct, the fire building up just looking at him.

"Wanna take a picture?" He teased.

"Another time," you whispered, surging up to grab his shoulders and pull him back on top of you.

He chuckled into your mouth before it dissolved into a moan, your hips bucking up and smearing his cock with your slick.

He grabbed your hips, pulling them up slightly as he settled between your legs. You both broke off from the kiss with matching gasps, the feel of him sliding along your slit making you both dizzy. His tip bumped into your clit with each glide, whimpers echoing from your chest as you twitched from the stimulation.

"You're so fucking pretty," he mumbled, dropping his head to kiss and nip along your neck.

"Please," you whined, your hips rocking without thought.

He pulled back and looked down between you, groaning at his dick already glistening with you. He wrapped a hand around himself, tapping his head against your clit a few times. You squealed, starting to feel dizzy with desire. He shushed you gently, dragging a thumb along your cheekbone before positioning himself at your entrance.

His eyes met yours as he pushed in slowly, the intensity in them making you choke up. It had never felt like this before—never felt so passionate, adoring. It made everything feel elevated—your nerve endings singing with pleasure wherever he touched you.

You clenched down on him instinctively, your walls stretching around just the tip. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax—you weren't in pain, it just felt so fucking good.

"Be a good girl and let me in," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss you.

Your legs opened wider for him, your core relaxing to let him push in further. Moans and gasps filled the air around you as he thrust slowly, sinking until he reached the hilt.

The breath knocked out of you, the feeling of him filling you completely making your head rush. He moved slowly at first, small thrusts to get you accommodated before pulling back until just the tip was inside. He sank home with deep moans, his cock pushing against your spot with every thrust.

You wrapped your legs around his waist making him reach deeper inside you. He picked up his pace, his hips meeting yours with soft slaps.

"You feel so good—oh, fuck!" He exclaimed as you clenched down on him.

"Harder, please." You moaned out, scratching your nails down his chest.

"Yeah? My pretty girl—my little angel—likes it rough?"

You nodded deliriously, the tension in your core sizzling with every thrust.

He sat up, bringing your hips with him. He held them up and delivered harsh thrusts—each one expelling a gasp out of you. Your legs tightened around him, his strength pushing you up the bed.

The headboard knocked against the wall, adding to the symphony of moans, whimpers, skin slapping that was already deafening the room. Each sound had you soaring higher, each thrust kissing your cervix sending a shock through you.

Bucky removed your legs from his waist, clutching your thighs to push them towards your chest. Your wide eyes met his with a gasp, the change in position igniting a roaring fire everywhere. He dropped forward slowly, pushing into you so far you swear you could feel him in your throat.

He groaned into your ear. "This is—god, you're made for me."

His thrusts resumed their previous pace, your mouth falling open in a silent scream. Sweat beaded along his hairline from the exertion, his hair sticking to his temples—and he looked so beautiful, your eyes started to well with tears.

Everything rushed through you in an overwhelming burst—the heartache you suffered, the months of yearning and uncertainty, how much you loved him. How much he loved you.

Tears fell from your eyes as the sensations built higher and you grasped his face, pulling his forehead to yours. Your gentle kiss to his lips was a stark contrast to his cock drilling into you.

"I love you," you whispered, your words breaking on a sob of pleasure.

His hips stuttered, his eyes squeezing tightly. "You can't say that again or I'll blow my load." You laughed at his clear struggle to hold back, making him groan as you squeezed him tighter.

He continued his thrusts, wiping a thumb under your eye to catch your tears. "This is the only time I'm gonna make you cry from now on, yeah? Only gonna make you sob cause I'm fucking you so good."

You nodded, letting out little "uh-huh"'s as you climbed higher and higher.

"Play with your clit, sweetheart." Bucky rasped out.

Your hand snuck between your bodies to press circles around your clit—your back arching with a whine. Tears continued to track down your temples, wetting the pillow below you.

"Fill me up, please," you managed to get out between whimpers and sobs. Bucky's grip on your thighs tightened, surely leaving marks for you to admire over the next few days.

"Come with me," Bucky moaned, pressing a scorching kiss to your lips as his thrusts grew sloppy. You tensed below him, your body locking up before pure ecstasy barrelled through you. You came with a scream of his name, clenching down on his cock to keep him trapped. Your vision faded to white, your body trembling and pulsing.

Bucky groaned out your name as his orgasm rushed through him, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside you as he filled you completely with cum.

He collapsed on top of you, his sweaty chest heaving against yours. He slowly lowered your legs then wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck.

You laid there for a few minutes, the both of you gradually coming back down to earth. He pulled out of you slowly, the both of you groaning at the feeling. A mix of your releases dripped out of you, coating your ass and staining the sheets.

"Stay right here," Bucky said before giving you a chaste kiss, pulling his boxers on to run to the bathroom. He came back with a wet towel, sitting on the bed next to you to clean you up with gentle, reverent touches.

He climbed behind you, pulling you into his strong chest—a satisfied rumble vibrating your back. He kissed the back of your head, trailing towards your ear and giving your lobe a gentle bite.

"I love you too."

"When can we move your stuff back in?"

Bucky and you were still lying on his bed, basking in the warmth of each other as the afternoon sun trickled through his half closed curtains.

You turned in his arms, slinging a leg over his and booping his nose. "I think we should go on a couple dates before I move in with you."

His nose and eyes scrunched with that laugh you first fell in love with. "Oh, is that right?"

"Living together before you've even bought me flowers? Sounds a bit rash to me."

"I'll buy you a whole flower shop," he mumbled, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare hip. "Well, maybe not right away—I am paying for two rooms, y'know. Would be nice to be able to buy groceries next month."

You laughed softly, poking his bare chest. "Yeah, and whose fault is that again?"

He grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face in your neck to lavish you in more kisses.

Wars were started over smiles less beautiful than hers.

The reminder of his reviews about you flourished in your mind, prompting you to pull his head away from your neck.

"So, you're James B? This whole time?"

His face bloomed red, a huff leaving him before he nervously licked his lips. "Yeah…"

"Why? Why start leaving them in the first place, why didn't you tell me?"

He shrugged slightly, lifting a hand to trace the lines of your face. "We were at the bar drinking, and some guy nearby pointed to you and said ratings must be higher with you working there. And—I don't know, I guess I was drunk enough to agree and then…it just happened?"

You furrowed your brows at him. "Why not just write in a journal?"

"Trust me, I was already doing that." He laughed softly, his eyes glowing. "I guess, in a weird way, I was telling you how I felt without actually telling you. Stupid, I know."

Warmth started to spread from your chest. "It took us ages to even notice the reviews—we only realised they were there because Dean assumed one was about him."

Bucky tensed under your hands. "Fucking Dean," he muttered.

"…Are you jealous?"

The blush on his cheeks grew, his eyes avoiding yours. "He was always staring at you, and you laughed with him like—like you did with me. I thought there was something goin' on."

Is it bad that him being jealous is turning you on?

"You have nothing to worry about, Dean is a gross womaniser who I only see as an annoying brother." You pushed at Bucky's chest, making him lie on his back as you straddled his hips. You pressed kisses along his chest, your hips slowly rocking against his. "He did tell me he wanted to sleep with me, though."

Bucky's hands grasped your hips harder, his face turning stormy. "I don't wanna hear you talkin' about another guy when you're on top of me, doll." He muttered low.

You leaned in to kiss him, your hips moving faster and drawing gasps out of the both of you—his dick already half hard under you. "You're so hot when you're jealous."

The sound of the front door opening had you both freezing—your former roommate's laughter drifting down the hall.

"Get dressed, lovebirds!" Sam's voice rang out. "We've got fish to fry!"

a/n: thank you to this pic on pinterest that inspired half the plot (i couldn't get the ho to fit into a moodboard 😔)

Manhattan had always been where your heart settled. 

There was just something about stepping off the train at Penn Station or Grand Central that made your lungs seem to work a little easier, like your body had finally realized it could unclench. It was the only place you'd ever been where your mind quieted instead of sped up.

It made your heartbeat slow down, your blood pressure decrease, it triggered your parasympathetic nervous system into calming you down. You felt free.

You'd spent years making your parents stop in the city whenever family trips brought you anywhere remotely close. While Steve wanted Yankees games and Bucky wanted to wander into every record store he could find, you wanted to walk.

The day you got the acceptance letter for Columbia, you squealed, screamed, threw your arms around your brother's neck and then ran down the stairs to jump on the couch and tell your parents. 

You pointed dramatically at the acceptance letter. "I am moving to Manhattan!"

Bucky snorted beside Steve on the couch. "I think even the current Space Mission knows that." He motion to his ear like it hurt from your shriek.

"No, you don't understand." You were already talking too fast. "I get to live there." You looked around the room like someone might still tell you it wasn't real. "I get to wake up there." Another laugh bubbled out of you. "I get to buy groceries there."

Steve chuckled. "Very exciting."

"It is exciting!" You looked back at Bucky. "I get to be one of those people that complains about the subway."

He grinned. "I've never seen anyone so excited about public transportation." He looked at you for a long second. "But I'm happy you are."

Move-in day came faster than anyone was prepared for.

Your entire life somehow fit into cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and two very overstuffed suitcases.

When they helped move you into your freshman dorm, Bucky and Steve were there in tow to carry the heavy things, pick on you, and flirt with girls on your floor. Well, Bucky did. Steve politely talked himself out of having to fake an alibi for Natasha if she ever sniffed out freshmen trying to get at him.

The first year had consisted mostly of Steve reading assembly instructions upside down while Bucky silently took the Allen wrench out of his hands and built the entire bookshelf in twenty minutes.

And then they were there at the end of the year to help you unpack. And back at the beginning of the year, at a different dorm building to help move— you get the picture. 

Three years later, Manhattan had become home in the way only a city that exhausts you every day somehow can.

The city moved so quickly that no one noticed if you were having a bad day.

There was something comforting about being able to disappear into eight million people and somehow feel less alone than you ever had anywhere else.

It was loud, and messy, and busy, but it was home. 

Sirens at two in the morning. The rumble of the subway beneath your lecture hall. Street vendors shouting over one another. The smell of roasted nuts mixing with rain-soaked concrete and coffee that somehow tasted better when it cost six dollars.

Steve and Bucky shared a two-bedroom apartment down in the Financial District. It was exactly what anyone would expect from two men in their twenties.

Reasonably clean, lived in, backbacks slung over a chair, smelling of sandalwood and saffron and a Bath and Body Works candle you gifted them, pretty neat. Except for the coffee mugs. There were always coffee mugs.

Everywhere.

You and Bucky never really talked about what happened prom night. It never… came up, per se. 

Neither of you wanted to touch on the subject that could end up ruining a good thing, so you both just moved on with your lives. 

Birthdays.

Christmases.

Sunday breakfasts.

Study sessions.

Phone calls that started with, "Are you busy?" and ended three hours later.

You stayed exactly what you'd always been.

Best friends. Forever. 

23 blocks apart. 

Halloween in Manhattan wasn't a holiday.

It was a competitive sport.

By seven-thirty that evening, the sidewalks of the Lower East Side were overflowing with pirates ordering espresso martinis, sexy astronauts trying not to break ankles on uneven pavement, and at least four different Spider-Men arguing over whose suit was comic accurate.

Your group squeezed out of the subway station laughing, immediately getting swept into the current of people flowing down St. Marks Place.

It felt like the entire city had decided to meet in one neighborhood.

Music poured out of every open doorway, bass vibrating through the pavement beneath your boots. Someone dressed as Frankenstein was arguing with a traffic cop. Two girls dressed as matching angels were taking photos in the middle of the crosswalk while yellow cabs laid on their horns. Somewhere farther down the street, a saxophone player was somehow making Thriller sound like smooth jazz.

You took a deep breath and the air smelled like cigarettes, perfume, street tacos, pumpkin beer, and roasted peanuts.

"I love this city," you sighed happily. 

Kate snorted beside you, eyeing you up and down before chuckling. "You've literally said that every five minutes since we got off the subway."

"Because every five minutes I find another reason."

Yelena, dressed in what she'd proudly called "the least historically accurate vampire ever conceived," adjusted the fake cape hanging off one shoulder. "Personally," she announced, "I think New York should make Halloween a federal holiday."

"It isn't already?" Dot asked.

Ah, sweet Dot. 

She was in your Intro to Statistics class and definitely pursuing an M.R.S. degree with the first Finance guy she could find. Beautiful head of hair, pretty lips that looked sinful in red lipstick, but not a light inside that house.

If there was ever an award for selling your friend out to get a man, she'd get it. 

Somewhere behind you, a group dressed as the entire cast of Scooby-Doo broke into a drunken rendition of "Mr. Brightside."

The first bar was already packed wall to wall, there had to be two hundred people squeezed inside, every inch of brick wall covered in fake cobwebs and orange lights, the bartender was dressed as Beetlejuice, and someone in a Ghostface costume was singing karaoke with alarming confidence.

You squeezed your way to the bar shoulder-first, turning around ready to ask for Kate's order, only to realize she has pulled a Houdini on your Cowgirl Barbie, and disappeared almost immediately.

"Where'd she go?"

Yelena pointed toward the dance floor. "Found a cowboy."

You watched as Kate somehow convinced the poor man to spin her around, huffing. "It's been thirty seconds."

"Devil works fast, but Kate Bishop is faster." She asked the bartender for two Green Tea Shots, and once the glasses were in front of you, they were instantly downed and substituted, your eyes rolling back in grimace as you hissed at the burn of the alcohol in your throat. "Where's your boytoy?"

"His name is Joaquin, Lena." You corrected, lovingly, a chuckle escaping you as you took a sip of your pina colada that you had ordered with the shots. You pointed at the group playing darts, just in time to see Joaquin turn around, find you, and happily make his way over. 

Joaquin and you met during one of the track events, he ran with Pietro, your friend Wanda's brother. Wanda, who you sat next to in Psych 102 and also shared a dorm room with for two years. 

He was cute, nice, polite, smart, and kind of a charmer…

Even with his dumb joke and wanting to be dressed as… slutty Big Bird. Obnoxious, chest-painted-yellow, borrowed your feather boa, easygoing Joaquin. 

Easy to talk to, easy to laugh with, easy to spend an afternoon wandering through Riverside Park with. The kind of guy who remembered to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and always sent a text making sure you got home safely.

"There she is." He smiled, leaning down to kiss your cheek before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist. "Six blocks and you already found rum."

"It found me," you corrected.

"That's what they all say." He reached over and stole your drink without asking, taking a sip through your straw.

You gasped dramatically. "My piña colada!"

"Our piña colada."

"You've known me for four months."

"I feel like that's long enough to establish communal property."

You scoffed. "You sound like a communist."

"I sound thirsty." He grinned before handing the drink back.

Joaquin slipped his hand into yours absentmindedly, thumb brushing across your knuckles as he listened to Kate and Yelena bicker.

It was sweet, throughtful. The kind of unconscious affection that should've made yout stomach flutter. 

Instead your gaze drifted to the Islanders playing on the TV, and without thinking, you wondered if Bucky was watching. He'd probably have his feet kicked up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one knee, muttering at the television whenever the ref made a bad call.

The thought came so naturally that you almost missed the next thing Dot said.

"Speaking of men," Dot chimed in, sipping the neon-blue cocktail she'd ordered solely because it came with dry ice. "Are Steve and Bucky coming out tonight?"

You looked over, your heart skipping a beat. "No." You sipped your drink. "Steve's out of town with Nat in Budapest with her grandparents. Buck's been working on a contract or something…" You realized you probably knew a little too much about the latter. "Merger something, something…" You shrugged it off. 

Dot pouted dramatically. "That's a shame."

You smiled into your piña colada. "Why?"

She shrugged one shoulder, swirling the straw around her drink. "I think Bucky's cute." Kate's eyes immediately found yours, quick, almost not there at all, then sliding away again. 

"Is he seeing anyone?" The question landed with surprising weight.

You busied yourself adjusting the brim of your pink cowboy hat. "No."

"No girlfriend?"

"Nope."

"No situationship?"

You laughed. "He's not… A situationship kind of guy." 

"I might ask him to coffee."

Kate choked on her vodka soda and Yelena very carefully looked anywhere except your face, trying to change the subject and make conversation with Joaquin. 

You took another sip of your drink before anyone could notice the strange ache settling beneath your ribs.

Beside you, Kate was already looking at Yelena over the rim of her glass. Yelena gave the tiniest shake of her head.

"...I mean, if he's single, I don't really see the harm in asking."

Your attention snapped back. "Hm?"

"Bucky." Dot shrugged. "I think I'm gonna text him. Can I have his number?"

Joaquin looked between all of you. "Who's Bucky?" 

At the same time, you answered Dot with something like "Let me talk to him first before giving his number out, okay?"

Kate answered before anyone else could. "Her brother's best friend." She pointed at you. 

Joaquin nodded. "Oh."

"He practically grew up with us," you added, perhaps a little too quickly. "He's basically family."

The words left your mouth with practiced ease. You'd been saying some version of them for years.

Dot smiled. "Even better."

"Better?"

"That means he's probably already been vetted." Kate's lips pressed into a thin line and Yelena suddenly became intensely interested in the fake cobweb hanging from the ceiling.

Joaquin, blissfully oblivious, laughed. "Honestly, that's a solid endorsement."

You forced a smile. "Yeah."

It was true. Bucky was kind. Patient. Reliable. Funny in that dry, under-his-breath way that snuck up on people.

He remembered birthdays without Facebook reminders. He carried heavy boxes before anyone asked. He made coffee exactly the way everyone liked it. He was, objectively, the sort of man any woman would be more than lucky to date.

You'd always known that.

You just hadn't realized how much it would sting hearing someone else say it out loud.

Kate bumped your shoulder gently.

"So," she announced, loud enough to redirect everyone's attention, "whose terrible idea was it to do a seven-bar crawl?"

One drink became two.

Two became dancing.

Dancing became laughing so hard your stomach hurt because Kate somehow won fifty dollars in a costume contest she hadn't even entered by convincing the DJ she was Barbie and everyone else was simply underdressed.

Joaquin found you every few songs, wrapping an arm around your waist to spin you beneath strings of orange lights before disappearing back toward the dart boards or the beer pong table with Pietro and a growing collection of men dressed as things that had absolutely no business standing next to each other.

At one point he was taking shots with Obi-Wan Kenobi, a banana, and someone whose entire costume was simply a cardboard cutout of the Empire State Building.

You kissed him somewhere between the second and third bar.

Quick.

Easy.

He smiled into it, squeezed your hand, and promised he'd find you after he beat Pietro at pool.

"You won't," Pietro called from behind him.

"I absolutely will."

"You absolutely won't."

Joaquin looked back over his shoulder.

"If I lose, tell my mother I died handsome."

"You'll die dressed like slutty Big Bird."

"A hero's death."

By the fourth bar, your groups had slowly begun to separate without anyone really noticing.

Pietro had made friends with a bachelor party from Boston.

Joaquin disappeared with them after someone challenged him to karaoke.

Kate adopted three girls dressed as the Powerpuff Girls because apparently they all went to Bishop Academy together ten years ago.

Dot vanished every fifteen minutes only to reappear with another free drink she'd sweet-talked out of some finance bro dressed as Patrick Bateman.

You weren't entirely convinced she'd paid for a single cocktail all evening.

Only Yelena remained your constant.

Mostly because she'd decided your level of intoxication required supervision.

"You are doing that thing."

You frowned over the rim of your drink. "What thing?"

She rolled her eyes. "The blink."

"...The blink?"

"You blink slower when you are drunk."

You faked offense. "I do not."

She pointed her hands towards you, case in point. "You just did it."

"I am blinking at a medically appropriate speed."

She hummed. "Mm."

"I am." You shook your head side to side. "Things aren't even slower when I do this like they are when I'm dru-uu-okay, yeah, yeah, I'm drunk." 

You braced yourself on the wall, resting yuor back on the cool tile and sliding all the way down until you sat down on the floor, Yelena crouched in front of you. "Okay, drunkie, time to call your knight in shining armor."

You hiccuped. "He's not dressed as a knight, he's a bird." You pouted, fishing your phone out of your pocket, pressing the button, tapping the screen, and seeing nothing but a black screen staring back at you. 

Dead. 

The pout on your lips deepend, the furrow in between your brows showing. "Here, take my phone." Yelena talked over the music, unlocking her phone and putting it in your hand. "I'll go get you some water." 

She got up from her place on the floor with you and braved the bar crowd as you dialed the all too familiar phone number.

Bucky's Halloween had been considerably less exciting.

And that was exactly how he'd wanted it.

He'd gotten enough texts throughout the week asking if he was going out that he'd eventually stopped answering them altogether.

There had been an invitation from a few guys from work to some rooftop party in Midtown. Another from a college friend involving a warehouse in Brooklyn that, judging from the address, Bucky wasn't entirely convinced was legally allowed to have people inside of it. Steve had called him from the airport to remind him that he was twenty-three and therefore morally obligated to "do something stupid while dressed like something stupid."

Bucky had reminded Steve that he was currently flying across the Atlantic Ocean to spend Halloween with his girlfriend's grandparents.

So, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the apartment was completely his.

And Bucky was having a fucking fantastic night.

He'd changed into sweatpants approximately four minutes after getting home, ordered enough Chinese food for two people with absolutely no intention of sharing it with anyone, cracked open a beer, and claimed the entire couch for himself.

The Islanders were putting up a good fight on TV, his laptop sat open on the coffee table in front of him, illuminating the spreadsheets and financial projections he'd been staring at for the better part of an hour.

SHIELD.

The internship had started that summer, and somewhere along the way, Bucky had gone from fetching coffee and sitting silently in the back of meetings to actually being trusted with things.

Small things, but real things. "Things with numbers attached to them." as you would say. 

"They're important numbers!" He'd whine, nudging your foot off the back of his couch. 

Tonight's particular headache was a contract his team had been going over for the past week.

Merger, acquisition, something involving projected earnings and a frankly offensive number of Excel tabs. He'd explained it to you over coffee two days ago.

You'd listened for approximately thirty seconds before your eyes glazed over. "So, merger something, something?"

Bucky had stared at you. "You didn't understand a single word I just said."

"Not a thing."

That memory made him smile now as he stared at the spreadsheet. A sharp crack from the television pulled his attention away from the smaller screen, his feet, up on the coffee table until this moment, touching the ground so he could sit forward in anticipation. 

"Go, go, go—" The puck was getting closer and closer to the opposing team's goal. "Come on, come on." 

And in true hockey fashion, two guys tackled his player and the puck flew away. "Oh, fuck off." He dropped back against the couch with a groan. "Are you kidding me?" The announcers continued talking like they hadn't personally betrayed him.

Bucky reached for his beer. "Terrible." He took a swing, putting it back on the coffee table and resuming his position with his back on the couch and his feet up, laptop propped on his lap. "Absolutely fucking terrible."

His phone buzzed beside him with pointless notifications from ESPN, a text from Steve with pictures, one of him and Nat ready to deboard the plane, another one of a dish Natasha's grandma made.

you look like shit 💩

Was Bucky's reply.

Steve just hearted it, and sent another picture of Nat flipping him off. He scrolled through his texts, finding ones from you earlier that night. 

You standing in front of a mirror somewhere, dressed head to toe in pink and glitter, one hand on your hip and the other tipping the brim of your cowboy hat.

howdy partner 🤠

Bucky had stared at it for considerably longer than necessary.

nice hat. walker texas ranger called he wants his dignity back ;)

The response from you came with a chuckle. 

you're such a hater

He was about to text Sam, and see what he was up to in D.C. at his law firm internship, when his phone buzzed in his hand.

Unknown Caller ID

He quirked a brow, almost not picking up, and then the call was missed. Just as fast, it rang again. 

Unknown Caller ID

This time he picked up. 

"Hello?" His voice was suspicious, until he heard a soft, muffled sound from the other end of the line. 

"Buck?"

He recognized your voice immediately, even though the bass of the music made it so hard to distinguish your words. He said your name, also confused as to why you didn't call him from your phone. 

Knowing you, you didn't let it charge fully before leaving the house. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Hiccup. "Everyone's busy. Whatcha doin'?"

He chuckled. You were in the middle of a bar and asking him what he was doing? "I'm watching the game. Home. Where are you?"

"On the floor." You shrugged. 

Bucky sighed in response, so lightly you didn't even notice. "What floor, sweetheart?"

You blew a raspberry to the phone. "A tile one. I don't know. It's the bar with that gigantic golden weiner on the wall—"

"You're at the Brass Rod?" Bucky got up immediately, searching his countertop for his keys, "Why the fuck would people abandon you there?!" He tried his best to keep his voice from raising.

The Brass Rod was a bar most frat boys loved, mostly because they could pay off the bouncers and get away with shit they shouldn't be able to. Which was a problem all in itself. 

"Well, Kate found a cowboy, Dot is—" Hiccup. "With Christian Bale," hiccup. "And Yelena perished in the masses trying to get me the magic cure for these tequila sodas."

"So she got lost in a sea of tall people trying to get you water?" You heard the jingle of his keychain and the sound of a door closing. 

"Precisely." You nodded enthusiastically, even though he couldn't see you, which made you groan at the sudden movement, your stomach complaining. "I don't feel so party rockin', Bucky."

His steps took him to the stairwell, and you heard his voice get echo-y. "I'm coming to get you, Barbie. Think you had enough for one night."

He walked out of the main lobby of his building, soft drops of rain falling onto him as it has just started to sprinkle, waving down a cab almost immediately, getting in after someone in a Batman costume stumbled past him with only one shoe.

"So," he said, keeping his voice light, "tell me what's happening around you."

You looked around, everyone was definitely taller when you're sitting on the floor in the corner. "People are drunk drunk. Someone's riding the mechanical bull." Hiccup. 

"Is anyone there with you?" He asked, pulling the phone away from his face slightly to tell the cab driver where to go. 

"A fairy is crying." You scanned the room more. "And someone dressed like a nun just threw up."

He snorted. "...Great."

"It was not holy."

Bucky laughed under his breath. "Stay near the wall."

"I am the wall." For some reason, just hearing his voice made the room stop spinning quite so violently.

"No, sweetheart. Stay beside the wall."

"Oh." You shifted slightly, crossing your legs so no one would step on your pants either. "There."

Bucky nodded. "Good girl." And looked at his watch, then up to the street. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

When he got to the Brass Rod, whose front entrance looked like every bad decision a twenty-one-year-old man had ever made had been condensed into one sticky doorway, Bucky immediately got annoyed at how many preppy douchebags were waiting to go in. 

So he cut the line. The bouncer immediately looked him up and down, hand on his chest. 

"No cutting."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "I'm not here to drink." And stepped forward again. 

"Everybody says that." The bouncer was still not having it. 

"I'm here to pick someone up." He put his hand up to signify your height. "Yea tall, cowgirl Barbie, probably sitting in a corner trying not to puke on your—" He looked inside the bar. "Prestigious floor."

The bouncer looked behind him to the bar, then back at Bucky. "You the boyfriend?"

Bucky huffed, getting more and more impatient by the second. "I'm—"

And was delightfully interrupted by your voice. "Buckyyyyyy!"

You moved past "not so party rockin'" to your very lovey dovey drunk self, lacing your arms around his neck and letting your weight hang onto him. 

His hands went instinctively to your waist to steady you.

The bouncer looked at both of you, and then proceeded to move a couple people inside the bar as you nuzzled your face into Bucky's neck. "You smell good."

Yelena met you both outside, out of breath from apparetnly running after you. "Oh good you're—" and she realized Bucky was there and not Joaquin. "What are you doing here?"

At the same time you said "I called." Bucky responded. "She called me."

"Oh." Yelena's eyes could've bugged out of her head. "Oh."

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your cowboy hat gone, your hair had started the night styled perfectly and was now somewhere between tousled and actively rebelling pink glitter shimmered across your collarbones.

Your lipstick had mostly survived, and for that he was grateful. 

"Oh, you're hammered." Bucky snorted and looked over your head at her. "How much did she drink?"

Yelena began counting on her fingers. "I do not know."

"Helpful."

"She was drinking piña coladas, and then someone bought shots, and then Dot found finance men—"

Bucky groaned internally. "Finance men?" 

You lifted your head from his chest. "I had water."

"You had three sips," Yelena corrected.

You pointed at her. "Three more than zero."

Bucky looked down at you while you smiled proudly. "Okay, Barbie." His hand moved from your waist to your back, rubbing once between your shoulder blades. "Think we're done for the night."

Bucky can fix it.

Bucky will know.

Bucky always answers.

And now, watching you cling to him outside the worst bar in Manhattan while your perfectly nice boyfriend was somewhere across the city dressed as a slutty children's television character, Yelena finally understood.

The problem wasn't that you were in love with Bucky Barnes. The issue wasn't even that he very obviously returned those feelings.

The problem was that neither of you could see it. 

It took Dot approximately forty-five minutes to realize you were gone.

Which, considering she'd spent most of the evening disappearing herself, wasn't exactly surprising.

She resurfaced sometime after one in the morning, pushing her way through the crowd with her hair slightly less perfect than it had been when the night started and another drink in her hand that Yelena was almost certain she hadn't paid for. By then, whatever organization your bar crawl had begun with was completely gone. Pietro had been absorbed into a bachelor party, Joaquin had disappeared somewhere in the general direction of karaoke, and Kate's last known whereabouts involved a cowboy and a group of girls she apparently hadn't seen since middle school.

Yelena had given up.

She was standing near the bar, scrolling through her phone and seriously contemplating whether she was morally obligated to locate all of you before going home, when Dot appeared beside her.

"Where is everyone?"

Yelena glanced up. "Excellent question."

Dot laughed, looking around as if any of you might magically materialize from the crowd. "And where's Barbie?"

Yelena looked back down at her phone. "Bucky came to get her."

That caught Dot's attention. "Bucky?"

Yelena glanced at her again. "Yes."

"Like... Bucky Bucky?"

"How many Buckys do you know?"

Dot ignored that, her brows pulling together slightly as she processed the information. "I thought she'd leave with Joaquin."

"Her phone died, she could only remember Bucky's number, so we— well, she called him." Yelena chuckled, flagging the bartender down for another green tea shot. 

Yelena had been unofficially appointed photographer for most of the night, mostly because she was the only person capable of holding her phone straight after the third bar. 

"Can I borrow your phone? Need tonight's pics for my Stories." 

There were dozens of pictures scattered throughout her camera roll—group photos outside bars, blurry bathroom selfies, Kate dancing with her cowboy, you proudly posing in your Cowgirl Barbie costume, and at least six photos Yelena wanted permanently erased from existence.

"You have thirty seconds."

Dot grinned. "You're an angel."

"I know." Yelena turned back toward the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention while Dot opened the call log, and sent herself Bucky's number, promptly deleting the message from Yelena's phone before opening another chat and sending herself the pictures.

"All done." Dot gave the phone back with a smile, ordering another drink herself.

He peeled the Rangers jersey over his head and tossed it toward the laundry basket before disappearing into his bedroom to change.

The game was back on.

Bucky had managed to avoid the score on his phone, which meant he could pick up more or less where he'd left off, the television illuminating the living room with flashes of white and blue.

The volume was turned down, just low enough that the announcers wouldn't make your undoubtedly developing headache any worse.

He'd changed into gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, his damp hair pushed back from his forehead after he'd run a towel through it.

The smell of Chinese food graced your nostrils as soon as you got out of the bathroom, padding into the living room to see Bucky sitting on the couch with a beer and reheated lo mein. 

And on the coffee table, a plate of it for you, along with some much needed water. 

His white T-shirt practically swallowed you whole, the collar hanging loosely around your neck. The basketball shorts were tied as tightly as they could possibly go and still sat dangerously low on your hips, the fabric reaching nearly to your knees.

You felt more sober now that time passed and you scrubbed your face clean. 

You dropped down onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his, Bucky handing you an egg roll without taking his eyes off of the TV. 

You smiled. "You know me so well."

"Unfortunately." He grumbled, with no real bite behind it. You bit into it happily and Bucky's eyes drifted toward you again.

Just briefly, long enough to watch the way your eyes closed when you took the first bite, but not too long that you caught him in the act.

You settled deeper into the couch, folding one leg beneath yourself while the other pressed comfortably against his. Bucky handed you one of the bottles of water, and you obediently took a sip before reaching immediately for his container of sesame chicken.

You'd look over when his attention was fixed on the television, watching the concentration settle across his features whenever the puck moved down the ice.

He'd glance at you whenever you were distracted by the food, his eyes lingering on the way his T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder before immediately forcing his attention elsewhere.

The game filled the silence for you, commentators speaking low through the television while rain continued to patter against the windows, and you couldn't bring yourself to pay much attention to the puck.

Your eyes kept drifting to Bucky; tracing his side profile, the furrow in his brow, the slope of his nose, the way he gritted his teeth and hissed when the players missed a goal. "What?" Bucky caught you this time. 

Your eyes immediately returned to the television, "Nothing." Faint blush spreading across your cheeks. 

He waited and you could feel him looking at you. "You keep staring at me."

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it off. "I do not."

"You do." He pressed.

"I'm watching the game." You gestured vaguely towards the TV. 

Bucky pointed. "The TV's over there."

"I'm using my peripheral vision." You motioned beside your eyes, turning your gaze back to him with an endeared smile. 

"You're staring directly at my face."

"Maybe you have a big head." Bucky's mouth dropped open. You immediately started laughing.

He mocked offense, "Wow."

"I'm kidding." You angled your body to fully face him. 

"No, no." He took the container of sesame chicken from your lap. "You insulted me in my own home."

"Give me my chicken."

"My chicken." You reached for it and Bucky lifted it away. "Buck."

"Apologize."

"Never." You reached farther. "You got a big ass head."

He moved it again.

You practically climbed over him trying to get it, one hand braced against his shoulder while the other reached uselessly toward the container he'd extended as far away from you as possible.

Somehow, you ended up straddling him as he held the container away from you. One second your laughs meshed together in the atmosphere, and in the next the room got smaller and smaller, until it narrowed down to just your gaze on his. 

Your index and pointer finger timidly touched the plush skin of his lips, tugging the lower lip down and releasing it, and Bucky felt his throat run dry, too mesmerized by you to do anything but watch you do it. Like if he moved too quickly, whatever spell had settled over the two of you might break.

It felt like light years, the amount of time you spent staring into his eyes, then to his lips, then to his eyes again.

You bit your lip, contemplating what you were gonna do next. If that was the thing that would ruin your friendship forever. 

You could always blame it on the tequila. 

Your hands were on his shoulders, and one of his on your waist while the other still held the food away from you, just out of reach. Your palms cradled his face, and just like that, you were eighteen and making out in his car. 

Bucky made a quiet sound of surprise against your mouth before kissing you back, his hand instinctively settling more securely at your waist after he let the container rest at the side table. 

Your fingers curled on the back of his neck as you let your lips roll against his softly, Bucky broke the kiss after a few seconds, delicately catching your wrist. "You're drunk."

You shook your head. "No, I'm not." Your stomach felt funny for reasons other than alcohol now. 

He looked at you almost pleading. 

Please, don't do this to me again. 

"You have a boyfriend." He reminded you weakily.

Your breath caught in your throat before the words spilled out of your mouth. "I know."

The second kiss was deeper, his hands coming to rest on either side of your jaw as he pulled you closer to him, your hips quickly settling into a rhytm all too familiar and at the same time much too foreign on top of him. 

The thin fabric of the shorts you wore did nothing to dampen the friction between your bodies, his bulge growing harder inside of the grey sweats that hung low on his hips. 

His tongue explored your mouth like it missed it, like he missed you. 

Your nails scraped gently at the nape of his neck before moving down his shoulders, and his arms; your right hand squeezing his bicep while your left rested on his chest.

Bucky's dropped to your waist and your thigh, squeezing the supple flesh under the pads of his fingers. Your fingers traced lower, until you found the skin of his abs under his cotton shirt, scratching lightly making his muscles tense under you. 

You pushed the fabric up and up, and up some more, until Bucky's hands left you momentarily to pull it over his head, exposing the plane of his chest to you fully, shifting his hair into messy strands.

His hands returned to you almost immediately, just as your lips did his. You breathed into his mouth like oxygen from him was the only type you'd ever need to keep on living. 

As Bucky's hands trailed up your back dragging heat up your spine along the way, you pulled his shirt over your head with shaky hands. The cool air hit your skin, making your nipples harden, and Bucky's previously ceil blue eyes were now dilated with lust.

The stare made you self conscious for a split second, arms crossing over your chest in an attempt to hide. 

"Don't." Was softly spoken from Bucky's mouth as his hands pulled your arms down, and he leaned forward to nuzzle your pulse point with his nose.

He kissed your neck where it met your chest, down your collarbone, the swell of your breast, until he tugged one nipple with his teeth, making you hiss lightly. 

"Bucky…"

Your voice was sweet and syrupy in a way that intoxicated him more than any tequila shot ever could. He groaned against you as his hand pushed past the waistband of his shorts you wore, keening at the feel of your slick onto his fingers.

You murmured something under your breath at the feel, like his touch was a balm to long suffering. 

Your hips stuttered into his hand, finding clumsy rhythm that had you grinding your clit over the pads of his fingers, blush creeping up your cheeks along with desire as he kept up his actions onto your chest. 

When he took his hand away you pouted, grinding down on him for more friction and feeling the length of him through your clothes. Your manicured fingers found the waistband of his sweats and pushed them down along with his boxers, freeing his leaking bulge from the men confines of fabric. 

Your hand wrapped around the shaft and Bucky stammered out a breath, hands gripping the couch cushins until his knuckles lost color as your found a slow lazy rhythm that had him grinding his teeth. 

Lips found his neck as you stroked him, sucking and biting at the skin light enough to not leave a mark but hard enough to have shivers run down his spine, goosebumps blooming all over his arms.

It took him an embarrasingly long time to realize your were making your way down his neck and sliding off his lap, aiming for the floor, between his legs. 

He stopped you with a hand on your arm and the other on your jaw, "Y-you don't have to—"

You shook your head, letting your eyes flutter closed as you kissed his palm, still continuing your path, "Want to." You voice was meek, barely above a whisper. "Can I?"

Bucky groaned, letting go of you and allowing you to pull his pants the rest of the way down, licking a thick stripe up his length before fully engulfing it in your mouth.

His right hand found your hair, pushing it out of your face as you found a rhythm that felt comfortable. 

The issue was, you always felt comfortable with Bucky.

Not a single second in your entire sentient life of knowing him had his presence made you feel anything but calm. Serene. Safe and confident in your own way that everything would be okay because he was there, no matter what. 

And in Bucky, you caused the same thing. Except his hands got clammy, his suave lines bled into teasing and playing off the fact that he would do anything for you.

The wet sucking noise pulled him from his trance, making his eyes relax and really look at you. 

Bad idea, since he felt the knot in his stomach tightening by the second, growing closer and closer to the edge.

His hips moved back and away from you, warm hands pulling you up once he pulled you off of him with a soft "pop", helping you back on top of him. 

Your hair fell around both your faces like a curtain, and Bucky brushed a strand behind your ear. "Wasn't done." You murmured, breath fanning across his lips. 

He huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, well," he shifted his hips, pulling you to kneel above his lap so he could pull your shorts down. "I was about to be."

You giggled softly and Bucky could've sworn his heart would've burst right there. Your mouth hovered over his as he lined himself up with your entrance, the weeping head of his cock making contact with the hot slick between your legs. 

"You're dripping." He shot you a side smile, dimple showing up briefly on the side of his mouth. 

You blushed, "Don't— fuck— don't tease."

"'M not…" As he pushed in, inch by inch, a mixture of moans and choked out breaths left both of you, until he was buried in you to the hilt, looking into your eyes, glazed over in pleasure, trying his hardest not to embarrass himself by coming too fast. "… so good, so good."

You gave tentative rolls of your hips above him, suddenly so aware of his presence everywhere, in and around you, that your skin felt too hot to be lived in any longer. 

He kissed you again, afraid of saying something that might make you change your mind, a whimper leaving your lips every time his tip pushed on your cervix, rubbing again and again against the spongy spot inside of you that made you feel fireworks going off in your lungs. 

You switched from moving your hips up and down to a more grinding pace, rolling your eyes when your clit rubbed onto his pelvis.

Bucky felt you flutter around him, and laced his left arm around your waist, pushing you to lay against the couch cushions without pulling out, your hair fanning out behind you.

"Bucky— Jesus!" You yelped in surprise, his hips snapping up to yours at newfound depth. "Oh, my God!"

Bucky groaned in satisfaction, squeezing your right thigh higher and tighter around his waist. "Fuck, that's it."

Your eyes rolled back with new waves of pleasure hitting you, feeling Bucky impossibly deep in you, little shocks up your nerves every time he ground his hips into yours. He moaned your name, face buried into your neck, "Need— need you to come, sweetheart." 

“Bucky, please, please, ah!”

His voice was strained, like it took everything inhim to not come inside of you right then and there. "Need you t'come, can't come in you, don't have a— fuck, fuck—"

"Feel so good, Buck, please—" You didn't even know what you were pleading. Pleading for him to make you come? For him to forget he's fucking you raw and just paint your insides white?

Bucky had that effect on you, to make you feel like you oculd fly if you so wished. 

His hips stuttered against yours, bringing your closer and closer to your climax, walls squeezing around him like you never wanted to let him go. 

And you didn't.

His mouth found yours again in a sloppy encounter one would barely classify as a kiss, neither of you in the right mind to do anything but moan into each other. His hand pushed your leg furhter up and his other thumb found your clit, rubbing fast circles on it.

Your moans got increasingly higher pitched as you tried to muffle them with a whimper, biting your own lip.

Bucky kissed the corner of your mouth and tugged the skin with his teeth.