Maple

Sambucky. Wanda/Vision. T'Challa and Shuri feelings. Shuri and Peter Parker becoming friends, the Guardians being the Guardians--what more do i have to say about that.

Warnings: Angst, Time Travel, Slow burn, fluff, crack, eventual minor character death (it's later but im not gonna pretend it won't happen cause it's Vormir. we all know what happens at Vormir)

Chapter One - what losing looks like Chapter Two - The closest shot we got at reversing this Chapter Three - Nothing we can do Chapter Four - Hypothetically Chapter Five - Guinea Pig Chapter Six - a choice Chapter Seven - The Tower Chapter Eight - Infiltration, Oversights, and Arrows (Coming Soon...) Chapter Nine - Stained Tile Chapter Ten - Regret Chapter Eleven - Well, shit Chapter Twelve - Liar Don't know if 12 we'll be the last or if they'll be one or two more. We'll see. But it's planned up to 12 so far!

You're halfway through rinsing a mug in the sink when the sound cuts through the apartment, sharp and sudden. You glance over your shoulder toward the counter where your phone sits buzzing against the wood, screen lighting up with his name.

Bucky.

You dry one hand on the side of your shirt before picking it up, already fighting the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. You answer and press the phone to your ear. "You know texting exists, right?"

There's a beat of silence on the other end. Then his voice comes through, low and entirely unimpressed. "Yeah."

"Okay." You lean your hip against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other as you wait for him to elaborate.

Another pause. Then, "You gonna let me finish?"

You bite back a smile and tip your head toward the ceiling like you're summoning patience from whatever saint handles emotionally constipated super soldiers. "Please. Continue."

"I'm downstairs."

Your smile freezes. You slowly pull the phone away from your ear and stare at it, as if the device itself might explain him. Then you look toward your apartment door. Then back at the phone.

You bring it to your ear again. "Bucky..."

"What?"

"You called me to tell me you're downstairs?"

"Yeah."

You push away from the counter and start toward the hall, already slipping your feet into the nearest shoes. "You could've texted me."

"I could've called you."

"You did call me."

"Worked, didn't it?"

You stop with your hand on the doorknob, blinking once, then you hang up.

By the time you reach the lobby, he's standing beside the front doors like he has absolutely not committed a crime against basic phone etiquette. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders relaxed, one boot crossed lazily over the other. Morning light catches in his hair where it falls loose around his face, and the faintest trace of smugness pulls at the corner of his mouth when he sees you.

The look says he knows exactly what he did.

You slow your steps just enough to glare at him properly.

His eyes flick over you, softening for half a second before the smugness creeps back in.

"You hung up on me," he says.

"You were twelve feet away."

"Still rude."

"You called me from downstairs."

He lifts the drink tray a little. "I brought coffee."

"That does not erase the crime."

"I brought breakfast too."

You glance at the bag despite yourself.

He notices, of course. His mouth twitches. "Still mad?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"No."

He steps closer and offers you one of the coffees. You take it because you have principles, but none of them are strong enough to refuse caffeine from Bucky Barnes.

You point at him, finger landing lightly against the center of his chest. "Text me."

His eyebrows pull together. It isn't confusion exactly, it's offense. Like you've asked him to negotiate with a toaster.

"Text you," he repeats.

"Just once," you plead, stepping closer before he can retreat behind that stubborn little wall he likes to pretend is a personality trait. "Please. I am begging you. Start small."

"I know how to text."

You give him a look.

He gives you one right back, blue eyes narrowing like he can somehow glare his way into being correct.

"You called me yesterday to ask what kind of cereal I wanted."

"You wanted cereal."

"You were standing in the cereal aisle."

"Exactly."

"Bucky."

"What?"

"You called me from the grocery store six times."

His shoulders lift in a small, unapologetic shrug. "There were questions."

You stare at him.

He stares back, completely serious.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, and that does something to his face. The stubborn line of his mouth eases. His eyes soften at the edges, the smugness fading into something warmer.

You reach for him before he can say anything else, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. The fabric bunches beneath your grip as you tug him closer, not hard, just enough to make him stop pretending he is immune to you.

He lets himself be pulled.

"Bucky."

That does it, his expression softens immediately.

It always does when you say his name like that, low and fond and threaded with just enough pleading to get under his skin. His gaze drops to your hand fisted in his jacket, then lifts back to your face.

"Just try," you say, quieter this time. "Little messages. You don't have to write me a novel. Tell me you're on your way. Ask if I need anything. Send me a picture."

His brow creases again, but the argument has less bite now. "A picture of what?"

"I don't know." You loosen your grip on his jacket and smooth your fingers over the wrinkled spot you made. "Something you see."

He glances toward the glass lobby doors, then back at you. "Something I see."

"Yes."

"You want me to take pictures of random things?"

"Not random things. Bucky things."

His mouth twitches. "That doesn't mean anything."

"It absolutely does."

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does. A weird bird. A sad sandwich. A motorcycle that looks like it has emotional damage. A cat judging someone through a window. That's a Bucky thing."

He blinks at you.

You smile.

He looks away first, which is a victory, even if he tries to hide it by scratching at the corner of his jaw. "This feels unnecessary."

"So did putting a man on the moon, but humanity persevered."

His mouth twitches again, more obvious this time. "That's not the same thing."

"It is emotionally the same thing."

"It's really not."

"Text me, Grandpa."

His face goes flat so fast you nearly laugh again. "Don't call me that."

"Then text me."

"You know," he says, dipping his head a little, voice lowering with that familiar dry edge, "you're real demanding."

"And yet you adore me."

The words hang there between you.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, quick enough that he probably thinks you won't catch it.

You absolutely catch it.

His thumb brushes once against your wrist where your hand still rests near his chest, the touch so light it almost feels accidental. It isn't. Not with the way his eyes come back to yours after, softer than before.

"Unfortunately," he murmurs.

Your grin blooms before you can stop it.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The part where you pretend suffering through me isn't the highlight of your day."

He huffs, but there's no real annoyance in it. His hand slides from your wrist to your fingers, giving them a brief squeeze before he lets go. Then he leans down and kisses your forehead, slow and warm, like he has all the time in the world to be difficult and tender about this.

When he pulls back, his mouth is still close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath against your skin. "Don't make this a whole thing," he says.

"I would never."

"You're already making it a whole thing."

"I'm making it a medium thing."

His eyes narrow. "Texting lessons are not happening."

"Texting encouragement."

"No."

"Thumb training."

"No."

"Fine," you say, taking the paper bag from his hand before he can stop you. "Breakfast first. Thumb training later."

"That sounds worse."

"It's not."

"It really is."

You turn toward the elevators, holding his breakfast hostage against your chest. "Come on, Barnes."

He follows with a sigh so dramatic it belongs onstage, but you hear the soft laugh caught underneath it.

It takes three whole days.

You don't bring it up again, mostly because you have dignity. Also because Bucky keeps looking at you like he knows you're waiting, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

So you suffer quietly.

Then, while you're making coffee one morning, your phone buzzes against the counter. You glance down without thinking much of it, one hand still wrapped around the handle of your mug.

Bucky: On my way.

You freeze. For a second, you just stare at the screen. Then you snatch the phone off the counter so fast your mug wobbles dangerously beside the coffee maker.

"No," you whisper.

You blink and read it again.

Bucky: On my way.

Your mouth falls open. You nearly drop the phone this time.

Immediately, you type back.

You: OH MY GOD

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

You stand there in your kitchen, holding your breath like the little gray bubbles are a live sporting event.

Bucky: What

You grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

You: YOU TEXTED ME

The dots appear again, this time, they linger.

You can picture him perfectly. Standing somewhere with his phone in one hand, brows pulled together, thumb hovering over the screen like the letters have personally offended him.

Bucky: Don't make it weird.

You slap one hand over your mouth to hold in a laugh.

You: I'M SO PROUD OF YOU

There's a much longer pause.

Long enough for you to take one victorious sip of coffee.

Long enough for you to imagine him sighing with his whole chest.

Then:

Bucky: I'm calling you.

Your phone rings immediately.

You answer already laughing. "Hello, modern man."

"I hate you," he says.

"No, you don't."

A beat.

"No," he admits, quieter. "I don't."

Your smile softens before you can help it.

For a second, neither of you says anything. You lean your hip against the counter, mug warm in your hand, listening to the faint sound of traffic on his end of the line.

Then he clears his throat. "I'll be there in ten."

"You already texted me that."

"I'm saying it too."

"Redundant."

"Reliable."

"You're impossible."

"You knew that."

You grin into your coffee. "See you in ten."

"Yeah," he says, and you can hear the smile hiding in his voice. "See you."

And that should've been the end of it. A tiny victory, a miracle in one sentence, atechnological baby step.

Except something happens, something terrible, something beautiful, something nobody could've predicted.

Bucky discovers he likes texting you. Not texting in general.

Sam sends him something? Ignored.

Yelena texts him a meme? Read, no response.

Someone drops something into the team group chat? Bucky mysteriously becomes illiterate.

But you? You get messages, constantly.

It starts practical.

Bucky: Need anything from the store?

You're curled up on your couch when it comes through, one leg tucked beneath you, a blanket sliding off your shoulder.

You smile at the screen.

You: chocolate

A second passes.

Bucky: What kind

You bite your lip.

You: surprise me

A pause.

Bucky: That's not helpful doll.

You stare at the word, doll. Small. Casual. Tacked onto the end like punctuation.

Your heart does something stupid behind your ribs. You immediately decide to ignore that.

You: use your instincts

Bucky: My instincts say you're annoying.

You: your instincts are rude

Bucky: They're accurate doll.

You press your phone to your chest and make a tiny sound into your empty apartment.

Then, because you have pride and refuse to let him know he's melted you into soup, you text back:

You: get the caramel one

Bucky: Knew it.

After that, the texts keep coming.

Bucky: Be there in ten doll.

Bucky: You eat yet doll?

Bucky: Take an umbrella. It's supposed to rain doll.

Sometimes the messages arrive while you're half-asleep. Sometimes when you're working. Sometimes when you're in the middle of doing absolutely nothing, and suddenly your phone buzzes with proof that Bucky Barnes saw one small, ordinary thing in the world and decided it belonged to you somehow.

Then one afternoon,

Bucky: Saw this and thought of you doll.

Attached is a photograph of a tiny ceramic frog wearing a cowboy hat.

You stop in the middle of your living room. For a solid thirty seconds, you just stare at it. The frog stares back.

Its little painted mouth looks deeply unqualified to represent you.

You type with great offense.

You: EXCUSE ME WHY DID THAT MAKE YOU THINK OF ME

His reply comes almost immediately.

Bucky: Little. Loud. Weird hat.

Your jaw drops.

You: I'm blocking you.

Bucky: No you're not.

You obviously aren't. In fact, you save the picture.

You have created a monster.

Because apparently Bucky Barnes, once properly introduced to texting, becomes somebody's seventy-year-old husband trapped inside the body of an annoyingly attractive super soldier.

He sends weather warnings.

He reminds you to eat.

He sends pictures of things he thinks you'll like, including a bakery window, an old motorcycle, a bookstore cat asleep on a stack of hardcovers, and one extremely blurry picture of what might be a bird.

When you ask, he replies:

Bucky: It moved.

He texts you good morning even when he's lying beside you, because sometimes he wakes up before you, goes for a run, and wants the message waiting when you open your eyes.

The first time it happens, you wake to cold sheets on his side of the bed and sunlight slipping through the curtains.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You reach for it, still half buried in the pillow.

Bucky: Morning doll. Coffee's on the counter. Don't drink mine unless you want to complain again.

You smile sleepily at the screen, turning onto your back.

You: your coffee tastes like punishment

A minute later:

Bucky: Builds character.

You laugh into the quiet room.

And almost every message has one thing in common.

Doll.

Doll this.

Doll that.

Morning, doll.

Sleep well, doll.

Miss you, doll.

Love you, doll.

You tease him about it constantly. You make a face when he says it in person. You pretend it doesn't make your entire chest go soft when it appears on your screen.

Secretly? You love it. Which is precisely why you have to destroy it.

The opportunity presents itself on a Saturday morning.

Bucky's in the shower.

Steam curls beneath the bathroom door. Water beats steadily against the tile, loud enough to cover the tiny creak of the mattress when you shift onto your elbow.

His phone is sitting on the dresser.

Unlocked. Just sitting there, alone, vulnerable. Practically begging to be humbled.

You stare at it.

Water runs behind the bathroom door.

You shouldn't. You absolutely shouldn't. You sit up slowly, eyes flicking toward the bathroom.

Still showering, good.

You slide off the bed, careful and quiet, bare feet touching the floor. The room feels too still around you, like even the furniture knows you're about to become a problem.

"This is for science," you whisper.

You cross the room and pick up his phone.

For one second, guilt nips at you.

Then you remember he sent you a photo of a cowboy frog and said it reminded him of you.

Guilt dies immediately.

It takes you thirty seconds.

Your thumb moves fast, practiced and sneaky, while your ears stay tuned to the sound of running water.

You change one tiny setting. One harmless little adjustment. A microscopic act of chaos.

Whenever Bucky types

doll

His phone will now autocorrect it to

duck

You stare at the screen. Then press your lips together so hard your cheeks hurt.

Perfect.

You carefully return the phone exactly where you found it, angling it the same way on the dresser, because Bucky Barnes notices things. He notices everything. He could probably tell if a dust particle had been moved three inches to the left.

Then you hurry back to the bed and fling yourself onto the mattress with the subtlety of a raccoon committing tax fraud.

You grab your own phone and pretend to scroll. Innocently, naturally, normally.

The bathroom door opens.

Bucky steps out with a towel low around his waist, another rubbing through his wet hair. Steam follows him into the room, softening the edges of him for half a second before he looks over at you.

You keep your eyes locked on your phone.

This is difficult for several reasons.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Mhm."

"You want pancakes?"

"Mhm."

He pauses.

You feel his attention sharpen. Slowly, you glance up.

He's watching you, towel still in his hand, damp hair sticking up in places where he's rubbed it too hard. His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion.

"What?"

"Nothing," you say too quickly.

His suspicion deepens. "You look guilty."

"I'm literally lying here."

"Yeah," he says. "Guiltily."

You gasp, offended on principle. "That is not a thing."

"It is when you do it."

"I'm relaxing."

"You're scheming."

"I contain multitudes."

He points at you. "That."

"What?"

"Whatever that was."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

His eyes narrow further. For one horrifying second, you think he knows.

Your heartbeat kicks once.

Then his gaze drops to your phone, lifts back to your face, and he tosses the towel at you.

It lands over your head.

"Get dressed."

You pull it off your face. "Rude!"

"Breakfast in ten."

He disappears into the hallway like he hasn't just narrowly escaped digital sabotage.

You sit there for half a second, towel in your lap, listening to his footsteps fade toward the kitchen.

Then you look toward the dresser. At his phone. At the trap waiting inside it.

Your grin spreads slowly. Now you wait.

The first one arrives that afternoon.

You’re wandering through a bookstore, dragging your fingers lazily over the spines in the romance section, when your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

You pull it out with one hand, a paperback tucked against your chest with the other.

Bucky: I’m outside duck.

You stop walking.

Someone behind you nearly bumps into your shoulder and mutters an apology, but you barely hear it.

You stare at the screen. Your lips press together.

Don’t laugh. Do not laugh in the middle of this very quiet bookstore like a gremlin with secrets.

You inhale through your nose and type back with trembling restraint.

You: Okay 🩷

No questions. No emotional fireworks. You need this to continue.

You slide the phone back into your pocket, clutch the books tighter against your chest, and walk toward the register with the calm, dignified posture of a woman actively committing treason.

By the time you get outside, Bucky’s leaning against his motorcycle at the curb.

One boot is planted on the pavement, the other hooked back against the bike. His sunglasses are pushed up into his hair, his jacket half-zipped, his attention already fixed on the bookstore door before you even step through it.

He straightens when he sees you. "You find anything?”

“Couple books.”

His gaze drops to the bag in your hand. “Couple?”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His mouth twitches.

Before you can shift the bag to your other hand, he takes it automatically, careful fingers closing around the handles. Then he reaches for your helmet, holding it out like this is normal, like he didn’t just call you a waterfowl via text twenty seconds ago.

“Ready, doll?”

Your composure nearly cracks.

You turn away under the excuse of putting on the helmet, because if he sees your face right now, it’s over. Your mouth trembles. Your shoulders twitch once.

Bucky tilts his head. "You okay?”

“Yep.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He watches you for another second, eyes narrowing just slightly, but then he swings one leg over the bike and starts it up.

He doesn’t notice.

Perfect.

The second one comes Monday.

You’re still tangled in the sheets, face mashed into your pillow, when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You reach for it blindly, knocking over a hair tie and almost shoving the charger onto the floor before your fingers close around it.

You squint at the screen.

Bucky: Morning duck.

You bury your face back into the pillow immediately.

A sound leaves you. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a squeal. Something humiliating and deeply private.

You roll onto your back and hold the phone over your face, grinning at it like an idiot.

You: morning 🩷

His reply comes a minute later.

Bucky: Sleep okay?

You stretch beneath the blankets, toes curling, the morning still soft around you.

You: like a baby

Bucky: Good. Got coffee waiting for you duck.

You make a strangled noise into the mattress. This is so much better than you imagined.

Because the thing is, Bucky isn’t joking.

He isn’t being cute on purpose. He has no idea he’s doing it.

Somewhere in the city, James Buchanan Barnes has willingly typed out what he believes is a perfectly normal affectionate message, hit send, and continued with his day while your phone sits in your hand holding evidence of the crime.

You press the screen to your chest and laugh silently until your stomach hurts.

Tuesday is worse.

You’re standing in front of your closet, debating whether the weather looks cold enough to justify a jacket, when your phone buzzes.

Bucky: Don’t forget your jacket duck.

You stare at it. Then out the window. Then back at the text.

Of course he somehow knows.

You: 🫡

A moment later:

Bucky: Don’t know what that means.

You snort.

You: yes sir

Bucky: Smartass.

You’re still smiling when another message pops up thirty seconds later.

Bucky: Love you duck.

You stop.

The teasing little laugh already building in your throat melts into something softer. You have to physically put your phone down on the dresser.

Because suddenly it isn’t just funny.

It’s adorable.

Completely ridiculous but adorable.

You glance back at the screen.

Duck... stupid, ridiculous duck. Your stupid, ridiculous heart does not care.

Wednesday is where things become dangerous.

You’re having a bad day, nothing catastrophic. Just one of those days where everything seems determined to irritate you with surgical precision.

Your coffee spills across your counter before you even leave home.

Someone steals the parking spot you were waiting for after you had your blinker on for a full minute.

Your umbrella flips inside out in the rain like it has chosen betrayal.

By the time you tell Bucky you’re going home, you’re exhausted, damp, and cranky enough to glare at the concept of weather itself.

Your phone buzzes while you’re sitting at a red light. You pick it up carefully, thumb dragging across the screen.

Bucky: I’m coming over.

Then,

Bucky: Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll bring something.

Then, 

Bucky: Get home safe duck.

Your grip on the phone loosens.

The rain moves in silver streaks down your windshield. Your wipers drag back and forth with a tired squeak. The light ahead stays stubbornly red.

You stare at the little word, stupid ridiculous duck. 

Your heart squeezes anyway.

You type back, 

You: thank you 🩷

His response comes almost immediately.

Bucky: Anything for you duck.

That does it, you start laughing alone in your car.

A breathless, helpless laugh that turns watery at the edges because you’ve had a terrible day, and somehow the thing that finally cracks it open is Bucky Barnes accidentally calling you duck with the sincerity of a man writing vows.

You laugh so hard you have to wipe under your eyes.

Because this man genuinely has no idea. None, not one feathered clue.

Thursday morning, Bucky finally notices.

Not because of you. Because of Sam.

You’re in the kitchen at the Tower, sitting on the counter with a mug in your hands while Bucky leans against the island across from you. He’s pretending not to watch you over the rim of his coffee.

You’re pretending not to notice. It’s a delicate ecosystem.

Then his phone buzzes. Bucky pulls it from his pocket and glances down.

His face changes.

It’s small at first, just the slightest crease between his brows.

Then his mouth flattens. Then his eyes narrow.

You immediately become interested. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Bucky’s thumb hovers over the screen. Slowly, he looks up at you.

There is something deeply suspicious in his expression now, something sharp and assessing, like his brain has finally started sniffing smoke from a fire you lit five days ago.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He looks back down at the phone. His thumbs move over the screen. Then stop. His brow furrows harder.

He deletes something. Types again. Stops. Deletes it again.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it should count as a medical emergency.

Bucky looks at the screen. Then at you. Then back at the screen.

His eyes narrow into slits. "What’d you do?”

You widen your eyes. “Me?”

He points the phone at you like it’s evidence in a trial. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He doesn’t look away from you as he starts typing again.

You can practically see the moment it happens.

His face goes perfectly blank. No expression. No movement. Nothing.

Then, slowly, dangerously, he raises his eyes.

“Doll.”

You lose it completely.

The sound rips out of you before you can stop it. You fold forward over your mug, nearly spilling coffee down your own shirt as laughter takes over.

Bucky stares at you. “You.”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“You changed my phone.”

“I did not!”

“Doll.”

He turns the screen around.

It says duck

You wheeze. “Oh my God.”

“How long?”

You can’t answer, you’re laughing too hard.

“How long has it been doing this?”

“Buck…”

“Don’t Buck me.” He steps closer, phone still in hand, betrayal carved all over his face. “How. Long.”

You wipe at the corner of your eye. “Saturday.”

His jaw drops. “Saturday?”

You nod, absolutely wrecked. “You didn’t notice!”

“I don’t stare at every damn text after I send it!”

“You’ve been calling me duck for five days!”

His face goes through several stages of grief. Confusion. Horror. Realization. Then something much worse.

“Sam.”

You freeze. “What?”

His eyes narrow. “Sam just asked why I keep calling you duck.”

That finishes you.

Your laugh bursts out so hard you have to set your mug down before you drop it. You slide off the counter and immediately fold over against it, one hand braced on the edge, the other pressed to your stomach.

Bucky looks personally betrayed by technology. “I knew texting was bullshit.”

“Bucky!”

“I knew it.”

He starts tapping angrily at the phone, shoulders tense, jaw set like he’s trying to disarm a bomb instead of fix an autocorrect setting.

You manage to drag yourself upright. "Wait, wait, what are you doing?”

“Fixing it.”

“No!”

His head snaps toward you. “No?”

You grab his wrist before he can keep typing. “Keep it.”

His eyebrows lift.

You suddenly become fascinated by his shirt. “It’s kinda cute.”

Silence.

Big silence.

Horrifying silence.

Slowly, you look up.

His irritation is completely gone. Now he looks unbearably pleased with himself.

Not smug, worse, delighted. “You think it’s cute?”

“No.”

“You just said it.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Too late.”

“Bucky.”

He steps in, crowding you gently back against the counter. His vibranium hand settles beside your hip while his other arm slides around your waist and pulls you against him.

“So you like being my duck?”

You shove at his chest. “Absolutely not.”

“My little duck.”

“James Buchanan Barnes.”

He kisses your temple. "Sweet little duck.”

“I will change your autocorrect so ‘Bucky’ becomes ‘Booboo.’”

His expression immediately sobers. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

His eyes narrow.

Yours narrow back.

A technological Cold War passes silently between you. The kitchen feels very still around it.

Finally, Bucky leans down and kisses you. Slow and warm. Still smiling against your mouth.

You try very hard not to smile back, but you fail almost immediately, because he kisses like he knows exactly when he’s won.

When he pulls away, his thumb brushes your cheek.

“Love you, doll.”

Your smile softens. “Love you too.”

His phone buzzes.

Both of you look down.

Sam.

Bucky checks it.

His entire face drops.

You lean around his arm before he can stop you.

Sam: 🦆

For one perfect second, neither of you moves.

Then you make the fatal mistake of laughing again.

Bucky looks at you. Then at his phone. Then back at you.

“Run.”

You barely make it three steps before he’s after you.

Later that night, you’re curled against Bucky’s side, the room warm and quiet around you.

The sheets are a mess. His shirt is somewhere on the floor.

Your legs are tangled with his beneath the blankets, your cheek resting against his chest while his fingers trace lazy patterns along your bare shoulder like he has nowhere else in the world to be.

For once, neither of you is saying anything. The silence is soft, satisfied, still holding the shape of what happened between you.

Then your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

You groan.

Bucky’s chest moves beneath your cheek with the smallest laugh. "Ignore it.”

“It might be important.”

“It isn’t.”

You reach for it anyway, mostly because he’s being smug and you refuse to reward that kind of behavior.

The screen lights up.

Bucky: Night duck.

You stare at the message. Then, slowly, you look up.

He’s lying six inches away from you, phone in hand, hair wrecked, mouth tilted into the most insufferably satisfied little smile you’ve ever seen.

“You fixed the autocorrect.”

“Yep.”

“So you typed that yourself.”

“Yep.”

You try not to smile and Flfail miserably.

Your thumbs move across the screen.

You: night grandpa

His phone buzzes. Bucky reads your message. His eyes lift. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

You glance pointedly at his arm still hooked around your waist. “Bold threat from a man who hasn’t let me move in twenty minutes.”

His grip tightens immediately. “You’re warm.”

“You’d miss your duck.”

A pause.

His thumb drags over your hip beneath the blanket, slow and absent and entirely unfair. “Unfortunately.”

You grin into his chest.

He huffs, but his mouth brushes the top of your head a second later.

Five minutes pass, maybe ten.

Long enough for his breathing to even out beneath your ear. Long enough for the room to settle back into that lazy quiet, the kind that feels like skin and blankets and the last sparks of laughter still hiding in the dark.

When he thinks you’re asleep, your phone buzzes one last time.

You don’t check it until morning.

Bucky: Love you duck.

The coffee pot sputters and spits as it lets go of the last few drops of warm brown liquid, while the smell of powdered sugar drifts through the kitchen.

Bucky grabs a mug from the cabinet, hesitating for a breath before setting it down again.

You’re in the middle of making pain perdu the Sarah Wilson way, moving easily around the kitchen, humming a simple, repetitive tune. You always loved making extravagant breakfasts on Saturday mornings.

Bucky finally pours the coffee into his mug. The steam curls over the edges and wraps around the handle. He puts three sugars in the coffee.

He used to drink it black.

You'd wrinkled your nose the first time you saw him do it and declared that anyone who enjoyed coffee that bitter couldn't be trusted.

Two weeks later he found himself reaching for the sugar bowl, just to try, of course.

He never told you.

Bucky takes a sip of coffee, watching your every move. He should say something. He wants to say something. Anything. He should tell you that your hair is sticking up in the back. Tell you that he loves when the kitchen smells like cinnamon. Tell you he loves you. But he doesn't. He just watches as you continue the repetitive task of making breakfast.

You look up when you feel his eyes digging holes into the back of your head. "What?" you ask as a soft laugh escapes your lips and a familiar heat rises to your cheeks. 

"Nothing. You're just… being you." 

"Is there a problem with that?" you grin over your shoulder.

His mouth twitches like he's trying not to smile back. "No." 

"Then why are you staring at me?"

"…Just thinking."

"About?"

He exhales through his nose. His shoulders tense beneath his blue t-shirt and his jaw works as he looks anywhere but at you.

"Bucky?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look—"

"I said I'm fine."

You set the whisk down. "I'm just trying to make sure that you're okay."

"Then stop."

The words hang heavy between you.

Neither of you move. He doesn't look up from his coffee.

The sunlight spilling across the floor seems to lose all its warmth, leaving only the cool bite of the tile beneath your bare feet. The pain perdu hisses, forgotten on the griddle until the scent of cinnamon is slowly overtaken by the smell of something sweet burning. 

"…shit."

You reach for the spatula, scraping the now charred slice from the griddle into the trash. The lid falls shut with a dull, metallic thud.

You stare at the empty space on the griddle for a long second; longer than necessary before reaching for another slice of bread. 

"I'm not hungry."

His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

The fresh, egg-soaked slice of bread hangs suspended between the your fingers above the griddle. 

"James…"

"I've asked you more than once not to call me that."

The bread falls back into the custard with a quiet splash.

Your mouth opens, then closes. Once. Twice. A third time. Every response slips away before you can catch it.

He picks up his mug.

You watch him cross the room and lower himself on the couch. It's not far from the kitchen, but it's never felt further.

One single, white plate sits on the counter with more than enough breakfast for one. You reach for the Steen's Cane Syrup. The sticky, yellow tin stubbornly gives up the dark syrup in long, slow ribbons.

Sam had shoved it into Bucky's hands before the two of you left Delacroix, insisting that it would "ruin maple syrup" for both of you.

Now it's making everything sticky. 

You don't sprinkle any powdered sugar on the bread. Your fingers hover over the shaker, then slowly lower it back to the counter.

He sits just a few feet away, but he looks at the carpet, never once moving to look up at you. 

Your eyes stay fixed on him, burning with unshed tears. "Did I—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Please don't shut me out." your voice wavers as you speak.

The silence settles over the room like a blanket of snow. The pain perdu grows cold as your fork picks at it. You slide the plate into the refrigerator for later before turning the sink on hot enough to burn your hands. The bubbles that fill the left compartment of the sink carry the sickening smell of dish soap and it turns your empty stomach. Custard and syrup coat every dish in the sink. One after the other, you scrub. The burnt sugar refuses to let go of the griddle and you almost break the smiling Scrub Daddy trying to get it off.

"…for fuck's sake."

You whisper, exasperated.

Throwing the stupid smiling sponge into the sink, you decide to let the griddle soak.

The rest of the kitchen isn't much better, but the crisp November air begs you to lace up your running shoes and get out of the stuffy apartment.

You shut the door to your shared bedroom, not wanting to face the storm cloud sitting on your couch, and change into the comfiest running clothes you own. When you open the door, you see him standing in the kitchen, washing the dishes you didn't finish.

"I'll get those when I get back."

His head whips around. His blue eyes are softer than they were before, and every line on his face seems deeper, etched with some type of worry.

"Where are you going?"

"On a run."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know."

"That's not a real answer."

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

"I don't have a plan. I'm just going on a run."

"Why?" he asks, his voice growing increasingly soft. "You never run on Saturdays."

You sigh. A long foreboding sigh.

"I just need to get out of here."

His eyes drop back to his coffee.

"Okay." his voice is small.

You cram your foot into your running shoe and reach for the doorknob.

"Be careful… please."

The door clicks shut behind you.

Outside, Brooklyn is very much alive. Cars pass and people walk down the street. You adjust your shoe for the second time. A leaf falls in front of your feet. You take a deep breath and finally start running.

The air burns your lungs, and the wind chaps the tear streaks on your cheeks. Your feet hit the pavement again and again.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Was he telling the truth?

Left.

Does he even want me here?

Right.

Was I trying to open a door to a room he didn't want me in?

A woman walking her golden retriever walks by on the other side of the street. A dad with his baby in a stroller walks over to meet his husband sitting on a bench. Two kids are swinging on the swings at the park on the corner. A wannabe influencer records herself trying a pumpkin spice latte from your favorite local shop.

That was the shop that you dragged Bucky to, making him try the entire fall menu. You fell in love with the butter pecan latte, and he tolerated the honey cinnamon tea. The two of you sat at the table last November, his jacket around your shoulders, and multiple drinks in front of you. He kept stealing sips of your drink by pretending he was going to hold your hand. It made you laugh every single time.

"Hi, what can i get started for you today?" the teenager at the register asks.

"One medium hot butter pecan latte… and is there a way that I could pay for a hot honey cinnamon tea now and pick it up on my way back? Or should I just order it later?'

"Oh, um. It might be better to come back and pay for it later. My shift will end and things like that kind of get lost here. But if you're willing to try then by all means."

You hesitate and glance toward the door.

"No, that's okay… I'll come back for both later. Thank you, and sorry." 

The barista nods and motions for the next customer without another word.

Around noon, the air hasn't gotten any warmer. Your lungs still burn and now your whole face feels chapped. Running without a plan isn't something you normally do, but somehow you've ended up at the cemetery where Bucky's parents and sister are buried.

You adjust the flowers on Rebecca's grave and brush off some leaves from his parents. The first time he had taken you here was on your six month anniversary. He didn't speak at all. He cleaned up all the graves and then sat there staring at them. On the walk home you asked him why and he told you "I have too much to say to them so I just listen instead." Deep down you knew it was because he's not the son, not the brother, they would recognize. 

Now you do the same.

You sit in the cold grass, just looking at the stones and picking at blades of grass. Thunder claps in the distance, telling you that you need to go home. But your shoes are suddenly too tight and your legs grew sore sitting. The smell of the coffee shop clings to your clothes and the wind blew strands of hair into your face.

That familiar stinging builds behind your eyelids and your throat gets tight. A single tear slips out and runs along that chapped track. You take a shaky breath as another clap of thunder echoes across the gray sky.

As you stand, your legs wobble beneath you.

One foot in front of the other.

A fat rain drop plops right on top of your head. Just make it home. 

It starts to drizzle as you reach the sidewalk outside of the cemetery. You're not running anymore; moving slower than your average walking pace.

The bell above the door rings as you walk back into the coffee shop. The place is mostly deserted now that it's raining, so you linger in the back, pretending to look at the menu before walking up to order your drink and Bucky's tea.

"Hi welcome in, what can I get for you today?" the barista, one you see regularly, asks.

"Just one medium hot butter pecan latte and a medium hot honey cinnamon tea, please. Could you please make the tea extra hot, I've got to walk back home with it?" 

"Of course."

Waiting for your order, you slide into the corner booth and look out the window. The rain is coming down slightly heavier now. The leaves on the concrete sidewalk are soaked, sticking to the shoes of people who walk on them. Umbrellas dot the sidewalk, reminding you that you had the misfortune of not checking the weather before you left.

The faint sound of jazz hums throughout the shop, it's probably something that Bucky would like. Something he would turn on to dance around the apartment with you.

You are pulled out of your thoughts when two drinks are placed in front of you. The two white paper cups with the brown cardboard sleeves are warm to the touch. A small stream of steam escapes through the tiny hole in the lid. 

A small, polite smile grows on your lips. "Thank you." you practically whisper.

The heat from the two cups warms your chilled hands as you set off back to your apartment. No umbrella. Just the cups to keep you warm.

Is he even home?

Would he want to talk to you?

The thoughts rattle in your brain, bouncing from one side to the other with every step. No amount of walking could clear out this mess. They follow you all the way up the stairs to the second floor of the building and right up to the door.

Setting your coffee down on the hallway floor, you reach for the doorknob only to find out that it's locked. Your knuckles rasp against the wood in a quick rhythm.

"Bucky, please answer the door. I don't have my keys."

Silence echoes on the other side.

"Please."

Nothing.

You knock again, louder this time. "Let me in. I know you're in there."

The deadbolt on the other side flips, but the door remains shut.

You stare at the door, rain water dripping from the ends of your hair.

"Are you fucking serious?"

Nothing.

You laugh once, but there's no humor in it.

"You lock me out now?"

The door opens a few inches. 

Bucky's face appears in the gap. His eyes are red and his face hold so much exhaustion.

"I didn't lock you out."

"You locked the door."

"I needed space."

"Then tell me that." 

He looks away.

"I did."

"No." you snap, the words are sharper than you intended. "You told me to stop asking questions." 

Your voice cracks.

"That's not the same thing."

"Well it's what I meant."

"I'm not a mind reader, Bucky."

"Neither am I."

You look down at your soaked shirt. The two cups, yours still on the floor, have cooled off by now.

"Can I come in? Please?" 

Or do I get shut out of the apartment too?

You bite your tongue before the rest of that thought slips out.

The door opens fully; Bucky steps to the side. You reach down to grab your coffee.

"I got you a tea… figured you might…" you swallow. "Nevermind." 

"You didn't have to."

"I know."

He turns and walks off, his boots heavy on the floor. You stand there, a small puddle forming around your feet, shivering just slightly. 

The sound of him approaching makes you lift your head. He holds out a towel from the bathroom with his right hand.

You reach for it and your fingers brush. You know you should thank him, but the tightness in your throat won't let any words out. 

He goes back to his spot on the couch. You don't follow. The rain taps against the window. The kitchen is spotless now; there's no trace of the breakfast mess from earlier.

"…I thought you were leaving earlier. That's why I locked the door."

Your head whips around as soon as he speaks.

"You thought I was leaving?"

He nods.

"Why?"

"Because you said you needed to get out." 

You look down at the coffee in your hands.

"I needed to get out of the apartment, Bucky. Not your life."

He looks up at you. His blue eyes glisten with tears. His Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow whatever emotions are bubbling beneath the surface. 

"You should leave."

His voice is a whisper. It hits you all the same as if he would have shouted it at you.

Your own voice breaks as you speak.

"Do you want me to?"

He lets out a quiet sob. "I don't want to hurt you."

A single tear escapes your own eye. You don't wipe it away. You let it run down that chapped track one more time. "That's not what I asked." you whispered. 

You pick at the skin around your thumb. The apartment feels too small, yet you still feel too far away from Bucky. His eyes are glues to his shoes. His right leg shakes. All you want to go do is place your hand on his knee, like you always do.

"I don't want you to leave…"

His eyes never meet yours.

"Then why should I leave?" your words are a little sharper than you intended.

"Because I'll hurt you."

"No you won't."

"Yes, I will."

He shoots up and paces in front of the couch. His hand runs through his already messy brown hair. His bottom lip trembles, but no tears or sobs escape him now. Nothing that would make it easier for you to walk over there and comfort him.

"You don't understand."

"Then help me."

"Why do you care so much?"

Your eyes drop to his shaking hands. Tears flow freely and small gasps of breath are all you can manage. He stop pacing and looks directly at you. Standing up, you take one step closer.

"Because I love you."

He angles himself away from you.

"That's not enough."

"It has to be."

"It can't be."

You're not trying to hold it together anymore. Your sobs are ugly and you wipe at the tears fiercely.

"It's not enough? The love that makes me want to fight for you? For us? It's not enough?"

"You don't know what you're saying."

"Then tell me. Please."

His hands shake harder.

"You see me when I'm like this and you still think you know me."

You shake your head. "Bucky—"

"You don't." his voice cracks. "You see me make breakfast. You see me drink your coffee. You see me sleep on your couch. You don't see what happens when I wake up."

He swallows.

"You don't see when I can't tell where I am. When I wake up screaming and I don't know what year it is."

His eyes finally meet yours.

"You don't see me sleep on the floor when the bed, when sleeping next to you, doesn't feel safe."

Your breath catches.

"You don't see the things I remember."

He looks down at his hands.

"I remember all of it."

He sobs once.

"And I don't want to remember your face when I finally lose control."

You reach for him, but he moves away.

"One day you're going to see all of it." 

His voice drops.

"And you'll look at me differently."

You let out a sound like a wounded animal.

"Is that what you think of me? That I'm just here for the sunshine and rainbows and the first time it pours I'll walk away?"

The rain hits the window harder.

"Look at me Bucky." 

He doesn't.

"I am standing here, soaking wet, because I came back for you."

His eyes flick towards yours.

"I went to see your family today."

That catches his attention. His bloodshot eyes zero in on your tear stained face.

"I went there because I know that's where you go when you don't know what to say."

Your voice breaks.

"Don't tell me I don't know you."

He moves one step closer to you. His right hand shakes as it reaches for your hand. He doesn't lace his fingers with yours, he just rests it on top of your fidgeting hand. Tears hit the floor as his blue eyes search your face.

"Let me see you."

"I've closed that door from you."

"I'll keep knocking."

His breath shudders. His head finds its way to your shoulder. Thunder claps outside and the north wind whistles in the walls of the building. Your hands move to wrap around him. Your right hand cradles the back of his head, while the left presses into his back.

You move to the floor, just holding him, allowing him to sink fully into you. You match your breathing to his and gradually slow your own until he begins to mimic your breath pattern. His eyes stay shut. His hands fidget with your hair and the fabric of your shirt. His lips press against your neck and shoulder, anywhere he can reach.

"I've got you."

"I'm not good at this."

"I never asked you to be, Buck."

The day comes to an end. The rain stops just in time to reveal the last of the sunset. Bucky still won't come near you. Not during dinner. Not when you sit on the couch to watch TV. Now you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if maybe you pushed too hard, or maybe he just doesn't want you in that part of his life.

As you settle in, a yawn breaks free and the door creaks open.

“Can I sleep in here tonight?”

You sit up straight. The six-foot man suddenly looks like a scared child standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom.

“Of course.”

He pulls back the comforter and gently lowers himself into the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight. He doesn't reach for you yet.

“I didn't think you'd just walk out on me…”

You swallow.

“I know… I never would.”

You pick at the comforter.

“I didn't think you'd actually lock me out.”

He brushes the hair away from your forehead.

“I know. I'm sorry for locking you out.”

“I'm sorry for running away.”

He pulls you to his chest.

“You do… you do want me there, right?”

He cards his fingers through your hair.

"I do. I just don't always know how to tell you.”

You trace his jawline. "I just need you to tell me when you're struggling. And I'll tell you how I feel before I just leave for a run."

He presses his lips to yours, never going any deeper, just a way to seal a promise without words.

You curl up against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Allowing yourself to be lulled to sleep.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──