rach barnes

“No idea.” Bucky was all instinct and muscle, pulling on his tactical pants while buttoning his shirt at the same time. “Something’s wrong. It’s a general alert but it’s coming from the lab. Richards is still working down there, right?”

You nodded wordlessly and reached for your shirt but Bucky was already tossing you his leather jacket. “Wear this. It’s faster.”

You slipped it on—barely registering the warm scent of him still clinging to it—and slid off the bed. Your legs were shaky, sore in a delicious way from the night before, but the fear prickling beneath your skin sobered you quick.

Bucky noticed. He paused in front of you, both of you half-dressed, breathless. “Hey,” he said, gently cupping your face with one hand. “You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice caught in your throat. “What if it’s Doom?”

There was so much that Bucky still didn’t know. Things you had been keeping from him. Of course you were worried about Doom, but you were more worried about Bucky finding out the truth. Finding out about the Johnny Storm variant that you were essentially holding hostage down in the lab. Who looked exactly like Steve Rogers. 

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “Then we stop him.”

The words were simple and spoken like a promise, yet they didn’t quench any of the anxiety that consumed your gut.

His fingers skimmed your jaw, tender even in urgency. His eyes—stormy, blue, unwavering—locked onto yours. “I need to say something first.”

You blinked at him, startled by the urgency in his voice. Bucky looked different now. Scared, almost. 

“I love you.”

It spilled out like it had been aching behind his teeth for days. Weeks. Years.

You froze, lips parted. “Bucky—”

“I mean it,” he said, stepping closer, forehead brushing yours. “You don’t have to say it back right now, I just—if everything goes to hell today, I need you to know.”

Your chest clenched. The world was burning outside these walls. And still, this—this felt like the most terrifying, most urgent moment of all.

You surged up and kissed him. Hard. Breathless. Like you might not get the chance again.

When you pulled away, your heart was hammering. “I love you too.”

He stared at you, stunned for just a heartbeat. Then he grinned—boyish and disbelieving.

“Shit,” he whispered. “I think I might be dreaming.”

You swatted his arm. “Get your boots on, Barnes.”

He chuckled under his breath and grabbed your hand, tugging you toward the door. “Come on, trouble. Let’s go save the damn world.”

Hand in hand, you ran down the hallway—heart pounding, adrenaline rising, your jacket flapping open around you as the tower shook again, sirens echoing louder now.

Red light. Chaos. The beginning of the end.

And still, in the middle of it all—his fingers gripping yours like a lifeline.

────✪────

The hallway was chaos.

Yelena nearly collided with you as she burst out of her room, hair tied in a messy knot, a half-zipped combat suit hanging off one shoulder. “What the hell is that noise?” she barked, already strapping knives to her thigh holster.

“Reed,” Bucky called over the alarm. “It’s gotta be Reed.”

Alexei and John rounded the corner seconds later, both scowling and tense. John looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Ava blinked against the flashing lights, her hair still damp from the shower, slipping a bracelet onto her wrist with trembling fingers.

No one was speaking. Not really. Just clipped questions. Glances. Movements dictated by muscle memory and fear.

By the time you all stumbled into the comms room, Reed was already there—standing hunched over the main control panel, a series of holographic projections hovering in the air around him. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, hand trembling as he dragged data points from one display to another.

You pushed past the others to get a better look. The main screen showed an ominous, green, pulsing signal—a massive structure hurtling through Earth’s upper atmosphere. The air in the room turned electric.

“Oh my God,” Ava whispered, her voice small. “Is that—?”

“Doom,” Reed confirmed, without looking up.

The word hit the room like a thunderclap.

“No,” Yelena breathed, shaking her head. “That’s not possible. You said we had time. You said three cycles.”

“I was wrong,” Reed snapped. His voice cracked, raw with panic. “He must have accelerated. Or cloaked his movement. I—I don’t know how he breached the atmosphere without alerting our satellites, but he's already inside Earth's exosphere.”

“How long?” John asked, fists clenched at his sides.

“Thirty minutes,” Reed said. “Maybe less.”

Alexei cursed in Russian under his breath and slammed his palm against the wall. “He’s coming here? To New York?”

“To Central Park,” Reed confirmed grimly, highlighting the trajectory path on the screen. “That’s where he’s going to land.”

“Why Central Park?” you asked, throat dry.

Reed hesitated. “It’s not random. That’s where the multiverse field is thinnest. Where the Nexus convergence is strongest. If he’s going to tear a hole through reality—he’s going to do it there.”

Ava took a sharp breath. “He’s going to rip open the multiverse.”

“And he’s going to do it with an army,” Reed added. “He’s bringing his world to ours.”

No one moved for a second. The silence was heavy. Weighted with something more than fear. This was real now. No longer planning. No longer hypothetical. The end was en route.

“Where’s Sam?” Bucky asked suddenly, his eyes darting around the room.

You turned toward him, swallowing thickly. “He’s with Joaquin. They went to find help.”

“Help?” Yelena frowned. “What help?”

You hesitated for only a breath. “A… sorcerer. Stephen Strange.”

Bucky blinked. “He’s not a sorcerer. He’s a wizard.”

You looked at him with tired eyes. “Same difference.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sound like Sam.”

Despite the dread pooling in your gut, you cracked the smallest smile. Bucky’s was barely there too—flickering and fleeting—but it grounded you both for a second.

Then it was gone. Replaced by focus.

Reed stepped back from the console. “Listen to me. I’m staying here. I’ll coordinate from the tower and monitor Doom’s movements. But someone has to stay behind. Sue and Ava will stay here, defend the Tower if we’re attacked.”

Ava nodded immediately, eyes sharp. “We’ll hold the line.”

Sue, still clutching a datapad in one hand, turned to Reed. Her empty hand came down to her pregnancy bump. She was easily in her third trimester. “If he gets through…”

“He won’t,” Reed said. His voice was softer now. “But if he does—get the hell out of here. Run.”

Her eyes welled for a moment, but she nodded. They kissed—fast, desperate, full of unspoken things. You turned your gaze away out of respect.

“Alright,” Alexei grunted, pulling on his gloves. “What’s the plan?”

Reed pulled up a 3D schematic of Doom’s fortress, now plummeting toward Manhattan. “He’s bringing tech. Drones. Cyborgs. We don’t know the scale of the attack, so we need to prepare for anything.”

John cracked his knuckles, stepping closer to the screen. “I say we meet him head-on.”

“You would say that,” Yelena muttered, arms crossed tight.

Bucky’s voice cut through the brewing tension. “He wants domination. He wants chaos. He’s counting on us being scattered, being scared.”

Alexei nodded. “So let’s not give it to him.”

You stepped forward. “We go in together. New Avengers. Fantastic Four. Unified.”

Reed tapped a final command. The screen went red.

Doom’s fortress had entered the atmosphere.

“Then suit up,” Bucky said grimly. “Because the end of the world starts now.”

────✪────

The Sanctum Sanctorum stood like a sentinel on Bleecker Street—silent, ominous, its windows darkened against the glowing sky. The air outside was thick with pressure, the kind that hummed just before a storm. And though neither Sam Wilson nor Joaquin Torres could see the atmospheric breach forming high above Manhattan, they felt it. The same way birds knew to flee before a hurricane hit.

They exchanged a look before stepping up to the iron-forged doors.

Joaquin raised his fist to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles could make contact.

“Creepy,” he muttered.

The silence inside was even heavier. Dust hung in golden shafts of moonlight that spilled through cracks in the curtains. Ancient tomes littered the floors and bookshelves, their spines cracked open, mid-study. Magical relics hummed faintly in the corners of the room. It looked like a mind unraveling.

And at the heart of it all stood Stephen Strange, silhouetted in the shadow of the grand staircase. His cape hung on a nearby hook, his tunic more rumpled than regal. A far cry from the man that Sam once knew. He turned slowly to face them.

“Thought I felt a disturbance,” he said coolly, voice rough with exhaustion. “Should’ve known it’d be you, Wilson.”

“Nice to see you too, Doc,” Sam replied, stepping forward with careful ease. “Sorry to barge in, but we need your help.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Strange said, already turning his back.

“Don’t do what anymore?” Joaquin asked.

“Magic,” Strange muttered. “I’m retired.”

Sam blinked. “Since when?”

“Since Peter.”

There was a silence so deep it felt like gravity itself paused.

Sam frowned. “Who’s Peter?”

Strange just looked at him. And said nothing.

“Exactly,” he murmured.

Joaquin shifted uneasily. “That’s… ominous as hell.”

Sam stepped forward, voice soft but certain. “Okay, I get it. You lost something. Someone. You made a call, and it cost you more than you expected.”

Strange’s jaw flexed.

“But this?” Sam continued, gesturing toward the window, where the clouds began to ripple. “This is bigger. Doom is here. Not metaphorically—literally. We need you, Stephen.”

Silence again.

Then: “You came all the way here for a miracle?”

“No,” Sam said. “We came for a friend.”

Strange turned his head slightly, his expression shifting. For a moment—just a flicker—his walls lowered. The weariness in his shoulders became more visible than ever before.

“Three cycles,” Sam added. “That’s what Reed says. Maybe less. Whatever Doom’s planning—he’s doing it fast. You don’t owe us anything, but if you still care about the multiverse, about Earth—”

“I care,” Strange interrupted quietly. “I care more than you know.”

His eyes burned as he finally turned to face them again.

“I’m not the same man I was,” Strange warned. “I can’t fix this. But I can help you fight.”

Sam let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “That’s all we need.”

Strange walked toward a bookshelf and retrieved the Sling Ring, slipping it over his fingers with a slowness that felt ceremonial. Then he turned to Sam and Joaquin with a quiet, almost sardonic smile.

“Where are we headed?”

“Avengers Tower,” Joaquin answered. “And you’re gonna wanna buckle up.”

Strange raised a brow. “Oh, I don’t buckle up anymore.”

With a smooth wave of his hand, a swirling golden portal opened in the centre of the room—casting eerie light on the faded wood and cobwebbed corners.

“Let’s save the world, gentlemen,” Strange said. “Again.”

────✪────

Avengers Tower never truly slept. Even at night, it pulsed—quiet and humming—like the heart of something enormous. Monitors flickered. Holograms blinked in standby. Beyond the glass walls, New York’s lights shimmered in the dark, unaware of the storm about to break above them.

Sue Storm stood at the window, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her eyes drifted across the skyline, but her thoughts were miles away.

Behind her, Ava Starr was slouched in a chair, boots up on the console desk, flipping through an energy scan on a tablet. She glanced at Sue, who hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

“You keep pacing like that, you’ll wear a groove in the floor.”

Sue didn’t look away. “Something feels wrong.”

“Something is wrong. Our planet’s about to get invaded by a guy in an iron mask who wants to own reality.”

Sue shook her head. “Not Doom. Something inside.”

Ava raised an eyebrow and sat up straighter. She set the tablet down and scanned the console. “Tower diagnostics are clean. Power grid’s stable, cloaking is holding, perimeter drones are—”

The lights flickered.

Once. Then again.

Then cut out entirely.

“Okay,” Ava said sharply, rising to her feet.

A heartbeat of total darkness.

Then a low, seismic hum rolled through the bones of the building—metal contracting, locks releasing. Sue’s face turned toward the sound instinctively. Her hand went to her stomach. Her other hand glowed faintly as she began forming an invisible shield.

“That came from Reed’s wing,” Sue murmured. “The holding lab.”

Ava didn’t wait. “Let’s move.”

They sprinted down the corridor as emergency red lighting flickered to life overhead, casting long shadows that warped and shifted with every step. As they turned a corner, a burst of flame seared through the wall ahead, blasting molten steel into the air.

Sue threw up a barrier in time to shield them from the brunt of the heat, but the edges of Ava’s jacket still curled and blackened from the blast.

They stopped just short of the containment wing.

And that’s when they saw him.

Johnny Storm.

Or the man who wore his face.

He was shirtless, his skin glowing like coal under a bellows, his eyes molten and filled with fury. He looked like Steve Rogers, but twisted—burning. A ghost in flame.

The fire danced across his body as he turned toward them, shoulders heaving.

“You,” he spat. “You people locked me in a cage.”

Sue’s heart clenched. Her brother—her real Johnny—was still gone. And yet this man had his voice, his cadence. Everything, twisted through fire and resentment.

“Who…are you?” Sue asked carefully, stepping forward with her shield still glowing. “You look familiar.”

He laughed bitterly. “You must be this universe’s Sue, right? Well don’t pretend you don’t know what Reed, and that other girl had planned—”

Ava moved beside her, tense. “We didn’t know anything. I swear… but you need to calm down.”

“Don’t act so innocent!” Johnny barked. “You all knew. Reed and the girl watched me through the glass like I was some wild animal. Some thing.”

His flames flared, licking at the ceiling.

“You think I didn’t hear the whispers? ‘Don’t tell Bucky.’ ‘Hide him from the others.’ What, was I just another secret you shoved into a box because it made things easier?”

Sue’s voice was trembling now. Recognition. “Johnny… but… you’re not—our Johnny.”

“No,” he said, eyes hard. “I’m something else. Something you should have never caged.”

He stepped toward them.

“Back off,” Ava warned. Her arms glitched slightly, phase energy shimmering around her hands. “Don’t test me.”

“You think you’re ready to fight me?” he growled. “You think you know fire? I’ve had entire worlds burn under my hands.”

He turned toward the side terminal, dragging a scorched fist through it until the interface sparked to life. Flickering blue holo-maps revealed the deployment logs—coordinates of the New Avengers moving toward Central Park.

A cruel smile pulled at the edge of Johnny’s lips.

“Well,” he said. “Looks like everyone’s playing hero while I was treated like a weapon.”

He turned back, more flames cracking across his chest.

“You all made me into this.”

And with a roar of heat and flame, Johnny launched upward, blasting through the reinforced ceiling. Screaming alarms followed, and a trail of fire streaked through the hole he left behind.

Ava stared after him, jaw clenched. “He’s heading for Central Park.”

Sue looked at the damage—at the burning corridor—and the molten wreckage of what had once been her husband’s lab.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said quietly.

Ava pulled out her comm and activated the emergency frequency.

“We need backup.”

The tower shook—just once, like a breath held too long, released all at once in a tremor of steel and glass.

Sue and Ava barely had time to brace before the power grid collapsed entirely. The emergency lights that flickered red a moment ago now blinked out. Darkness surged in every corridor.

And then came the noise.

A high-pitched, mechanical whirring—like thousands of gears spinning in synchronized fury. Metal scraped against metal. Doors groaned on their hinges. Somewhere above them, glass shattered.

“They’re here,” Sue whispered.

Ava didn’t wait.

With a buzz of energy, she phased out of sight, becoming nothing more than a shimmer. Sue, beside her, turned invisible, bending light around her like water.

The tower was now a warzone.

They moved together like specters—Ava slipping through walls, Sue floating silent on soundless feet. They flanked the main corridor that led to the server room just as the first of Doom’s drones began pouring in through the broken windows above.

They weren’t just machines.

These things looked alive.

Spindly and long-limbed, with black metal plating that seemed to shift and flex like skin. Their heads twisted at unnatural angles, glowing red eyes scanning every inch of the hallway. Some crawled on all fours. Others hovered, their limbs clicking into jagged blades.

Sue raised her hands, still cloaked in invisibility.

The first drone crossed the threshold—and was immediately blasted backward by an invisible wave of force that sent it crashing into the far wall. Its chest crumpled on impact.

The others paused.

Just for a second.

Then they surged.

Ava reappeared mid-sprint, phasing through one of the drones like a knife through fog. She spun, her body vibrating as she punched through its core, and phased out before it could explode in a shower of sparks.

Sue dropped her cloak and threw up a forcefield wall, catching two more drones in its arc. They smashed against it with a horrifying screech, arms clawing and scraping as they tried to rip through.

“They’re heading for the lower vaults!” Ava yelled.

“They’re here for the tech. Or Reed.”

They both knew what that meant.

Doom had come prepared.

A drone managed to flank from the ceiling, dropping behind Sue. Its arm transformed into a pike of humming energy and lunged—

Only to pass right through her.

She’d vanished.

A split second later, the air behind it compressed and exploded, Sue’s invisible shield slamming it into the floor so hard the drone splintered apart like glass.

Ava and Sue regrouped behind a half-collapsed pillar as more drones swarmed in.

“We’re outnumbered,” Ava said, panting. “We need backup now.”

Sue was already on her comm. “Avengers Tower to all available allies—this is Sue Storm. We are under siege. I repeat—under siege. We need—”

A tremor cut her off. The tower lurched, one of the upper levels crumbling as a giant drone—twice the size of the others—burst through the stairwell. It slammed its fists into the wall as it roared toward them, metal shrieking.

Ava phased again and disappeared.

Sue stood her ground.

The drone charged her.

Sue’s body turned invisible again—just as the machine made contact. It lunged straight through where she’d stood. Behind it, Sue dropped her cloak mid-air and launched a wave of concussive force that split the floor in two. The drone went crashing down into the darkness below.

Just then, portals began tearing open in the room.

A golden ripple of magic split through the air and widened—

And Doctor Stephen Strange stepped through.

Coat billowing. Eyes glowing.

Behind him: Sam Wilson, shield in hand. Joaquin, wings already deployed and blaster armed.

“God, finally,” Ava muttered, reappearing beside Sue. “Took you long enough.”

“Apologies,” Strange said smoothly, flicking his fingers in a spiral as a rune lit beneath his feet. “Took some convincing.”

Sam didn’t wait. He launched into the air, shield ricocheting off two drones before slamming into the third. Joaquin followed, diving through the corridor with practiced ease.

Strange raised a hand and opened a dimensional rift, sucking three incoming drones into what looked like an empty, frozen wasteland.

“You good?” he asked Sue.

“For now.”

Ava tossed a look toward the ruined hallway. “Tower’s wrecked. But we’re still standing.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

They regrouped in the flickering light, bodies bruised, breaths heavy. Sue’s hands trembled slightly as she lowered her shield.

“Reed was holding a Johnny Storm variant hostage,” she said. “He broke out. He’s heading for the others.”

Sam froze. “What?”

“He’s vulnerable, and if Doom gets to him, we’re in trouble,” Ava added.

Smoke drifted lazily through the halls of Avengers Tower, where broken beams and shattered consoles sparked and sizzled. The walls bore the jagged marks of clawed drones. Power was out entirely now, and the only light came from the soft golden glow of Strange’s lingering magic and the occasional flicker of emergency backup in the lab floors.

The air stung with the smell of burnt wiring and scorched metal.

Sue pressed her hand to her ribs where the edge of a drone had caught her — not deep, but enough to throb. Ava sat slouched nearby on a pile of debris, blood on her knuckles, a dark smear on her temple. She hadn’t noticed. Neither had Sue.

They were both staring at the empty holding room.

The door hung broken on its hinges. The wall nearby was scorched from where Johnny had unleashed his fire to escape.

“He was so angry,” Sue finally said, voice raw. “So angry. And not just at Reed. At me. At all of us.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. “I’ve never seen anyone that… volatile. He looked like he wanted to burn the world down.”

“And he looked like Steve,” Sue whispered.

Sam, standing nearby with a hand braced on the wall, turned slowly to face them. “Wait. What?”

Sue met his eyes. “The variant. Reed brought in a Johnny Storm from another universe. He escaped tonight. He… he looks exactly like Steve Rogers.”

Sam’s face drained of color. “You’re serious?”

“Identical,” Ava confirmed. “Voice. Face. Everything.”

Joaquin let out a low whistle from across the room, where he was using a fire extinguisher to smother one of the last burning drones. “That’s messed up.”

Sam leaned back against the wall and ran a hand down his face. “And Bucky doesn’t know.”

“No,” Sue said. “It didn’t seemt that way. God, I can’t believe Reed was hiding this from me… from all of us.”

Strange folded his arms, cloak still swirling faintly with residual magic. “We need to consider the emotional fallout. If Barnes sees that variant in the middle of a fight—”

“He’ll fall apart,” Sam muttered. “Steve was everything to him.”

“He already fell apart once,” Ava said softly. “When Doom showed up. And he looked like Tony Stark.”

Sam’s shoulders straightened. “So what the hell are we walking into?”

Sue met his gaze, expression tight and somber. “Doom’s fortress is landing in Central Park. Johnny’s headed straight for them. And I don’t think he’s coming to help.”

They all stood there a moment, breathing in the weight of it.

The air was colder now.

The Avengers Tower — what was left of it — creaked with distant strain as if even the building knew something worse was coming.

“We need to regroup,” Strange finally said. “Tell Reed. Prep the injured. This battle isn’t over.”

“No,” Sam said, pushing off the wall and gripping his shield tightly. “It’s just getting started.”

────✪────

The sharp blare of sirens gave way to a low, guttural hum. Not mechanical, not man-made—but something older. Cosmic. The kind of sound that didn’t just crawl under your skin but rattled the very marrow of your bones.

You stood near Bucky in the centre of Central Park, wind teasing the loose strands of hair at your temple. The air was unnaturally still, the city beyond eerily quiet. It wasn’t just the emergency broadcasts or the barricades. It was the collective inhale of a world bracing for impact.

Behind you, Yelena scanned the skyline, her jaw tight. John patted his pockets for a cigarette he didn’t have. Alexei was shouting at civilians who hadn't cleared out in time, his voice booming with that unmistakable Russian bark. Ava phased in and out of visibility like a ghost pacing the battlefield.

Bucky was a step ahead, expression drawn tight. His vibranium fingers flexed once, then stilled. You felt his tension radiate outward, palpable and heavy. You watched him inhale, deep and quiet, the weight of leadership etched into the set of his shoulders.

Then the sky broke.

It wasn’t thunder.

It was more like the sound of glass—the sky itself—shattering in slow motion.

Above the city, clouds split down the middle, revealing something vast and metallic descending through the tear: Doom’s ship. The shape was jagged and towering, a floating fortress of iron and emeralds, with spires that crackled with violet electricity. As it lowered into view, the sun dimmed behind it. Shadows pooled across the grass like ink.

"Oh, hell," John muttered, eyes wide.

A platform detached from the belly of the vessel and began to descend. On it stood the figure in green and steel, shrouded in a cloak that flapped violently in the wind.

Victor Von Doom.

"This is it," Bucky murmured under his breath.

Reed Richards appeared through a shimmering portal behind you, accompanied by Ben Grimm and Sue. Reed took a single, controlled breath before stepping forward.

"You came early," he called up to the descending figure.

Doom stopped as the platform reached the park's surface, his voice made metallic by the mask but unmistakably amused.

"Surprise," Doom said. "I’ve always appreciated the dramatic."

"Three cycles early," Reed said, jaw tense.

"The element of surprise is a tactic you never mastered."

Bucky stepped closer to the front, rifle slung across his back. "What do you want?"

Doom tilted his head, as if the answer was obvious.

"Domination. Saturation. Collapse. The multiverse will fold beneath me like parchment."

John scoffed. "You rehearse that in the mirror, buddy?"

Doom lifted a hand, and in an instant, dozens of mechanical creatures dropped from the skies—drones and cybernetic soldiers, each one sparking and hissing, eyes glowing with molten gold. They landed hard, shaking the ground.

All hell broke loose.

Bucky moved like a phantom, sliding between drones with lethal efficiency. He didn’t call out orders—he didn’t need to. You all moved as one. Ava was a blur of light and speed, phasing through bots to disable their cores. John ripped apart metal limbs like paper. Yelena’s widow bites flashed like fireflies, and Alexei waded through the chaos with fists that crushed steel.

Reed and Ben protected the medics at the edge of the battlefield. Ben took a missile to the chest and barely flinched.

And still, Bucky kept glancing back.

Looking for you.

Until the sky burned.

A streak of fire carved across the morning light. Another figure dropped from the clouds, flames spiraling around him, arms glowing orange-hot.

You knew before he landed.

Johnny Storm. The variant.

He touched down hard, sending a blast wave of scorched air in every direction. When the flames flickered down, you saw the anger on his face. The betrayal.

His eyes scanned the field—and locked on you.

"You left me to rot," Johnny growled. "You knew I was locked up. It wasn’t just Reed."

Bucky turned, rifle raised.

Then he saw the face.

Everything stopped.

His grip loosened. The rifle dropped to his side.

He took a single step forward.

"Steve?"

Your heart cracked.

“Bucky, no.”

But he kept going, transfixed.

“Steve?”

Johnny’s body lit up again, fire engulfing him like armour. He smiled, reverent and hurt all at once.

“Who the hell is Steve?”

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @icantpickfandom

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“No idea.” Bucky was all instinct and muscle, pulling on his tactical pants while buttoning his shirt at the same time. “Something’s wrong. It’s a general alert but it’s coming from the lab. Richards is still working down there, right?”

You nodded wordlessly and reached for your shirt but Bucky was already tossing you his leather jacket. “Wear this. It’s faster.”

You slipped it on—barely registering the warm scent of him still clinging to it—and slid off the bed. Your legs were shaky, sore in a delicious way from the night before, but the fear prickling beneath your skin sobered you quick.

Bucky noticed. He paused in front of you, both of you half-dressed, breathless. “Hey,” he said, gently cupping your face with one hand. “You okay?”

You nodded, but your voice caught in your throat. “What if it’s Doom?”

There was so much that Bucky still didn’t know. Things you had been keeping from him. Of course you were worried about Doom, but you were more worried about Bucky finding out the truth. Finding out about the Johnny Storm variant that you were essentially holding hostage down in the lab. Who looked exactly like Steve Rogers. 

Bucky’s jaw tensed. “Then we stop him.”

The words were simple and spoken like a promise, yet they didn’t quench any of the anxiety that consumed your gut.

His fingers skimmed your jaw, tender even in urgency. His eyes—stormy, blue, unwavering—locked onto yours. “I need to say something first.”

You blinked at him, startled by the urgency in his voice. Bucky looked different now. Scared, almost. 

“I love you.”

It spilled out like it had been aching behind his teeth for days. Weeks. Years.

You froze, lips parted. “Bucky—”

“I mean it,” he said, stepping closer, forehead brushing yours. “You don’t have to say it back right now, I just—if everything goes to hell today, I need you to know.”

Your chest clenched. The world was burning outside these walls. And still, this—this felt like the most terrifying, most urgent moment of all.

You surged up and kissed him. Hard. Breathless. Like you might not get the chance again.

When you pulled away, your heart was hammering. “I love you too.”

He stared at you, stunned for just a heartbeat. Then he grinned—boyish and disbelieving.

“Shit,” he whispered. “I think I might be dreaming.”

You swatted his arm. “Get your boots on, Barnes.”

He chuckled under his breath and grabbed your hand, tugging you toward the door. “Come on, trouble. Let’s go save the damn world.”

Hand in hand, you ran down the hallway—heart pounding, adrenaline rising, your jacket flapping open around you as the tower shook again, sirens echoing louder now.

Red light. Chaos. The beginning of the end.

And still, in the middle of it all—his fingers gripping yours like a lifeline.

────✪────

The hallway was chaos.

Yelena nearly collided with you as she burst out of her room, hair tied in a messy knot, a half-zipped combat suit hanging off one shoulder. “What the hell is that noise?” she barked, already strapping knives to her thigh holster.

“Reed,” Bucky called over the alarm. “It’s gotta be Reed.”

Alexei and John rounded the corner seconds later, both scowling and tense. John looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Ava blinked against the flashing lights, her hair still damp from the shower, slipping a bracelet onto her wrist with trembling fingers.

No one was speaking. Not really. Just clipped questions. Glances. Movements dictated by muscle memory and fear.

By the time you all stumbled into the comms room, Reed was already there—standing hunched over the main control panel, a series of holographic projections hovering in the air around him. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, hand trembling as he dragged data points from one display to another.

You pushed past the others to get a better look. The main screen showed an ominous, green, pulsing signal—a massive structure hurtling through Earth’s upper atmosphere. The air in the room turned electric.

“Oh my God,” Ava whispered, her voice small. “Is that—?”

“Doom,” Reed confirmed, without looking up.

The word hit the room like a thunderclap.

“No,” Yelena breathed, shaking her head. “That’s not possible. You said we had time. You said three cycles.”

“I was wrong,” Reed snapped. His voice cracked, raw with panic. “He must have accelerated. Or cloaked his movement. I—I don’t know how he breached the atmosphere without alerting our satellites, but he's already inside Earth's exosphere.”

“How long?” John asked, fists clenched at his sides.

“Thirty minutes,” Reed said. “Maybe less.”

Alexei cursed in Russian under his breath and slammed his palm against the wall. “He’s coming here? To New York?”

“To Central Park,” Reed confirmed grimly, highlighting the trajectory path on the screen. “That’s where he’s going to land.”

“Why Central Park?” you asked, throat dry.

Reed hesitated. “It’s not random. That’s where the multiverse field is thinnest. Where the Nexus convergence is strongest. If he’s going to tear a hole through reality—he’s going to do it there.”

Ava took a sharp breath. “He’s going to rip open the multiverse.”

“And he’s going to do it with an army,” Reed added. “He’s bringing his world to ours.”

No one moved for a second. The silence was heavy. Weighted with something more than fear. This was real now. No longer planning. No longer hypothetical. The end was en route.

“Where’s Sam?” Bucky asked suddenly, his eyes darting around the room.

You turned toward him, swallowing thickly. “He’s with Joaquin. They went to find help.”

“Help?” Yelena frowned. “What help?”

You hesitated for only a breath. “A… sorcerer. Stephen Strange.”

Bucky blinked. “He’s not a sorcerer. He’s a wizard.”

You looked at him with tired eyes. “Same difference.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sound like Sam.”

Despite the dread pooling in your gut, you cracked the smallest smile. Bucky’s was barely there too—flickering and fleeting—but it grounded you both for a second.

Then it was gone. Replaced by focus.

Reed stepped back from the console. “Listen to me. I’m staying here. I’ll coordinate from the tower and monitor Doom’s movements. But someone has to stay behind. Sue and Ava will stay here, defend the Tower if we’re attacked.”

Ava nodded immediately, eyes sharp. “We’ll hold the line.”

Sue, still clutching a datapad in one hand, turned to Reed. Her empty hand came down to her pregnancy bump. She was easily in her third trimester. “If he gets through…”

“He won’t,” Reed said. His voice was softer now. “But if he does—get the hell out of here. Run.”

Her eyes welled for a moment, but she nodded. They kissed—fast, desperate, full of unspoken things. You turned your gaze away out of respect.

“Alright,” Alexei grunted, pulling on his gloves. “What’s the plan?”

Reed pulled up a 3D schematic of Doom’s fortress, now plummeting toward Manhattan. “He’s bringing tech. Drones. Cyborgs. We don’t know the scale of the attack, so we need to prepare for anything.”

John cracked his knuckles, stepping closer to the screen. “I say we meet him head-on.”

“You would say that,” Yelena muttered, arms crossed tight.

Bucky’s voice cut through the brewing tension. “He wants domination. He wants chaos. He’s counting on us being scattered, being scared.”

Alexei nodded. “So let’s not give it to him.”

You stepped forward. “We go in together. New Avengers. Fantastic Four. Unified.”

Reed tapped a final command. The screen went red.

Doom’s fortress had entered the atmosphere.

“Then suit up,” Bucky said grimly. “Because the end of the world starts now.”

────✪────

The Sanctum Sanctorum stood like a sentinel on Bleecker Street—silent, ominous, its windows darkened against the glowing sky. The air outside was thick with pressure, the kind that hummed just before a storm. And though neither Sam Wilson nor Joaquin Torres could see the atmospheric breach forming high above Manhattan, they felt it. The same way birds knew to flee before a hurricane hit.

They exchanged a look before stepping up to the iron-forged doors.

Joaquin raised his fist to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles could make contact.

“Creepy,” he muttered.

The silence inside was even heavier. Dust hung in golden shafts of moonlight that spilled through cracks in the curtains. Ancient tomes littered the floors and bookshelves, their spines cracked open, mid-study. Magical relics hummed faintly in the corners of the room. It looked like a mind unraveling.

And at the heart of it all stood Stephen Strange, silhouetted in the shadow of the grand staircase. His cape hung on a nearby hook, his tunic more rumpled than regal. A far cry from the man that Sam once knew. He turned slowly to face them.

“Thought I felt a disturbance,” he said coolly, voice rough with exhaustion. “Should’ve known it’d be you, Wilson.”

“Nice to see you too, Doc,” Sam replied, stepping forward with careful ease. “Sorry to barge in, but we need your help.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Strange said, already turning his back.

“Don’t do what anymore?” Joaquin asked.

“Magic,” Strange muttered. “I’m retired.”

Sam blinked. “Since when?”

“Since Peter.”

There was a silence so deep it felt like gravity itself paused.

Sam frowned. “Who’s Peter?”

Strange just looked at him. And said nothing.

“Exactly,” he murmured.

Joaquin shifted uneasily. “That’s… ominous as hell.”

Sam stepped forward, voice soft but certain. “Okay, I get it. You lost something. Someone. You made a call, and it cost you more than you expected.”

Strange’s jaw flexed.

“But this?” Sam continued, gesturing toward the window, where the clouds began to ripple. “This is bigger. Doom is here. Not metaphorically—literally. We need you, Stephen.”

Silence again.

Then: “You came all the way here for a miracle?”

“No,” Sam said. “We came for a friend.”

Strange turned his head slightly, his expression shifting. For a moment—just a flicker—his walls lowered. The weariness in his shoulders became more visible than ever before.

“Three cycles,” Sam added. “That’s what Reed says. Maybe less. Whatever Doom’s planning—he’s doing it fast. You don’t owe us anything, but if you still care about the multiverse, about Earth—”

“I care,” Strange interrupted quietly. “I care more than you know.”

His eyes burned as he finally turned to face them again.

“I’m not the same man I was,” Strange warned. “I can’t fix this. But I can help you fight.”

Sam let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “That’s all we need.”

Strange walked toward a bookshelf and retrieved the Sling Ring, slipping it over his fingers with a slowness that felt ceremonial. Then he turned to Sam and Joaquin with a quiet, almost sardonic smile.

“Where are we headed?”

“Avengers Tower,” Joaquin answered. “And you’re gonna wanna buckle up.”

Strange raised a brow. “Oh, I don’t buckle up anymore.”

With a smooth wave of his hand, a swirling golden portal opened in the centre of the room—casting eerie light on the faded wood and cobwebbed corners.

“Let’s save the world, gentlemen,” Strange said. “Again.”

────✪────

Avengers Tower never truly slept. Even at night, it pulsed—quiet and humming—like the heart of something enormous. Monitors flickered. Holograms blinked in standby. Beyond the glass walls, New York’s lights shimmered in the dark, unaware of the storm about to break above them.

Sue Storm stood at the window, arms folded tightly over her chest. Her eyes drifted across the skyline, but her thoughts were miles away.

Behind her, Ava Starr was slouched in a chair, boots up on the console desk, flipping through an energy scan on a tablet. She glanced at Sue, who hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

“You keep pacing like that, you’ll wear a groove in the floor.”

Sue didn’t look away. “Something feels wrong.”

“Something is wrong. Our planet’s about to get invaded by a guy in an iron mask who wants to own reality.”

Sue shook her head. “Not Doom. Something inside.”

Ava raised an eyebrow and sat up straighter. She set the tablet down and scanned the console. “Tower diagnostics are clean. Power grid’s stable, cloaking is holding, perimeter drones are—”

The lights flickered.

Once. Then again.

Then cut out entirely.

“Okay,” Ava said sharply, rising to her feet.

A heartbeat of total darkness.

Then a low, seismic hum rolled through the bones of the building—metal contracting, locks releasing. Sue’s face turned toward the sound instinctively. Her hand went to her stomach. Her other hand glowed faintly as she began forming an invisible shield.

“That came from Reed’s wing,” Sue murmured. “The holding lab.”

Ava didn’t wait. “Let’s move.”

They sprinted down the corridor as emergency red lighting flickered to life overhead, casting long shadows that warped and shifted with every step. As they turned a corner, a burst of flame seared through the wall ahead, blasting molten steel into the air.

Sue threw up a barrier in time to shield them from the brunt of the heat, but the edges of Ava’s jacket still curled and blackened from the blast.

They stopped just short of the containment wing.

And that’s when they saw him.

Johnny Storm.

Or the man who wore his face.

He was shirtless, his skin glowing like coal under a bellows, his eyes molten and filled with fury. He looked like Steve Rogers, but twisted—burning. A ghost in flame.

The fire danced across his body as he turned toward them, shoulders heaving.

“You,” he spat. “You people locked me in a cage.”

Sue’s heart clenched. Her brother—her real Johnny—was still gone. And yet this man had his voice, his cadence. Everything, twisted through fire and resentment.

“Who…are you?” Sue asked carefully, stepping forward with her shield still glowing. “You look familiar.”

He laughed bitterly. “You must be this universe’s Sue, right? Well don’t pretend you don’t know what Reed, and that other girl had planned—”

Ava moved beside her, tense. “We didn’t know anything. I swear… but you need to calm down.”

“Don’t act so innocent!” Johnny barked. “You all knew. Reed and the girl watched me through the glass like I was some wild animal. Some thing.”

His flames flared, licking at the ceiling.

“You think I didn’t hear the whispers? ‘Don’t tell Bucky.’ ‘Hide him from the others.’ What, was I just another secret you shoved into a box because it made things easier?”

Sue’s voice was trembling now. Recognition. “Johnny… but… you’re not—our Johnny.”

“No,” he said, eyes hard. “I’m something else. Something you should have never caged.”

He stepped toward them.

“Back off,” Ava warned. Her arms glitched slightly, phase energy shimmering around her hands. “Don’t test me.”

“You think you’re ready to fight me?” he growled. “You think you know fire? I’ve had entire worlds burn under my hands.”

He turned toward the side terminal, dragging a scorched fist through it until the interface sparked to life. Flickering blue holo-maps revealed the deployment logs—coordinates of the New Avengers moving toward Central Park.

A cruel smile pulled at the edge of Johnny’s lips.

“Well,” he said. “Looks like everyone’s playing hero while I was treated like a weapon.”

He turned back, more flames cracking across his chest.

“You all made me into this.”

And with a roar of heat and flame, Johnny launched upward, blasting through the reinforced ceiling. Screaming alarms followed, and a trail of fire streaked through the hole he left behind.

Ava stared after him, jaw clenched. “He’s heading for Central Park.”

Sue looked at the damage—at the burning corridor—and the molten wreckage of what had once been her husband’s lab.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said quietly.

Ava pulled out her comm and activated the emergency frequency.

“We need backup.”

The tower shook—just once, like a breath held too long, released all at once in a tremor of steel and glass.

Sue and Ava barely had time to brace before the power grid collapsed entirely. The emergency lights that flickered red a moment ago now blinked out. Darkness surged in every corridor.

And then came the noise.

A high-pitched, mechanical whirring—like thousands of gears spinning in synchronized fury. Metal scraped against metal. Doors groaned on their hinges. Somewhere above them, glass shattered.

“They’re here,” Sue whispered.

Ava didn’t wait.

With a buzz of energy, she phased out of sight, becoming nothing more than a shimmer. Sue, beside her, turned invisible, bending light around her like water.

The tower was now a warzone.

They moved together like specters—Ava slipping through walls, Sue floating silent on soundless feet. They flanked the main corridor that led to the server room just as the first of Doom’s drones began pouring in through the broken windows above.

They weren’t just machines.

These things looked alive.

Spindly and long-limbed, with black metal plating that seemed to shift and flex like skin. Their heads twisted at unnatural angles, glowing red eyes scanning every inch of the hallway. Some crawled on all fours. Others hovered, their limbs clicking into jagged blades.

Sue raised her hands, still cloaked in invisibility.

The first drone crossed the threshold—and was immediately blasted backward by an invisible wave of force that sent it crashing into the far wall. Its chest crumpled on impact.

The others paused.

Just for a second.

Then they surged.

Ava reappeared mid-sprint, phasing through one of the drones like a knife through fog. She spun, her body vibrating as she punched through its core, and phased out before it could explode in a shower of sparks.

Sue dropped her cloak and threw up a forcefield wall, catching two more drones in its arc. They smashed against it with a horrifying screech, arms clawing and scraping as they tried to rip through.

“They’re heading for the lower vaults!” Ava yelled.

“They’re here for the tech. Or Reed.”

They both knew what that meant.

Doom had come prepared.

A drone managed to flank from the ceiling, dropping behind Sue. Its arm transformed into a pike of humming energy and lunged—

Only to pass right through her.

She’d vanished.

A split second later, the air behind it compressed and exploded, Sue’s invisible shield slamming it into the floor so hard the drone splintered apart like glass.

Ava and Sue regrouped behind a half-collapsed pillar as more drones swarmed in.

“We’re outnumbered,” Ava said, panting. “We need backup now.”

Sue was already on her comm. “Avengers Tower to all available allies—this is Sue Storm. We are under siege. I repeat—under siege. We need—”

A tremor cut her off. The tower lurched, one of the upper levels crumbling as a giant drone—twice the size of the others—burst through the stairwell. It slammed its fists into the wall as it roared toward them, metal shrieking.

Ava phased again and disappeared.

Sue stood her ground.

The drone charged her.

Sue’s body turned invisible again—just as the machine made contact. It lunged straight through where she’d stood. Behind it, Sue dropped her cloak mid-air and launched a wave of concussive force that split the floor in two. The drone went crashing down into the darkness below.

Just then, portals began tearing open in the room.

A golden ripple of magic split through the air and widened—

And Doctor Stephen Strange stepped through.

Coat billowing. Eyes glowing.

Behind him: Sam Wilson, shield in hand. Joaquin, wings already deployed and blaster armed.

“God, finally,” Ava muttered, reappearing beside Sue. “Took you long enough.”

“Apologies,” Strange said smoothly, flicking his fingers in a spiral as a rune lit beneath his feet. “Took some convincing.”

Sam didn’t wait. He launched into the air, shield ricocheting off two drones before slamming into the third. Joaquin followed, diving through the corridor with practiced ease.

Strange raised a hand and opened a dimensional rift, sucking three incoming drones into what looked like an empty, frozen wasteland.

“You good?” he asked Sue.

“For now.”

Ava tossed a look toward the ruined hallway. “Tower’s wrecked. But we’re still standing.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

They regrouped in the flickering light, bodies bruised, breaths heavy. Sue’s hands trembled slightly as she lowered her shield.

“Reed was holding a Johnny Storm variant hostage,” she said. “He broke out. He’s heading for the others.”

Sam froze. “What?”

“He’s vulnerable, and if Doom gets to him, we’re in trouble,” Ava added.

Smoke drifted lazily through the halls of Avengers Tower, where broken beams and shattered consoles sparked and sizzled. The walls bore the jagged marks of clawed drones. Power was out entirely now, and the only light came from the soft golden glow of Strange’s lingering magic and the occasional flicker of emergency backup in the lab floors.

The air stung with the smell of burnt wiring and scorched metal.

Sue pressed her hand to her ribs where the edge of a drone had caught her — not deep, but enough to throb. Ava sat slouched nearby on a pile of debris, blood on her knuckles, a dark smear on her temple. She hadn’t noticed. Neither had Sue.

They were both staring at the empty holding room.

The door hung broken on its hinges. The wall nearby was scorched from where Johnny had unleashed his fire to escape.

“He was so angry,” Sue finally said, voice raw. “So angry. And not just at Reed. At me. At all of us.”

Ava’s jaw tightened. “I’ve never seen anyone that… volatile. He looked like he wanted to burn the world down.”

“And he looked like Steve,” Sue whispered.

Sam, standing nearby with a hand braced on the wall, turned slowly to face them. “Wait. What?”

Sue met his eyes. “The variant. Reed brought in a Johnny Storm from another universe. He escaped tonight. He… he looks exactly like Steve Rogers.”

Sam’s face drained of color. “You’re serious?”

“Identical,” Ava confirmed. “Voice. Face. Everything.”

Joaquin let out a low whistle from across the room, where he was using a fire extinguisher to smother one of the last burning drones. “That’s messed up.”

Sam leaned back against the wall and ran a hand down his face. “And Bucky doesn’t know.”

“No,” Sue said. “It didn’t seemt that way. God, I can’t believe Reed was hiding this from me… from all of us.”

Strange folded his arms, cloak still swirling faintly with residual magic. “We need to consider the emotional fallout. If Barnes sees that variant in the middle of a fight—”

“He’ll fall apart,” Sam muttered. “Steve was everything to him.”

“He already fell apart once,” Ava said softly. “When Doom showed up. And he looked like Tony Stark.”

Sam’s shoulders straightened. “So what the hell are we walking into?”

Sue met his gaze, expression tight and somber. “Doom’s fortress is landing in Central Park. Johnny’s headed straight for them. And I don’t think he’s coming to help.”

They all stood there a moment, breathing in the weight of it.

The air was colder now.

The Avengers Tower — what was left of it — creaked with distant strain as if even the building knew something worse was coming.

“We need to regroup,” Strange finally said. “Tell Reed. Prep the injured. This battle isn’t over.”

“No,” Sam said, pushing off the wall and gripping his shield tightly. “It’s just getting started.”

────✪────

The sharp blare of sirens gave way to a low, guttural hum. Not mechanical, not man-made—but something older. Cosmic. The kind of sound that didn’t just crawl under your skin but rattled the very marrow of your bones.

You stood near Bucky in the centre of Central Park, wind teasing the loose strands of hair at your temple. The air was unnaturally still, the city beyond eerily quiet. It wasn’t just the emergency broadcasts or the barricades. It was the collective inhale of a world bracing for impact.

Behind you, Yelena scanned the skyline, her jaw tight. John patted his pockets for a cigarette he didn’t have. Alexei was shouting at civilians who hadn't cleared out in time, his voice booming with that unmistakable Russian bark. Ava phased in and out of visibility like a ghost pacing the battlefield.

Bucky was a step ahead, expression drawn tight. His vibranium fingers flexed once, then stilled. You felt his tension radiate outward, palpable and heavy. You watched him inhale, deep and quiet, the weight of leadership etched into the set of his shoulders.

Then the sky broke.

It wasn’t thunder.

It was more like the sound of glass—the sky itself—shattering in slow motion.

Above the city, clouds split down the middle, revealing something vast and metallic descending through the tear: Doom’s ship. The shape was jagged and towering, a floating fortress of iron and emeralds, with spires that crackled with violet electricity. As it lowered into view, the sun dimmed behind it. Shadows pooled across the grass like ink.

"Oh, hell," John muttered, eyes wide.

A platform detached from the belly of the vessel and began to descend. On it stood the figure in green and steel, shrouded in a cloak that flapped violently in the wind.

Victor Von Doom.

"This is it," Bucky murmured under his breath.

Reed Richards appeared through a shimmering portal behind you, accompanied by Ben Grimm and Sue. Reed took a single, controlled breath before stepping forward.

"You came early," he called up to the descending figure.

Doom stopped as the platform reached the park's surface, his voice made metallic by the mask but unmistakably amused.

"Surprise," Doom said. "I’ve always appreciated the dramatic."

"Three cycles early," Reed said, jaw tense.

"The element of surprise is a tactic you never mastered."

Bucky stepped closer to the front, rifle slung across his back. "What do you want?"

Doom tilted his head, as if the answer was obvious.

"Domination. Saturation. Collapse. The multiverse will fold beneath me like parchment."

John scoffed. "You rehearse that in the mirror, buddy?"

Doom lifted a hand, and in an instant, dozens of mechanical creatures dropped from the skies—drones and cybernetic soldiers, each one sparking and hissing, eyes glowing with molten gold. They landed hard, shaking the ground.

All hell broke loose.

Bucky moved like a phantom, sliding between drones with lethal efficiency. He didn’t call out orders—he didn’t need to. You all moved as one. Ava was a blur of light and speed, phasing through bots to disable their cores. John ripped apart metal limbs like paper. Yelena’s widow bites flashed like fireflies, and Alexei waded through the chaos with fists that crushed steel.

Reed and Ben protected the medics at the edge of the battlefield. Ben took a missile to the chest and barely flinched.

And still, Bucky kept glancing back.

Looking for you.

Until the sky burned.

A streak of fire carved across the morning light. Another figure dropped from the clouds, flames spiraling around him, arms glowing orange-hot.

You knew before he landed.

Johnny Storm. The variant.

He touched down hard, sending a blast wave of scorched air in every direction. When the flames flickered down, you saw the anger on his face. The betrayal.

His eyes scanned the field—and locked on you.

"You left me to rot," Johnny growled. "You knew I was locked up. It wasn’t just Reed."

Bucky turned, rifle raised.

Then he saw the face.

Everything stopped.

His grip loosened. The rifle dropped to his side.

He took a single step forward.

"Steve?"

Your heart cracked.

“Bucky, no.”

But he kept going, transfixed.

“Steve?”

Johnny’s body lit up again, fire engulfing him like armour. He smiled, reverent and hurt all at once.

“Who the hell is Steve?”

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @icantpickfandom

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Maybe it was the floral scent of your shampoo that followed you around, or the way you treated everyone, even the sleazy CIA bosses, with such politeness and generosity. It was endearing, really. You were different – and you weren’t trying to stand out from the crowd, in fact, you often hated the attention – but Javier found you naturally enchanting.

Honestly, you had Javier acting in a way that he wasn’t exactly proud of. When he woke up in the morning, his first thought was you. It was always: How would you wear your hair today? What would you wear to work? A skirt, or that pantsuit you seemed to favour? Would you sit opposite him and Steve in the canteen for dinner, like usual, or would you disappear for an hour and come back with delicious, hot coffee for the Search Bloc boys? And the erratic thoughts – the way you consumed his mind at any given opportunity – didn’t change much by Javi’s bed time, either.

He’d be laying down and staring aimlessly at the ceiling, his musing’s about you racing a million miles per hour. He’d wonder if you were in bed yet, and whether or not you were an early bird or a night owl. He’d wonder what you ate for dinner; were you someone who could cook for the masses, or did you typically order take-out like he does? When he thought about your night routine, Javier let his imagination run wild. Vivid thoughts about you in the shower, or touching yourself under the covers. Javier could only wish he was there to show you how real pleasure felt.

And each day was the same— it was always you, you, you. His yearning grew stronger and stronger Javier knew he was reaching his breaking point.

Steve caught him staring at you from across the office, longingly, his dark chocolate eyes gazing in your direction. He was entranced by you. Steve cleared his throat, breaking Javier’s captivation.

“Have you even spoken to her?” Steve sighed, trying his hardest to suppress a teasing smirk. “In all my years of knowing you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so smitten.”

Annoyed, Javier took a deep breath and furrowed his eyebrows, transposing his body and making an attempt to concentrate on his paperwork.

“Now and again.” Javier muttered – but that was barely true. He had, however, overheard the intellectual discussions you often shared with your superiors, and he found the way you articulated yourself to be so damn sexy.

“Just ask her out already,” Steve rolled his eyes. “If you keep fawning over her like this, she’s going to catch on eventually. She’s a smart girl.”

That much was true. Javier could already feel the thumping in his head – the stress induced idea of actually having to approach you and say ‘hi’. It’s not that Javier lacked confidence or charisma, but when he first laid eyes on you, he swore that something in the universe shifted, because he became a different man. You were hardly even friends, but he could argue that you’d already changed him for the better.

He never much understood love, let alone believed in it. His parents were divorced, he saw the way Steve and Connie would argue and bicker all the time. Having something serious was simply never on the cards for Javi. He was fine with the flings and the one night stands, but your mere presence had him pining for more. Maybe a white suburban house with a picket fence and a little dog.

Javier’s own thoughts made him flinch slightly. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t who he was.

Or maybe it was the version of him he’d been repressing for all these years.

Javi’s silence spoke volumes, so Steve spoke up again.

“It’s Valentine’s day on Monday. Go home for the weekend, plan something nice for her,” Steve offered. “It’s the perfect opportunity.”

The fact Valentine’s day was just around the corner did feel predestined, and that didn’t go unnoticed by Javi.

“I don’t…” Javier fumbled nervously, placing two fingers onto his temples and rubbing them in circles as he made an attempt to gather his thoughts. “I’ve never really done anything for Valentine’s, I guess. Always viewed it as a corporate marketing scheme created by capitalists to profit on society’s relationships, and well, lack thereof.”

Steve’s smile dropped into a frown, unamusement written all over his face.

“Real dark, Javi.” Steve sighed, shaking his head incredulously. “You don’t have to do anything serious— hell, ya’ll ain’t even committed to each other, at least, not yet. Maybe just some chocolate and flowers. Chicks dig chocolate and flowers.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what chicks dig,” Javier chuckled, starting to feel somewhat settled with the idea. He was Javier Peña, he could pull any girl he wanted. But still, he couldn’t afford to mess this up. This was you, after all. Reaching over to grab the pack of cigarettes from his desk drawer, he stood up. “I’ll figure something out.”

Javi grabbed his jacket, pulling it over his shoulders. With an unlit cigarette balanced between his soft, pink lips, he signalled goodbye to Steve.

“‘Thanks for your help Steve, I don’t know what I’d do without you!’“ Steve called after the brown eyed agent, mimicking him slightly.

“Yeah, sure,” Javier scoffed, turning back to Steve. “You’re my hero, Murphy.”

One of Javi’s more toxic traits was thinking he could do anything and everything without any help. He couldn’t sleep that night, and as always, he was tossing and turning in bed, thinking about you, but this time, he was faced with a more pressing matter: how to seduce you.

He could take you to a bar and then walk you back to your place, invite himself in and finally get the chance to explore your body the way he’d desired – no. Javier stopped himself mid-thought, his cheeks flushing with heat. He almost felt disappointed in himself for even thinking of such a possibility. He wanted you so bad, but the first move had to be something special. Something unique and memorable. Something you could one day tell the grandkids about. – no. Not again. Javi’s mind was ruthless and he was thinking irrationally. Maybe he was overthinking. He explored all of his options, but none of them seemed good enough for someone as special as you.

He turned to face his alarm clock, the red numbers flashing and reading a frightful 3 a.m. and groaned out loud, burying his face into a pillow. He had to get some sleep.

He grabbed the TV remote from his bedside drawer and turned on his TV, a salesman that he somewhat recognised flashing up on screen. By the look of it, he was selling last minute V-day gifts. Diamond rings and pearl necklaces. Javi sighed, he’d barely held a conversation with you, how would he ever be able to guess the things you’d like?

“--And these Swarovski crystal earrings are sure to show your partner how loved they are, but what’s more perfect than pairing them with a traditional love letter to show sentiment and gratitude.” The salesman smirked before presenting a pink, heart etched letter writing set priced at a whopping 80 dollars. Javier squinted at the TV, thinking he must be lost in some kind of fever dream. 80 dollars for some scented pieces of paper and a fluffy red pen? He shut off the television set and pondered for a moment, feeling somewhat connected to the idea of the salesman.

A love letter.

Javier had spent so long worrying about approaching you in person… What if he could just write down his feelings? Would that be any better?

That’s when it hit him. Javier practically bolted out of bed and dived over to the desk in the corner of his bedroom. It was a small make-shift office he’d created so he could get paperwork done out of office hours. He tore out some lined paper from a notebook and grabbed the nearest pen. Now he just had to articulate his feelings into words.

Javi exhaled. He felt like the blankness of the paper was staring at him, intimidating him. Maybe he’d feel better once he jotted some thoughts down.

He started simple, journaling your name on the top of the page slowly and carefully, making it look as neat as possible. Javier was the type of person to scrawl in strictly block capitals and not care about misspellings, but if he was really doing this, he at least had to try.

I think you’re pretty.

Javi cringed and scribbled out the sentence, afraid he sounded like some desperate high schooler trying to score his very first girlfriend. All he had to do was be honest, right? He could do that…

I don’t really know what I’m doing, or how to start this, but I have some things I want to say and I’ve wanted to say them for a while now. I’m not normally one to back down from confrontation, and I’m usually fine at talking to new people, but with you… it’s different. And I don’t know why. I don’t know much, actually. All I know is that you make me feel things that I’ve never felt before.

Javi paused. Was he coming off too strong?

No, the point of this was to just come clean and write down the raw, unfiltered feelings he had for you. He had to at least do that.

I know you joined the DEA only recently, and I hope you’ve settled in… but there’s something I’ve noticed about you. You’re different from the others. Kind hearted and generous. Shit, I hope you don’t think I’m a creep. But – I like this about you, and I’m glad you’re on our team. No one really talks about it, but we need someone like you here.

I’ve never been a good guy, and I’m sure every CIA agent and woman in the department will be able to tell you about my reputation, but when I’m around you… I want to do better. Be better. Maybe it sounds pathetic, but I constantly find myself trying to grab your attention, praying you at least acknowledge me.

I wouldn’t even count on you knowing my name.

Anyways – I guess if you wanna find out who I am, you can meet me in the parking lot after hours. Let’s say… 8pm? I know it’s Valentine’s day and I’d like to take you out, maybe for a drink or dinner. Whatever you’d like best. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.

I guess I’m just a love sick fool.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Your secret admirer.

Javier dropped the pen on the desk and narrowed his eyes. He’d done it. He’d written the letter and actually, he didn’t hate it at all. He folded it over twice and put it in the pocket of his pants – the one’s he’d planned on wearing to work this coming Monday.

Javier yawned and smiled to himself with contentment. Now he could finally rest.

Javier managed to get some sleep that night, albeit a solid three hours. He woke up from the beams of golden sunlight seeping through the blinds.

Saturday morning was errand day; he had to do laundry and send off some things at the post office, but no matter what task was at hand, his every thought was consumed by you. He anticipated Valentine’s day because at least then, he could get some closure.

Meanwhile, you were spending your Saturday very differently to Javier.

You were sitting on the sofa nursing a glass of red wine, surrounded by the comfort of your five cats, when the phone began to ring – and you knew exactly who it was.

To no surprise of your own, it was your mother, groaning and gruelling about your current relationship status… or lack thereof. You’d been alone for a while now, at least since you moved to Colombia for work. Your job was a difficult one and honestly, not many people would be able to understand how time consuming it truly is. No one, apart from maybe someone who is in the same sector of work as you. And between the slimy CIA agents and the Carrillo’s Search Bloc guys, you didn’t really have many options. It was okay though, at least you supposed. You had moved to Colombia to work, not to find love, and that was what you’d tell your mother over and over again. But still, the quiet prospect of finding love and some dreamboat hunk whisking you away was more than a tolerable thought.

Your mom’s phone call was sure to be expected, especially during this time of the year. She seemed to get particularly antsy. Another year and still no grandkids. But you weren’t in a hurry. You’d had your fair share of heartbreaks and already been divorced once. You were convinced that this time, love would find you. You weren’t prepared to go out seeking it because, in your experience, that approach had never ended well.

So, you spent the weekend doing pretty much nothing, and awaiting the inevitable bitterness Valentine’s day would give you.

Little did you know, a few blocks away, Agent Javier Peña was working his ass off, trying to find last minute dinner reservations and thinking of a somewhat thoughtful gift for you. He was working his damn hardest to impress you, because in his mind, you only deserve the best of the best. You were worth your weight in gold.

On Monday the 14th of February, Javier made sure to get to the office earlier than everybody else. It was still dark outside, but thankfully, Noonan had entrusted keys to the DEA quarters to Javi and Steve, meaning technically, Javi could have 24/7 access to the office if he so wished. He turned on the artificial yellow lights that hung above everyone’s desk and reached into his jean clad pocket, taking out the love letter he’d written in the early hours of Saturday morning. His hands started to feel clammy as the nerves raced through him. This was actually happening, and Javier felt so apprehensive.

Nevertheless, he placed the folded up letter on your desk and padded over to his own desk. There was nothing much else to do now, apart from get a headstart on his paperwork and wait for his colleagues to begin filing into the office.

At 9 a.m., he caught you sauntering into the office, dressed casually for the day ahead. You yawned and rubbed your tired eyes before slumping down in your office chair and— that was it. That was the moment. Javier’s eyes followed your movements intricately as he watched with intent, analysing the way you picked up the love letter and read it.

You seemed to have stiffened up and looked somewhat in disbelief. Your fingers traced the scrawling of his handwriting as you read it not once, not twice, but three times.

It was the last part that had you stuck in a loop.

I guess if you wanna find out who I am, you can meet me in the parking lot after hours. Let’s say… 8pm? I know it’s Valentine’s day and I’d like to take you out, maybe for a drink or dinner. Whatever you’d like best. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.

I guess I’m just a love sick fool.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Your secret admirer.

Your heart was racing and every possibility hammered through your brain. You even couldn’t help but consider whether or not this was a practical joke – but why would any of the grown adults you worked with do such a thing? Most of them were married anyway. Your eyes darted around the office as you tried to work out who dropped the letter on your desk this morning. Carrillo was married to Lucia, so, despite his innocent flirtations, he had to be ruled out. Chris was married to Anna, Butch was married to Karina, Roger was engaged to Susan, Steve was with Connie and… your eyes fell on Javier Peña. He was, perhaps, the only singleton of the office, but you were certainly aware of his reputation and honestly, you figured there was more of a chance that a goldfish wrote you the letter, let alone him.

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair and turned away from the handsome agent. All you could do was get through the day and meet this secret admirer of yours in the parking lot, tonight.

The day dragged just as much for you, as it did for Javi. He worried – what if you didn’t show tonight in the parking lot? What if you had somehow figured out he was behind the letter and felt absolutely repulsed by the idea of him wanting to pursue you?

You disappeared again at lunch time, and kept busy during the rest of the day, focusing on Escobar’s many tax evasions and trying to trace his mishaps back to a single location. The whole office was buzzing, and even Steve felt as though he was inches away from finding a lead to Escobar. Javier would usually be right on the case too, his eagerness undeniable, but of course, his mind was elsewhere.

Now, you and your colleagues would usually leave the office at around 5 p.m., and Javier realised that may have caused an issue. If it was only you and him waiting alone in the office until 8 p.m., well, that would have essentially exposed Javi. But thankfully, due to the bustling of the case, agents were filing out of the office slower than usual and by 7:50 p.m., there were still a dozen working.

Javier stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Well guys, that’s me done for the evening. Good luck everyone and thanks for working so hard today.”

Everyone mumbled their farewell to Javier, apart from you, who hadn’t even noticed him leave. The clock was slowly approaching 8 p.m. and you felt yourself begin to grow anxious.

Javier was already waiting in the empty parking lot, and the sky was a velvety blue-black. The cool February air hung a chill over Javier’s head and so, while he waited, he lit a cigarette, hoping a couple of smokes would reduce his stress.

At 8 p.m. on the dot, you exited the office and made your way to the parking lot. It was freezing, and you rubbed your hands over your bare arms, wishing you’d brought a coat to work this morning. In the distance, leaning against a Chevy truck, you saw the silhouette of a man. Golden embers danced around as he seemed to be smoking a cigarette. As you approached him, you realised you could smell the tobacco before you could even pin who exactly he was.

It wasn’t until you were only inches away you realised it was Javier Peña. You exhaled quietly, feeling somewhat relieved, and tapped him on the back.

“Hey,” you said quietly, offering the agent a polite smile. But he jumped and flinched and his soft brown eyes grew wide, like he was astonished to see you. Honestly, he was surprised to see you, there was no telling if you’d even show. But you had. You were here. Standing before him, looking up at him with the prettiest doe-like eyes, and talking to him. “I thought you took off.” you admitted sheepishly before leaning against his truck, next to him.

You figured he was just having a cigarette before he left to go home. It made sense. Javier stood still, staring at you, and his mouth began to feel dry. He couldn’t find words.

You stood there in silence, peering around the still empty parking lot, trying to locate your secret admirer. Surely he hadn’t stood you up… maybe it was a practical joke after all.

You shivered uncomfortably, and Javi furrowed his eyebrows. “You’re cold?” he spoke up eventually. He offered you a cigarette but you refused, shaking your head. “Here,” Javi said, taking off his black leather jacket and swinginging it over your shoulders.

“But now you’ll be cold.” you frowned.

“I’ll be fine.” Javier promised, his hand lingering on your arm for just a second too long. Only a smile could illustrate your gratitude, and damn, Javi would give anything to be able to see that smile every day of his life.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” you sighed, shuffling your feet across the gravel beneath you awkwardly. Javier pouted slightly in bewilderment but stayed quiet, wanting to hear what you had to say. “I’m waiting on someone, I think. Well it’s dumb actually. But this morning, when I got into work, someone left a love letter on my desk. It was signed for me and everything, and at the end, it was like ‘meet me in the parking lot at 8 p.m. if you want to find out who I am’. So here I am,” you checked the time on your wrist watch. “At 8:05 and still no sign of this mystery guy.”

“I–” Javier started but you cut him off.

“You know, the letter was actually really sweet. It was so authentic and, God, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. I feel like a little kid again, like I have this new and exciting crush on a guy who wrote me a love letter, and I don’t even know who it was,” you rambled. “Do you think that’s pathetic?” you sighed, but didn’t give Javi a chance to reply. “I just… it feels like something out of a fairytale. It’s new and exciting and I just…”

“...It was me,” Javier blurted out, and those were three words that for sure shut you up. You froze and looked up at the agent. “I wrote you the letter, I put it on your desk and… it was me. All of it.”

You took a step back from Javi, contemplating his words. “It was you?” you asked incredulously. Javier Peña was the playboy, he was the guy your female co-workers warned you to stay away from. There was just no way he’d written something so sentimental. You wanted to curse yourself for making such assumptions about him, because in all truth, there was no reason for him to lie about this.

“It was me,” Javier replied shyly as he tried to weigh up your reaction, but your face was unreadable. “Are you disappointed?”

Then your face softened and you shook your head, placing both of your hands on his biceps and holding him. “No, no, oh my gosh… no… not at all. I just didn’t pin you as the type of guy to–”

“--I get it.” Javier said, ducking his head down in shame. He was foolish to think that a girl like you would ever fall for a guy like him.

“Oh no Javi, that’s not at all what I meant,” you said softly, bringing the palms of your hands to his chest and resting them on there. You’d noticed that the pink button down shirt he’d chosen to don today was incredibly soft under your fingers, and you traced comforting circles into his torso. “I’m sorry,” you apologised. “I guess I’m just taken aback. I mean this is you. You’re you and I’m me and never in a million years did I think you’d have any kind of interest in someone like me.”

“I got you something.” Javi announced, drawing away from you and opening the passenger side seat of his car door.

Taking out a small parcel, Javier passed you the package awkwardly. It was wrapped in pale pink paper with glitter red hearts dotted around on the paper. You felt your cheeks heat up as you took it from him, your fingers brushing against his and a spike of electricity running through your veins. The wrapping was perfectly imperfect, and it warmed your heart more so than you’d care to admit. You figured that maybe Javier had never wrapped a gift in his entire life – judging by his skill (or lack thereof), but you weren’t one to judge.

“Oh Javi, you didn’t have to get me anything,” you said, biting your lip anxiously. “I didn’t get you anything. Hell, I didn't even expect to have a valentine this year.”

Javi scratched the back of his neck and looked down at the floor with anticipation. “I’ve never really done Valentines day,” he admitted sheepishly. “I uh– don’t really know if I’ve done the right thing but–”

You tore open the paper and your eyes widened when you saw what he’d gotten you. It was very traditional, but at the same time, so completely pure.

“Candy hearts.” you said out loud, smiling at the sentiment.

“Sugar free candy hearts,” Javier corrected and you raised your eyebrows. He pointed to your arm, where your diabetic medical ID had been tattooed. “I noticed.”

You were speechless. “You– how did you– when did you—” you were so astounded by his perceptiveness. “This is so sweet and so thoughtful,” you smiled graciously. “Thank you, Javi.”

Javier nodded, already feeling at ease that you hadn’t yet been creeped out by him. His heart melted in his chest over the endearing shortening of his name that you’d given him.

“I got us dinner reservations but we don’t have to go, if you don’t want to.”

You were beaming. “You are such a gentleman, you know that?” you giggled. “But I uh– I don’t know how I feel about going to a bustling restaurant on Valentine’s day. I get a little anxious with big crowds, you know?”

“I get you,” Javi nodded. “Well uh, how about we go on a drive and we can grab take-out. Just chill. I’d love to learn more about you.”

Usually the thought of getting into a car so late at night with a man you’d barely spoken to would be a big NO, but these were different circumstances.

You slid into Javi’s car and belted yourself in.

Javier passed you his CD collection and urged you to pick one. When you settled on the Rumours album by Fleetwood Mac, you noticed the way Javier grinned excitedly.

“It’s my favourite album,” he explained.

“No shit, mine too!” you laughed.

Javi drove around town for a good 50 minutes, and watched you with so much adoration. You never really went out much at night, knowing just how dangerous Colombia could be. It simply wasn’t safe enough to be alone, but driving around with Javi… you felt safe. You felt protected, and that was a priceless emotion that no man had ever made you feel. You gazed out at the pretty lights that lit up the colourful streets. It was so wonderful.

You and Javi finally settled on grabbing a pizza, and he discovered that you both favoured an ultimate meat-feast over anything with veggies or fruit. You and Javi were more alike than you’d ever even considered, and so you both shared the pizza, feeding each other bites as you sat overlooking Medellin singing Fleetwood Mac.

He was funny too, he had a dry sense of humour but nevertheless, it made you buckle and laugh harder than you’d laughed in a long time. You were telling him stories of back home and he was listening to every single one carefully, fondly listening to the way you spoke of each detail and never wanting to forget.

The leftover pizza had gotten cold and was now discarded on the dashboard of Javi’s truck. Both of your seatbelts had been abandoned and now you were both closer than ever. You were giggling into his chest due to the immediate proximity being in his car. Javi wrapped his arm around you and twirled with the tips of your hair, relishing the way it felt between his fingers.

“Oh shoot,” you giggled. “Javi look, it’s past midnight, and we have work tomorrow.” Your tone was serious but then you could help but burst out into a fit of giggles again.

“Let me take you home.” Javi offered, placing his large hand over your thigh.

“Okay.” you giggled, adjusting yourself back into the passenger seat and buckling up.

Javi kept one hand on your thigh during the entire ride home, and honestly, a big part of you wished the night would never end.

Javier walked you right to your doorstep, hand-in-hand. Sure, he’d see you again at work in a few hours but still, he didn’t want to say goodbye. He’d had such a perfect night.

Normally, after dates, Javier would swindle himself into his one night stand’s apartment and fuck them until the early hours of the morning, and then proceed to never call them again – but he felt no reason to do that with you. At least, not yet. He wanted to savour every moment with you and get to know you, the real you. He wanted to take you out on dates and have movie nights with you. He wanted to learn about your family and what your ambitions were. He wanted to know everything about you, and he wanted to overshare. With you, he felt like he could be vulnerable. He felt like he had nothing to hide.

“I guess this is it,” You hummed, swaying your hips, your house keys jammed into your door. All it would take is a twist of the lock and you’d be inside. “You can come in if you like…”

Javier ached to let himself in and see your place. He wondered how you furnish your living room and he speculated what colour your bedroom walls were. He imagined you were quite artsy, after learning about your creative streak and passion for writing, poetry and music. You were a helluva good singer, that’s for sure.

“I’d love to come in,” Javi sighed. “But it’s late and you should get some rest. I had a wonderful time tonight.”

You smiled. “I really didn’t know what to expect,” you admitted sheepishly. “But I don’t think I’ll ever forget tonight. I hope we can do it again sometime.”

Javier beamed ecstatically. “Yeah, me too,” he grinned. “Maybe we can make plans for this weekend?”

“Sure, I’m free,” you replied. “I’ll catch you at work.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Javier fumbled for a moment in silence, still not wanting to let you go. He had an idea of how he’d like to end the night, but it was an idea that could potentially be seen as too risky and forward. He wasn’t sure how you might take it.

But over the past three days, everything Javier had done was a risk, and so far, it had been working out pretty well in his favour. Maybe this was meant to be.

“Can I kiss you?” Javier blurted out, his voice having lowered an octave, illustrating just how serious he was about you. Butterflies raced in his tummy and Lord, he felt like a kid again. This was the moment he’d imagined so many times.

You practically sunk into him in response, uttering a small “yes” as you pressed your body against his. Javier slung his arms around your waist and gently dug his fingertips into your hips before leaning into you and adjusting himself slightly, the curve of his nose pressing against your skin. He pressed his soft lips against yours and savoured the perfect taste, and when you opened your mouth slightly, aching for more of his touch, Javier found himself relaxing into it more.

You were perfect. Gentle and passionate and the way you whimpered into Javier’s lips only spurred him on even more. Javier raised his hands to your face and cupped your cheeks, skillfully brushing your hair out of the way before deepening the kiss.

Eventually, although reluctantly, he pulled off you and rested his forehead against yours, his brown locks of hair tickling against your skin.

“That was amazing,” you whispered, and noticed the rosy coloured tint flush over Javier’s cheeks. He was adorable. You’d heard all the rumours about him, how he was a womaniser and not a force to be reckoned with. But with you, he really was different. He was sweet and charming and you could feel yourself falling.

“By the way, I think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” he whispered seductively, the warmth of his breath fanning over your ear.

You bit your lip, trying your hardest to repress the flush of heat that crossed your cheeks.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” you teased, biting your lip.

Javier chuckled lightly and took your hand, pressing another, this time delicate kiss to your cheek.

“Okay then,” he smiled gleefully. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow at work. Good night.”

Before Javier could spin around and leave you at your doorstep, you pulled him back for one final farewell kiss. “Goodnight.” you whispered softly against his lips.

And for the first time since meeting you, Javier felt total peace when he went to bed that night.

He was in love.

------ Permanent taglist ------

“You eat?” he asked, his voice low but not sharp.

You shook your head without looking at him. It felt easier than answering. Words felt like weights in your throat.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dropping his leather jacket over the back of a chair. “Alright,” he said, softer this time. “I’ll make something.”

You wanted to protest, to tell him not to fuss, not to waste the energy—but your chest tightened at the thought of speaking. So you stayed quiet, eyes on the muted TV while he moved around the kitchen. You heard the cupboards open, the soft clatter of a pan, the hiss of the stove. He wasn’t a great cook, not by his own admission, but he’d learned how to throw something together. He’d learned because of you.

When the smell of something warm drifted over, he came back into the living room, setting down a bowl of pasta on the table in front of you. Steam curled upward like an invitation.

“Eat a little,” he said. Not a command, not a plea—just quiet encouragement.

You didn’t reach for it. The blanket tightened around your shoulders instead. Your throat ached, frustration building at how hard it was to do something as small as lifting a fork.

Bucky crouched down in front of you, metal hand resting carefully on the table, flesh hand braced on his knee. He didn’t crowd you, didn’t force. Just let his eyes meet yours, steady and unflinching.

“I know it feels impossible,” he murmured, like he was confessing a secret. “But a couple bites. That’s all. Not for me—for you.”

You stared back at him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. You hated that he saw you like this, hollowed out and brittle. And yet—something in the way he looked at you, patient and unwavering, cracked through the fog just enough for you to reach out. You took the fork from him, hands trembling, and lifted one bite to your mouth.

The taste was bland but warm. Real.

Bucky didn’t smile, not fully, but his shoulders eased like he’d been holding his breath. He slid onto the couch beside you, close enough for his warmth to press against your side, and picked up the remote to turn the volume up a little on the TV. He didn’t ask you questions. Didn’t try to make you talk. He just sat there while you forced yourself through another bite, then another, until the ache in your chest made you set the bowl aside.

“That’s enough,” he said gently, taking it back to the table. “You did good.”

The blanket slipped as you leaned into him, exhaustion dragging you down. His arm came up instinctively, wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you against the steady beat of his chest. The sound of his heart was grounding, steady in a way yours hadn’t been for weeks.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw.

“For what?”

“For being like this. For… not being enough.”

Bucky stilled, then shifted so he could look at you. His metal hand tilted your chin up with the lightest touch, careful as if you might break. His eyes, storm-gray and scarred by years of loss, softened in a way you rarely saw.

“Don’t you ever say that,” he said firmly, though his tone stayed gentle. “You’re enough. Even on the days you can’t see it. Especially then.”

Your lip trembled, tears spilling before you could stop them. He caught them with his thumb, brushing them away like they weren’t something to be ashamed of.

“I’ve been there,” he admitted quietly. “Back when I didn’t want to wake up. When I thought it’d be easier if I didn’t exist at all. That weight—it lies to you. Makes you think you’re a burden. But you’re not. Not to me.”

The words hit something deep inside you, something raw. You buried your face in his shirt, sobs muffled against the fabric. He didn’t flinch. Just held you tighter, hand stroking slow circles across your back.

“You don’t have to get better all at once,” he murmured. “We take it one day at a time. Hell, one hour at a time if that’s what it takes.”

The sobs eased eventually, leaving you limp against him, drained but lighter somehow. He pressed a kiss into the crown of your head, lingering there as if anchoring both of you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said into your hair. “Not today, not tomorrow. You’re stuck with me, doll.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, the smallest ghost of a smile. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did. And he didn’t point it out, didn’t make it into a moment. He just held onto you like he was made for it, letting the quiet settle around you both.

Later, when the storm outside thickened and rain began to patter against the glass, you let him lead you to bed. He didn’t let go of your hand, not once. When you curled up under the covers, he stayed on top of them, lying close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. His metal hand rested over yours, cool against your skin, grounding you in its steadiness.

Sleep came slowly, but for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel so heavy. You drifted with the rhythm of his breathing, with the quiet reassurance of his presence.

And just before you slipped under, you felt him whisper it against your hair—barely audible, but certain.

“You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.”

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world @positivenergy @cherriesnmango @navs-bhat @hits-different-cause-its-you @avivarougestan @allhailbuckybarnes @torntaltos @risingwolf97 @overwintering-soldier @doilooklikeagiveafrack @brelione @boomyoulookingforthis

You didn't notice how your hands were shaking when you pulled up in front of the old house. It was only when you reached for the door to get out of the car that you noticed, and sank back into your seat.

What the hell were you doing here? Thinking it was a good idea to seek out the only person who had any connection to your father.

You hadn't seen Ed in more than ten years since you lived your own life now.

The last time was shortly after your mother died, when he and his family came to the funeral. And then again a few weeks ago at your father's funeral where he had taken you in his arms after he had expressed his condolences to you.

He had given you so much comfort, was the only person in your father's life who had really meant anything to him—apart from you.

And now you were here to find that very person—that very feeling—again.

The cold autumn air blew in your face as you finally got out of the car. Even if you had changed your mind, it was already far too late to turn back.

You stopped in front of the red door of the house and closed your eyes. One last deep breath, then you pressed the doorbell.

It took a few seconds for the door to open and for you to find yourself face to face with Ed. He looked at you in surprise for a moment before he managed to open his mouth. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you greeted him with a smile and shoved your hands in the pockets of the long skirt that you were wearing.

“What are you doing here? Come in,” he said warmly and stepped to the side to let you inside the house. Almost instantly, you were surrounded by a familiar scent that reminded you of incense with a slight note of cinnamon.

“Sorry for not calling ahead. But I was in town and thought I'd drop by,” you said with a smile and turned to him as he closed the door behind you.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Lorraine and Judy are in town, I think they said something about grocery shopping. Why don’t you sit down, I can make us coffee?” You felt Ed’s hand on your back as he guided you further into the house.

“That sounds lovely, thank you,” you answered, suppressing the shiver his touch sent down your spine.

You and your father had been close—there had been nothing you couldn’t tell him. Well, unless one thing: you had always been in love with Ed Warren. He was the hero of your childhood—from all the stories your father told you about.

And it didn’t matter that he was more than twenty years older than you.

“How are you holding up?” His question snapped you out of your thoughts and you cleared your throat softly while you sat down on one of the chairs in the kitchen.

“I’m fine. Most of the time. But then there are also times when I’m not… I guess that’s part of processing the grief,” you answered him, surprised about your honesty.

Ed, who was just pouring the coffee, turned around to look at you. “You’re very strong, you know that?” he asked before setting the pot back on the counter and taking the two cups in his hands.

“Not everyone can handle the death of a family member as well as you do. As you did twice.” He stopped in front of you and handed you the cup.

When you took it, your fingers brushed against his and your breath hitched at the tingling sensation that the touch sent through your body.

“Sometimes I wish I was a little less stronger,” you murmured more to yourself but—of course—Ed had heard it.

He reached over the table slowly to take your hand, and brushed his thumb over the back of your hand. There were no words needed, you knew what he wanted to say with that.

That you didn’t have to be strong when he was around.

And when he was crouching down in front of you, looking into your eyes with such softness, you couldn’t help yourself.

You fell into his arms, feeling them around your body as he pressed you close against him—little sobs escaping your lips. His hand rubbed in soft circles up and down your back, comforting you as much as he could.

After a few minutes—or longer, you didn’t know—you pulled away from him again, only a little so you could look into his eyes.

You were so close to him you could feel his breath on your skin, drying away the wet strands the tears left behind.

That was when he raised his hands, cupping your face and brushing the tears away from your cheeks with his thumbs. “You’re not alone, sweetheart,” he whispered with such intensity in his eyes that it made your heart flutter in your chest.

You closed your eyes halfway, leaning a little closer so your lips were almost touching his—but unlike you expected, he didn’t pull away. He just continued brushing over your cheek, further down until he reached your lips.

“We… shouldn’t…” you whispered when he grazed your lips with his finger—his touch so tender that you leaned your head longingly into it.

Then he closed the remaining distance and kissed you gently. His lips moved against yours in a perfect way that made you melt against him with a sigh.

He took the opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth, brushing it over your own, eliciting a soft moan from you and—he pulled away.

“You have no idea… how bad I wanted to do this since the last time I saw you,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

“Ed…” you began but he silenced you with another kiss, stopping the next words to come out of your mouth. “Shhh. Don’t say anything. Just…” Another kiss. “…let it happen.”

With that you wrapped your arms around his neck as your lips met again and he got back to his feet. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you up and turning around so he was the one who was sitting and you stood right before him.

He leaned forward, taking the hem of your skirt between his fingers and pulled it up so you could straddle his lap.

His hands settled on your hips, sliding down to grip your ass, pushing you closer against his body, and you gasped as he pressed his hips up to meet yours—letting you feel how badly he wanted you.

“Oh god, Ed,” you breathed against his mouth and that was all he needed. His grip on you tightened and he stood up, placing you onto the table—positioning himself between your legs.

You felt his hand grazing the inside of your thigh, moving dangerously close to where to wanted him most. And when he finally touched you—one of his fingers gliding through slick heat—you let your head fall back into your neck as you gasped for air.

“You’re so wet” Ed’s lips were on your neck, his hot breath making you shiver and you arched against him. “So wet for me,” he added and let his finger dip between your folds a second time before slowly pushing it inside.

Your fingers found his biceps, trying desperately to find hold on them as he moved the digit inside your pussy and made you moan his name.

His lips were on your neck, sucking at the thin skin right above your pulse point while adding another finger to the first.

You felt your insides clenching when he curled them, hitting your sweet spot. “Fuck, Ed,” you gasped and felt him smile against your skin.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.” His voice was only a low growl, that rumbled through your body and your hips jerked instinctively up to meet his fingers.

The other hand, that was placed on your hip, found your clit and he rubbed his thumb over it in slow circles.

But that was all you needed.

“I’m gonna…” you started as you felt your orgasm building. But before you could fall over that edge of pure bliss, he withdrew his hands from you, making you whine in disagreement.

“You won’t cum,” Ed said, trying to keep his voice steady while he started to work his pants down. “Not as long as I wasn’t in you.”

You couldn’t protest—even if you wanted to—because he was already pushing your knees further apart. He lined his cock up with your entrance, lips finding yours as he pushed your back onto the table with the weight of his body.

Then, with one rough push of his hips, he buried himself inside your pussy with a sound that almost sounded like a groan while a breathless scream was pressed out of your lungs.

“Fuck…” he hissed against your lips, sucking your bottom lip hungrily into his mouth. “You’re so damn tight.”

You could do nothing more than whimper, the feeling of him stretching your inner walls making you completely senseless beneath him. “Please…”

That was all you could get out of your mouth. And another whimper when he started to move slowly.

“Please what, sweetheart. Use your words,” he nearly purred, voice dripping with lust and he continued to move so slow, it made your head spin.

“Please, fuck me,” you tried again and that was all he wanted to hear. “Good girl,” he praised and began to move faster.

His hands took yours, pulling them up over your head, and holding them in place on your wrists while he was pounding into you.

The sound of the table, screeching over the tiles, was muted by the moans he elicited from you and you hoped desperately that Lorraine and Judy weren’t coming home by now.

But Ed’s lips crashing against yours made you forget these thoughts and you let out another moan. “Fuck, you’re taking me so well, sweetheart,” he growled into your mouth, the sound of it almost enough to make you cum.

He pushed himself up, gripping your hips with such bruising force that you hissed in pain. But it turned into a desperate whine, when his finger touched your clit again, circling it with such precision that you couldn’t hold back longer.

“Ed, I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” you tossed your head to the side as the orgasm hit you with such force that you saw white stars behind your closed eyes, your hips moving mindlessly against his.

“Fuck, sweetheart… yeah, cum for me. Looking so pretty when you fall apart only for me…” Ed talked you through it before pushing inside you one last time, and released his hot seed in you with a groan that came from deep down his chest.

It almost felt like heaven.

Breathing heavily, he sank down on your body, completely exhausted, holding you against him for a few moments longer while you came down from your highs.

None of you said a word when he pulled out of you and put his pants back on. Still nothing when he reached out his hands for you, pulling you up but before you could look at him—you woke up from your dream.

You found yourself alone in your bed, trying to control your breathing as the dream was still in your mind, making you press your thighs together.

Your visit at the Warren’s house yesterday was not such a good idea after all—even if it felt good to be around them.

With a heavy sigh you sank back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

Some time later you managed to get out of bed and stood in the kitchen of your dad’s house, sipping coffee—completely lost in your thoughts. That dream would definitely not leave your mind so fast.

Only when the sudden sound of your doorbell sounded, you were snapped out of your fantasies. “Coming!” you yelled, making your way to the front door.

You opened the door—maybe with a little too much force—and forgot to breathe for a moment when you saw who your early visitor was.

“Hey,” Ed smiled softly at you. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by. I hope you’re not busy?”

And when you let him in, inviting him for a cup of coffee, it felt like you got a little taste of heaven after all.

The cold autumn air blew in your face as you finally got out of the car. Even if you had changed your mind, it was already far too late to turn back.

see? this is what i mean when i say your descriptions are the best. like it feels like im actually there, that i can feel the autumn vibes and feel the cool air on my skin. god i… wow, you’re so good.

You felt Ed’s hand on your back as he guided you further into the house.

damn, am i that touch starved that this gave me full body shivers? like ed please… 🫦

You fell into his arms, feeling them around your body as he pressed you close against him—little sobs escaping your lips. His hand rubbed in soft circles up and down your back, comforting you as much as he could.

oh hurt/comfort my favourite trope ever… i love this so much. ugh just thinking about ed’s body towering over me and holding me while i cry… yeh i need that.

“Fuck, Ed,” you gasped and felt him smile against your skin. (…) “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

JAW ON THE FLOOR. you are AMAZING. This is so funny. I’m literally giggling to myself.

“You won’t cum,” Ed said, trying to keep his voice steady while he started to work his pants down. “Not as long as I wasn’t in you.”

i- okay. yes sir. whatever you say. jesus.

“Fuck, sweetheart… yeah, cum for me. Looking so pretty when you fall apart only for me…” Ed talked you through it before pushing inside you one last time, and released his hot seed in you with a groan that came from deep down his chest.

i need to be sedated … lord have mercy on me

Still nothing when he reached out his hands for you, pulling you up but before you could look at him—you woke up from your dream.

IM SORRY WHAT!!?? it was all A DREAM?! PLOT TWIST????? ARE U FUCKING KIDDING ME. please manifest that i have a similar dream tonight my god

“Hey,” Ed smiled softly at you. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by. I hope you’re not busy?”

FOR YOU? NEVER BUSY. holy fucking airball.

And when you let him in, inviting him for a cup of coffee, it felt like you got a little taste of heaven after all.

okay, i need a part two. i’m so serious vani. if you make a taglist please add me. if not, you gotta let me know if and when you decide to post a continuation. this was incredible.

Peggy’s jaw tightened, her fingers brushing the paper. “Zola,” she muttered, disgust curling her lips. “That man’s a butcher with a scientist’s ego.” She scanned the text, her expression hardening. “This is big. If they’re building mind-controlled soldiers…”

“It’s worse,” you interrupted, voice low, glancing at the other codebreakers—two women, heads down, oblivious. “They’re testing it now. Somewhere in France. Prisoners, maybe captured soldiers. They mention a ‘prototype’ and… something about breaking their minds first.”

Peggy’s eyes met yours, a silent understanding passing between you. “We need to get this to Colonel Phillips. Tonight.” She turned, barking at the codebreakers. “Eleanor, Joan, wrap up and secure the files. We’re locking down.”

You nodded, heart pounding, but a flicker of pride warmed you. You’d cracked this, you’d found the truth. You thought of Bucky Barnes, your old friend from Brooklyn—his cocky grin, the way he’d sneak you comics, the almost-kiss on that Coney Island pier in ’39. He was out there with Captain Rogers, fighting Hydra. This intel could help him, keep him safe. You tucked the thought away, focusing on the task, and began gathering your notes.

The door crashed open, wood splintering, and you froze. Four Hydra soldiers stormed in, black uniforms stark against the office’s warmth, their rifles gleaming with that eerie blue glow of Hydra tech. Peggy spun, drawing her pistol, but a soldier fired, a blast of energy grazing her arm. She hissed, diving behind a cabinet.

“[Y/N], get down!” Peggy shouted, but you were already moving, shoving the Winter Soldier intel into your blouse, your hands shaking. The codebreakers screamed, scrambling for cover, and you ducked behind the desk, heart hammering. The soldiers barked in German, their voices harsh.

“Die Linguistin! Bringt sie mir lebend!” one ordered—The linguist! Take her alive!—and your blood ran cold. They wanted you. Your codes, your knowledge, or… the intel you’d just found.

You grabbed a letter opener, its dull blade a pitiful weapon, and crouched, peering through the desk’s gap. A soldier loomed closer, his boots thudding, and you lunged, stabbing his thigh. He roared, backhanding you, and pain exploded across your cheek, knocking you to the floor. The room spun, but you scrambled up, clutching the desk, only to feel iron hands seize your arms.

“No!” you yelled, thrashing, but the soldiers pinned you, their grips bruising. Peggy fired from cover, dropping one, but another blasted the cabinet, forcing her back. You kicked, aiming for a groin, and connected, earning a grunt, but a rifle butt slammed your temple, and darkness flickered at your vision’s edge.

“Enough,” a new voice said, cold and precise, cutting through the chaos. Arnim Zola stepped into the room, his small frame dwarfed by the soldiers but radiating menace. His round glasses glinted in the bulb’s light, and his smile was a thin, cruel line. “Fräulein, you are far too valuable to kill.”

You glared, blood trickling from your lip, the intel paper crinkling against your skin. “You’ll get nothing from me,” you spat, voice hoarse but defiant.

Zola chuckled, a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, we shall see.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Take her to the transport. We have… experiments to conduct.”

A soldier jabbed a syringe into your neck, and a sharp sting gave way to a creeping warmth, a sedative, dulling your senses. You fought to stay conscious, to memorise Zola’s face, his words. “Winter Soldier…” you mumbled, half-delirious, and Zola’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise.

“Secure her,” he snapped, and the soldiers dragged you toward the door, your legs buckling. Peggy’s shouting your name followed you, but the world blurred, and you were gone, the intel tucked against your heart, a secret you’d guard with everything you had.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You’d been gone for weeks, a fact that gnawed at Bucky Barnes like a wound he couldn’t stitch. He stood against the command post’s wall, dog tags clinking under his olive-drab jacket, his eyes scanning a corkboard plastered with mission lists, reconnaissance photos, and urgent telegrams. His fingers, calloused from gripping a sniper rifle, hovered over a typed sheet, and then froze.

Your name stared back at him, stark in black ink: Allied Linguist, Captured, Hydra Facility, Occupied France.

His breath caught, sharp and painful, like a blade between ribs. You—his friend from Brooklyn, the girl who’d steal his cap and run, laughing, through Prospect Park, the one he’d nearly kissed under Coney Island’s Ferris wheel in ’39—were in Hydra’s hands.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. He ripped the paper from the board, the pin clattering to the floor, and his hand trembled, betraying the storm inside. Memories flooded him: summer nights on your stoop, your hair tucked under a scarf, teasing him about his latest dame. But truthfully, he only had eyes for you.

“You’ll run outta girls to charm, Barnes,” you’d said, smirking, but your eyes had softened, holding something he’d been too dumb to name.

He’d leaned in, heart pounding, only for Steve’s call to break the moment. Then the war came, you to London cracking codes, him to the front with Steve, and letters faded. Now, Hydra had you, and the thought of you in Zola’s grip—Zola, whose name he’d heard tied to twisted experiments, made his stomach churn.

“Hey, Buck, what’s got you lookin’ like you swallowed a grenade?” Steve Rogers’ voice cut through, steady but concerned. He stood across the room, all Captain America in his blue jacket, leaning over a map with Colonel Phillips. His blond hair caught the dim light, but his eyes locked on Bucky, reading the tension in his friend’s stance.

Bucky strode over, boots thudding on the creaky floor, and slapped the list onto the map, scattering pencils. “It’s her, Steve,” he said, voice tight, low, like he was holding back a shout. “From Brooklyn. You remember her—used to tag along with us, always givin’ me hell.” He swallowed, jaw clenching. “Hydra’s got her. Says she’s a linguist, crackin’ their codes. She’s in one of their damn facilities.”

Steve’s eyes widened, flicking to the list, then back to Bucky. His memory was sparking. “The one who’d sneak us into the library after hours? Yeah, I remember.” He straightened, voice firming. “She’s tough, Buck. But Hydra…”

“She’s more than tough,” Bucky snapped, then caught himself, running a hand through his dark hair. “She’s… she’s family, Steve. And you know what Hydra does…” His voice cracked, and he gripped the table, knuckles whitening. “We gotta get her out. Now.”

Colonel Phillips, puffing a cigar, looked up with a scowl, his weathered face etched with irritation. “Sergeant Barnes, we’ve got ops stacked to the ceiling,” he growled, exhaling smoke. “Hydra’s got captives everywhere—this linguist ain’t our priority.”

“She is to me,” Bucky retorted, his voice low but fierce, eyes boring into Phillips. “Sir, she’s got intel—Hydra’s codes, maybe more. She cracked somethin’ big before they took her. Losin’ her gives them an edge.” It was a half-truth; he’d burn the world for you, intel or not, but he knew Phillips needed a reason.

Steve studied Bucky, seeing the truth—the kind of loyalty that went beyond duty, rooted in Brooklyn’s streets, in quiet moments you’d shared. “Colonel,” Steve said, voice calm but unyielding, “the Howling Commandos can handle this. We hit the facility, get her out, and cripple Hydra’s operation. Two birds, one stone.”

Phillips grunted, stabbing his cigar into the ashtray. “Fine, Rogers. But if this goes south, it’s your ass.” He waved them off, turning to an aide, already dismissing the matter.

Bucky exhaled, tension easing a fraction, but his heart still raced, pounding with fear for you. He met Steve’s gaze, a silent thank-you passing between them. “We’ll get her, Buck,” Steve said, clapping his shoulder. “Promise.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket, next to a faded photo—you, him, and Steve at Coney Island, 1939, your smile bright as the summer sun. He headed for the door, the room’s chaos—officers shouting, radio static—fading behind him. Outside, the Howling Commandos lounged near a jeep, cleaning rifles and trading jabs in the grey dawn.

“Sarge, what’s the word?” Dum Dum Dugan called, his mustache twitching as he tossed a flask to Gabe Jones, who caught it with a grin.

Bucky held up the folded list, his sergeant’s calm settling over him like armour, though his voice carried an edge. “We got a job,” he said, eyes scanning the team—Gabe, Jim Morita, Monty Falsworth, Jacques Dernier. “Hydra’s holdin’ one of ours—a linguist, key to their codes. She’s in a facility in France. We’re hittin’ it, gettin’ her out, and blowin’ the place to hell.” He paused, his grip tightening on the paper. “She’s from my neighborhood. Means somethin’ to me. You in?”

Gabe nodded, his smile fading to seriousness. “Always, Barnes.”

Dum Dum cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Hell, Sarge, let’s give them a mornin’ they won’t forget.”

Jacques smirked, twirling a knife. “Pour la France,” he said, voice low, and Jim and Monty murmured agreement, their faces set.

Bucky forced a smirk, but his mind was on you—alone, maybe hurt, fighting Zola’s experiments with that fire he’d always admired. He touched the photo in his pocket, your face burned into his memory, and whispered, so quiet no one heard, “Hold on, doll. I’m comin’ for you.”

The words were a vow, and he’d keep it, no matter what Hydra threw at him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You lay curled on a thin cot in a Hydra cell, your body trembling, skin flushed with an unnatural heat that made your pulse race and your breath come in shallow, desperate gasps. The crimson fever drug, injected by Arnim Zola weeks ago after your kidnapping in London, burned through you, twisting your mind with a relentless need you fought to suppress. Your blouse, torn and stained, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d kept secret, its paper pressed against your chest like a talisman.

You’d overheard Zola’s gloating—his “perfect obedience” experiments, the “winter soldier” prototype—and your linguist’s mind clung to those details, even as the drug threatened to unravel you. “Stay sharp,” you whispered to yourself, voice hoarse, your nails digging into your palms to anchor you against the fever’s pull.

Outside, Bucky Barnes crouched behind a snow-dusted ridge, his M1 Garand rifle steady in his hands, breath clouding in the frigid air. You weren’t there to see it, but you’d have felt the weight of his resolve, his heart pounding with one thought: getting you back. The Howling Commandos flanked him—Dum Dum Dugan reloading his Thompson submachine gun, Gabe Jones checking a radio, Jim Morita adjusting his scope, Monty Falsworth and Jacques Dernier wiring explosives. The plan was tight: hit hard, find you, blow the place to hell. Bucky’s jaw clenched, your face—Brooklyn summers, that Coney Island almost-kiss—burning in his mind.

“Ready, Sarge?” Dum Dum asked, his moustache twitching as he grinned, though his eyes were hard, scanning the bunker a hundred yards away.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” you’d have heard Bucky reply, his voice low, all sergeant, but laced with something raw. He signalled, and Jacques tossed a smoke grenade, grey haze cloaking the ridge. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, slipping toward the bunker, their boots silent in the snow. Gabe’s radio crackled, confirming Allied distractions were pulling Hydra’s outer patrols away. Bucky’s heart thundered, not for the fight, but for you, trapped in Zola’s nightmare.

A Hydra guard at the entrance barely turned before Bucky’s knife found his throat, a silent kill, blood dark against the snow. “Go,” Bucky hissed, and Jacques’ charges blew the steel door, the blast rattling the night.

Alarms screamed, red lights pulsing inside, and Hydra soldiers poured into the corridor, their blue-energy rifles spitting death. You heard the gunfire, distant but growing louder, a chaotic symphony that stirred hope in your fevered haze. “Help…” you mumbled, clutching the cot’s edge, your body shaking as you tried to sit.

Bucky ducked behind a crate, returning fire, his shots precise, dropping two guards. “Push through!” he shouted, voice cutting through the din. Dum Dum’s Thompson roared, mowing down a squad, while Monty and Jim covered the rear, grenades shaking the walls. “Lab’s that way!”

Gabe yelled, pointing left, where a sign read Forschungsbereich—research sector. Bucky’s gut twisted, Zola’s name a poison in his thoughts. If Zola had touched you…

“Keep movin’!” Bucky ordered, leading the charge past sparking machinery and shattered glass, his boots slipping on spilled chemicals. Jacques planted more explosives, grinning like a kid with firecrackers.

“Pour la France!” he muttered, wiring a console. You heard the blasts, closer now, and dragged yourself upright, your vision swimming but your will iron. The Winter Soldier intel crinkled against your skin, a secret you’d die to protect.

The cell block was a maze of iron doors, damp concrete slick underfoot. Bucky rounded a corner, gun raised, and there you were—behind a barred window, slumped but alive, your hair matted with sweat, eyes flickering with fever. His heart lurched, he called your name, voice raw, cracking like a boy’s. A Hydra guard lunged from the shadows, but Bucky slammed him against the wall, the man’s skull cracking with a sickening thud.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice weak but sharp with recognition, cutting through the drug’s fog. You staggered to the bars, fingers trembling as you gripped them, your blouse clinging to your fevered skin. The needle marks on your arm stood out, angry red, and your breath hitched, a mix of relief and desperation.

“I’m here, doll,” Bucky said, fumbling with the lock, his hands shaking until Gabe tossed him a pilfered keyring. “Hold on.” The door swung open, and he was at your side, dropping to his knees, his hands cupping your face. Your skin burned under his touch, too hot, and your eyes, though glassy, locked onto his, a spark of you still fighting. “It’s me,” he said, voice soft but urgent, thumb brushing your cheek. You leaned into his hand, a whimper escaping, your body trembling with something more than weakness—a need that alarmed him.

“Bucky… they… Zola…” you stammered, your fingers clutching his jacket, nails digging in. “Crimson fever… it’s in me… burning…” Your voice broke, shame flickering in your eyes, but you forced out, “Winter Soldier… I know… they’re making…” You trailed off, a shudder racking you, and Bucky’s blood ran cold, the intel’s weight hitting him.

“Shush, it’s okay, I’ve got you,” Bucky hummed, his arms tightening around your body, not caring about any intel. Not caring about the war. Not caring about anything. Just you. 

Your shaky hands went to pass him the intel, but failed with exhaustion. “Winter. Soldier.” you bit out again, aimlessly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Winter Soldier? No, no doll, it’s me. It’s Buck, from Brooklyn,” he was misunderstanding, and you couldn’t blame him. “What’d they do to you?” he growled, his voice low, rage barely leashed as he saw the needle marks, the fever’s flush.

But you couldn’t get your words out. 

He scooped you up, your weight light but your grip fierce, your head lolling against his shoulder. “I got you,” he said, standing, his arms steady despite the chaos. Your breath was ragged, too warm against his neck, and he felt the drug’s unnatural pull in your touch, your fingers clutching too tightly, too desperately.

“Base is rigged!” Jacques shouted from the corridor, where the team held off reinforcements, blue energy scorching the walls.

Dum Dum’s voice boomed, “Thirty seconds, Barnes!” Explosions rumbled, the facility shaking as charges blew.

“Bucky, the intel…” you mumbled, half-lucid, patting your blouse weakly. “Winter Soldier… don’t let them…” Your voice faded, the fever stealing your strength, but your words seared him, tying your fight to the horror he’d only heard whispers of.

“I won’t,” he promised, voice fierce, dodging a blast that charred the wall. It was an empty promise, but that didn’t matter right now. He still didn’t understand completely what you were mumbling about. 

He carried you through smoke and gunfire, the Commandos covering him—Monty tossing a grenade, Gabe firing steadily. “Stay with me, doll,” he said, his boots pounding as he reached the exit, the night air hitting like a slap.

The bunker erupted behind you, flames licking the sky, and the team piled into a stolen Hydra truck, Gabe at the wheel. Bucky slid you into the back, climbing in beside you, holding you close as the truck lurched forward, tires crunching snow. Your fevered body curled against him, your hand still clutching the hidden intel, and Bucky’s mind raced.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You slumped against Bucky Barnes in the corner of the Hydra truck’s cargo bed, your body a furnace of torment, every nerve alight with the crimson fever drug’s cruel fire. Your skin burned, slick with sweat despite the November chill, and your pulse thundered in your ears, each beat a drum urging you toward something you barely understood. Your blouse, torn and clinging to your damp skin, hid the crumpled Winter Soldier intel you’d guarded since London, its paper a faint crinkle against your chest.

The drug, injected by Arnim Zola during those weeks in his lab, twisted your mind, flooding you with an aching, primal need that made your thighs clench and your breath hitch in sharp, desperate gasps. You fought it, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed closer to Bucky, his warmth both a lifeline and a torment.

Bucky held you tightly, his arm a steel band around your shoulders, his wool jacket rough against your cheek. You felt his heartbeat, steady but quick, through his chest, and his breath clouded in the cold air, his dog tags clinking faintly as he shifted to shield you from a gust. His eyes, shadowed under the swaying lantern’s amber glow, darted to you, worry carving lines into his face. You’d seen him tough, cocky, tossing quips in Brooklyn diners, but now he was raw, his sergeant’s calm fraying at the sight of your trembling hands, the way your fingers clutched his sleeve like he was the only thing keeping you sane.

“Doll, talk to me,” Bucky whispered, voice low, meant only for you, his lips brushing your ear. His calloused hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face to meet his gaze, and the touch sent a jolt through you, your body shuddering as a wave of heat pulsed low in your belly.

You moaned softly, unintended, and your eyes fluttered, half-lidded, the drug amplifying his touch into something overwhelming, intoxicating. Your hips twitched, pressing against his thigh, and you bit your lip, shame flooding you even as your body begged for more.

The Howling Commandos sprawled around you, their presence a grounding hum amid your chaos. Dum Dum Dugan, sprawled on a crate, polished his Thompson, muttering, “Damn roads are gonna shake my teeth loose.”

Gabe Jones, at the wheel, cursed as the tires skidded, shouting, “Hold tight, this ain’t a Sunday drive!” Jim Morita cleaned his rifle, Monty sipped from a flask, and Jacques toyed with a looted Hydra grenade, whistling a French tune.

You looked at the men. If you wanted, you could have had any one of them. They could have given you what you needed. But it was the Sergeant who had owned your heart since the very start. He was the one you trusted more than anyone else. The infantry’s banter was a lifeline, but they didn’t see your state, didn’t hear the soft, needy sounds you stifled against Bucky’s neck.

“Bucky…” you managed, voice cracked, barely audible over the truck’s rumble. Your hand slid up his chest, fingers curling around his dog tags, the metal cool against your burning skin. The contact sent another shiver through you, your thighs squeezing together as a fresh surge of desire made your breath hitch, a low, throaty moan escaping before you could stop it. You were drowning in it—the fever’s heat, the drug’s relentless pull, the ache that coiled tighter with every second. “I… I need to tell you,” you whispered, urgent, your lips grazing his ear, the intimacy of it making your skin prickle. “Alone.”

His pulse spiked—you felt it under your fingers—and his eyes widened, alarm mixing with something deeper, unspoken. “Okay,” he said, voice rough, glancing at the team. The Commandos were distracted, Gabe wrestling the wheel, Dum Dum arguing with Monty over the flask. Bucky shifted, easing you behind a stack of crates, the wood splintered and cold against your back. He knelt in front of you, his hands steadying your shoulders, his gaze searching yours. “What’s goin’ on, doll? You’re burnin’ up,” he said, thumb brushing your cheek, and you gasped, your body arching toward him, the touch igniting sparks that made your hips rock involuntarily.

You swallowed, tears welling, the shame of your need warring with the urgency to speak. “Zola… he gave me something,” you said, words spilling in a rush, your voice trembling. “Called it crimson fever. It’s… it’s making me want things. Need things.” Your breath hitched, a sob catching as you clutched his wrist, your nails digging in. “It’s in my blood, Bucky. It’s burning me, making me… want you. Not just want—I can’t stop it. If I don’t… get release, he said I’ll go mad.” Your cheeks flushed deeper, not just from fever but humiliation, and you looked away, tears dripping onto your lap.

Bucky’s breath caught, his hand tightening on yours, crumpling the edge of his jacket. You saw the horror in his eyes, but also love, fierce and unyielding, rooted in Brooklyn nights when you’d danced around his teasing, your laughter brighter than the city lights.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse, pulling you closer, his forehead resting against yours. Your breath mingled, hot and ragged, and you moaned again, your body reacting to his nearness, hips shifting, thighs trembling as the drug surged. “You don’t gotta be sorry,” he said, cupping your face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “This ain’t you—it’s them. Hydra. Zola. If they’re doing this, only God knows what else they have planned.”

Your body didn’t care for words. You didn’t need empathy. You pressed against him, a desperate, unconscious move, your hand sliding to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. The drug made every touch electric, and you gasped, your skin flushing from chest to throat, a sheen of sweat glistening in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, it hurts,” you whispered, voice raw, your lips brushing his jaw, leaving a faint heat. “I’m burning… I need you.” Your fingers tightened, tugging his jacket, and your hips rocked again, a soft, needy sound escaping as you fought the urge to climb into his lap. 

Your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, each one a plea you hated but couldn’t stop.

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with a mix of guilt and desire he hated himself for feeling. You saw it—the way he fought his own reaction, his breath hitching as your touch stirred him, his love for you clashing with the drug’s twisted demand.

You were so needy, so clingy. And Bucky knew it wasn’t completely you, right? None the less he swallowed, trying to ignore the erection pressing against his trousers, begging for release. Every time your fingers grazed him even in the slighest, he felt like he was going to explode. The war had him touch-starved and desperate, that’s for sure. 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice low, steady, though it shook at the edges. “You’re stronger than this. We’re gonna get you through this, you hear me?” His hand slid to your neck, holding you gently, and you whimpered, the contact sending a shiver through you, your body arching, breasts pressing against him as another wave of need made you tremble.

“I trust you,” you said, voice breaking, your eyes locking onto his, lucid despite the fever’s haze. “Only you.” Your hand found his, guiding it to your waist, and you gasped as his fingers brushed your hip, the touch sparking a moan that made your thighs quiver. You were losing ground, the drug’s pull relentless, but your trust in Bucky—forged in Brooklyn, in quiet moments he’d never forgotten—kept you tethered.

The truck lurched, Gabe shouting, “Road’s blocked! Barn up ahead, half a mile!” The Commandos shifted, readying gear, their voices a blur.

“I have one grenade left.” You just about made out Jacques’ annoucement. 

But Bucky’s world was you, your fevered whispers, your body trembling with a need that wasn’t just the drug, but you, the girl he’d loved since that night on the Coney Island pier.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

You stumbled into the barn, Bucky’s arm steadying you, his warmth the only anchor against the crimson fever’s relentless fire. Your body was a storm of torment—skin flushed and slick with sweat, pulse hammering like a war drum, every nerve alight with a desperate, aching need that made your thighs tremble and your breath come in ragged, needy gasps. The drug, Arnim Zola’s cruel creation, had twisted your desire into something overwhelming, your hips shifting restlessly, a soft whimper escaping as you pressed against Bucky, his scent—wool, gunpowder, and something uniquely him—igniting a fresh wave of heat low in your belly. Your torn blouse clung to your damp skin.

The Winter Soldier intel was still hidden against your chest, a secret you’d guarded through weeks of captivity. You fought the fever’s pull, nails digging into your palms, but your body betrayed you, craving Bucky with an intensity that left you dizzy, your lips parting as another moan slipped free.

Bucky shut the barn door with a creak, sealing you in a fragile sanctuary, the wind’s howl fading to a low moan. He set the lantern on a crate, its glow catching the worry in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

You felt his gaze, heavy and searching, as he knelt before you, easing you onto a makeshift bed of hay cushioned by his folded greatcoat, its wool warm from his body. Your hands clutched his jacket, fingers trembling, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as his touch sparked electricity, your hips twitching involuntarily. “Bucky…” you whispered, voice raw, your eyes glassy but locked on his, a flicker of you shining through the fever’s haze.

“Doll, I’m here,” he said, voice low, hoarse with worry, his calloused hand brushing your cheek. The contact sent a jolt through you, your body arching, a soft moan spilling out as your thighs clenched, the ache between them pulsing sharper. He froze, his breath hitching, and you saw the conflict in his eyes—love, longing, and fear that this wasn’t you, just the drug. “You’re still burnin’ up,” he said, thumb tracing your jaw, and you whimpered, your skin flushing deeper, a rosy heat spreading from your chest to your throat, glistening with sweat in the lantern’s light.

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, urgent, as you grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to your waist. The touch was fire, and you gasped, hips rocking toward him, your body trembling as the drug amplified every sensation. “I need you… it’s too much.” Tears welled, shame mixing with desire, but your eyes held his, fierce despite the fever. “I told you… I can’t fight it.”

He exhaled, shaky, his hand tightening on your hip, his dog tags clinking as he leaned closer. “I’ve wanted you forever,” he said, voice raw, breaking. “Since that damn pier in Brooklyn, since you laughed at my dumb jokes. But this…” He gestured to your trembling form, his eyes darkening with guilt. “I don’t wanna take advantage, doll. I need this to mean somethin’ to you, not just… Zola’s poison.” His thumb brushed your lip, and you moaned, loud and unrestrained, your body shuddering, thighs squeezing as a fresh wave of need made your breath stutter.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes — ever the gentleman.

“Don’t make me beg,” you said, voice sharp, almost a growl, your hand sliding to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He moaned, and the sound of his voice was like velvet. “I want you, Bucky. Always have. The drug’s making it worse, but it’s me.” Your eyes burned into his, lucid, defiant. “I trust you. Make me feel good. Please.” Your hips shifted, pressing against him, and a desperate, throaty moan escaped, your skin prickling as the fever surged, your pulse racing so fast you felt it in your throat.

Bucky’s resolve cracked, his breath ragged. “Alright, honey,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good, I swear.” He kissed you, slow and deep, his lips soft but hungry, tasting of salt and desperation. You melted into it, your body trembling, a gasp catching as his tongue brushed yours, sending shivers down your spine. Your hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging in, and your hips rocked, the drug making every touch a spark that set your nerves ablaze.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours and you could see the question he wanted to ask ‘Are you sure?’, and you nodded, breathless, your chest heaving. “I’m sure,” you said, voice firm despite the fever’s haze.

He eased your blouse off, careful of the hidden intel, his fingers brushing your skin, and you gasped, your body arching, nipples tightening in the cold air. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your collarbone, and you whimpered, thighs trembling as his gaze alone sent a pulse of heat through you.

Bucky’s hands were gentle, reverent, as he traced your curves, his fingers lingering on your waist.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, voice raw, and you shivered, a soft moan escaping as his words stoked the fever’s fire. He kissed your throat, lips warm and deliberate, and you gasped, head tilting back, your pulse hammering under his mouth. Your body reacted vividly—skin flushing from chest to cheeks, thighs clenching as a fresh wave of desire made your hips rock, the ache between them unbearable.

“Bucky, touch me,” you pleaded, voice desperate, guiding his hand lower, your boldness driven by the drug but rooted in trust.

He nodded, his forehead against yours, breath mingling. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, his fingers sliding down your stomach, slow and deliberate, tracing the soft skin above your thigh. You trembled, a sharp gasp tearing from you as his hand brushed closer, your thighs parting instinctively, inviting him.

Your skin prickled, sweat glistening, and your breath came in short, frantic pants, the drug making every touch electric. His fingers found your warmth, teasing gently, and you moaned, loud and needy, your hips bucking toward him, thighs quivering as a jolt of pleasure shot through you. 

“Bucky…” you breathed, clutching his wrist, nails digging in, your body tensing as he explored, his touch careful but sure.

Your reaction was immediate—muscles tightening, a flush spreading across your chest, your breath stuttering as his fingers circled, coaxing waves of heat that made your toes curl. You arched, hips rocking in rhythm, and your moans grew sharper, each one a desperate plea. The drug amplified every sensation, your skin hypersensitive, and you felt every callus, every movement, as if he were rewriting your nerves.

“Feels… so good,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, your thighs clenching around his hand as a coil tightened inside you. Bucky watched, his breath ragged, worry flickering but desire burning stronger.

“You’re with me, doll,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, and you nodded, a tear slipping free as pleasure overwhelmed you.

He shifted, lips trailing down your chest, and you whimpered, your body trembling as he kissed lower, his breath warm against your stomach. “Gonna make you feel even better,” he promised, voice low, and you gasped, hips lifting as his mouth found you, his tongue gentle but deliberate. 

The sensation was a lightning strike—your body jolted, a cry tearing from your throat, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging hard. Your thighs trembled, muscles quaking, and your breath came in short, desperate gasps, the drug making every lick a pulse of fire. Your skin flushed deeper, sweat beading on your brow, and you moaned, unrestrained, hips rocking against his mouth as pleasure built, sharp and relentless. “Bucky… oh, God…” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body tensing as you neared the edge, every nerve singing.

He pulled back, kissing your thigh, and you whimpered, desperate, your hands tugging him up. 

“Need you… now,” you said, voice raw, your eyes locked on his, lucid despite the fever. He nodded, shedding his trousers, dog tags clinking, and leaned over you, his body warm, grounding. 

“Tell me you want this,” he said, voice thick, needing your consent, his worry clear.

“I want you, Bucky,” you said, fierce, pulling him closer. “Always.”

He guided himself, the moment of connection slow, deliberate, and you gasped, a shudder running through you as he filled you, the sensation overwhelming, amplified by the drug. He was big, bigger than you had ever had before. He stretched you and you felt your body clamp down around him. Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink and you felt his short fingernails dig into your hips as he steadied himself. Your body reacted vividly—muscles clenching, thighs trembling, hips rising to meet him.

“So good…” you moaned, nails digging into his back, leaving crescent marks.

He moved, each thrust a rhythm of passion and care, his lips brushing your ear, whispering, “I’ve got you, doll.” 

You brought your hands up to his face, guiding him to your lips as he thrusted into you. This was more than sex — a cure to your condition. This was love. You kissed him slowly, leaning into the softness of his lips. He smelled like lingering smoke mixed with a sweetness you just couldn’t describe. It was familiar, like the cotton candy you picked at and shared on the pier at Coney Island.

“Do you remember that time when we stood at the edge of the pier and you were showing me the constellations in the sky?” You asked, your eyes finding Bucky’s, watching him as he fucked you.

“Mm,” he nodded his head, wordlessly. “Wanted to kiss you so bad that night.” He breathed into admittance. 

“I wanted you to kiss me too.” You replied before your words were cut off with a loud moan. Bucky grabbed your calves, pulling them up to his shoulders allowing him to go even deeper, hitting you at a new angle. Lewd, wet sounds echoed in the barn and you had visions of someone walking in. It only spurred you on even more. 

Your breaths mingled, your cries soft but desperate, the drug’s urgency blending with love. Your thighs tightened around him, hips rocking, and pleasure coiled tighter, your body trembling as you neared release. “Bucky…” you gasped, voice breaking, and he kissed you hard, just like he’d always imagined, deep and grounding, as you shattered, a cry muffled against his shoulder, the fever’s grip breaking. He followed, his climax a choked wave, shooting a warmth that painted your walls, arms tightening to hold you close.

The barn fell silent, save for your ragged breaths and the hay’s rustle. You collapsed against him, trembling, the fever’s heat gone, leaving you fragile, your skin cooling but slick with sweat. Bucky pulled his greatcoat over you both, shielding you from the cold, and held you, your head tucked under his chin. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows, and shame crept in, your voice small. 

“Was it… just the drug?” you asked, clutching the intel in your blouse, fear lacing your words. “Did I… make you?”

“No,” Bucky said, fierce, tilting your chin to meet his gaze. “It was us, I’ve loved you since Brooklyn, since that pier. The drug didn’t make me want you—I always did.” His voice cracked, and he kissed your forehead, steady. “You’re not broken. You’re mine.”

You nodded, tears spilling, but doubt lingered, Zola’s experiments haunting you. “I’m scared,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “What if they’ve changed me?”

“They haven’t,” he said, stroking your hair. “You’re still you, still the girl who cracked their codes, kept that intel through hell. I won’t let them touch you again.” His promise was fierce, but you felt the war’s weight, Hydra’s reach, and the shadow of what you’d uncovered.

Outside, Gabe’s voice cut through, soft but urgent. “Sarge, we’re clear. Ready to move.” The Commandos, loyal, unaware of the barn’s secrets, waited in the snow.

Bucky helped you sit, adjusting the greatcoat, his touch gentle. “We gotta go,” he said, voice low. “But I’m with you, every step.” He stood, pulling you up, and you leaned into him, steadier but haunted, the fever gone but the intel and emotional weight lingering. The barn door creaked open, moonlight spilling in, and Bucky led you out, his arm around you, ready to face the war—and Hydra’s lingering threat.

You followed Bucky back to the van. “Write to me?” You asked, locking a subtle finger with his, so that his men wouldn’t notice.

“Of course I will.” He promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He didn’t care if anyone saw. The last thing he’d do was want to keep you a secret. He had dreamed of you, of this, since 1939.

“And after the war, you’ll find me on the pier at Coney Island, waiting for you.” You told him, an oath that you’d protect with your life. You didn’t want anyone other than him. You would wait for him, even if waiting meant forever.

“I’ll be there.” 

You believed him.

“You’ll come home, won’t you?” The question lingered with uncertainty and worry as the Winter Soldier intel burned in your pocket.

“Do I look like a man who’d keep my doll waiting?” Bucky smiled, his blue eyes twinkling like an aurora, full of love and hope. 

Yeah, you believed him.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

Taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira

The elevator doors yawned open at street level, that clever hydraulic hush swallowing the city noise. He stepped in first, pivoted, and held his forearm against the doors so they couldn’t close on you. It was such a small thing—anyone could have done it, you had done it for strangers—but it was Bucky, and he had the sort of steady attention that turned small things into spells. The edge of the box braced against his shoulder. His flesh hand came out, palm up, waiting for you to hand him your keycard instead of letting you contort around your own parcels.

“Card,” he prompted, voice low enough to be private.

You passed it over, and the pads of his fingers brushed yours, warm and careful, like you might bruise if he hurried. Your stomach did the traitorous little drop it had been practising for months. The elevator blinked to life and climbed with that clean, expensive glide, numbers ticking up and up until you reached the residential floors.

“Still time to back out,” you said, because teasing was your life raft when the world tilted toward earnest. “You could come back to the apartment. You don’t have to be a… New Avenger, is it?” The name tasted slightly bitter on your tongue, and judging from Bucky’s wince, you figured it probably made him uncomfortable, too. 

He glanced sideways. “It’s okay. I’ve got to do this. It’s… the right thing to do.”

You smiled at the elevator doors. “I’m proud of you, Bucky.”

The doors opened to an echo of hallway and new paint smell. Somewhere deeper in the tower, you could hear the skeleton noise of HVAC and Ava’s footsteps-that-weren’t-footsteps when she phased through a wall and startled the building into humming differently for a second. You nudged the apartment door open with your shoulder, half-expecting the worst, which made the room itself almost funny.

It wasn’t empty because emptiness implied intention. It was an almost-room, a blueprint, a place that would eventually learn his shape. The window spilled city into it. The bed was a mattress on the floor, neatly made—of course it was neatly made—with a plain grey duvet. A single chair, borrowed from a conference room, sat obediently in a corner. Two mugs on the counter. A box labeled BOOKS in tidy block letters sat next to a box labeled KITCHEN, same handwriting, same small patience.

“You weren’t kidding,” you said, setting the lamp gently onto the empty nightstand that wasn’t there. You settled for the floor. “Barnes, you moved into a concept.”

He set the box down with soundless control, then straightened. He always moved like the room might break if he didn’t respect it. “I figured I’d start simple. See what I actually use.”

“And what if what you actually use is a couch?” you asked. “What if your destiny is a rug?”

He made a show of considering. “I could be a rug guy.”

“Stop. That’s too much change at once.”

You peeled tape from the BOOKS box and found a few history texts, the kind with footnotes that knew their own weight, and a battered copy of something Russian you’d seen him read when the night got bad. You lifted it free and slid it onto the windowsill because there were no shelves yet, no furniture that could take on the solid trust of keeping someone’s words safe.

Bucky took the smaller boxes like a gentleman and the larger ones like a foregone conclusion, lining them up in thoughtful rows along the wall. He didn’t comment when you rearranged the lines so the labels faced outward, and he didn’t let the door swing closed behind you even once. He left it propped with his boot, a quiet little statement about how the next hour would be easy.

“Barnes!” The voice arrived before the person did. Yelena breezed into the doorway with a tiny potted plant as if she’d materialised out of thin air. She wore sunglasses inside and a grin that promised violence on your behalf if anyone made you carry something heavy. “We bring gift. A living thing. For the concept of your room.”

“It’s a pothos,” you said, delighted despite yourself. “It’s basically unkillable.”

“Like him.” She passed it to you. “He needs colour. And a rug.”

“I am right here,” Bucky said, which only made Yelena aim her smile at him like a laser measuring tool. 

“You are very here,” she conceded. “But your room is not. We fix it.”

Behind her, Alexei stumbled in with the fragile care of a bull in a porcelain store, arms full of something that clinked. “I brought plates,” he announced proudly. “All the plates.”

“They’re bowls,” Yelena said, leaning sideways to see around him.

“They are plate-bowls,” he insisted. “For stew. A man needs stew.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, perfectly sincere. “I like stew.”

Alexei preened. “He likes stew,” he stage-whispered to you, as if you’d been skeptical about the concept.

John Walker arrived next, because of course he did, because the universe loved a comedic beat. He shouldered in with three boxes stacked to his chin like a cartoon mailman, strides wide, expression set to This Is Nothing, I Am A Mountain. “Where do you want—” he began, and then his foot clipped the doorstop and the top box slipped, and the bottom box tried to emulate the top, and the middle one decided to become confetti, which is how John ended up with a lapful of Bucky’s socks.

Silence. Then Yelena’s laugh, bright and merciless. “Very graceful, Johnny. Like ballerina cow.”

“I meant to do that,” John said, which only made it better.

“Leave the heavy lifting to the professional,” Ava murmured, her voice arriving from above before her face did. You tipped your head back and found her peering down from an open vent, chin on forearms like a cat poking through a stair railing. “Hi.”

You pressed a hand to your chest, pretending your pulse wasn’t a drumline. “Have you been in the ventilation system this whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” she said, unapologetic. “I get bored.”

“She gets bored,” Yelena echoed. “Come down, ghost. Help with plate-bowls.”

Ava eased herself out of the vent like gravity was a rumour and landed lightly. She took in the mattress, the chair, the tidy rows of boxes, and then flicked her gaze to Bucky, the tiny quirk of a smile you only got if you knew to look. “Minimalist chic. I approve.”

“Please stop enabling him,” you said, hugging the pothos to your chest. It looked very small and determined. “We’re going to IKEA.”

Bucky made a noise that was almost a groan and almost a laugh. “We could start with shelves.”

“We will,” you promised, and it felt strangely like promising something larger, like promising that the next hour would be easy, and the next day would be kinder, and that you would be there for both. “And a couch. And a rug. And forks that match.”

“I have forks,” he protested.

“Four,” you said. “And two are technically camping utensils.”

“They fold,” he defended, which made Alexei look personally offended on behalf of stew.

“We go to IKEA,” Alexei declared. “We test sofas. We eat meatballs.”

“Please don’t make the meatballs a test,” John muttered, gathering socks with as much dignity as a man knee-deep in a stranger’s laundry could manage.

You moved through the next hour like you’d rehearsed it: you opened boxes, Bucky opened space, Yelena narrated, Alexei attempted to hang a clock without a clock to hang, and Ava vanished and reappeared with stray screws she found in the hallway as if the building shed hardware like hair. Whenever something needed a knife, Bucky handed you one handle-first. When you lifted anything heavier than your lamp, he simply appeared at your elbow, asking nothing, offering everything, and what were you meant to do with a man like that except fall in love exactly as slowly as you had been, one immaculate courtesy at a time.

At some point, you stood at the window with the pothos, trying to decide how close to put it so it could taste the light without burning. Bucky’s presence found the space behind you the way water found the low places—inevitable, quiet. He didn’t crowd. He set a box down and, without comment, reached past you to right a crooked outlet cover with his fingers, the softest pressure, the metal of his left hand catching sun and throwing it across the floor in a bright coin.

“You good?” he asked, that soft preternatural awareness he carried for other people’s thresholds. It was half question, half calibration.

You nodded. “Just figuring out where he’ll be happiest.” You stroked a leaf. “He looks like a Stanley.”

Bucky leaned in, considering the plant with the same seriousness he’d given a mission brief last week. “Stanley the pothos,” he said. “Sounds like a union man.”

“Solidarity,” you intoned, then laughed at yourself.

Bucky’s mouth softened again, that almost-smile. He reached up—slowly enough you could stop him—and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone, catching a pale stripe of dust you hadn’t noticed you’d collected from the BOOKS box. The pad of his thumb dragged gently over skin, and the world went brisk and high-definition, the way it did when you were about to tell the truth or run from it. He didn’t push; he let his touch be a question.

“You had a… streak,” he said, as if the words were shy and needed coaxing.

“Occupational hazard.” Your voice came out lightly enough to pass for fine. Inside, your heartbeat went to your mouth and back again.

He swept the dust off his thumb on his jeans and took a polite half step back, that little movement he did that said I’m here and I’m listening and I won’t take more than you offer. You wished, briefly, fiercely, that he would be careless just once. That he would misjudge a distance and bump your shoulder with his own and then forget to move away. That he would let himself want openly. But he was Bucky—he wanted cleanly, and privately, and with reverence, and you loved him for it and it made you feral.

“Thank you,” he said, as if you’d done something other than exist next to his window and name his plant.

“For what?”

“For this.” He tipped his chin at the boxes, the dust, the sunlight warming the metal plates along his forearm. “For making the first hour easy.”

The thing behind your ribs unfolded like a careful animal. “Anytime,” you said, and meant it too much.

Yelena called your names from the kitchen—“Come, come, I have arranged the plate-bowls in order of usefulness: very useful, less useful, and John”—and you laughed. You watched Bucky watch you for one heartbeat longer than usual. Then he asked, like a man asking if you wanted to step outside to breathe: “IKEA?”

You pretended to weigh it like the fate of nations. “I suppose. If we must.”

He picked up his wallet and the keycard he’d had the sense to put on a lanyard (of course he had), then offered the lanyard to you without looking like he was offering anything at all. “You drive,” he said. “You know the shortcuts.”

“You just don’t want to parallel park.”

“I don’t,” he agreed, unashamed. “Also, I like when you tell me where to go.”

Your pulse rang once, bright and foolish. “Careful,” you said lightly. “That sounded like a line.”

“If it was,” he said, meeting your eyes with something steady enough to be courage, “it would be a true one.”

Ava had already disappeared back into the vents by the time you made it to the door, because of course she had. Yelena pressed you into a hug that felt like she was checking your bones for integrity and then smacked Bucky on the bicep like she was seasoning him for good luck. Alexei insisted on giving you a twenty for meatballs. John, still scooping socks back into a box, said, “Get a couch you can actually nap on, Barnes,” in the tone of a man conceding defeat to both gravity and your competence.

“I have it handled,” Bucky said, which, coming from him, was a peace treaty and a promise.

In the hallway again, the elevator dinged open and you stepped in first this time. You put your forearm against the doors exactly the way he had and held them while he maneuvered the last of the emptiness out of the way for your life to fit. He looked at your arm and then at your face, something like warmth throwing a reflection across his features. He didn’t say thank you again, because he didn’t have to. The elevator closed, and the city spilled its music at your feet, and the afternoon bent forward into the kind of errand that would look ordinary from the outside and feel like a hinge from the inside.

You checked your pockets for lip balm, for your phone, for the crumpled list you’d made at three a.m. when he texted you I’m moving in, finally and you’d answered, without thinking, I’ll be there. He beat you to the lobby door, palmed it open, and stood there, waiting, until you passed under his arm and into the heat that tasted like a beginning.

He didn’t touch your lower back when you stepped into the sun. He didn’t need to. You felt it anyway: the ghost of his palm, the way he made space feel safer by standing in it with you. The street flavoured the air with car exhaust and the corner bodega’s fresh cilantro. Your car blinked at you like it had missed your chaos. You got behind the wheel and he buckled up without being asked, settled his hands in that ten-and-two that made your chest ache with the memory of him, wild and cornered and unseatbelted in a past that didn’t have room for breath.

“Ready?” you asked.

He looked out at the city he was trying on again, the reflection of summer and possibility on the windshield, then back to you. “Yeah,” he said, quiet and certain. “Take me where I should be.”

You did. And if your fingers trembled just a little on the gearshift when his knee brushed yours as you pulled into traffic, well—no one had to know except the sun, and the pothos named Stanley, and the man who had remembered his seatbelt without prompting.

The ride over felt like the kind of ordinary you wanted to bottle. The city hummed outside your windows, the radio played something low and wordless, and Bucky’s elbow rested against the frame like it belonged there. He didn’t fidget, didn’t fill the silence with needless words. He just let you drive, gave the occasional glance at the map on your phone, and hummed once when you turned down a street he didn’t know but trusted you to.

When the bright blue-and-yellow IKEA sign came into view, you felt a grin slip onto your face before you could stop it. “Prepare yourself, Barnes. This is no ordinary store. This is a labyrinth.”

“Pretty sure I’ve been through worse,” he said, though the way his brow furrowed as he eyed the massive parking lot full of families and shopping carts suggested otherwise.

You grabbed a cart at the entrance and shoved it toward him. “Your noble steed.”

He caught it without looking, metal hand curling effortlessly around the bar, and began to push like it was the most natural thing in the world. For you, though? Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip at the sight. Something about him—this man who could dismantle a room full of armed enemies without breaking a sweat—calmly steering a squeaky-wheeled cart through a store that smelled faintly of cinnamon buns? It was…devastating.

The first section was living rooms, endless staged apartments that made you both pause at the thresholds. You flopped dramatically onto the first couch you saw.

“This one,” you announced, sprawling across the cushions. “Perfect. We’re done.”

Bucky arched a brow, cart parked neatly to the side. “That’s the first one.”

“First one’s always the best.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s how I work.” You stretched like a cat, trying not to watch how his eyes flickered—just for a moment—over the shape of you against the cushions.

He shook his head, but you caught the ghost of a smile as he offered you a hand up. His palm was warm, calloused, the pressure precise as he pulled you back to your feet.

The aisles went on forever. You stopped to poke at throw pillows you knew he’d never buy, admired lamps shaped like abstract sculptures, and tested every chair that looked remotely comfortable. He humored you through all of it. Every time you looked up, he was already watching—not impatient, not exasperated. Just there.

When it came time for the heavier lifting, Bucky didn’t even blink. Flatpack after flatpack stacked onto the cart, and he pushed it like it weighed nothing. Other shoppers strained under a single box while he maneuvered three at once, metal arm steady, flesh hand steadying the top. You caught yourself staring and had to cough into your sleeve just to break the spell.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing at you with those steady blue eyes.

“Fine,” you said quickly. “Just…thinking about meatballs.”

“Right,” he said, lips twitching, but he let you have your deflection.

The cafeteria was crowded, a blur of families and couples and kids with ice cream cones melting down their wrists. You snagged two cones after your tray of meatballs and lingonberry jam, sliding one across the table to him.

“You’re gonna love this,” you promised.

He eyed it like it was a mission brief, then took a bite that left a perfect crescent missing from the top. His brows lifted, almost boyish. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you gasped, hand over your chest. “That’s high praise from you, Barnes.”

He smirked into his cone, quiet and devastating.

You were halfway through yours when disaster struck—one drip of soft serve melting down the side, quick and traitorous. You swiped at it with your tongue, missed, and felt the cold smear at the corner of your mouth.

Bucky leaned forward without hesitation, thumb brushing gently against your lips. His touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as he wiped the streak away. For a heartbeat too long, he didn’t move, his thumb lingering at the edge of your mouth. Your breath caught, your pulse thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it.

“There,” he said finally, withdrawing his hand, wiping it clean against a napkin like it meant nothing. Like he hadn’t just set your entire body on fire.

You blinked at him, words gone. So you laughed instead, awkward and breathless, and shoved the rest of your cone into your mouth before you could humiliate yourself further.

Bucky just watched you, expression unreadable except for the faintest, softest curve at the corner of his lips.

When you left the cafeteria, the weight of the moment hung between you like the faint smell of cinnamon rolls that lingered in the air. He didn’t comment, didn’t make it strange. He just held the cart steady while you loaded the last box, brushed his knuckles against your shoulder to guide you around a crowd, and walked beside you like he always had.

You thought, not for the first time, that you’d drown yourself in ordinary errands for the rest of your life if it meant he’d keep doing things like that.

By the time you both returned, your arms aching from carrying bags of throw pillows you swore were necessary and Bucky insisting on stacking three flatpacks across his shoulders, Avengers Tower was already buzzing.

Not the kind of buzz you got from civilians or official meetings—it was Thunderbolts buzz. The low-grade chaos of people who had no business living together yet somehow did.

Yelena was the first to notice the haul, popping her head out of the kitchen with a spoon hanging from her mouth. “Finally! I thought maybe Barnes got lost in big-box store and needed rescue mission.”

“Didn’t get lost,” Bucky said, deadpan, maneuvering through the door with all three boxes balanced like they weighed nothing. “Didn’t need rescue.”

“Mm,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “We take poll later.”

Alexei trundled in behind her, eyes widening at the sight of the furniture. “Is this…bed?” He pointed to one of the boxes.

“Bedframe,” you corrected. “We’re upgrading him from mattress-on-the-floor chic.”

Alexei clapped Bucky on the back so hard you winced in sympathy. “Very proud. A man deserves bed with legs! Mattress only for prison or camping.”

From the corner, Bob perked up from where he was inexplicably sprawled on the couch with a game controller in his hand. “Or a futon,” he offered.

“No futons,” you said immediately.

Bucky glanced at you, lips twitching. “No futons,” he echoed solemnly.

John appeared then, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting all along. He crossed his arms, posture all cocky bravado. “So, Barnes finally getting civilized? I’ll admit, didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You don’t have it in you to carry three boxes at once without tripping,” Yelena shot back before Bucky could open his mouth.

John’s jaw tightened, but he covered it with a smirk. “I was…pacing myself.”

“Sure,” you said, unable to help yourself. “Very strategic.”

Bucky didn’t add to the pile-on. He just set his boxes down neatly against the wall, then straightened to his full height, calm as still water. His lack of effort was louder than any insult. John went quiet after that.

A soft whoosh above your head made you startle, and then—of course—Ava phased straight through the ceiling vent, dropping lightly onto the arm of the couch. “You’re back,” she said casually, as though she hadn’t just startled years off your life.

“Do you—” you gestured upward, exasperated, “—live in the ventilation system?”

“Sometimes,” she replied, smirking. “Better view.”

“She’s rat,” Yelena said affectionately. “A little phantom rat.”

“I prefer ghost,” Ava said, rolling her eyes, but you caught the small smile.

Meanwhile, Alexei had already started unpacking one of the boxes without asking permission. He squinted at the instruction sheet, turning it upside down, then sideways. “It says here we need…allen key?”

“Yeah,” you said, trying not to laugh. “Don’t worry, IKEA provides.”

“Good,” Alexei declared. “Allen will help.”

Yelena groaned.

Bucky didn’t even blink, just crouched to tear open another box with practiced efficiency. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, veins standing out against the strong curve of his forearm as he sorted screws into neat little piles. You watched him work, struck silent for a moment by the sheer calm competence of it—by how he didn’t rush, didn’t sigh, didn’t make it harder than it needed to be.

Beside you, John muttered something under his breath. Louder, he said, “Bet he needs someone to hold the manual for him.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Don’t need it.”

And he didn’t. In minutes, he had the frame parts aligned on the floor, bolts organized, the whole thing ready to be assembled like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You crouched to help, more for your own sanity than his. “At least let me do something.”

His gaze flickered to you, softer than you were ready for. “Keep me company,” he said simply.

Which you did. Sitting cross-legged across from him, passing screws when he reached for them, pretending not to notice when his knee brushed yours more than once. The others provided background noise—Alexei arguing with Bob about the strength of futons, Yelena threatening to strangle John with a tape measure, Ava disappearing halfway into the floor just to make you yelp—but for you, it was only Bucky.

Every careful movement of his hands. Every time he shifted the instructions just slightly closer to you like he wanted you included. Every small thing.

And you thought: God help you, you were going to fall apart before this bed was even built.

The apartment floor became a landscape of wooden slats, metal brackets, and little plastic bags of screws that looked identical until you were squinting at them in frustration. Alexei had already wandered off muttering about stew, Yelena had confiscated the instruction manual to doodle moustaches on the stick-figure diagrams, and Ava had vanished into the vents again. John was pretending to supervise from the couch while Bob scrolled idly on his phone.

Which left you and Bucky in the middle of it all—cross-legged on the floor, pieces of a bedframe laid out between you.

“Alright,” you said, picking up one of the planks. “This one goes…here? Or maybe there.”

“Here.” His voice was steady, certain. He reached across and slid the piece into position, aligning it perfectly with another. His flesh hand brushed against your wrist as he steadied it. “Like that.”

You swallowed, hard. “Right. Like that.”

The air between you seemed to thicken, full of things unsaid. His focus was absolute—on the task, on the alignment, on making sure the structure was sound. But every time your fingers grazed, every time your knee bumped against his, it felt deliberate, electric.

You tried to follow the instructions, really, you did—but the stick figure with a wrench might as well have been written in code. Bucky didn’t even glance at the manual. He lined up the planks with measured precision, screws sorted into neat little piles at his side. Each twist of his wrist was efficient, exact, the muscles in his forearm tightening just slightly with the motion.

It was ridiculous, how hot that was.

You passed him a screw. He took it with a murmur of thanks, the words warm enough to lodge under your skin. Watching him work was unfair. The way he braced the pieces together with one hand, then drove the screw in with the other, movements precise and unhurried. He wasn’t just building furniture—he was anchoring something. Rooting himself.

And you couldn’t stop staring.

Bucky’s voice broke your cover. “What?” he asked, faint amusement curling the word. He didn’t look up, just slid the next piece into place like he could do it blind.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

He smirked, tightening another bolt. “You like watching me work?”

Your face went hot. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe,” he murmured, lips twitching as he drove the screw in with one last, perfect twist. “But I get the job done.”

Your breath caught. He’d said it so casually, like it was nothing, but it set your whole chest buzzing.

You ducked your head and reached for another bolt, trying to disguise the way your hands trembled. “Here,” you said, handing it over.

“Thanks.” His fingers brushed yours again, deliberate this time. You felt the callus at the pad of his thumb, the faint scrape of skin against skin. He didn’t move away immediately. Neither did you.

For a heartbeat, it was just the two of you on the floor, surrounded by half-built furniture, staring at each other like the world might split open if either of you looked away first.

Then John cleared his throat obnoxiously from the couch. “You two gonna build the bed, or just eye-fuck over the screws?”

Your face went nuclear. You snapped your head toward him. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Not really,” John said, smug.

Bucky didn’t rise to it. He just gave John one of those flat looks that carried the weight of entire wars, and John promptly shut up.

But the moment had shifted. You leaned back on your heels, trying to steady your breathing while Bucky drove in the last screw on that side of the frame. He was unbothered, composed—at least on the outside. But you noticed the way his jaw ticked, the way his shoulders had tensed ever so slightly.

He felt it too.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back a smile.

The bedframe came together faster than you expected. In under an hour, the skeleton of it stood solid, sturdy, waiting for the mattress. You brushed your hands against your thighs, dusting off the phantom sawdust. “Well. You did it. You’re a real boy now.”

Bucky huffed a laugh, standing and offering you his hand. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

You took it, let him pull you to your feet. His grip lingered a second too long, warm and steady, before he released you.

Yelena reappeared just then, balancing the plant she’d gifted him earlier on her hip like a baby. “Good! Now his room looks less like prison, more like sad bachelor. Progress.”

“Thanks, Yelena,” you said, unable to help your grin.

Bucky just shook his head, muttering something in Russian under his breath. But when he caught your eye again, that faint, private smile was back. The one that made your heart ache with the possibility of more.

The mattress settled into the new frame with a muffled thunk, the springs groaning once before quieting. Bucky smoothed his hand over the blanket, neat as ever, like he was cataloguing its shape.

“There,” he said, voice low, certain. “Bed.”

“Wow. Really outdone yourself this time,” you teased, flopping down across the middle with deliberate drama. The frame gave a little bounce, solid enough to hold you. You spread your arms wide. “Congratulations, Barnes. It’s officially sleep-worthy.”

He gave you one of his looks—half exasperation, half indulgence—and sat carefully at the edge, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “You’re supposed to test it by lying down, not—”

But then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he stretched out beside you. Boots still planted on the floor, head tipped back against the headboard, arms loose at his sides. His eyes closed, lashes brushing his cheek, like he was letting himself breathe for the first time all day.

Your chest squeezed.

You rolled onto your side, watching him. He looked…younger like this. Softer. The sharp lines in his shoulders seemed to ease. A strand of hair had fallen over his temple, and before you thought better of it, your hand rose to brush it back.

He caught your wrist gently, fingers circling like a band of warmth. His eyes flicked open, startlingly blue this close. His thumb traced your skin, absentminded, like he didn’t know he was doing it.

The silence was heavy with all the things you’d never said.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he murmured, voice unsteady in a way you rarely heard.

“Like what?” your whisper came out shaky, your breath catching in the tiny space between you.

His lips curved faintly, sad and sweet. “Like I’m something good.”

Your throat tightened. “Maybe you are.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up. His forehead tilted closer, almost brushing yours. His nose nudged against yours—barely, just enough to make you tremble. You inhaled sharply, and he matched it, shaky breath mingling with yours. The tiniest shift and you could’ve kissed him, could’ve drowned in him.

But then you moved at the same time, too fast, and suddenly the mattress betrayed you both. He leaned one way, you leaned the other, and with a startled laugh you ended up rolling—half on top of him, palms braced against his chest.

For a second, you just froze. His heartbeat thudded under your hands. Your knees bracketed his thighs. His flesh hand gripped your waist instinctively, firm but careful, like he was afraid you might slip right through him.

And then you both laughed—helpless, breathless, ridiculous. You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling until it shook through you, and he chuckled low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your palms.

“Graceful,” he teased, voice roughened by amusement.

“Shut up,” you muttered, still laughing.

When you lifted your head again, your laughter died in your throat. Because you were close—so close—your faces inches apart, your breaths mingling. His hand was still on your waist, steady and grounding, and you felt impossibly small beneath the weight of his grip. His gaze dropped again to your mouth, lingered, and this time…he didn’t pull away.

Slowly, carefully, he leaned up to close the last sliver of distance. His nose brushed yours again, your breath stuttered out, and when his lips finally pressed to yours—soft, tentative—it felt like falling into something you’d been reaching for forever.

Your hands fisted in his shirt. His grip on your waist tightened just enough to hold you there. And for a moment, the laughter, the chaos, the world itself—all of it disappeared, leaving only him.

The first kiss was barely there, a brush, a tremor—like he was testing the air between you. You chased it instinctively, your lips catching his again, and this time he didn’t hold back. The second kiss carried weight. Years of careful friendship pressed into the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale you made against him, the groan he swallowed before it could escape.

His hand slid from your waist up your ribcage, fingertips skimming your side through your shirt, steady and grounding even as everything else in you reeled. You felt small under the span of him, anchored by the weight of his touch.

The mattress creaked when you shifted, pressing closer. His metal arm braced beside your head, cold and immovable, caging you in without crushing you. You tilted up into him, lips parting, and his tongue brushed against yours with such careful hesitation you nearly sobbed from the gentleness of it.

The kiss deepened, grew hungrier, and then he broke away—abruptly, like he’d scared himself. Both of you were panting, noses brushing, foreheads pressed together.

His voice was ragged. “We…we can’t…” He trailed off, thumb stroking your jaw even as his words tried to pull away.

Your chest heaved. “Can’t what?”

“This,” he said, the word hoarse. “Friends don’t do this.”

The ache in your chest sharpened. You searched his face, eyes wide, heart hammering like it wanted to tear out of you. “And what if I don’t want to be just your friend anymore?”

For a moment, silence hung heavy, his thumb frozen against your cheek. His jaw worked, eyes flickering between yours like he was trying to find the trap.

“You don’t mean that,” he murmured finally, so quiet it nearly wasn’t there.

“I do,” you said, fierce despite the tremor in your voice. You were trembling all over, but you held his gaze. “God, Bucky, I’ve wanted this for so long. I thought you…didn’t.”

His breath shuddered out of him. His grip on your waist tightened, like he needed the anchor as badly as you did.

“You think I don’t?” His laugh came out cracked, disbelieving. He nudged his nose against yours again, shaky and tender. “I’ve been trying not to want this. Not to ruin us. Not to ruin you.”

The confession stole your air.

“You couldn’t ruin me,” you whispered.

That undid him. His mouth crashed back to yours, deeper, rougher, teeth catching on your lower lip before his tongue slid past. The kiss was messy now, frantic, both of you chasing the inevitability of it, trying to make up for every moment you’d held back.

You whimpered into him, hands fisting in his shirt, tugging until he groaned against your mouth. His body shifted, rolling you with him, and suddenly you were on your back, his weight braced above you. The bed dipped under him, solid, steady, a frame you’d built together holding both of you now.

He kissed you until you were dizzy, until your lips were swollen and your breaths came out in desperate little gasps. When he finally broke for air again, he stayed close, forehead against yours, voice wrecked.

“Tell me this isn’t just a moment,” he said. “Tell me you’ll still want me tomorrow.”

Your heart cracked wide open. “I’ll want you every day after this,” you said, no hesitation, because it was the easiest truth you’d ever spoken.

Something desperate flickered across his face—relief, hunger, longing all tangled together. And then he kissed you again, like he believed you.

The kiss had tipped from hesitant to desperate so fast your head spun. One moment you were still laughing into his mouth, foreheads bumping clumsily as you tried to steady yourselves, and the next you were clutching at his shirt like a lifeline, kissing him harder, deeper.

Bucky made a sound—low in his chest, almost a growl—and shifted his weight over you. The bed dipped under his knees, his body caging yours. His flesh hand cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking once against your cheekbone before sliding into your hair, tilting your head back so he could kiss you deeper. His metal arm braced steady on the mattress, cold and immovable beside your ribs.

You arched into him, hips brushing, and he froze for half a second. The accidental friction pulled a ragged groan out of him.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth.

Your pulse leapt. You did it again—on purpose this time, tilting your hips to grind up against the hard line you could already feel straining against his jeans. The sound that tore from his throat was guttural, broken.

“Sweetheart—” he warned, though it came out more like a plea than a boundary.

You couldn’t stop, not now. Not after years of pretending you didn’t want this, not after nights lying awake imagining what his weight would feel like pressing you down. “Please,” you whispered, your breath shaky against his lips. “Bucky, please.”

His control snapped.

He surged down to kiss you again, hungrier this time, all teeth and tongue, his breath harsh through his nose as his hips rolled into yours. The denim of his jeans ground against the thin barrier of your leggings, the friction sweet and maddening. You gasped into his mouth, clinging to him as your body sparked under every press of him.

His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. You felt the breadth of his palm spanning your side, anchoring you, holding you still as he rutted into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips. Each grind sent a jolt of heat shooting through you, your head falling back against the pillow with a broken moan.

Bucky’s lips trailed down your jaw, hot and desperate. “Christ,” he muttered, voice rough, “you’re shaking.”

“I can’t—” you gasped, arching into him again, your thighs falling open to give him more space. “Bucky…”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild. His lips were swollen from kissing, his breath ragged. His gaze dragged down your body, then back up to your face, lingering on your mouth like he couldn’t decide which part of you to worship first.

“You’re soaked,” he said hoarsely, the words half wonder, half tease. His hips pressed harder, grinding right against your clit through the fabric, and you cried out. His mouth curled in the faintest, filthiest smirk. “All this…just from me kissing you?”

Your cheeks burned, embarrassment and arousal crashing together, but you couldn’t deny it—not when your body was betraying you with every roll of his hips. “Yes,” you whispered, breath breaking. “God, yes.”

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to hold himself back and failing. He kissed you again, rougher this time, swallowing your moans as he rocked against you. His weight bore down on you, solid and overwhelming, and you felt so small under him—helpless in the best way, pinned between his body and the mattress you’d built together.

Every drag of his cock against your cunt had you gasping, clutching at his shoulders, your hips canting up to meet his rhythm. The friction was relentless, sharp and sweet. Your thighs trembled around him, thighs opening wider with each thrust, and his hand slid down to grip your hip, guiding you against him.

“Look at you,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. His nose brushed yours, breath shaky. “So fucking desperate for me.”

You whined, the sound catching in your throat as you ground up into him harder. His hips stuttered once, like he hadn’t expected it, and a string of curses spilled from his lips.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer, until his chest was pressed to yours, his heartbeat slamming through his ribs. He kissed you like a man starving, breaking only to breathe raggedly against your lips. His hips kept moving, unrelenting, grinding you closer and closer to the edge.

“Bucky,” you gasped, nails scraping lightly against his back through his shirt. “I’m gonna—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, rocking harder, his voice wrecked. “You gonna come for me like this? Just from me fucking grinding against you?”

You moaned helplessly, head tipping back. “Yes—yes, Bucky, please—”

He groaned low, hips snapping into you once, hard enough to make you cry out. His grip on your hip tightened, holding you to him as he ground down again, perfectly against that spot that had you trembling.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he urged, voice low and commanding, but laced with awe. “Wanna feel you soak right through these jeans.”

The filthy words tipped you over. Heat crashed through you, your body locking up before shuddering apart. You clung to him, gasping his name against his mouth as your orgasm tore through you, the friction still sparking against your clit until you were shaking all over.

Bucky groaned at the feeling of you thrashing under him, his hips rolling slow and deliberate to draw it out, like he wanted to wring every last tremor from you. He kissed you through it, swallowing your cries, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your waist even as he kept you pinned.

When you finally collapsed back against the mattress, trembling, his lips brushed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. His voice was soft, ragged, reverent.

“God, you’re perfect.”

Your body was still trembling when the aftershocks ebbed, breath catching on each exhale. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, before Bucky’s face filled your vision again. He was braced above you, flushed and breathing hard, eyes dark but soft as they searched your face.

“Never seen anything like that,” he murmured, brushing your damp hair from your temple with careful fingers. His voice was husky, awed. “Didn’t even touch you under your clothes and you…”

Heat burned through your cheeks. “Bucky—”

“Shh.” He kissed you quick, reassuring, before shifting his weight back. “I wanna take care of you.”

The way he said it made your chest ache—like he wasn’t just talking about tonight, like he meant every part of your life.

Before you could respond, he was tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Can I?”

You nodded, wordless, and raised your arms. He peeled the fabric over your head, slow and careful, like he was unwrapping something precious. His gaze swept over you reverently as he tossed the shirt aside, calloused fingers tracing along your sides before he leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin.

You shivered, already squirming as he trailed lower, kissing the curve of your breast over your bra, down your stomach, across your hip. When his fingers hooked into your leggings, he paused, glancing up.

“You sure?” His eyes searched yours, raw and earnest. “I don’t need more than what we just did. I’d be happy to stop here.”

Your heart clenched. God, he meant it. Even with his own arousal straining visibly against his jeans, he’d stop if you asked. He’d tuck you under the blanket, let you sleep, and never mention it again.

“I want this,” you whispered fiercely, reaching down to thread your fingers through his hair. “I want you.”

Something flickered in his expression—relief, hunger, tenderness tangled together. He kissed the inside of your thigh once, sealing your words like a vow, before tugging your leggings and underwear down in one smooth motion.

Cool air hit you, making you gasp. His eyes dropped between your thighs, and his breath caught audibly.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself, half in wonder. “You’re soaked.” He glanced up, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Still can’t believe I did that to you just from grinding.”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Don’t—”

He chuckled low, prying your hands away gently. “Don’t hide from me. You have no idea how fucking gorgeous you are like this.”

And then his mouth was on you.

The first stroke of his tongue over your clit made you arch clean off the bed. He held your hips steady with his broad hands, anchoring you as he licked slowly, deliberately, savoring. His stubble scratched faintly against the tender inside of your thighs, the contrast only making you whimper louder.

“Fuck, Bucky—”

He hummed, the vibration buzzing against your clit, before sucking gently, teasingly. Your back bowed, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “That’s it. Let me hear you.” Then he dove back in, tongue circling, flicking, stroking until your thighs were trembling around his head.

Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging helplessly. He groaned into you, the sound raw, like your desperation only spurred him on. He mouthed at your folds, tongue dipping lower to taste everything, then sliding back up to focus on your clit with maddening precision.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped, pausing only to kiss the inside of your thigh before pressing his mouth to you again. “You taste—fuck, I could stay here all night.”

You were incoherent, babbling his name, gasps breaking between moans. The coil in your stomach wound tighter with every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck. His hands never left you—one holding your thigh open, the other stroking soothing circles against your hip like he was reminding you he had you, he’d never let you go.

“Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured against your clit, his voice wrecked. “Come for me, doll. Wanna feel you shake for me again.”

It was too much. Your thighs clamped around his head as the orgasm hit, white-hot, tearing through you. You cried out, back arching, nails digging into his scalp. He groaned, devouring you greedily, tongue working you through it until you were thrashing, begging for mercy.

Finally, he pulled back, lips slick, face flushed. He kissed your trembling thigh tenderly, then your hip, then worked his way back up your body. By the time he kissed you again, you were still panting, dazed, and the taste of yourself on his tongue made your head spin.

“See?” he whispered against your mouth, pressing his forehead to yours. “Told you I’d take care of you.”

You could only nod weakly, fingers clutching his shoulders, your whole body humming with the aftershocks. He kissed you again, slow and deep, as though he had all the time in the world.

You were still reeling, body humming and limp against the mattress, when Bucky kissed you again. His mouth was slow now, reverent, like he was savoring every second. You clutched at him anyway, greedy, pulling him closer.

He broke the kiss with a ragged groan, forehead pressed to yours, his breath harsh against your lips. “If I don’t stop now…” His voice cracked. “I won’t stop.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, without a shred of hesitation. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders. “Don’t stop, Bucky. Please.”

His jaw clenched, torn between restraint and need. His hand stroked along your cheek, then down your side, trembling just slightly. “You know what you’re asking?”

“Yes,” you said fiercely. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

That undid him. His mouth crushed to yours, desperate and messy, while his hands moved to your hips, tugging your leggings the rest of the way off. His jeans followed—clumsy, hurried, shoved down just far enough. The weight of him pressed against your thigh, heavy and hot, his cock dragging against your skin.

You gasped at the size of him, at the sheer heat. He cursed softly, head dropping to your shoulder as he ground against you once, helpless. “Christ—you’re so warm. I don’t even…” He cut himself off with a shudder.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him. His hips bucked at the contact, a guttural sound torn from his chest.

“Wait,” he rasped suddenly, pulling back enough to search your face. His thumb stroked your jaw again, frantic tenderness pouring out of him. “I don’t have—anything. No condom.”

Your heart slammed. You knew this mattered, knew it was reckless, but every nerve in your body screamed for him. “It’s okay,” you whispered, steady even through your shaking. “I’m clean. I’m on the pill. Just—please, Bucky. I need you.”

He groaned like he was breaking, like the last thread of restraint had snapped. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaky. “I’ll pull out,” he promised, voice rough. “I won’t risk you.”

You nodded, clutching at him. “I trust you.”

That was it. That was all he needed.

He kissed you once more, slow and deep, then angled his hips. His tip slid through your folds, catching at your entrance. You gasped at the stretch already, at the anticipation.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice wrecked but soothing. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your lip. “I’ve got you.”

And then he pushed in.

The stretch stole your breath, made your nails dig into his back. He groaned low, burying his face against your neck, body trembling as he eased deeper, inch by inch.

“Fuck,” he hissed, kissing the line of your jaw, his voice almost reverent. “So tight. So warm. You feel…you feel like you were made for me.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed, but clung tighter. “Don’t stop,” you begged, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Please, Bucky—don’t stop.”

He stilled when he was fully inside, chest heaving against yours. His lips pressed to your temple, your cheek, anywhere he could reach, murmuring softly. “I’ll give you a minute. Breathe. Just breathe for me.”

The gentleness almost undid you more than the stretch. You nodded shakily, letting your body adjust, letting the sharp ache melt into fullness. Into him.

“Okay,” you whispered finally. “I’m okay.”

His mouth hovered over yours, his hips rolling slow. The drag of him inside you pulled a moan straight from your throat. His face crumpled, like the sound broke him open.

“Sweetheart…” His thrusts were deep, unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. His metal arm held him steady above you, his flesh hand cradled your face like you were fragile glass. “You’re so perfect like this. So wet for me.”

Your body clenched around him at his words, and he groaned, hips stuttering. “Fuck—you hear that? Hear how wet you are? Can’t believe this is real.”

You whimpered, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “It’s real. It’s always been you.”

He kissed you like that shattered him, thrusts growing rougher, needier. Each roll of his hips pressed deeper, harder, until you were gasping into his mouth, your nails raking down his back. The sound of your slick filled the room, obscene and beautiful.

“God, I could lose myself in you,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t ever let me go.”

You were close again—could feel it building, hot and sharp in your stomach. You moaned into his mouth, clinging tighter. “Bucky—I’m gonna—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, his thrusts snapping harder now, ragged. “Come for me, doll. Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

His words tipped you over. Pleasure ripped through you, white-hot, your body clenching hard around him. You cried out his name, back arching, thighs trembling around his waist.

He cursed, head thrown back, hips stuttering as he pulled out just in time. Hot release spilled across your stomach as he groaned, broken, bracing himself above you with a shaking arm.

The room was filled with nothing but your panting, your pounding hearts, the faint creak of the bedframe.

Bucky’s hand trembled as he stroked your hair back, pressing his forehead to yours. His voice was raw, almost a whisper. “I can’t believe you want me.”

Tears pricked your eyes, soft and aching. “I always have.”

He kissed you once more, slow and lingering, before collapsing beside you, tugging you into his chest. His arm wrapped around you, holding you tight, as if he’d never let you slip away again.

And for the first time, lying tangled together on the bed you’d built, it felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The room was still thick with the smell of sex, the hum of your breathing uneven as you collapsed into the dip of the mattress. Sweat cooled on your skin, and your limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.

But Bucky didn’t let you move.

You’d started to shift, murmuring something about getting cleaned up, but he stilled you instantly with a hand against your hip. “Stay,” he said softly, already leaning over the edge of the bed to grab the towel he’d left nearby. “I’ve got it.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. His hair was mussed, damp strands falling into his face, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, gorgeous pink. The sight alone should’ve undone you all over again.

“I can—”

“Shh.” He cut you off gently, lips brushing your temple. “Let me take care of you.”

It was such a simple line, but the weight in his voice made your chest tighten. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t saying it to be smooth. He meant it.

And then he was easing you onto your back, careful and unhurried. The towel was warm from his hands as he wiped you down, movements reverent. He cleaned the mess between your thighs with slow strokes, murmuring soft apologies when you flinched at the sensitivity. His flesh hand cupped your knee, steady and grounding.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your thigh after each swipe. “Almost done.”

The towel was warm against your oversensitive skin, but it wasn’t the touch that made your breath catch—it was the way he handled it. Unhurried, precise, careful in a way that made your chest ache. He didn’t rush, didn’t miss a spot, didn’t falter even when you squirmed at the sensitivity.

It was intimate in a way that almost overwhelmed you more than the sex had. He wasn’t rushing. He wasn’t embarrassed. He just…took his time, every gesture threaded with care.

It hit you suddenly, almost embarrassingly: it wasn’t just the sex. It was this. The competence of him. The quiet way he knew what to do, how to make you comfortable, how to make you feel cared for.

Your voice slipped out before you could stop it. “You’re…really good at this.”

Bucky froze for a second, then huffed a quiet laugh, brushing a kiss against your thigh. “In the 108 years I’ve been alive… guess I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

When he was satisfied, he tossed the towel aside and tugged the blanket up, wrapping it snug around your body. Then he slid in beside you, pulling you into his chest with an arm around your waist.

You melted instantly. His body was warm and solid, his heart thudding against your cheek. He smelled faintly of sweat, clean cotton, and the lingering spice of his soap. You burrowed closer, sighing as your body finally loosened.

“You good?” he asked after a moment, his lips brushing the crown of your head.

“Better than good,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his chest.

He let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through you. His metal arm shifted under the blanket, cold plates carefully avoiding your skin, while his flesh hand stroked your back in slow, absentminded circles.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured after a while, his thumb brushing along your spine.

“Comedown,” you admitted, yawning. “Not bad. Just…a lot.”

His arm tightened around you. “I’ve got you.”

You believed him.

Silence stretched, heavy but comfortable. The only sound was your uneven breathing slowly syncing to his. The adrenaline ebbed, replaced by the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that felt safe, earned.

Your eyelids drooped, the rhythm of his touch lulling you under.

“Don’t let go,” you whispered, already drifting.

“Never,” he promised, voice steady and certain, even as his own breathing slowed.

Sleep claimed you like that—tucked in his arms, warm and content, with the steady weight of him wrapped protectively around you.

The kitchen was already alive when you and Bucky slipped in the next morning. Yelena was perched on the counter with a mug of coffee, Alexei hovered over the stove with a pot in one hand, and Bob was upside-down on the couch for reasons you didn’t want to know. John sat at the table scrolling his phone, muttering into his mug. Ava phased half-in and half-out of the wall like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It was chaos, and you almost turned around to go back upstairs.

Alexei was the first to notice. “You!” he barked, brandishing the ladle like a weapon. “You missed dinner! Hours I spent making stew, and you vanish like ghosts.”

You winced, sheepish, holding up your mug as a shield. “Sorry, Alexei. We were…busy.”

Yelena’s head swiveled toward you like a hawk. “Busy with what?” Then her eyes narrowed, darting between you and Bucky—his damp hair, the faint blush creeping up his neck, the way he was very deliberately not looking at anyone. A slow smirk tugged at her lips. “Oh. Busy with bed.”

You choked on your coffee.

Bucky’s ears went pink, his jaw tightening as he busied himself with the toaster like it required tactical focus. “Don’t,” he muttered.

Yelena grinned wickedly. “So. How was it?”

“Yelena!” you squeaked, covering your face with your mug.

John perked up instantly, smirk already forming. “What’d I miss?”

“Barnes christened the bed,” Yelena said cheerfully.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, slamming toast onto a plate like it had offended him.

Bob groaned dramatically from the couch. “Ugh. Do not tell me I have to live with the sound effects.”

“Noise-proof walls,” Ava said blandly, phasing her head fully through the wall to smirk at you. “Mostly.”

Your cheeks burned hotter. You couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, half mortified, half giddy.

Bucky shot you a look, torn between exasperation and fondness, but the blush spreading down his throat gave him away.

Alexei set down the ladle with a huff. “I make stew, no one comes. But everyone comes for bed. This is disrespect.”

That broke you. You dissolved into laughter, hiding your face in your hands, while Bucky groaned beside you like he regretted every decision leading to this moment.

Breakfast carried on with relentless teasing—Yelena raising her brows at every creak of the chair when Bucky shifted, John muttering about “young love,” Bob pretending to gag into his cereal. Through it all, Bucky stayed at your side, shoulders squared like he could shield you from it, though his ears stayed red the whole time.

When you finally escaped back upstairs, both of you clutching your coffee like lifelines, you collapsed onto his still-new bed in a fit of laughter.

“They’re never going to let us live this down,” you gasped, wiping tears from your eyes.

Bucky sank down beside you with a sigh, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, grin spreading. “So…we could test the shower?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide, before a slow, boyish smirk tugged at his mouth. He leaned closer, voice low. “Think the couch might need testing too.”

You laughed, pushing at his chest, but he only caught your wrist, tugging you into his lap. His kiss was softer this time, but the heat was still there, banked under the surface, waiting.

And if the rest of the Tower heard the creak of the shower pipes later that morning—well, that was nobody’s business but yours.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

You untangled from the blanket, standing with a wobble as your knees protested. Bucky didn’t move.

He blinked at you, his lips parting slightly. “Bedtime?”

You smiled at his confusion, misreading it. “Yeah. You’re staying the night, right?” You said it like it was nothing—because to you, it was. He’d been staying longer and longer, had a drawer of his things now, a toothbrush beside yours. Tonight just felt like the next natural step.

Bucky hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I mean... if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” you said gently, offering him your hand.

He took it, rising to his feet, towering over you in that unfairly pretty way. His hand was warm in yours. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

You didn’t miss the shift in his voice. That careful tone he used when he was guarding something. But you didn’t push. Instead, you led him toward the bathroom, yawning again as you clicked the light on.

The overhead brightness made you both blink like moles emerging into sunlight. Bucky’s toothbrush sat in the holder beside yours, a subtle sign of how far you’d come. You reached for your toothpaste, and he followed suit, quiet, brushing side-by-side in the mirror like a couple years into marriage.

He had toothpaste on the corner of his mouth.

You giggled.

“What?” he said around a mouthful of foam.

You reached over and wiped it with your thumb. “Messy.”

He smiled with his eyes, gaze soft. But behind it—something else. You caught it in the moment his reflection dropped his eyes. In the way his jaw clenched when you touched his face.

Still, when you leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, he sighed, almost like he was trying to hold onto the moment.

“I’ll meet you in there,” you murmured, heading to the bedroom first.

You were halfway across the room when you realised he wasn’t following.

You stopped by the linen cupboard and turned. Bucky stood in the doorway of your bathroom, hunched slightly forward like the weight of standing there alone had started to press into his spine. He wasn’t looking at you, but rather past you, into the darkness of your bedroom, like there was something unknown ahead.

You stepped back toward him, your voice soft. “Bucky?”

His eyes lifted slowly. He didn’t flinch when you reached out this time, didn’t shy away from your fingers as they slid along his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“You okay?” you asked gently.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. He exhaled and followed you into your bedroom. 

You climbed into bed first, sliding beneath the covers with a sleepy sigh. You patted the space beside you, smiling. “C’mon, soldier. You’ve earned a good night’s sleep.”

He didn’t move at first.

Just stood there, motionless, fingers curling at his sides.

You tilted your head. “Bucky?”

He took a hesitant step forward, then sat down on the very edge of the mattress, his back rigid, his shoulders stiff. He didn’t peel off his shirt. Didn’t take off his jeans. Didn’t pull back the blanket. Just... perched there like he wasn’t sure if he was meant to stay.

You sat up slowly, watching him.

“Hey... what’s going on?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. Just stared straight ahead, as if answering might make something crack open.

“I’m fine,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His jaw was tight. His hands were clasped between his knees, the metal one flexing slightly like it couldn’t get comfortable.

You reached over, resting your hand lightly on his back. “You’re acting weird.”

He let out a soft, humourless breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You waited. Gave him the space.

Then—finally—his voice came, low and quiet.

“I just... haven’t slept in a bed in a long time.”

You didn’t rush him. Just let the silence stretch while your hand stayed warm on his skin.

“In the war,” he said eventually, voice low, “we had trenches. Mud. Rain. Sometimes wood slats, if we were lucky. You didn’t... lie down. You curled in on yourself. Tried not to freeze.”

You nodded slowly, watching his face, his faraway gaze. You shifted to sit beside him on the mattress, facing him now.

“And after,” he went on, “Hydra didn’t exactly care about comfort. Metal slabs, cold floors, cells. Sleep wasn’t something I was allowed to... do. Not properly.”

Your heart twisted at the edge in his voice. He wasn’t trying to make you feel sorry for him—he was just explaining, like it was a fact, history, not trauma.

“Even when I was on my own in Romania. I had this mattress I found—left behind by the last tenant. No bedframe. No sheets. Just... whatever it was.” He gave a humourless chuckle. “There was a spring that used to poke my ribs if I rolled too far left.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers curling around his hand. “That sounds awful.”

“It wasn’t,” he said quickly. “It was fine. It was what I was used to.”

“In Wakanda, it was different,” he said, softer now. “They gave me a hut. Quiet. No noise. No people. I liked it. But even then... I didn’t use the bed they made. I just… laid out a mat. Slept on the floor.”

You watched his fingers flex in his lap. “It felt familiar?”

He nodded. “It felt like mine.”

You let the quiet settle again. Your voice was careful when you asked, “Did it ever change? After Wakanda?”

He shrugged. “I guess I figured I didn’t need a bed. Didn’t deserve one.” He glanced at you, but his eyes were guarded again. 

You watched him for a moment and then gently pressed your forehead to his.

“I know you’re used to it,” you whispered. “But you don’t have to be anymore.”

Bucky closed his eyes. You felt his breath catch. Just once.

“This isn’t about making you sleep in the bed,” you said, still holding his hands. “It’s not about changing you. It’s about loving you. And part of that is making sure you know you deserve comfort. That you deserve good things. A soft place to land.”

His jaw clenched again, but his grip on your hand tightened.

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he murmured. “I don’t want to make it weird.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. “This isn’t weird, Bucky. It’s human. It’s you. And I want all of you, even the parts that sleep on floors.”

That pulled a quiet, surprised breath out of him.

“You’re not broken,” you added, kissing his knuckles. “And you don’t have to force yourself into softness just because you think it’s what I want.”

He opened his eyes, looked at you—really looked. Something shifted in his expression then. Less shame. More warmth. Still guarded, still uncertain, but touched.

“I’m not ready,” he said finally. “Not for a bed. Not yet.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“Really?”

“Really.” You leaned forward and kissed him—just a press of lips, slow and sure. He kissed you back, this time with a hand sliding up to rest gently on the back of your neck. You stayed like that for a long moment, just breathing together.

Then you smiled against his lips. “But I am making us a nest.”

He pulled back just enough to blink at you. “A nest?”

“Floor sleeping, deluxe edition,” you said, standing and offering your hand again. “Help me build it?”

He hesitated, but something in your voice—your smile, your warmth—made the corners of his mouth twitch. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“This gonna involve furniture rearranging?”

“This is going to involve blanket fort levels of commitment.”

He groaned softly but stood, letting you tug him down the hallway. “God help me.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry. You’ll love it.”

You weren’t sure if it was the way he rolled up his sleeves or the quiet amusement in his eyes—but watching Bucky Barnes methodically drag your coffee table aside like it weighed nothing did something to you.

“Okay, show-off,” you teased as he shifted your couch a full six inches with one hand. “This is not an Avengers-level op.”

He gave a modest shrug, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You said we were committing.”

“I did say that.”

“And I take commitment seriously,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder.

You nearly dropped the armful of cushions you were carrying.

By the time you returned from raiding your linen closet again, he’d already arranged the dining chairs in a loose circle and secured your tallest lamp in the corner, angling it like a makeshift support beam. He looked like he was planning a mission—scanning height differences, assessing tension points, folding and re-folding the edges of blankets until they draped just right.

He caught your stare and raised a brow. “What?”

You blinked, shaking yourself out of it. “Nothing. Just... didn’t expect you to be so good at blanket fort engineering.”

He smirked slightly. “Well. When you’ve had to camp out in supply closets and train cars for decades, you pick up a few tricks.”

You watched as he lifted your heaviest duvet with one arm and draped it effortlessly over the chairs, creating a tent-like roof. He took your curtain twine from the junk drawer and tied a tight, elegant knot around the chair leg to hold it in place.

“Is this what you do on mission downtime?” you asked, grinning. “Build forts and hang fairy lights?”

“Only the elite ops.”

You laughed, throwing a pillow at his chest. He caught it one-handed and tossed it behind him, into the growing nest of blankets and cushions on the floor.

You dropped to your knees beside the fort and began fluffing up your softest pillows, arranging them against the couch base and layering folded quilts like flooring. You even brought in your faux-fur throw from the bedroom and laid it down at the center—extra softness, extra warmth.

Bucky ducked under the edge of the fort and knelt beside you, helping smooth out the layers. Your shoulders brushed, your thighs pressed side by side, and you let your head rest against his arm for a moment.

He stilled.

Then: he leaned into it.

“This is cozy,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, it is.”

When the base was ready, you sat back to admire it. Blankets hung down on all sides like soft walls. The fairy lights you’d strung across the tops twinkled like stars, giving everything a golden, dreamlike glow. Inside, it was warm and still—cushioned from the world.

You crawled inside and turned, holding your hands out toward him like a kid inviting someone into their secret hideout.

Bucky hesitated. Just a second.

Then he smiled.

He ducked in beside you, and the space instantly felt smaller, closer. His knees bumped yours as he settled in, crossing his legs, his metal hand resting lightly on his ankle. You were both sitting in the middle of a fortress made of softness and home.

You scooted closer and leaned into his side. “Is this better?”

He exhaled. You felt it more than heard it—a slow, deep breath as his body finally began to relax.

“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

You pulled the throw blanket up over both your laps and tucked your feet under it. “See? Floor sleeping and luxury.”

Bucky chuckled. “Didn’t think I could have both.”

“Well,” you said, turning toward him and taking his hand in yours, “you can. You do.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You really did all this... for me?”

You smiled. “Of course I did.”

He stared down at your joined hands, like the simplicity of that answer was almost hard to believe. Then he brought your fingers to his lips and kissed them.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You leaned in, brushing your nose against his cheek. “Always.”

He let his head fall to your shoulder then, heavy and warm. You wrapped your arms around him without a word, holding him like a shelter. His body curled slightly into yours, and you could feel him breathing deeper now—like this was the first time he’d let his lungs fill all the way in years.

There was something sacred about it. The way his forehead rested against your collarbone. The way your hand found the nape of his neck and just stayed there, fingertips tracing the soft ends of his hair. No rush. No urgency. Just stillness. Just closeness.

“This is the safest I’ve felt in a long time,” he murmured against your skin.

Your chest tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “Good. You’re safe here.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you think... it’ll ever feel normal? A bed. A home.”

You tilted his face toward you, guiding him to look at you. “Maybe not all at once. But little by little? Yeah. I think so. I think healing sneaks up on you when you least expect it.”

He nodded, eyes glassy now—not crying, just full. With everything.

You kissed him gently, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s just start here.”

He pulled you closer, arms wrapped around your waist, and laid back into the nest of cushions, guiding you down with him. Your head found his chest, your hand resting over his heart.

“You’re really sleeping here?” he asked softly, like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

“I go where you go,” you whispered.

His breath hitched. He tightened his grip around you, burying his face in your hair.

And finally—finally—you felt it.

His body gave in to the warmth. His chest rising and falling, slow and steady. The kind of breathing that meant his guard was down. That meant his nightmares were kept at bay tonight. That meant rest.

When you glanced up a few minutes later, his eyes were closed. His mouth slightly parted.

Bucky Barnes was asleep.

In your arms.

Wrapped in softness, surrounded by warmth, on the floor—but not cold, not alone. And not because he didn’t think he deserved better.

Because this time, he did deserve it.

Because this time, someone built it just for him.

And for the first time in longer than you could know, Bucky didn’t have to wake up fighting.

──── ୨୧ ────

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