mandy🦋

“…He is a grown man,” you said flatly, arms folded, gold rings catching the light. “Why must I look after him like an orphaned sheep?”

T’Challa exhaled through his nose, pacing slow, as if you were all still discussing this with grace. Shuri, on the other hand, already looked ten seconds from strangling you with her bare hands.

The courtyard was warm with sun, but the three of you had been at it so long the tea had gone cold.

“You’re not looking after him. You’re—”

“—babysitting him,” you cut in. “A man who has killed how many people? But no, let me put aside my entire life and move back to the outskirts so I can make sure he eats his vegetables.”

Shuri’s eyes rolled so hard you thought they might stay back there.

“It is not babysitting. It’s helping him adapt,” she bit back, flicking her fingers in the air like she could swat your sarcasm. “The recovery process is not just about breaking trigger words. He has to be among people. Real people. And you are the only one who will not try to fix him.”

You scoffed, looking between them.

“You two clearly do not value my life. You should say it plainly. You want me to die at the hands of a haunted white man with one arm.”

T’Challa sighed through his nose. “He is not haunted. You are someone who understands silence. Who moves with intention. Who—”

“Who can babysit the winter beast?” you snapped, pushing to your feet. “No. No, this is not fair.”

“You are being dramatic,” Shuri muttered.

“I am being honest,” you bit back, tone sharp but low. “You want me to drag a man out of his nightmares and into the sun like it’s my duty. Why me?”

“Because you can,” came the voice from the stone archway—regal, steady, commanding.

You all turned at once. Queen Ramonda stood framed in gold and violet, hands clasped neatly before her, face composed but clearly unimpressed.

“I could hear your arguing from the throne room, for Bast’s sake,” she said mildly. “Must you bicker like wild dogs every time a request is made?”

All three of you stilled. Like children caught misbehaving.

You spoke first, pointing a hand toward the siblings. “Queen Mother, you must listen to what outrageous things your children are asking of me. They wish to exile me to the outskirts with a half-frozen foreign soldier who wakes with blood on his breath.”

Ramonda gave you that look, the one she’d perfected over years of dealing with all three of you. Calm. Measuring. Ever so slightly amused. “Perhaps the soldier needs someone who will not flinch from the truth. And perhaps you need someone who reminds you the world is larger than your comfort.”

You stared at her, mouth parting, “Once again I say, that is not fair.”

She stepped closer, eyes softening, eyes softening, brushing a hand down your arm. “It would be good for him,” she added gently. “And it would be good for you.”

“Why must everything be good for me when it is inconvenient?”

Ramonda moved her hand, cupping your cheek like she was softening you for the kill.

“He is not the same man they froze,” she said quietly. “We have done much. And we will continue to do more. But he cannot learn peace if he is surrounded only by the memory of war.”

You let out a long, annoyed breath. “So you say, ‘Come do this, come do that. Come leave your bed and your garden and your spirit work to go look after the American white man who—reminder—is an infamous serial killer.’”

There was silence. Then Shuri muttered, “He’s not technically a serial killer, it’s more—”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

“I’m just saying there is a legal distinction—”

“Shuri.”

“I’m just—”

You lifted a hand, silencing her.

Ramonda pressed a kiss to your cheek, knowing it meant you were already halfway convinced. “Let him learn from someone who still speaks to the land,” she murmured. “Someone who still knows how to listen.”

You didn’t answer, but you sighed loud enough for everyone to hear.

T’Challa smiled. Shuri leaned against the railing, victorious.

You walked away mid-eye-roll, calling over your shoulder, “If he so much as breathes wrong near me, I will send him back to the ancestors myself.”

The first thing he felt was air.

Cool, real air—not the sterile chill of cryo, not the chemical weight of lab filters—but air that moved. That breathed. There was birdsong in it. Dry earth. Smoke from a far-off fire. Something floral he couldn’t name.

Bucky blinked, slow and dry-eyed, the light too warm, too gold. His body felt sluggish, heavy with sleep. He was on something soft. No wires, no restraints. His chest rose unevenly, breath catching against the strangeness of… quiet.

And then he heard them. Giggling. Whispering.

He turned his head—sharp pain blooming at the base of his skull—and found three children crouched beside him, their faces painted with thick lines of white and yellow, watching him like he was some museum piece come to life.

The youngest one leaned closer, nose nearly touching his.

“Who—” His voice cracked like dry leaves.

The kids shrieked with delight and bolted for the doorway in a blur of bare feet and swinging beads. One lingered just long enough to poke his knee before running.

“Nakana! I told you not to touch him!”

The voice snapped across the room like a whip—sharp, feminine, unfamiliar.

Feet on packed earth. Cloth shifting. A figure moved past the curtain of the doorway—tall, confident, annoyed in that particular way adults were when children ran just fast enough to escape consequences. She stepped into the light, brushing the curtain aside with the back of her hand. And he saw you.

Painted wrap slung around your hips. A loose tunic tucked at one side. Earrings glinting like fireflies. You were barefoot, one brow raised like this was the mess you’d been warned about.

Bucky’s mouth parted, but nothing came out.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t ask how he felt. You just tilted your chin toward the door, where the last light of day was spilling gold across the dirt floor.

“Come watch the sunset,” you said, like it was the only thing worth doing.

Then you turned and walked out—as if he’d follow, like that choice was his to make. And he made it.

The ground felt strange beneath his feet. Coarse, sun-warmed dirt. Fine dust that clung to his soles as he stepped out of the hut, squinting into the light. The doorway yawned behind him like a throat he’d just crawled out of. No fences. No guards. Just wind and open air.

He hadn’t seen the sun in—

He didn’t know.

Ahead of him, a narrow path wound gently uphill, flanked by thatched roofs and smooth clay homes, smoke curling from chimneys, cloth lines dancing between poles. A child darted past with a kite made of paper and string. Somewhere a woman laughed, deep and unbothered. The village breathed in rhythm. It felt… alive.

He turned, slow and aimless, until he spotted her.

You.

At the far edge of the clearing, your back to him, already walking—effortless, upright, that same piece of bright cloth now pulled across your shoulders. Your earrings flashed once in the sun before you passed into shadow.

You didn’t look back.

Others were walking, too—small groups, elderly men, a mother with a sleeping baby slung across her back. All of them moving in the same direction. Toward the slope. Toward the horizon.

Bucky didn’t think. Didn’t ask.

He just followed. Barefoot, steps uneven, like the ground might swallow him if he hesitated. The air was too clean. His body felt foreign—stiff, lighter, missing something. His arm…

He glanced down. Still gone. Just skin and metal and a quiet absence where something used to be.

But you were still moving. Up ahead, you slipped between two trees, and he picked up his pace without meaning to. The wind tugged at your top. Your hands stayed loose at your sides, steady, sure.

You heard his footsteps before he spoke—uneven, a little slow, like he hadn’t used his legs in months. (He hadn’t.)

The slope had leveled out by the time he reached you. You were already seated on the flat rock at the ridge, legs folded beneath you, elbows resting on your knees. The view stretched wide below, the village glowing in the last of the sun, children chasing goats through the paths, smoke rising from cooking fires.

He hovered a few feet behind you, hesitant.

“Where... am I?” His voice was scratchy, like rusted hinges. You didn’t turn.

“A village on the outskirts of Wakanda,” you said simply.

There was a pause. He stepped a little closer, slow and careful. “How long was I out?”

“Six months.”

“Six—?” He let out a quiet breath, and you heard him shift his weight like the number knocked something loose in his ribs. “And the Avengers?”

You lifted a shoulder. “I don’t keep up with Western affairs.”

Another pause. He didn’t take offense. You weren’t offering any. “Right,” he muttered. “’Course.”

The wind picked up slightly, carrying the smell of stew and sun-warmed stone. You felt him settle into a crouch beside you, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the tension still tucked into his posture—like he didn’t know what to do with his limbs now that they weren’t weapons.

“Can I get your name?” he asked after a moment.

You tilted your head, half-glancing at him, not quite meeting his eyes. You said it clear and even, shaped by your tongue the way it was meant to be. No pause. No simplification. You didn’t shrink it down for him.

He winced. “Could you—sorry—can you say that again?”

You sighed, “Listen closely this time.”

And you said it slower, more deliberate, each syllable resting in the air between you like a stone placed carefully on sacred ground.

He nodded, repeating it under his breath, not quite right—but trying.

You didn’t correct him. The two of you just watched as the sun dipped low behind the hills, casting the sky in molten gold, when the rest of the villagers began to arrive—a slow trickle of movement from behind, soft chatter and rustling feet.

Children in linen wraps. Old men with carved walking sticks. Women with bowls of roasted groundnuts, passing them between gentle hands. They settled across the slope in small clusters, all facing west, as if the sun itself had summoned them.

It did this time every month.

You scooted slightly to one side on the flat stone, patting the space beside you without looking at him.

“Sit.”

Bucky hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside you, still stiff, still quiet, the kind of quiet that held years in its throat. You didn’t watch him. Just kept your gaze on the fading orange sky.

“You were taken out of cryostasis a few days ago,” you said, voice even. “Your body was... overwhelmed. Princess Shuri gave you a sedative to keep the transition gentle. Let your muscles wake slowly. Let your heart catch up.”

He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his eyes on you. Listening.

“You’ve been asleep for three days. Not unconscious—just... resting. Floating.”

Another pause.

“Once a month, we will go into the city. Shuri is still working to untangle what they did to you. She wants to... what did she call it...” You squinted slightly, mimicking Shuri’s tone. “Rewire the synaptic trauma. Remove the trigger pathways.”

Bucky blinked slowly. “So... you’re here to babysit me.”

You didn’t smile, but something near it tugged at your mouth.

“Do not say that in front of King T’Challa. I said the same thing and he got very defensive.”

That got a sound out of him—a small huff. Almost a suprised laugh, if you squinted at it hard enough.

The sky shifted deeper into indigo, casting long shadows across the rocks. The villagers behind you fell quiet. It always did when the last light left the ridge.

You glanced at him then, properly.

He looked... tired. Older than the last time you'd seen him—which, technically, was when he was still asleep in Shuri’s lab. But now, in the open air, the hollows beneath his eyes spoke more clearly.

“You are safe here, Sargeant Barnes,” you said, steady. Not soft, not firm. Just true. “The outside world will not touch you while you are in Wakanda.”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his gaze on the horizon, jaw tight. “It’s James,” he said, low. “But most people call me… Bucky.”

You nodded once, tucking the name into your chest like a small seed.

“Alright then, Bucky.”

Neither of you spoke again.

The sun disappeared, and the sky gave way to stars.

The spot was quiet—further out than most dared to walk alone. You liked that about it.

You sat beneath the same tree every morning, where the grass grew uneven and the air stayed cooler longer. The village lay behind you, just out of sight, and in the distance, birds called to one another in a rhythm older than memory.

He was supposed to be meditating.

You cracked one eye open.

He wasn’t.

The soldier sat across from you, legs folded, posture tight like someone was going to shoot at him any second. His expression was too still, jaw too tense. Eyes closed, yes—but not in the way they should be. Not present. Not breathing. Not with you.

You could see the truth in his mouth. A kind of practiced stillness—the kind you learned when the only time you closed your eyes was to pretend you were human. You exhaled through your nose and let the quiet drag a little longer.

Then, plainly, “You are faking.”

His eyes opened—guilty, but not surprised, “What?”

“You are faking,” you repeated, sharper now. “You are not in your body. You are just... sitting there, pretending.”

He rubbed his hand down his face—his only hand—and gave you a tired shrug, “I don’t see how this helps. I’m not exactly a breathe deeply and find your center kind of guy.”

You stared at him. “You don’t have to believe in anything,” you said. “It is not magic. It is awareness.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Your nervous system is still reacting to things that aren’t there. Your heart still jumps like someone else owns it. Your mind doesn’t know your body’s awake yet. That is what meditation is for.”

“I’m just—” he started, then stopped. “It feels pointless.”

“It is not,” you said, firmer now. “Because if you ever want to get those demon words out of your head, if you want Shuri to rewire the damage, you have to give her something to work with. Your brain is still running Hydra’s script, and if you’re not even willing to sit with your breath, how do you expect to undo any of it?”

His mouth opened slightly. Nothing came out.

“I cannot help you,” you said, quieter now, “if you don’t want to be helped.”

You looked away, letting your hands settle back into your lap. He was quiet for a while—long enough for the wind to shift, pulling a few dry leaves across the packed earth between you.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Uncertain. “Can we try again?”

You looked at him—properly this time.

His eyes weren’t guarded now. No walls. Just tiredness. Willingness, maybe. Something softer.

You gave him a long, unreadable look, then nodded once. “Alright.” You closed your eyes, slowly, and this time... you felt him do the same.

No pretending. Just breath.

He wasn’t sure when it changed.

At first, it was just meditation. Eyes closed, back straight, breathing in rhythms he didn’t believe in. But then it became more.

Sweeping the dirt path that led down to the well. Carrying baskets of grain. Hauling stones for someone’s new roof. Lifting crates with his one arm while the villagers watched in quiet silence, like they couldn’t decide if he was a guest or a tool.

You never told him it was for his benefit. You just handed him the rope and pointed. “Pull,” you’d said, tossing a bundle of dried grass at his chest one morning. “You are not made of glass.”

You never coddled him. Never flinched around him. You didn’t offer long-winded speeches or hold his hand through the work. Mostly, you barked instructions and walked away.

He liked that. More than he wanted to admit.

You snapped at him when he did something wrong—called him slow, unobservant, unfocused. Two days ago, he dropped one of the ceramic bowls from the communal kitchen, and you’d stared at him for five seconds before muttering, “Ignorant child.”

And then walked off.

He almost smiled. He hadn’t been called that in decades. Maybe ever.

But hey—at least it was better than being pitied. Better than being looked at like he was something shattered and fragile, waiting to cut whoever came too close.

You didn’t look at him like that. You looked at him like a chore. Like a reluctant task assigned to you by fate and family. And strangely, that made him try harder.

You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t hover when he had nightmares. You didn’t whisper to the other villagers behind his back—or if you did, you never did it where he could hear.

What you did do was offer him work. Direction. Stillness. A quiet place to sit when the tremor in his fingers wouldn’t stop. And somehow, that mattered more than anything anyone had said in years.

He wasn’t sure what they were celebrating this time.

From inside his hut, the sound bled in slowly—the steady pulse of drums, laughter rising and falling like a tide, children yelling each other’s names across the courtyard. Someone sang near the firepit. A voice he didn’t recognize. Several hands clapping along, rhythm sharp and fast.

It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... too much.

He sat on the edge of his mat for a while, trying to breathe through the heat that settled behind his ribs. It wasn’t panic, not really. But it wasn’t comfort either. His skin felt too tight. The air too loud. His thoughts too sharp around the edges.

Eventually, he pushed to his feet and stepped outside.

The sky was dark—stars blinking through the smoke trails drifting from the fire. Lanterns hung from the wooden beams, casting soft yellow light across the center of the village, where people were gathered in loose clusters. Dancing. Eating. Singing. Moving like their bodies belonged to the moment.

And there you were—almost dead center.

Bright cloth wrapped around your waist. Dozens of tiny golden hoops hanging from your ears. Your hands clapped in time with the drumbeat, your mouth moving with the lyrics of a song he didn’t know. You weren’t the loudest or the most noticeable—but the way people naturally made room around you told him everything.

He crossed the space slowly, cutting through laughter and firelight, until he was just close enough to speak without being overheard.

“Think I’m gonna go for a walk,” he muttered, voice low, almost under his breath.

You didn’t turn your head. Didn’t stop clapping. Didn’t even miss a beat. “I am not your keeper,” you said easily. Not unkind. Just matter-of-fact.

He huffed softly—the closest thing he ever got to a laugh—and gave a small nod you probably didn’t see. And then he turned, slipping past the edge of the celebration like smoke, heading off into the night.

He didn’t know how far he ended up walking.

The ground changed gradually beneath him—the soft packed dirt near the village giving way to stretches of dry veld, low grass brushing against his ankles, warm and clean underfoot. The sky above was still wide, scattered with stars, but out here, the air tasted different. Earthier. Older.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, letting his shoulders drop for the first time all day. He kept walking. No path. Just instinct.

The veld slowly thickened—shrubs first, then low trees, then taller ones that curved toward the moonlight like they were reaching for something. The sounds changed too. The distant hum of the village faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of leaves, the call of some bird he didn’t recognize, the chirping of something small and fast darting through underbrush.

And beneath it all, steady and sure, the sound of running water. He moved toward it.

Every now and then, he’d slow—not because he was tired, but because something would catch his eye. A strange patterned insect climbing a tree trunk. A glowing flower the size of his hand. A lizard with golden eyes that watched him like it understood something he didn’t.

He didn’t touch anything. Just looked. It was quiet here. But not empty.

When he reached the water, it was shallower than he expected—a smooth stream cutting through the trees, tumbling over dark stone in gentle cascades. He crouched down by the edge, dipping his fingers into it. Cool. Clean. Real.

He sat there a while. Just listening. Not thinking. Not fighting anything. Just… being. No boots. No guns. No Winter Soldier. Just him, the wind, the pulse of water moving like a second heartbeat through the dark.

He didn’t hear it until it was too close.

At first, just the shuffle of leaves, the breaking of a branch—then the low, guttural snort that made every muscle in his body lock.

Bucky stood slowly, rising from the streambank, eyes scanning the trees. The light was dim out here, moonlight filtering through thick canopy, casting long shadows over the underbrush.

Another snort. Then another.

He turned.

A warthog stepped out of the trees—broad and low, tusks curling like ivory hooks. It stared at him, twitching its head slightly. Then another emerged beside it. And then two more. Snorting, circling. The ground vibrated faintly beneath their feet.

Shit.

He backed up a step.

One of them growled—an ugly, wheezing sound—and lunged.

Bucky reacted instantly, sidestepping as it charged past, kicking a loose stone at its flank. Another came from the side. He ducked, moving fast, breath short, arm raised.

He didn’t have his left arm. No weapon. No metal. Just instinct.

They weren’t mindless—they were testing him. Flanking. The kind of animals that learned how to bring down bigger things.

He moved toward the stream again, keeping it at his back, trying to funnel them. He landed a solid kick against one’s shoulder, stumbled, pivoted—

And then the big one came. It was almost silent, massive, barreling through the trees like it had been waiting for its moment. Bucky turned too slow.

The impact knocked the breath from his chest, sent him crashing backward into the dirt. His head hit the ground hard enough to blur his vision. He grunted, legs kicking, trying to push it off—its tusk caught his side, not piercing, but grinding hard into his ribs.

Then—

THWIP.

A sound cracked the air. The warthog stilled. Another second passed before it collapsed sideways, heavy and limp. Blood pooled quick and dark beneath its belly.

The others froze. And then, as if obeying some silent command, they scattered. Back into the underbrush. Vanished like ghosts.

Bucky lay there on his back, blinking up at the canopy, breathing hard. Then he turned his head.

You stood between the trees, bow still half-lowered, another arrow notched loosely between your fingers. The celebration wrap still clung to your waist. Your hair was mussed, cheeks flushed like you’d run here fast.

Bucky blinked up, dazed, ribs aching.

You didn’t rush toward him. You didn’t say anything. You just stood there, framed by the trees, breathing a little hard.

He looked back at you. Mud on his back. Shirt torn at the shoulder. Dirt on his face. One arm pressed to the ground.

And the two of you just... stared at each other.

His breathing hadn’t even steadied yet. He was still flat on his back, arm aching, ribs sore, heart drumming uneven against his spine. The warthog’s body slumped a few feet from him, blood pooling from its flank where your arrow had pierced through clean.

He looked at you again, still standing just beyond it. “Thanks,” he managed, voice rough.

You turned your head sharply toward him. “Don’t thank me.”

The words came fast. Not cruel, but firm. Your jaw was tight. “Do not thank me for this.”

You pointed to the dead creature between you, with weight, like you needed him to see it. To really look. “This is sad,” you said, kneeling slowly beside it. “Very sad only.”

He pushed himself upright, wincing a little as he leaned on his arm, dirt still stuck to the side of his face. “What was I supposed to do?” he asked. “Let it maul me to death?”

You didn’t look at him right away. Your hands moved quietly, efficiently—fingers brushing through the coarse bristles of the warthog’s fur, your other hand gripping the arrow still lodged in its side.

You pulled it out in one motion. Clean. No hesitation. “Would you not protect your home,” you said softly, still not meeting his eyes, “if a stranger wandered in?”

He blinked, saying nothing.

“He wasn’t evil. He was defending what he knew.”

You laid your palm flat against the animal’s neck, eyes lowered. “We are not like your western people,” you said. “We do not kill for fun. Or pride. Or sport. All life has value in Wakanda.”

There was no judgment in your voice. Just truth. Plain and unmoving.

You lowered your head slightly and whispered something low under your breath—a few words in Xhosa, voice soft and unhurried, almost like a lullaby. A parting gesture.

Bucky watched you, lips pressed together, jaw tense with something that wasn’t quite shame, but lived near it.

You finally glanced at him—your eyes skimming his shoulder, then down his arm. The fabric was torn just above his bicep, and there, beneath the edge, blood. Not much. But enough to pull your mouth into a thin, unimpressed line.

You didn’t sigh. You didn’t roll your eyes. You just reached down, placed your palm gently over the warthog’s neck once more, a slow farewell, then stood.

“Come,” you said simply, brushing your fingers against your thigh to clear the dirt. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t argue. He rose behind you without a word, steps a little slower now, and fell in step as you turned back toward the path. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. The trees closed behind you like a curtain, muting the sounds of the forest—leaving only the soft rhythm of your feet in the grass, his breathing just behind yours, and the hum of crickets filling in the spaces where conversation might’ve gone.

By the time the village came back into view, the celebration had mostly fizzled out.

The fire still smoldered low in the pit, casting orange light across scattered baskets and half-finished plates. A few villagers moved quietly between the homes, collecting things in tired silence. Someone’s laughter drifted faintly from behind one of the larger huts, but even that was subdued. The pulse of the night had passed.

You didn’t slow as you reached the center, only shifted your path slightly—guiding him past his own hut, toward yours.

He followed.

You held the beaded curtain aside as you stepped through. The interior was warm, dimly lit by candles spread out. Neatly arranged baskets lined the shelves, bundles of herbs hanging from the ceiling in fragrant clusters. There were folded cloths stacked in a corner. A clay bowl of water sat near a wooden stool.

You crossed the space, already moving with purpose. “Sit.”

He did.

The cloth was warm now—soaked in water and crushed herbs—when you pressed it to the scrape on his upper arm. Not deep, but messy. You didn’t flinch when he winced. Just kept working.

The paste came next—a thick mixture, greenish-brown, smelling faintly of aloe and dried mint. You scooped a bit with your fingers and began to smooth it over the broken skin, slow and deliberate.

He watched you. Didn’t speak at first. But then, softly, without looking up, “I’m sorry. For the warthog.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers paused just slightly before you pressed a little more paste into the wound, careful. “It is finished now,” you said after a breath. “In the past.”

You met his eyes, steady but not sharp. “And… I doubt T’Challa would be pleased if you got killed under my care.”

That earned a small huff from him. You almost smiled. Almost. You set the bowl down.

“Still,” he said, quieter now, “you’ve done a lot. I haven’t exactly given back the same.”

You tilted your head, watching him.

His face was serious. Not guilty—not exactly. Just... honest. And unsure. Like he wasn’t used to naming these things out loud.

You wiped your fingers on a cloth, then folded it neatly. “I don’t need much,” you said. “You try. That is enough.”

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure how to respond.

You didn’t wait for one. You stood and moved to rinse your hands at the small bowl near the corner, shoulders relaxing slightly now that the adrenaline had passed. The room smelled like ash and herb oil, and you could feel the weight of the day starting to settle into your back.

The lab always smelled faintly metallic—polished, too clean, like it had never seen real dirt in its life.

Bucky sat on the edge of the diagnostic table while Shuri adjusted something near his temple, wires trailing from a slim headset and disappearing into the projection panel above him. His shirt was off. The room was cool. The back of his neck itched.

You were standing at the foot of the table, arms crossed, watching everything with narrowed eyes like you were trying to make sense of it through sheer observation alone.

A holographic projection hovered above him—a soft blue outline of his brain lit up in faint pulses, scattered red flickers trailing across certain regions.

“What does that do?” you asked, pointing at a blinking node near the center.

“It maps neural response patterns,” Shuri said, without looking up.

“But why is it glowing like that?”

“Because it is active.”

“What kind of activity?”

Shuri exhaled—not exasperated yet, but on the edge.

“It just is, alright? Can you please not do this right now—”

“Do what?” you asked. “Ask questions? I thought this was a lab. Are you not supposed to love curiosity?”

“I love informed curiosity,” Shuri muttered, moving to the display console. “You are just pointing at things and saying ‘what’s that?’ like a child.”

“If you were really that smart,” you said under your breath, “you’d be able to focus through a few questions.”

That did it.

“You are distracting me.”

“Then maybe you should be better at multitasking.”

“Maybe you should go sit down.”

“Maybe you should say please.”

Bucky lay back against the table, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He wasn’t laughing—not really—but there was something easy about the way he exhaled. Something lighter.

He’d never seen you like this.

Not still. Not sharp. But familiar in a way he didn’t expect. Comfortable enough to annoy someone. To be annoying. There was a rhythm to it—not harsh, not for show.

Shuri flicked through a few data fields, ignoring you now. You were muttering under your breath about how you’d name the next hologram just to bother her.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she asked.

“This is my better thing,” you said. “Watching you stress about brainwaves.”

You watched the blue projection pulse gently above Bucky’s head, those same red flickers darting across the map of his mind like warning signs. You didn’t understand all of it—the readings, the frequencies, the cortical tracking—but you understood what mattered. The shape of a wound. The parts that still lit up when they shouldn’t.

“When can you take them out?” you asked, eyes still on the light.

Shuri didn’t look up from the console.

“Take what out?”

“The demon words.”

That earned you a slow, deliberate blink from across the table. “They are called trigger words,” she said, enunciating each syllable like you were hard of hearing. “And you know that. Don’t act brand new.”

You rolled your eyes. “Demon words sounds more accurate.”

“That’s not how science works.”

“That’s not how trauma works either.”

Shuri gave you a flat look, but didn’t argue.

Behind you, Bucky shifted slightly on the table, adjusting the way his head rested against the padding. You hadn’t noticed how you’d leaned in—just a little closer to where he lay. Not hovering, not touching. Just there. Like your body had moved on its own. Like you were with him now, instead of just watching from a distance.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just noticed.

The faint change in your voice when you asked the question. The crease between your brows when Shuri answered. The way your elbow nearly brushed the edge of the table now, when ten minutes ago, you were standing by the console.

Shuri sighed and ran a hand down her face.

“It’s been two months,” she said. “These things take time. I cannot erase conditioned trauma with a switch. I’m working on a way to reroute the neural spikes when the words are spoken, but his system is still adapting to being stable.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing the answer. You didn’t press further. You just looked back up at the display—not with confusion, but with focus. Like you were trying to memorize something that couldn’t be learned in words.

The lab went quiet again, save for the soft hum of the monitors and the occasional clack of Shuri’s fingers across the console.

A Few Weeks Later

The river water was warm beneath your hands. You wrung out the cloth and snapped it once, sharp, before folding it over your knee to scrub the next piece.

The women around you moved with easy rhythm—buckets sloshing, fabric slapping stone, idle conversation drifting between them in patches. One of the elders was humming, her voice low and tuneless, but steady. A child ran past the edge of the clearing barefoot, laughing at nothing.

You dipped your hands into the basin again, reached for another wrap, and glanced up without thinking.

He was further down the slope, maybe twenty or thirty steps away, near the bend in the river where the trees curved in tighter and the bank dipped. Not with the other men hauling baskets of cassava or arguing about whose turn it was to carry the grain. Just... there. A little separate. Like always.

He had one of the wide clay basins hoisted against his hip, arm hooked under it to steady the weight as he moved slowly across the uneven ground. One-armed. Careful. Determined. His shirt clung damp to his back, sweat darkening the fabric between his shoulder blades. His jaw was tight with focus, but not frustrated—just focused.

You didn’t mean to keep watching. But you did. Just for a second.

There was something about the way he moved now—less guarded than before. Still cautious, still scanning his surroundings like it was habit, but not shrinking from it. He wasn’t waiting for approval. He was just working. Sweating. Trying.

He looked up mid-step—maybe sensing your eyes on him—and met your gaze before you could shift it away.

It wasn’t a long look. No lingering. Just a beat. A pause. His expression didn’t change. Yours didn’t either. Then you looked back down, hands moving automatically over the fabric in your lap.

You didn’t smile. You just kept scrubbing.

But you were still thinking about it long after he passed out of your eyeline.

The air had cooled, but the stone beneath you was still warm.

You sat across from him again, legs folded, palms resting against your knees. The same tree overhead. The same quiet rhythm of crickets starting up for the night. The wind carried the faint smell of cooked grains and herbs from someone’s home nearby. A dog barked once. Then quiet again.

He had his eyes closed. Jaw relaxed. Shoulders looser than they used to be. Not completely still, but close. “The kids,” he said quietly, breaking the silence, “they keep calling me something.”

Your eyes stayed closed, but a faint crease touched your brow. “What do they say?”

“It's hard to say,” he murmured, a little sheepish. “It starts with... an 'N'? Ends with something like ‘lope’?”

You opened your eyes slowly. “Ingcuka emhlophe.”

He looked over at you, “What does it mean?”

“White wolf.”

He was quiet a second. Then, “Why?”

You shifted slightly, your fingertips brushing against the ground beside you as you spoke. “Because that is how they see you.”

He turned his head toward you more fully now, just enough to really listen.

“You are not a monster here,” you said, voice calm. “You are a wounded predator. One who was forced to kill. One who now needs healing. And structure.”

You let the words settle. Gave them space. “And,” you added, “because you are not one of us.”

His eyes dropped at that. Not sharply. Just a quiet motion—a flicker downward, like he’d already known, but it didn't mean he liked hearing it said aloud.

But you weren’t finished. You turned toward him more fully now, arms still resting loosely across your lap. “That does not mean you are alone,” you said. Softer. Measured. “You may not be of us. But you are ours to protect.”

His gaze lifted again, meeting yours.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t mean it as a comfort. Or a promise. It was just the truth. Offered, plainly. Without condition.

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked once, slow. And let his shoulders drop a little more.

The silence had stretched comfortably now, not heavy but full. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once, low and rhythmic.

Bucky shifted where he sat, thumb tracing over the inside of his palm—a nervous habit you’d started to recognize when he was thinking about how to say something.

“They, uh…” he cleared his throat slightly. “The villagers. Some of them call you something too.”

You looked over at him, but didn’t interrupt.

“I… don’t know how to pronounce it.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Ooh—moy… ya?”

You blinked once, then ducked your head—not fast, but quiet, like you were hiding a smile before it got too visible.

For a second, Bucky wondered if you looked… shy? Not embarrassed. Just unguarded in a way he hadn’t seen before.

“Umoya,” you said, gently. “Almost.”

He watched you, carefully. “What does it mean?”

Your fingers brushed a leaf off your knee. You weren’t looking directly at him now, but your voice softened a little when you spoke.

“Windsister.”

The word sat in the space between you, light and deliberate.

“Why do they call you that?” he asked.

You glanced at him, smiling—a small, close-lipped smile. One that felt like it came from a private place. “I’ll tell you that in time.”

He didn’t push it. Instead, after a beat… “Will you teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

“Your language,” he said. “Xhosa.”

Except he said it wrong—"Kosa," too flat, no shape to it. You smiled again—this time openly—and shook your head a little. “Not ‘kosa.’ It’s Xhosa.” You made the click sound with ease, like it belonged to you. Which it did.

He tried to mimic it, but it came out awkward and slightly too sharp.

You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. “Better,” you said, almost kindly. “But not quite.”

“You’ll teach me,” he said again, like he meant it this time.

You tilted your head, thoughtful, but still smiling. “If you keep trying,” you said, “then yes.”

And then you both went quiet again—but it wasn’t like before. It was lighter now. Settled.

The stars overhead said nothing. But something between you had already shifted

He woke up with the taste of metal in his mouth.

His chest heaved once, twice—sharp, uneven. Like he’d surfaced too fast and the air hadn’t caught up yet. The room was dark, his mat damp beneath his back. The blanket stuck to him, sweat down his spine. His fingers dug into the fabric at his side.

The dream was already slipping.

Just flashes now—hands holding him down, voices in languages he didn’t speak, the jolt in his skull as something snapped in place. A cold room. A number instead of a name. Commands like teeth.

He sat up slowly, pressing his palm to the center of his chest, counting each inhale until the tightness started to loosen. His mouth stayed closed. No sound came out. The kind of panic that was practiced—not new, not rare, just managed.

The hut was still. The village beyond it quieter than usual. Even the dogs weren’t barking.

He stood, movements automatic. No shoes. No wrap over his shoulders. Just stepped outside into the cool night air, his arm curled close to his body like it still expected the other to be there. His breath steamed slightly, fading quick.

He didn’t think about where he was going. His feet knew before he did.

Past the firepit, long since burned out. Past the old tree with the hollow near its roots. Through the side path where the lanterns weren’t lit. The gravel shifted beneath him, cool under his soles. The beaded curtains on the doorway ahead barely moved in the breeze.

Your hut. The one with the low-burning lamp always left on near the far wall. The one that smelled like sage and something citrusy he hadn’t placed yet.

He didn’t pause.

Just stood outside for a beat, the beads brushing faintly against his chest as he breathed once—then lifted his hand to gently part them.

Inside, it was quiet. He knew you weren’t awake. But that wasn’t why he came.

The beaded curtain fell shut behind him with a soft rattle, barely louder than the candle burning low in the corner—its flame guttering in the draft, casting a faint, trembling glow across the walls. The room smelled familiar now. Like oil and wood smoke.

You were lying on your side, one arm curled beneath your cheek, your breathing slow and even. A woven blanket rested low on your hips, the edge of your shawl slipping slightly off your shoulder. Your face was relaxed in sleep in a way he hadn’t seen while you were awake.

Bucky hovered near the doorway for a beat too long. His breath still hadn’t fully leveled out. Sweat clung to his chest, cooled now, uncomfortable. He hadn’t brought anything with him—not a cloth, not even his sandals.

He should’ve left. He almost did.

But his legs carried him forward, slow and quiet. He lowered himself down beside where you lay, not close enough to wake you, but close enough to feel your warmth off the floor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move, not at first. Just let the silence hold him.

You stirred before he realized you were awake. Not startled—not fully. Your eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, brow creasing faintly as you took in the shape beside you.

Him.

Your gaze moved over his face. His chest. His breathing. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t ask why he was there. You just saw him—flushed, sweaty, jaw tight like he hadn’t fully come down from whatever it was that woke him.

Your hand moved before you spoke. You reached out, resting your fingers gently against his upper arm. Your palm didn’t press or grip. It just touched, soft and grounding, like you were reminding him where he was.

You moved without saying a word, the beads at the entrance rustling faintly as a breeze crept in behind you. The candle in the corner had nearly drowned in its own wax, flickering low and dying out just as you lit another.

Bucky stayed crouched, watching as you crossed the room—still quiet, bare feet brushing over the cool mat as you retrieved a small carved bowl from a shelf near the wall. You reached for the small bundle of dried herbs beside it, crumbling some between your fingers.

He caught the scent even before you struck the match, sharp and earthy, almost bitter, like crushed bark and smoke and something floral buried deep.

“Lie down,” you said simply, nodding to the mat you’d been curled on. Your voice wasn’t soft, exactly. It just wasn’t up for debate.

He hesitated.

You glanced at him, already moving to light the herbs. “Where I was,” you added, as if that would help.

And strangely—it did.

He laid back slow, muscles tense, still shirtless. The mat was still warm from where your body had been. His eyes followed as you knelt beside him, with the bowl between your hands, smoke beginning to rise in soft ribbons.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged.

“I’m going to ease you,” you said simply.

He blinked. “Ease me?”

Your brow lifted faintly as you shifted closer, the bowl now resting just beside his chest. “Breathe it in.”

He gave you a look—wary, frozen. “… You tryin’ to get me high?”

That earned him a slow eye-roll, the first of the night. “Do I look like I have time to poison you?”

You reached out and tilted his head gently sideways, your palm warm against the back of his skull as you lowered him slightly toward the smoke. It curled around his face, slow and sweet, sinking into his lungs before he could second-guess it.

He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak again either.

Your thigh was firm beneath his head as you held him steady, a quiet rhythm to the way your thumb absently moved behind his ear. His eyes fluttered, the tension in his chest loosening incrementally with each inhale.

It didn’t feel like getting high. Not quite. But the weight in his limbs was shifting. His breathing evened. The pounding in his skull—that leftover echo from the dream—finally began to fade.

He felt it first in the weight of his limbs. Like gravity had changed its mind about him—pulled him lower, slowed everything down. Bucky blinked slowly as you guided him back, your hand pressing flat against the center of his chest. Not pushing, just steady. Coaxing.

He let himself fall flat.

The bowl still smoked somewhere nearby, but all he could see was you. Leaning over him now, your silhouette catching candlelight in your hair, your palm cupping the side of his face as your fingers moved to his temple in slow, circular strokes.

His eyes fluttered again. Lulled.

Your thumb skimmed along his brow. You were saying something—not to him exactly—a soft murmur in Xhosa that moved like song under your breath. He didn’t know the words, but the cadence alone sunk into him like warmth. A lullaby hummed in a language he didn’t speak.

He swallowed thickly.

You stayed close, your face just above his, eyes downcast in focus as you massaged around the edge of his skull, careful with the ridges of scar near the base of his hairline.

He sighed. Not because he meant to—it just… escaped. “This is nice,” he mumbled, voice heavy with haze.

Your hands didn’t stop moving.

His eyes cracked open again, barely. “…Your hands are warm.”

Still, you said nothing. Just kept tracing his temple, like drawing a map of him you already knew.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “They used to tie me down,” he murmured. “Did you know that?”

The question wasn’t really a question.

He closed his eyes again. “They thought it was easier. When I was screamin’.”

You didn’t flinch. Not once. Instead, your fingers moved to the edge of his jaw. Gentle. Respectful.

“I hated that room,” he said faintly. “Hated how it smelled. Burnt wires and metal. Like blood and cold sweat.”

Another breath. This one caught a little. He didn’t open his eyes. “You’re the only thing that’s smelled… good. In a long time.”

It was so quiet, you almost thought he’d fallen asleep—except his eyes blinked open again, glassy and half-lidded. Staring straight at you.

“They told me I was a weapon. Like I wasn’t supposed to feel anything.”

You didn’t stop touching him.

“They lied,” he whispered.

His head turned into your palm just slightly. Seeking. Grounding.

“They fucking lied.”

You didn’t mean to linger. But something in his voice—low, cracked open, more confession than conversation—held you in place. Your thumb brushed just under the curve of his cheekbone, and you felt it then, the smallest shift in him.

A lean. A sigh. His body loosening under your hands like a knot coming undone thread by thread.

“I know,” you murmured, so softly you weren’t sure if he heard.

But your hand remained at his face, thumb tracing that same quiet path. His skin was warm now—flushed from the herbs, from the still-fading fear.

“You are not that anymore,” you whispered. “You are not theirs. Not here.” Your words felt like breath. Like they were meant to stay close to him.

He didn’t respond at first. Then, slowly—almost unsure—his right hand lifted. Calloused, scarred, rough. He hesitated before his palm settled lightly over yours. Not holding. Just touching. Covering your hand with a kind of care that startled you.

And then… his lashes lifted. And in that moment, the weight of his gaze hit you like a rush of wind—not cold or cutting, but steady. Deep.

Blue. Honest. Exhausted.

He looked at you like he didn’t know how not to.

You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close you were, how the candles flickered against the curve of his jaw, how your knees were pressed into the woven mat beside his hip. But you didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

“I see you,” you said, and it slipped out before you could decide whether or not to say it at all.

His brow twitched—not a frown, not confusion—just a quiet ripple of emotion you didn’t have words for.

“You are not a weapon,” you added, a little firmer this time. “You are not lost. You are here.”

And he was still staring. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just looking at you like maybe—just maybe—he believed you.

Your heart beat quietly in your chest, a gentle rhythm you were sure he could hear.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. His fingers pressed ever so slightly tighter over yours—not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

You didn’t let go. Neither did he.

The curtain rustled before his eyes had even fully opened.

Morning light bled soft through the thatch walls, and there you were—standing in the entrance of his hut, framed by sunlight and fabric still shifting behind you in the breeze. You had a wrapped bundle in your arms, a satchel hanging over one shoulder, and a look on your face that made him blink.

Not your usual expression. Not the pointed sort you wore when telling him to focus or pull his weight or eat slower. No—this was different. You were… trying not to smile.

“You’re awake,” you said, like it wasn’t fully a question. “Good.”

Bucky sat up on one elbow, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. His shirt clung to him slightly—the nights were warmer now. “Didn’t expect visitors this early,” he muttered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “What’s going on?”

You hesitated for a second—a small pause, almost invisible, but he caught it.

“I want to show you something,” you said at last.

Your eyes flicked to the ground for just a heartbeat. You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. He could see the way your fingers fidgeted briefly around the bundle you were carrying, then stilled with intention.

“It is a little far,” you added. “We will be back before nightfall. Pack something light.”

He blinked again. “Where?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just gave a small shrug and tilted your head toward the basin where he kept his things.

“Not telling?” he asked, still trying to gauge you—trying to figure out why you looked half-excited, half-nervous.

Your gaze finally landed on his, steady this time. “It is… something special,” you said simply. And then, just like that, you turned and stepped back into the morning sun.

The curtain swayed behind you, still fluttering when he stood up.

He packed slowly. His mind didn’t race, but it moved—steady and curious. It wasn’t like you to act unsure. Wasn’t like you to seek his company without a task or a lecture or Shuri’s requests behind it. Something about your voice—the soft lilt, the careful pause—sat low in his chest.

Something special.

He tightened the strap on his satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the day, where you were waiting at the edge of the path. Arms still full. Eyes on him now, expectant and quiet.

“Ready?” you asked.

He nodded.

It started with open veld; long grass brushing their legs, morning sun angling down warm and full, but the terrain shifted quickly. The trees grew thicker, their shadows stretching over soft ground as you moved ahead, light on your feet, sure in your steps.

Bucky followed, just a few paces behind. His satchel bumped gently against his side. He watched the way the earth darkened and softened the deeper you went—dry clay giving way to rich soil, winding roots and low, knotted branches marking a path that was clearly familiar to you.

“Are you gonna tell me where we’re going?” he asked, stepping over a ridge of rocks.

“No.”

You didn’t even look back when you said it—your voice playful, almost sing-song.

Bucky exhaled a small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Will you ever give me a straight answer?”

You turned your head just enough for him to glimpse your smile. “When I feel like it.”

He shook his head, but kept moving. Your pace wasn’t rushed, but it had that same unbothered ease he’d come to recognize in you—like the wind chose its own path and you simply followed.

Birds chattered high in the trees above. The air smelled green and damp and alive.

“You always do this?” he asked after a beat. “Wake people up at dawn, drag them into the jungle?”

“No,” you said over your shoulder, ducking beneath a low branch with fluid grace. “Just the ones I like.”

That earned a real breath of laughter from him—short, surprised, and involuntary.

And you caught it. You didn’t say anything, but he saw your shoulders shift a little. Not in smugness, but in something softer. Like you were pleased with yourself—with him, even—in a way that wasn’t sharp or teasing. Just light.

He realized then that he liked this version of you. This playful one. This confident, grounded energy without the sharp corners. The way you didn’t explain every step but still made it feel like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be.

And he didn’t even mind not knowing where the hell you were going.

They moved through the underbrush in companionable quiet now—his boots crunching lightly on fallen leaves, your bare feet moving soundlessly over earth you knew like breath.

You brushed aside a low-hanging vine, glancing back at him. “Do you know of Bast?”

Bucky blinked. “Your goddess?”

You smiled. “She is not just a goddess.”

The path curved inward, narrowing between thick trunks and flowering branches. As you walked, your fingers reached out absently to the trees—not brushing them, but acknowledging them, as if they’d notice.

“Bast is…” You took a breath, choosing your words carefully. “She is the protector. The first of us. The one who saw we needed help when the world was chaos. She gave the first king his vision. She gave him the heart-shaped herb. She gave him strength, and clarity. She still gives it.”

He didn’t speak, but you could hear his footfalls behind you—steady, quiet.

“She is not like your god,” you added after a moment. “She does not punish. She does not ask us to kneel.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. You didn’t see it, but you could feel the curiosity from him like heat.

“She is in the land,” you said softly. “In the wind. The soil. The water. She is breath. She is mercy.”

You stepped over a cluster of stones, your voice low but sure. “When a child is born, we whisper her name over their skin. When someone dies, we sing them back into her arms. That is how we know no one is ever truly gone.”

Bucky was quiet for a long stretch. He didn’t say he didn’t believe in that—didn’t scoff or question or turn away. He just kept following, gaze flicking between the trail and you.

You glanced back again, caught the way his face looked softer than usual. Not skeptical. Just… listening. Open in a way you hadn’t seen before.

“Sounds like a lot to believe in,” he said finally, but his voice was gentler than usual.

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s simple.”

The terrain shifted as you led him higher—from jungle undergrowth to uneven stone. The trees thinned, and the light changed with it. What had been filtered green was now brighter, sharper, streaking through cracks in the canopy above.

“Careful here,” you said, offering your hand without ceremony as he eyed the ridge ahead.

He took it without hesitation.

The incline wasn’t steep, but the rocks were slick with moss, and his footing was still off sometimes—one arm making balance harder than it should be. You watched the way his boots scraped and slipped, how his jaw tightened when he stumbled. But he didn’t complain. Not once.

You steadied him by the elbow once, and he let you. It wasn’t until the path leveled that he spoke again, a little breathless. “You Wakandans love hiding things on mountains.”

You snorted. “No one hides them. The world just forgets how to look.”

You moved ahead, parting the tall grass with your hands. It gave way to a clearing—and beyond that, the edge of the cliffs. The wind picked up, rolling over your skin in cool waves. “This is where they used to live,” you said quietly. “The Isisa.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed as he stepped beside you. “What’s that?”

Your lips tugged upward. “Once, they filled the sky.”

You pointed out over the horizon. The view stretched endlessly—ridges layered like waves, sky sweeping wide and untouched.

“They were winged creatures. Huge, the size of a small plane. Sleek like birds, but not quite. They used to fly in flocks above the cliffs, circling during spiritual rites. Watching. Guiding.”

He glanced at you, watching the way you stared out, like you were seeing more than what was there.

“They were Bast’s messengers,” you said. “People believed they carried souls. That when someone passed, an Isisa would come for them, guide them to the next realm.”

Bucky was quiet.

You didn’t look at him when you added, “They were also protectors. They flew during war. During coronations. During births. When Bashenga became king, and the tribes united… they began to disappear. People thought it was because they had done their part.”

He looked up again, scanning the empty blue sky. “And they haven’t been seen since?”

You hesitated, then gave a small smile. “Not exactly.”

He turned to you.

You looked at him then—really looked. The wind caught your hair, moving it gently. There was a softness to your features now, one he hadn’t seen before this day. You took a breath, grounding yourself.

“Most thought they were extinct,” you said, voice quieter. “But some believe they only return when truly needed. When something sacred is reborn.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you a moment longer than it should’ve. You felt it, and pretended not to. You turned your face to the wind instead, eyes closing briefly, before you continued onwards.

The path narrowed into a ledge carved into the cliffside, half-swallowed by roots and vines. You moved with ease, hands brushing the moss-damp bark, ducking under low-hanging branches. He followed carefully behind you, keeping his steps even, his eyes scanning everything.

The wind shifted as you climbed the last steps—stone smoothed by time and ritual. You turned, offering your hand as he reached the final ridge. He took it.

And then he heard it.

A sharp, high-pitched cry split through the air—haunting and strange, like a hunting eagle crossed with a lion’s growl. His whole body locked up, and his hand unconsciously went to his hip like he expected to find a weapon there.

You didn’t flinch. You only smiled softly and turned your head upward.

That’s when he saw it.

Wings spread wide above the trees, slicing through the sunlight. The creature was massive—its wingspan nearly the width of the cliff itself, casting a long shadow as it descended. Its body was sleek and long, somewhere between reptilian and avian, but graceful in a way that didn’t make sense for something that size. The skin shimmered teal when it caught the light, streaked with gold at the edges of its wings and lined with deep, black butterfly-like patterns.

It wasn’t just beautiful. It was divine.

Bucky’s mouth parted slightly. “Shit.”

You didn’t laugh. You just watched her circle above once, then land effortlessly on a thick branch extending from one of the ancient trees—her claws gripping bark, wings tucking in slowly with a low rumble of breath.

She turned her head toward you. Her eyes were wide and amber-gold, intelligent. Knowing.

You stepped forward, head bowed just slightly—not in fear, but something gentler. A quiet greeting. When you turned back to Bucky, your expression had changed. Something softer, more vulnerable.

“This is Za’ta,” you said quietly. “She is… my soul sister.”

Bucky looked at you, then at the creature, then back at you. You weren’t looking for a reaction. You weren’t showing off. If anything, you looked a little shy—bashful in the way your shoulders tilted, how you rubbed your fingers together absently at your side.

He took a step closer, eyes never leaving Za’ta. “Soul sister?” he said, voice low.

You nodded. “She found me when I was a child. I thought she was a dream. No one believed me at first.”

“And now?”

“Now they call her a sign. A reminder that Bast is still watching. That something lost can still return.”

Za’ta gave another low sound in her throat, deep and resonant, like a purr wrapped in thunder. She didn’t seem threatened by him. She only stared. You stepped closer to the base of the tree and reached up, fingers brushing her forelimb with a familiarity that spoke of years. “She is very protective. So don’t be surprised if she does not like you.”

Bucky gave the smallest huff of amusement. “Fair. Most people don’t.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him, your hand still resting on Za’ta’s forelimb. “Come,” you said softly. “She won’t hurt you.”

Bucky stood a few feet back, boots pressed into the soft earth just beyond the tree’s wide roots. His gaze flicked between you and the massive creature now crouched along the thick branch above, wings slowly folding in. His shoulders stiffened slightly.

“She looks like she wants to bite my head off,” he muttered.

You smiled at that, a quiet thing. “Only if I ask her to.”

He didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

You extended your hand to him—palm up, open—and held it there.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he stepped closer. The wind tugged at his hair, and his left sleeve—still pinned and folded neatly—brushed his side as he raised his right hand to meet yours. You wrapped your fingers gently around his and guided his palm toward Za’ta’s snout.

Her breathing shifted as she leaned her head forward just slightly. Her nostrils flared as she scented him, and Bucky went still—not frozen, just… alert. Present.

You watched his face, not the moment itself.

His brows were drawn just slightly, lips parted, eyes wide with something more than awe. Wonder, maybe. He was still looking at her like she was something out of a world he hadn’t earned the right to see.

“She’s incredible,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like her before.”

You didn’t look away from him. “I understand what you mean.”

You said it quietly—so quietly it barely rose over the breeze—but he heard it. Your fingers still laced with his. His handwarm in yours.

For a long moment, he didn’t look away from her. And then he did. His eyes dropped down to yours—slow, like gravity had to drag them—and when they landed, you felt it. Something pulled low in your chest. The hush between you suddenly thick.

You didn’t mean to lean in. He didn’t either.

But you did.

The space between you narrowed inch by inch, slowly, without urgency. Like neither of you realized it was happening until it was. His eyes dropped to your mouth for a breath—just a breath—and you felt his hand tighten around yours slightly, like a tether.

Then—

A sharp screech cut through the air, sudden and piercing.

You both flinched back.

Za’ta’s wings rustled as she shifted her weight impatiently, clicking her jaws once and tilting her head between you. Watching. Demanding.

You exhaled a shaky breath and laughed under it—embarrassed, heat prickling behind your ears.

“She… she hates when the attention is not on her,” you said quickly, stepping back and letting go of his hand. “She has always been like this.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He was still watching you. His expression unreadable—but softer than you realised.

You looked anywhere but at him.

And Za’ta huffed again, smug.

The jungle held its breath.

Night clung thick between the trees, but the clearing was cast in amber—the flames from the ritual fire dancing in wide arcs, casting flickers of gold across both your faces. The logs crackled, popped softly. A slow curl of smoke drifted into the canopy, disappearing into the dark.

Bucky sat cross-legged before it, his bare arm resting loosely on his thigh.You stood across from him, wrapped in your ceremonial drape. Quiet. Still. He wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the flames, unmoving. His breath was steady, but shallow. Too even. Like if he let it go, he’d break.

“It is time,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed once against his knee. Finally, his voice came—low and rough. “Are you sure?”

You took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The beads around your ankles chimed gently as you moved through the red light.

“I would not have brought you here if I wasn’t,” you said.

He nodded once, jaw tight. Still didn’t look at you. His voice was quieter the next time. “What if it doesn’t work?”

You watched him, “Then we keep trying.”

“And if it does… if I change—” His throat bobbed. “If I become him again?”

The fire was between you, but only barely. Its warmth licked at your skin. “If it comes to that,” you said gently, “I will stop you.”

He looked up then. His eyes met yours—and you saw it. The fear sitting just behind the surface. The quiet, desperate hope.

You held his gaze. Firm. Steady. “You will not hurt anyone,” you said. “Not tonight. Not here.”

The fire hissed.

Bucky blinked once, then nodded—almost imperceptibly. You saw the way his shoulders drew in, not from shame but from restraint. He wasn’t bracing for failure.

He was bracing for possibility.

You reached into the small carved bowl at your side and pinched a bit of the dark herb Queen Ramonda had prepared—a grounding agent meant to stimulate memory but soften the nervous system. It burned bitter in the flames.

He didn’t flinch.

You closed your eyes for a moment, whispered something under your breath—not for him, but for Bast. Then opened them. You met his gaze again.

The flames painted shadows along his cheekbones, flickering across his skin like something alive, but he didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the center of the blaze, shoulders taut, chest rising just a little too fast to be calm.

You took a slow breath, grounding yourself before you spoke.

“Тоска.”

He flinched. Not hard—not visibly—but his body gave a slight jolt, like something deep inside him had twitched on instinct. His eyes didn’t leave the fire, but his jaw clenched.

You continued, voice low but even.

“Ржавый.”

A breath stuttered out of him. You saw it; the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the slight widening of his eyes, like a thread was pulling somewhere in the back of his mind. A place he hated.

“Семнадцать.”

He swallowed thickly. His shoulders rounded in a little tighter, like he was bracing for impact—not physical, but worse. A memory pressing down on him from the inside out.

“Рассвет.”

His breathing hitched again, shallow and audible now. Still no movement. Just his eyes, fixed in the fire, wide and shining.

“Печь.”

A sharp inhale.

“Девять.”

A small tremor in his hand. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak.

“Доброкачественный.”

His teeth gritted, muscles in his jaw tight. You could see the glassy sheen now, clinging to his eyes, but he refused to blink. As if even that was too dangerous. Too vulnerable.

“Возвращение домой.”

A flicker. His mouth opened slightly—not to speak, just to breathe. His chest rose in short, sharp pulls. Still, he sat.

“Один.”

The fire popped, as if it had heard. You waited just a second longer. A breath. And then—

“Грузовой вагон.”

It landed like stone dropped in still water.

You watched his face. The glassiness turned to wetness. One tear—not sudden—just… there. Sliding down the side of his face, unbothered by pride. His mouth parted with a sound so small you almost missed it. Not a cry.

A release. A breath he'd been holding for years. You moved then, quietly and carefully, until you were kneeling beside him. You didn’t touch him.

“They’re gone,” you said softly. “The words have no power over you.”

He gave a small nod, barely there, then looked down at his lap. And that’s when it cracked.

A sob escaped—quiet and short, like it had snuck out without permission. His head dropped forward slightly, shoulders hunching. Just… shaking. As if his body didn’t know what to do now that the chains were gone.

His head hung low, his spine curved inward like his body was trying to protect something it no longer knew how to hold. The fire behind you cracked and hissed, but it felt distant now, a heartbeat outside your own.

You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, your hands resting in your lap, eyes fixed on the tremble of his shoulders. You didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t crumble the moment.

Then—quietly, like the words had to be dragged from somewhere inside him—he lifted his head. His eyes were swollen, lashes wet, his nose red, and he looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to earth.

“…Thank you,” he breathed.

And just like that, your resolve gave out.

You leaned forward without thinking, hands rising to gently cup his face. Your palms were warm against his skin, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes with more gentleness than you meant to show.

He stilled.

His hand stayed in his lap, clenched tight. His left shoulder twitched once against his side, useless, aching. It made him feel unbalanced, almost childlike.

But you didn’t care. You guided his gaze back to yours, close enough that your breaths tangled.

“You are free,” you whispered, your voice a little shaky now. “You hear me, James? You are free.”

His mouth moved like he was going to say something—maybe your name, maybe nothing at all—but no sound came. Just another breath, sharp and broken.

And then he leaned forward. Not rushed, not messy. Just… drawn to you. His forehead came to rest against yours, tentative at first, like he was afraid you’d pull away. But you didn’t. You stayed still, your hands still holding his face, and you let him come to you.

His body trembled against yours as his head dipped, resting against your temple, your hair, your shoulder—wherever he could find something solid.

You didn’t need to speak.

You just stayed with him in the firelight, your hands still cupping his face, while he finally let himself cry.

He couldn’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“You’re not gonna tell me where we’re going, are you.”

Your back was to him, but he heard the grin in your breath—light, soft, teasing.

“No.”

The path had narrowed again, the jungle around you thick with dusk. The last hints of sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken threads, but you moved easily, your pace quick and effortless as always. Bucky followed, trailing just behind you—not struggling, just distracted.

Mostly by you.

You were walking a little slower than usual, like you wanted him to catch up, and he did—only to stop again when you turned just slightly and the dying light caught your skin.

He hadn’t said anything yet, but he’d noticed. How your clothes tonight was lighter. Lower on your shoulders. A slit along your hip he was trying very hard not to stare at. Your jewelry caught what little light there was—gold and copper tones that glittered faintly at your throat and wrists. And your scent—

He couldn’t ignore it. It hit him in waves, warm and sharp and soft all at once. Something creamy, but richer. Something smoky and sweet underneath it, like crushed herbs rubbed gently between warm palms.

It made something tighten in his gut before he had a chance to understand why. “You know I don’t like surprises,” he muttered, pushing a low branch aside with his hand.

“You say that,” you hummed, “but you always follow me.”

That made him huff a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh. Just enough to admit you were right. He didn’t ask again. He just kept his eyes on the way your bare shoulders caught the last of the gold light, the way your hips shifted gently with each step, how loose your body was—not careless, just… unguarded.

And then he heard it. A low, rushing sound from somewhere ahead. Not wind. Not animals. Something steady. Powerful.

He slowed his steps. “…Is that a—?”

Bucky ducked beneath a cluster of vines, one hand brushing the trunk beside him for balance, his boots sinking slightly into damp moss. The roar of the waterfall grew louder as the trees thinned. The path narrowed again—now more of a ledge than a trail, sloped slightly downward, leading toward the sound.

You turned to him with a small nod, lifting your hand toward the curtain of water ahead. It shimmered silver in the last breath of evening light, a wall of liquid glass pouring down the cliffside like it had been doing so for centuries.

“This way,” you said, voice softer now.

He raised a brow. “Through it?”

You gave a small, sheepish shrug. “Trust me.”

He didn’t hesitate.

You stepped first, your hand skimming the rock as you angled your body along the edge of the cliff wall, slipping through the narrow gap between stone and water. Bucky followed, keeping close behind you.

The moment he stepped under the fall’s spray, he sucked in a sharp breath—the water hit cold at first, soaking his shirt instantly, cascading over his shoulders like a slap.

“Shit—”

His foot slipped on the smooth stone, and for a second he flailed, only for your hand to shoot out and grip his wrist—your fingers strong, grounding. You steadied him.

He blinked the water out of his eyes, still hunched slightly as the current pelted his back. You looked up at him, already drenched too, and laughed—not loudly, just a small, surprised sound that slipped out like you hadn’t meant for it to.

He stared for a second before something low in his chest gave—and then he was laughing too. Just a breath. Just once.

You held his arm a second longer than necessary before releasing him gently. “This way,” you said again, tilting your head toward the dark behind the water.

You led him through it—deeper, drier, into a space carved by nature and time. And then he saw it.

The cavern opened gradually, its walls slick and smooth, the ceiling arching high above like a dome. Faintly, impossibly, light glimmered from within the stone itself—streaks of soft violet pulsing through the walls like veins. White engravings—symbols, words, maybe names—had been carved by hand, some so old the edges had worn to nothing.

The sound of the waterfall became muffled here.

Bucky’s voice came quietly, like he couldn’t help it. “What is this place?”

You didn’t look at him at first. You stepped further in, water dripping from your arms, your back straight but your voice gentle.

“A place for prayers,” you said. “To be heard.”

You turned slowly to face him. Your eyes flicked to the glowing walls, then back to his face.

“…And sometimes answered,” you added, a little quieter.

You walked further in, your bare feet silent against the cool stone, stopping near a small rise in the floor where smooth slabs had been arranged in a wide circle—natural, almost like a nest of rock.

Bucky trailed behind you, slowly, eyes adjusting to the cavern’s low light. The pulsing violet veins in the walls gave just enough to see—shadows flickering gently over his face, the damp curve of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

His hand drifted out to trace the symbols nearest him. He didn’t touch them at first—just hovered. Then, slowly, he let his fingers graze the stone. The grooves were faint, worn, but still there. Words in a language he couldn’t read.

“We call this place…” you began, your voice echoing gently off the walls, “Umqolomba wezandi.”

Bucky glanced toward you. You were standing near one of the glowing crests, your hand resting lightly against the rock, like greeting an old friend.

“It means…” you turned toward him, “the cavern of echoes.”

His gaze flicked to the ceiling, then around again—like he was finally beginning to feel what this space was.

“Wakandans believe the walls carry the voices of our ancestors,” you continued. “When someone prays here, the wind returns the sound. Not loud—just… enough. Just a whisper.”

He didn’t speak. You stepped forward slowly, closer now, until your voice dropped slightly. “Some come here to seek guidance. Some to mourn. Others come to whisper things they’re too afraid to say out loud.”

He didn’t take his eyes off you.

The violet glow from the stone etched itself along your cheekbones, catching in the curve of your nose and the line of your collarbone. Your skin shimmered with it—like the cave was pulling its light from you, or maybe the other way around.

Bucky stood a few paces away, one hand still pressed lightly against the wall, fingertips resting on the carved stone.

“Why’d you bring me here?” he asked quietly.

You met his gaze just for a moment—and then turned away, eyes flicking toward the deepest part of the cavern. The faintest smile tugged at your mouth, sad and barely there.

“I thought…” you began, voice low, nearly drowned by the hush of dripping water, “you might like to see one last thing that is special to me.”

He stepped closer, slow and careful. His hand fell to his side. He didn’t rush you. Just stood there.

“One last thing?” he asked, softer this time.

You nodded once. Still not looking at him. “You are free now.”

The words came out smaller than you expected. You swallowed and pressed on, forcing them to be steady.

“Your mind, your body. They belong to you again.” You let out a tight breath, arms folding lightly over your stomach. “You are no longer bound to this place.”

He heard the shift in your voice. Not anger. Not even grief. Just that quiet thing that sits under both—a kind of sadness people don’t name. You kept your eyes forward. “You can go home. To America. To whatever life you have waiting for you.”

A beat passed. And then another. He said nothing.

You finally turned your head, just slightly, your gaze still somewhere near the floor. “You are not a prisoner, James.”

He was silent for a long moment. Then, voice low—not confused, not sudden, just certain.

“…What if I don’t wanna leave?”

That made your breath catch and you looked up. He was watching you. Not the way he looked at the walls, or the fire, or even the sky above the cliffs. He was looking at you.

You averted your gaze when you spoke again—voice lighter now, but not quite free of its ache.

“Well, you are free now,” you said, almost teasing, but not fully. “You can do whatever you want.”

Behind you, Bucky didn’t answer, but you heard the faint shuffle of his boots against the stone—inching closer.

You kept your gaze ahead, eyes following the purple light in the walls like it was safer to look at than him. “You could stay, if you wanted. Here in Wakanda.”

He was closer now—not quite beside you, but you could feel the warmth of him just over your shoulder.

“There is a place for you in the city. Or the village. You have many skills.” You gave a small shrug, hoping it looked casual. “They’d be lucky to have you.”

Your voice dropped slightly. “And if you wanted…” You shifted your hands in front of you, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “You could create a family. Start again.”

You meant it. You did. Even if it scraped something raw inside you.

You exhaled slowly. “Wakanda has the most beautiful women in the world.” You glanced sideways, just enough to see his profile in the low light. “As you’ve seen in our village.”

That came out more bitter than you meant it to. He didn’t call it out. Didn’t acknowledge it it. Just kept his gaze on you, mouth twitching like he was biting back something.

“Amahle sings like a bird,“ you said, voice soft, but flat as you rolled your eyes, “Everyone says her voice could wake Bast herself.”

“... I don’t want Amahle.”

His voice came quiet, close behind your ear. You tried not to react, but your lips twitched before you could stop them. You turned a little more toward the wall, hiding your smile with another breath.

“Mandisa is a good hunter,” you added casually.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little lower now. “She is.”

You turned sharply, brows furrowed, head snapping toward him, a frown growing on your lips.

Bucky was already smirking.

You sighed. “You are trying to be funny.”

“I’m succeeding.”

He looked pleased with himself. His face was relaxed in a way you didn’t see often—that boyish ease creeping through, tugging the lines of his mouth into something crooked and soft.

The smirk faded from his face slowly, but the closeness stayed.

He didn’t step back. Instead, Bucky leaned in—just a little—until his chest nearly brushed yours, the heat of him warming the air between you. You felt it rise, all at once, like your body had only just now realized how close he really was.

His breath touched your cheek. His nose almost grazed yours.

And then, gently, he raised his hand, fingers calloused and careful as they lifted to your jaw. He didn’t rush. Just let the back of his knuckles skim the side of your face first, like asking permission without speaking. When you didn’t flinch, his palm settled softly against your cheek.

You leaned into it. Barely. But you did.

He watched you. Every part of you. The slight part of your lips. The flutter of your lashes. The way your breath caught in your throat when he spoke.

“I know which woman I want,” he said, voice low—not raspy, not strained, just… quiet. Truthful. “But this woman must also choose me.”

The words sat there between you, trembling slightly in the stillness.

And then you smiled. Soft at first. Small. But real.

It bloomed slow, like light warming over your face—the kind of smile that reached your eyes, crinkled the corners, made your lashes lower like you were trying to shield the joy behind them.

And Bucky…

He didn’t breathe for a second.

Because it hit him suddenly—that smile. That it could burn brighter than any fire in this cave. That it made something stir in him, deep and good and maybe desperate.

You tilted your head just slightly into his palm. And your voice came in a murmur—so quiet, it almost disappeared into the echoing stone.

“She already has.”

He didn’t move at first.

Even with your words hanging between you—soft and sure—he stayed still for a breath. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone slowly, once, and you watched the way his eyes dipped to your mouth, then back up to your eyes, asking without asking.

And then, finally, he leaned in. Slow. Careful. Like he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

You didn’t.

Your eyes stayed on his, heavy and unblinking. You could feel the way his breath trembled against your lips just before they touched—feather-light, a brush more than a kiss, like the moment itself was scared it would shatter if either of you moved too fast.

The first contact was barely a second.

He pulled back an inch, eyes searching yours again—checking. Not for rejection. For permission to fall apart. And then your fingers found his wrist and you held it there as you leaned forward this time, mouth tilting up to his again.

This kiss was deeper.

His lips pressed more firmly, shaping to yours with growing certainty. Warm. Intentional. His hand cupped your jaw tighter, not possessive, just present—thumb slipping behind your ear as your mouth opened slightly beneath his.

He tasted like breath and earth and the faint hint of herbs still lingering on his tongue. You sighed into him, your lips parting again, more confidently this time—and he met it, tilting his head, deepening the kiss until your noses brushed and your mouths moved like they’d done this before in another life.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t wild. But it was hungry, like something long-denied finally unfolding itself without shame.

You felt the drag of his bottom lip against yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—only to kiss you again, mouth firmer now, more certain. You answered with a small sound in your throat, something soft and needing, and his hand slipped from your cheek down to your neck, holding you there.

Your lips stayed locked —deep, slow, and consuming. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of it, learn the exact pressure that made you sigh, how long to linger before pulling away and pressing back in.

His dragged his knuckles lightly down the line of your throat. You shivered, not from cold, but from how warm your skin felt under his touch—slick, soft, prepared.

He felt it too. His fingers paused at your collarbone, as though registering something he hadn’t noticed until now—the way your skin gleamed faintly in the purple cave light, the faint shimmer of oil that clung to your shoulder.

He broke the kiss, just barely, lips still brushing yours as he whispered, “You smell really… good.”

You smiled, small and shy, as his hand moved again, trailing along the curve of your shoulder with a gentleness so soft it didn’t need the word.

“Shea butter,” you murmured against his mouth. “And… rose oil.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Thought I was going crazy.”

Your noses bumped again as he kissed you once more—deeper this time, tongue sliding gently against yours. Your lips parted easily, like you’d been waiting for him to stop holding back.

His tongue moved slow—careful, tasting—coaxing yours to meet him with the same rhythm. The heat pulsed low in your belly. You leaned closer, your body drawn to his without needing to think, and you felt his hand skim further down—across the line of your upper chest, fingers splayed. The pads of them gliding over oiled skin, the slip of it making his breath hitch in his throat.

He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

His hand kept moving—lower now, tracing the inside of your arm, then circling back up to press against the small of your back, guiding you closer into him. The kiss had deepened into something more now—your mouths slow but messier, wetter, tongues sliding in practiced rhythm, breath catching between swallows.

Your body responded in kind—your chest rising, brushing his, your hips tilting slightly, angling into his heat. His hand moved again—back to your neck, then your shoulder—his thumb slipping over your collarbone, down the swell of your chest, just grazing the upper curve of your breast through the fabric.

You broke the kiss gently, your lips lingering against his for a second longer before you pulled back, eyes fluttering open to meet his.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

His brows twitched slightly, his breath shallow, but he didn’t ask what you meant. He just looked at you—looked through you—for a moment longer, then reached for the hem of his shirt.

The fabric stuck slightly to his skin, damp from the air and the heat between you. He tugged it upward in one slow pull with his hand, careful not to rush, and let it fall behind him with a dull whisper on the stone floor.

You exhaled.

The cave light caught the lines of him—soft purples and muted whites streaking across the planes of his chest, the hard curves of muscle shaped by war and grief. His torso was broad and strong, marred with a constellation of old scars. Some long-faded. Some newer. Some you’d seen before, from a distance when he washed by the river.

But now, they were offered to you. Your hands lifted slowly, sacred without trying to be. You let your fingertips touch his chest first—just a brush, testing. He stayed still.

You dragged your hand up, tracing the faint slash beneath his ribs, then higher, over the long scar that cut across his sternum. His skin was warm. Alive. Steady.

Your other hand joined, smoothing along his chest, rising toward his shoulder—his right—where flesh still met bone. You felt the dip of his collarbone under your thumb. The tension in his neck.

And then you saw it. The left side. The end of it.

The soft, healed edge where the metal used to continue. Now just a metal shoulder, curved and cold where limb had once been. You didn’t hesitate—your hand moved there too, fingers slow, brushing the edge where metal had once been forced into living body.

That’s when he looked away.

He dropped his head slightly, jaw tight. You felt the shift in him, like something pulling back. “I wish…” he said softly, the words caught on something raw. “I wish I could feel you with both hands.”

Your chest ached.

You moved without thinking—both hands rising to cup his face, gently but with certainty. His skin was warm under your palms, scruff along his jaw. You tilted his face back toward you.

“Don’t look away,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours again, guarded but open. Flickering. You held him there.

“This,” you said, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his cheekbone, “is a symbol of your survival. Your strength.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his, letting your hands fall back to his chest—grounded, present.

“I want you,” you said quietly. “Just like this.”

Bucky couldn’t remember how they got to the ground.

One minute, your mouth was on his, your hands mapping his chest with slow adoration, and the next—he was on his back, the cool stone of the cavern floor beneath him, smooth as water-worn bone.

You were in his lap, straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his hips. His hand was on your waist, fingers digging in, not hard—but anchored, like he needed the contact to keep himself tethered to this moment. To you.

Your lips never left his. It was slower before. Gentle. But now—

Now it was need.

You kissed like it had been years. Like it had been denied for lifetimes. His mouth was open against yours, breath ragged, tongue dragging against yours in a rhythm that was no longer careful. Your hands had disappeared somewhere—he couldn’t even tell where—because all he could feel was your body moving against his, your chest brushing his, your thighs tightening every time your hips rolled just right.

His beard scraped against your cheek, your chin, the underside of your jaw as he kissed lower, biting softly at your throat, open-mouthed and warm. You arched into him, your back curving, and his hand followed instinctively—pressing flat along your spine, guiding your body closer until there was nothing left between you but heat.

You smelled like sweat now—like skin, oil, the scent of perfume still clinging to your pulse points. The smell of you dizzying, something earthy and warm and faintly sweet. He wanted it everywhere. On his tongue. In his mouth. On his body.

He grunted something low in his throat and pressed his mouth to your collarbone, his lips dragging over the slick warmth there, tasting the rose oil and salt. His hand moved up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb pressing under your jaw as he pulled your mouth back to his.

He needed to feel you everywhere.

Your hips shifted again—slow, grinding, and his cock twitched hard beneath the fabric, trapped between your bodies. You felt it. He knew you did. The noise you made—soft, breathy—went straight to his spine.

His kiss turned rougher—still careful, still wanting to worship you, but there was nothing polite about this now. This was hunger. This was claiming. Your lips swollen, breath catching between gasps and moans. You kissed like you were already ruined. Like the fire you’d started weeks ago had finally reached its burn point.

You broke the kiss first. Not far—only enough to breathe—but he followed you instinctively, chasing your mouth like he wasn’t ready to let it go. His lips brushed yours again and again, searching, impatient.

“Wait,” you whispered.

He stilled, breathing hard, pupils blown wide as he watched you.

Your hand lifted slowly to the knot at the base of your neck—the simple tie holding your wrap in place. The movement was deliberate, almost shy, though your chest was rising fast enough to betray you.

Bucky’s gaze followed every second.

You tugged once.

The fabric loosened.

You tugged again.

And it slipped.

The cloth fell away from your chest and pooled around your waist, leaving you bare to him in the soft purple glow of the cavern. The cool air kissed your skin, but you barely noticed it—not with the way he was staring at you.

He looked at you like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

Your breasts rose and fell with your ragged breaths, skin shining faintly from oil and warmth. You could see the way his throat moved as he swallowed, the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand twitched against your hip like he didn’t know where to touch first.

You leaned forward and kissed him again before he could say anything. But his attention had shifted.

His mouth left yours almost immediately, sliding down to your neck, tongue dragging along the damp curve of your skin. He kissed there, slow and messy, lips open, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“Wanna taste you,” he murmured against your throat.

You gave a small nod, barely able to think, and his mouth moved lower. His hand slipped up your side, thumb brushing over the underside of your breast as his lips followed the same path. You felt his breath first, hot and shaky—then his mouth closed around your nipple.

The first pull of his lips made your head fall back.

A soft, unguarded moan slipped out of you as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer—tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk forward against him.

Your fingers slid into his hair without thinking, holding him there as he switched sides, giving the same attention to the other breast. His hand kneaded at your waist, dragging you closer, guiding your body to move against his.

You rolled your hips again—harder this time—grinding down against him. You could feel him beneath you, thick and straining through his pants, and the friction made you gasp.

“My James—”

He groaned at the sound of his name, mouth still on you, and the vibration of it went straight through your body.

Your hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants, his breath hot and shaky against your neck as you kissed him between desperate, half-laughed curses. The sound of fabric dragging against skin filled the cave—wet with sweat, clinging, urgent—as he finally shoved them past his hips with your help.

You sat up just enough to tug them off the rest of the way, tossing them aside. He was already bare beneath, hard and flushed and waiting, the sight of him making your thighs tighten.

The air was thick around you, warm and damp, your bodies gleaming in the violet glow. Your chest was still rising fast, skin slick with oil and heat, and he was staring up at you now—flat on his back, hand firm on your waist like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

His mouth was parted, eyes trailing slowly from your breasts to your stomach to the place between your thighs. Adoring. Devouring. And still, just softer than lust. Like he was seeing a vision he didn’t think he deserved.

You leaned forward again, kissing him once, slow and open-mouthed, before whispering against his lips, “Now we become one.”

And then you reached between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance.

You angled your hips carefully, breath catching when the head of his cock pressed against you—thick and hot and already leaking, your folds slick from want and desire. He groaned beneath you, the sound strained and breathless as your hand stroked him once, then lined him up again.

You held his gaze as you began to sink down. Slow. Stretching.

Your body opened around him inch by inch, the burn sweet and perfect, your walls clenching as he filled you. You gasped, forehead dropping to his, and his hand clamped harder on your waist, thumb digging into the soft dip of your hip as he breathed through it with you.

“Fuck—” he rasped. “So tight—”

You whimpered against his jaw, your thighs shaking as you lowered further, the stretch making your head spin. He was thick, every inch dragging against you, and you could feel the way your body adjusted to take him. Your cunt fluttered as you seated yourself fully.

You stayed still a moment, chests heaving, foreheads pressed and breath shared.

And then you started to move—slow at first, easing into it, your hips rocking gently as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you.

Bucky groaned, the sound guttural and rough, his hand gripping your waist like a lifeline. His eyes were fixed on where your bodies met, the slick drag of you gliding up and down on his cock. He watched with his mouth parted, sweat already clinging to his brow, chest rising fast.

“Shit… you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You moaned at the praise, your hands braced on his shoulders as you picked up the rhythm—grinding down, then lifting, riding him slow and deep. Each time you dropped your hips, he hit that perfect spot inside you, and your breath came shorter, messier, your thighs beginning to tremble.

The cave amplified everything—the slap of skin, the wet glide of your cunt around him, your moans echoing off the walls, layered over the low roar of the waterfall beyond. The air felt thick with it, humid and alive.

You rode him harder now—hungrier.

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, your ass smacking against his thighs as you worked yourself over him, chasing every drop of friction. Bucky’s hand dragged from your waist up to your breast, cupping it, thumb brushing your nipple as he thrust up into you from below.

He could only touch what his hand could reach—but he touched you like it mattered. Like he meant it. Palm sliding down your stomach, fingertips trembling as they traced the sheen of oil and sweat, down to your pelvis where he pressed his thumb against your clit and rubbed.

You cried out, head snapping back, the pleasure white-hot.

“Look at you,” he groaned, voice cracking. “So fucking beautiful—riding me like this—”

You leaned down, panting against his jaw as you rode him harder, messier now, the rhythm losing its grace, becoming more primal. Your walls clenched around him, slick dripping down your thighs, the sounds of it loud, obscene, echoing like prayer.

He was too far gone now. The need—no, the craving—to feel more of you, to bury himself deeper, to give in overtook whatever control he’d been holding onto. And even with only one arm, he moved with purpose.

“C’mere—” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, and with a groan of effort, he shifted.

It wasn’t graceful—his balance off, his body strained—but somehow he managed to turn you beneath him, easing your back down onto the stone floor with a grunt and a clumsy half-roll that made both of you gasp-laugh through the haze. His hand braced above your shoulder, his knees sinking between your thighs, body hovering over yours.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Tighter.”

You obeyed, locking your thighs around his waist—holding him close, keeping him there, right where you wanted him. Right where you both needed this to happen.

And he started to thrust again. Harder now. Deeper.

Each stroke knocked a cry from your throat, your nails digging into his back, your body arching into him like your bones didn’t know how else to respond. His pelvis pressed flush with yours on every pump, the rhythm steady and sharp, and you could feel how deep he was—how full you were—how good he made you feel, even with just one hand and every ounce of concentration funneled into you.

He kissed you again—messy, open-mouthed, tasting your whines as they broke free, his body slamming into yours faster. When your head fell to the side, he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your jaw—everywhere he could reach, panting between moans, sighing your name into your skin like it was prayer.

And then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

His thrusts slowed for a beat.

The cave light shimmered across his face, sweat lining his brow, his chest heaving above yours. You could barely keep your eyes open, pleasure swimming behind your lashes.

But then he said it. Voice thick, barely a whisper.

“Ndiyakubona.”

I see you.

Even through the haze, your mouth broke into a smile—soft and dazed and full of everything your body couldn’t say. And without answering, you pulled him down, crashing your lips to his again, arms around his shoulders as your hips lifted to meet each thrust as it turned rougher.

Unrelenting.

It was no longer slow or sensual—it was instinct. The slap of his hips against your thighs echoed through the cavern, the air thick with sweat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of your cunt clenching around him with every punishing stroke.

He adjusted his stance, gritting his teeth, and shifted you up—pressing your knees toward your chest, his hand gripping the back of your thigh, holding it open as he fucked into you deeper. Your body arched under him, your head thrown back, mouth open, moaning without shame.

This was carnal now. Primal.

You were folded beneath him, trapped in a mating press, your legs shaking around his waist, your hands clutching uselessly at the slick stone floor as he drove into you like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.

He was panting—loud and sharp, every muscle tight—but his eyes never left you. He was watching. Watching your face, your mouth, the way your brows twisted, the way your back arched higher with each thrust, like you were caught somewhere between ruin and salvation.

“Finish for me,” he grunted. “Let me feel it. Let me—fuck—let me feel you.”

You whimpered, your voice breaking with each slap of his hips, the pleasure unbearable. And then it happened.

You cried out, legs clamping around his waist, your body locking up as the orgasm crashed through you—white-hot, full-body, helpless. Your walls clenched around him so tight it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Bucky felt it.

Felt you milk him, tighten around his cock like your body was made to take him. His head dropped forward, his mouth falling open in something like awe.

“Holy fuck—”

He stared at you, wild-eyed, stunned, like he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You were still cumming—still gasping—your thighs trembling around him, your cunt pulsing as aftershocks rippled through your belly.

And Bucky had never felt anything like it.

Not in his entire life. Your pleasure, his name on your lips, your body spasming beneath him, because of him—

He was close. So close.

You were still panting, your body limp beneath him, your skin slick and glowing under the cavern’s low purple light—but he didn’t stop.

Bucky kept thrusting—slower now, but deep, deliberate, like he was chasing something he was scared to catch. His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, holding you steady, your cunt still fluttering around him, soaking and spent.

“Fuck—” he groaned, voice cracking. “I’m close—”

You looked up at him through heavy lashes, lips parted, skin flushed.

And he leaned down. Pressed his mouth to yours—soft at first, desperate beneath the tenderness—and kissed you through it.

Then he broke away just enough to breathe.

He thrust once.

Twice.

And on the third—he came.

With a broken sound in his throat, he drove into you, hips jerking as his release tore through him. He spilled deep inside you, thick and hot, his whole body shuddering from the force of it. His thighs trembled, his jaw slackened, and he dropped his head forward, forehead pressed to yours as he tried to catch his breath.

His arm shook beneath him, struggling to hold his weight, but he stayed there—inside you, skin pressed to skin, sweat dripping from his temple to your cheek.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You kept your eyes open, watching him through the haze—not touching, not speaking. Just watching. The way his lashes stayed low, the small twitch of his jaw, the slight wince in his expression as the high began to ebb.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

He looked down at you, lips slightly parted, his chest heaving above yours. The expression on his face wasn’t something he could name—not yet. Not exactly. But it looked a lot like being broken open in the gentlest way.

He swallowed hard.

“…Shit,” he muttered, voice low and rough. Not ashamed. Just overwhelmed.

He was still inside you. Still hard, still twitching faintly from the aftershocks.

But even in that fog, he shifted—careful not to collapse onto you. He slid out of you with a low groan, drawing a quiet whimper from your throat at the loss, and moved onto his back beside you, his chest rising and falling in heavy waves.

You both stared up at the cavern ceiling for a few long moments. The stone above glowed softly, the walls still humming faint with the pulse of the violet veins.

Neither of you spoke.

And then—after maybe two breaths too long—he reached for you.

His arm came up and around your back. He pulled you into him, not forcefully, but fully—pressing your bare body against his chest like he couldn’t bear to let the space grow cold between you.

You folded into him easily, instinctively. Your head rested just below his jaw. His lips found your forehead.

And then—as if pulled—your mouth tilted up, found his again. Slower now. Softer. Still open-mouthed, still wet, but no longer frantic.

Your lips finally parted again, not out of need, but because you both simply ran out of air.

The kiss faded into stillness. Your forehead stayed against his, your fingers still resting on his chest, tracing absentminded shapes into the skin just above his heart. You could still feel it beating—slower now, steadier. But still there. Still real.

His hand smoothed along your back, dragging a lazy line down your spine like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

You didn’t either.

Until finally, he murmured—barely audible, but firm,

“…Thank you.”

You blinked. You pulled back a little, just enough to see his face. His eyes were still on you. Heavy-lidded.

“For what?” you asked, soft.

A pause.

Then he said it—slowly, like every syllable cost something.

“For saving me.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

“I didn’t save you,” you said eventually, after a beat. “I only helped—”

“No,” he cut in, quiet but certain. “You saved me.”

Your brows pulled slightly.

He exhaled through his nose. Not out of frustration—just trying to find the right words. Words he wasn’t used to saying.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever… feel like a person again,” he said, his voice rasped with fatigue, but not hesitation. “Not after what they did to me. Not after all the decades that I was just a… a thing.”

He looked at you again. “And then I came here. And I met you.”

Your expression softened, almost imperceptibly, but you didn’t interrupt. You let him speak.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw me,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Didn’t look at me like I was some... broken weapon. You just looked. And listened. And existed.”

He paused again.

“I haven’t been able to breathe in years,” he whispered. “Not without waiting for the trigger to pull again. Not without thinking someone’s gonna drag me back into something. But here… with you…”

His fingers flexed faintly against your back.

“I can finally fucking breathe.”

You blinked slowly. Your heart pulled so tight it hurt.

He didn’t need to say I love you. This was deeper than that. He still wasn’t looking at you directly now—not all the way. Just barely off, like it was too much.

And when you finally spoke again, it wasn’t to dismiss his words or soften them. You just said, simply,

“…You saved yourself.”

His eyes flicked back to yours. Still wide open. Still raw.

“I was just there to hold the net,” you said. “You did the climbing.”

You didn’t know how long you stayed there.

The rhythm of your breathing had synced again, like the hush between waves. The cavern, once echoing with gasps and desperate cries, was still now. A sacred hush laid over everything—water still falling outside, glowing rock pulsing soft violet all around you, but inside, it was just the two of you.

He was still staring at you.

You were still staring back.

At some point, you had propped yourself slightly onto your elbow, the cool of the stone under your skin grounding you as your other hand tangled with his. His thumb brushed yours absently, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

And then he spoke. Quiet. Uncertain.

“Maybe…” he began, the rasp still clinging to the back of his throat. “…maybe I had to go through all of it. The war. Hydra. All of it.”

You blinked slowly.

He swallowed.

“Maybe I had to lose everything so I could find you.”

His voice wasn’t smooth. It cracked halfway through. But he didn’t look away this time. Not when he said it.

Your chest tightened—too full, too much. Your heart hurt with it. In the most devastating way.

Your fingers lifted to his cheek, brushing the hair back that had fallen near his brow. His eyes closed under your touch—not from shame. Just from… feeling.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your voice almost a whisper.

“You did not deserve what they did to you,” you murmured. “Not any of it.”

His jaw clenched slightly.

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“But you survived. You endured.”

You kissed his temple.

“And if the path led you to me…” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes again.

“…Then I am grateful for every step you took.”

a/n | if you’ve made it this far, well damn, what did you think?

Okay so obviously i made up the Isisa based on the Ikran to make our girl extra special. and is based on Neytiri’s first Ikran, Seze:

I literally have a full on fic in my head of our girl being present in Black Panther's plot and Infinity War, but lets just put it in my back pocket for now. The warthog and cave scene are directly taken from Avatar, when Neytiri first met and saved Jake; and their bonding and mating scene. I still wanted to have more fluffy scenes before she became soft with bucky, with him watching her when she’s soft and playful with others, like during a baptism celebration, or more scenes with Za’ta she’s supposed to give off this:

andddd also realised there wasn’t that many wakandan!reader fics, wonder why…

With no real plan or destination in mind he somehow ended up in Bucharest, Romania. It wasn’t home, it wasn’t anything, but it was far enough and quiet enough.

He found a tiny one-room apartment on the fifth floor of a crumbling old building where the walls were thin, the plumbing whined at night like it was protesting its own existence, and the neighbors kept to themselves. He paid in cash. Nobody asked questions. Perfect.

He picked up work in construction. Long days of lifting, hauling, sweating under the sun. It was hard, even grueling sometimes but it was honest work. It dulled the edge of the nightmares, wore down not only the anger but even his relentless body until he could collapse into sleep. When people asked for his name, he said “James.” It felt OK, even natural or close enough to it.

He kept to himself, head down, barely speaking, always with a cap pulled over his eyes, and a glove on his left hand, even in the heat. He counted exits everywhere he went and slept with a knife under his pillow. And he stayed alone. Always.

Right up until you.

You lived two doors down. Your apartment always smelled of coffee and something sweet with music playing softly through the walls. You were kind in that spontaneous, organic way without being loud or nosy. You never lingered too long, but you always found a few minutes to talk to the old, wrinkled grandma from 6B, left extra cookies on the windowsill for the neighborhood kids, and smiled when you passed him in the hallway.

Still, Bucky saw you.

At first, it was how you moved in that gentle, unhurried way, as if you lived in your own rhythm and didn’t care about keeping up with the rest of the world. Then it was your laugh, the way you said “hi” to him on the stairs, always with that smile. You were the only one who did it with a smile. And of course the warm spill of light from under your door at night when everything else in the building felt cold and dim.

He tried not to look. Shoulders hunched, eyes down, always turning away before your gaze could catch his – that’s how you usually saw your new, quiet, broad-shouldered and handsome neighbor. But you noticed him anyway.

You noticed how he flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never unlocked his own without first looking over his shoulder, how he scanned the hallway the way most people checked the sky for rain.

You saw the tight line of his jaw, the way silence clung to him, the way his deep, striking blue eyes always looked as if they were carrying something heavy.

But somehow, despite it all, you still thought he was... sweet.

Not just because he was handsome, though that didn’t hurt. It wasn’t about the broad shoulders or the sharp cheekbones or the low, hesitant “thank you” he mumbled sometimes. No, there was more than that. It was how you never saw him raising his voice, even when kids were screaming through the halls and bumping into him while running down the stairs. The way he helped the elderly woman from the sixth floor carry her groceries without being asked or the way he quietly brought down the stroller for the single mom on four like it was nothing.

And of course, you were aware of the glances, the ones he thought you didn’t catch. The quiet sighs, the way his gaze followed you sometimes, as if he was trying to summon the courage to speak but was unable to.

You were curious. Just curious, no more than that. Or at least that’s what you told yourself when one evening, after spending far too much time doubting yourself, you finally knocked.

It was a dumb excuse. You had sugar, but there you were, standing outside his door with an empty mug in your hands, heart flipping in your chest, trying to play it cool.

When the door creaked open, he looked at you like you’d just set off a fire alarm. With suspicion written all over his face, his eyes scanned you, then darted down the hallway before returning back to you.

“…Sugar?” he repeated, voice low and a little rough, touched with a slight accent.

You smiled. “I just realised I’ve run out of it and I’m already halfway through the recipe.”

There was a long pause and you could almost hear the gears turning behind his eyes, measuring, calculating, unsure how to react, but then he nodded silently, took a step back and disappeared into the apartment. A moment later, he returned, handing you the filled mug, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long.

You opened your mouth to say something else, but the door shut gently in your face.

Yet you didn’t give up and the next night, you stood again before his doors with a plate of pancakes in your hands, wrapped in foil to keep them warm and fresh. You weren’t sure if it was bold or stupid, but you knocked anyway.

He opened the door quicker this time but looked even more confused.

“What’s this for?” he asked, brows drawn together.

“For the sugar,” you said with a shrug. “You saved my cake last night, it just seemed fair.”

There was a long pause, and when you already feared the door would just slam shut before you again, he reached out and slowly took the plate from your hands. You noticed his left hand was still covered in a glove. 

“…Is it… is it for me?”

You smiled: “Of course it’s for you.”

Something flickered in his eyes that looked almost like a smile.

“…Thank you,” he said, so quietly you almost missed it. His gaze dropped, his lips twitching into something shy and uncertain and before you could answer, the door clicked shut again.

Bucky stood in the middle of his kitchen for a long time, the plate of pancakes still in his hands, steam curling up. His palms were sweating and his pulse wouldn't settle. 

It wasn’t panic, it wasn’t the dread of being recognized or some buried memory clawing its way up from the dark. This was something completely new, something he wasn’t prepared for. 

Someone had knocked on his door with something warm and kind in their hands. No threat. Just... pancakes.

He let out a breath and set the plate down, gripping the edge of the counter.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more: that you’d done it, that he liked it or that the short interaction had left him so painfully hard he had to bite back a groan and focus on breathing just to stay in control.

He hadn’t even touched you, and yet the scent of you still lingered in the air, warm and sweet and maddening.

The water in the shower ran hot as he leaned into the tile with both hands, chest heaving as the spray poured over him. He let his head hang, jaw clenched, in a futile hope the hot water would wash that feeling off his skin, but it was already under it.

Your voice, your smile, the look in your eyes when you handed him that plate.

With a rough, broken sound, he wrapped a hand around himself, eyes squeezing shut as he was flooded with the images of your laugh and the simple way you’d said “of course it’s for you”, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It didn’t take long. It never did, not when it was you behind his eyes. He came with a sharp gasp, forehead pressed to the tile, hips twitching, breath ragged and uneven.

Afterwards, he just stood there, water pounding his back, heart hammering and shame settling low and heavy in his gut. Not because of what he’d done, but because he wanted more and for the first time in what felt like forever he didn’t feel numb and it was driving him mad. 

Bucky didn’t sleep much that night, not because of nightmares. No, those stayed mercifully quiet this time. It was you that kept him up this time – the sound of your knock, the scent of pancakes, the memory of your smile.

And somewhere deep inside him there was a quiet, reckless, stupid hope that you’d knock again. 

Fuck, no. Leave her out of it, he told himself for the hundredth time, tossing and turning over in bed but it didn’t matter, because his hand was already moving, slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers wrapping around himself with a desperate kind of frustration. His chest rose and fell faster, the air in the room suddenly thick, suffocating, but not as heavy as the heat pooling in his gut.

He tried to think of something else, anything else, but you were already there.

That stupid, sweet smile you gave him when you handed over that plate –  the one that said he wasn’t dangerous, that showed no fear, only warmth and kindness, the one you would never cast at him, if you knew who he really was. 

He groaned, low and raw, pressing the heel of his other hand to his eyes as if he could block out the image of you behind his lids. It didn’t work, it never did.  

His hips bucked up into his hand before he could stop himself, breath catching in his throat. It was fast and ugly and aching, and he hated every second of it, of how little control he had, how easy it was for you to undo him with a smile and a plate of pancakes.

White streaks of his cum splattered across his belly, his breath catching in a stifled gasp as he buried his face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sound. His hand stayed wrapped tightly around himself, fingers trembling, chest still rising and falling hard.

He didn’t move for a long time, just lay there, slick, spent, and sinking deeper into self-loathing with every second as each breath tightened the knot in his chest, each heartbeat a reminder that it didn’t matter how many times he came to the thought of your smile, as if he were entitled to it, as if he deserved to want you.

He didn’t. He knew that.

Bucky woke with a sharp cry, shooting upright as though struck. His heart thundered, blood roaring in his ears, that old familiar weight crushing his ribs while the echo of a gunshot rang through the hollow corners of his mind.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

The blanket was twisted and soaked with sweat. He shoved it aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there with his head in his hands, trying to breathe, trying to remember where he was, when he was, who he was.

It took him a while to come back to his senses but finally he stood slowly and shuffled barefoot across the cold floor toward the bathroom.

The man staring back at him in the mirror looked like a stranger in his own skin – dark circles, hair damp with sweat, eyes wide and hollow. 

He splashed cold water on his face and scrubbed his hands dry on a threadbare towel, avoiding the mirror entirely now before moving into the kitchen where he stopped short.

The plate of pancakes still sat on the table, untouched, covered carefully with foil.

He stared at it for a long moment before reaching out, slow and unsure, still half convinced they weren’t truly meant for him, that taking one might somehow be a mistake.

He took a bite and damn… they were good, fluffy, with just the right amount of sweetness, soft in the middle and with a hint of crisp at the edge.

He stood chewing in silence, one hand braced on the counter, the other still holding the fork, and his mouth tugged at the edge, not quite a smile, but close.

Then he heard them – your footsteps in the hallway.

Your rhythm was familiar by now, light and easy, almost like dancing, full of quiet confidence and grace. The sound nudged something in his chest, made his pulse trip once, then again.

Bucky’s hand hovered over the door handle. He could stay inside, wait it out until your steps faded, until it was safe, or…

He moved before he could second-guess it.

“Morning,” you said, glancing toward the creak of the opening door and your voice carried that effortless brightness again, the kind that softened corners, that made this hallway, stale with damp concrete and flaking paint, feel almost inviting and warm.

Bucky swallowed. “Hey,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat. “Uh …hi.”

Smooth.

You slipped your keys into your bag and looked up at him again. You didn’t seem surprised to see him, just genuinely glad and somehow, that made it worse.

Bucky shifted his weight, rubbed the back of his neck. “I…uh… about the pancakes. Just… thanks. For that.”

You smiled, bright and easy. “You liked them?”

He blinked, as if you’d just asked if he liked air. “Yeah,” he said quickly. Then quieter, almost sheepish: “They were really good.”

The second the words left his mouth, he looked away, his cheeks going a little red. It was kind of sweet, how fidgety he got, it looked as if he didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his feet, or the fact that someone was actually talking to him, like part of him was still considering just bolting back into his apartment and pretending this conversation never happened.

“Well,” you said softly, “you’re welcome. I’m really glad you liked them.”

A pause stretched between you, as you waited whether he would continue the conversation. Bucky nervously shifted his weight as he desperately tried to come up with something else to say, but his mind had suddenly blanked out. 

You tilted your head, smiling just a little. “Hey, if you’re hungry again later… I work at my parents’ shop. It’s just a few blocks from here. We sell homemade food, nothing fancy, just soups, fresh bread, stews, that kind of thing, but if you’re around… come by. I’ll treat you to lunch.”

His eyes widened slightly, then he blinked, once, then again, as though his brain needed a second to catch up.

“Me?”

You laughed, soft and warm. “Do you see anybody else here?”

A faint, nervous smile tugged at his lips, and his gaze dropped to the floor, searching for something steady in the scuffed tiles beneath his boots.

“That’s... really kind of you,” he mumbled.

You grinned and gave him a little wave as you started down the stairs. “See you then, James.”

He stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where you’d just been, then remembered to breathe.

The shop was small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with hand-painted signs in the window and the smell of something warm and herby drifting out onto the street.

Bucky stood across the road, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, eyes fixed on the front window. He could see you through the glass. You were laughing with someone behind the counter, your sleeves rolled up, your hair pulled back – nothing special and yet it made his stomach twist.

He shouldn't have come.

He’d walked past the place twice already – once fast, pretending he was on his way to something else, and the second time, slower, casting side glances towards the window. And now he was just... standing there, rooted to the sidewalk, unmoving, a stranger to his own nerves, trying to convince himself to disappear before it was too late. 

You’d just been nice and probably hadn’t expected him to actually come, you’d probably already forgotten about it altogether... and then you looked up.

Bucky flinched, immediately stepping back, unsure whether to bolt or blend into the brick behind him but it was too late, your eyes had already locked on him. 

Your face lit up, and before he could make the snap decision to disappear around the corner, you were pushing through the front door, wiping your hands on your apron.

“Hey!” you called, voice bright and easy, full of that same warmth that always knocked the air out of him.

He froze as every instinct told him to run, but his feet stayed planted, pulse kicking up as you crossed the sidewalk toward him.

“I was starting to think you got lost,” you teased lightly, then nodded toward the shop. “Come in. Food’s still warm.”

He hesitated, staring at the doorway like it might bite him.

“I don’t want to…uh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he mumbled. “You looked… busy.”

“I am busy,” you grinned. “Feeding people. You qualify.”

He gave a soft, awkward laugh, it seemed he wasn’t sure if it was okay to find you funny, then, slowly, cautiously, he followed you inside.

The shop smelled of rosemary and fresh bread. It was cozy, with mismatched chairs and a few tiny tables.

Bucky hovered by the door, unsure of where to go or what to do with his hands, as he tugged at the glove on his left one.

You gestured toward a table by the window. “Sit wherever you want. I’ll bring you something.”

He nodded, then quietly chose one in the back, easing himself into the seat with slow caution, as though afraid it wouldn’t hold him. He rested his forearms on the table and looked down, trying not to let it show how tightly wound he was, how he’d spent the entire morning telling himself this was a terrible idea.

Over the next couple of weeks, something started to shift between you and your shy but handsome neighbour. Lunch at your parents’ shop turned into a regular thing. He never said he was coming, but you always saved him a spot near the back, and without fail, he showed up – cap tugged deep, left hand covered in glove, like he needed a layer between him and the rest of the world. He didn’t talk much, mostly he’d just sit there quietly, eyes on you, listening to you talk while wiping down counters or restocking shelves.

One afternoon, when you mentioned in passing that your kitchen sink was leaking again, he offered to take a look, no hesitation, no awkward pause, just a soft, “I can fix it, ” as if being useful to you meant something important.

When you said yes, his shoulders relaxed in this barely noticeable way, as if you’d handed him permission to be here, to take up space in your world without needing to explain why.

He spent an hour under the sink, toolbox beside him, and even though you offered him coffee and tried to make small talk, he mostly just nodded or shrugged, cheeks a little pink the whole time and when the drip finally stopped, he looked so endearingly proud in his quiet way, not boastful, just relieved to have done something right.

You liked it, no this was not the right word, you loved this quiet pull, this thing that bloomed in your chest when he showed up for lunch, when his eyes found you from across the room, calm and stormy all at once, that ridiculous flutter in your stomach every single time and the way his steel-blue gaze stayed with you long after he’d left.

You didn’t know what to call it, not yet, but it was growing.

And you had no idea how much it cost him, how tightly he had to hold the reins just to sit across from you, how much effort went into every half-smile, every controlled breath, pretending to be calm while his heart was pounding like he was in a fight.  

Yes, he enjoyed it, more than he wanted to, more than he thought he had any right to. Your voice, your laugh, the way you always remembered how he liked his tea, the way you talked to him without flinching, without pity, without fear, as if he was just a guy, the way you looked at him so normal, so safe  – it tore something open in him – a soft, unfamiliar ache, a glimpse of something he hadn’t dared imagine could ever be his again. 

It terrified him. He wanted more, and he hated himself for it.

A part of him soaked up every second, fed on them greedily, clutching them like stolen treasures. These small moments had become the brightest part of his day, maybe the only bright part, but just as strong was the voice inside him – the cold, familiar whisper that told him to pull back, to keep a distance, to remember who he was, to never forget that people like him didn’t get to have this, didn’t get to be chosen.

Didn’t get to be loved.

The apartment was too warm.

Or maybe it was just him, pacing from wall to wall, jaw tight, skin buzzing like he couldn’t get comfortable in his own body. The air felt thick. 

Bucky dragged a hand down his face with a frustrated growl. 

Enough.

His thoughts had spiraled so far past the line of decency he didn’t even try to pretend anymore. He’d jerked off two times today and God knows how many this week, thinking about you, your mouth, your laugh, your fingers brushing his.

He hated how easy it was, how vivid it all felt even though you'd barely even touched him. His body ached, strung tight with tension, and still, nothing gave him relief, not really, because no matter how many times he came into his own fist, sweaty and breathless in the dark, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t your hand, it wasn’t your lips, it wasn’t your breath against his neck, it wasn’t your thighs parting beneath him.

He stared at the ceiling, searching for answers it didn’t have. 

He’d tried to be good, tried to keep his distance. You were kind, and warm, and safe, and he didn’t want to ruin that but he was losing his grip. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stood near the door, sweat at the nape of his neck despite the chill creeping in through the cracked window.

The guys on site had joked more than once about a place a few blocks away. Pretty ladies, not like some other places, not cheap, but tidy and quiet, no questions asked. He hadn't even looked up when they talked about it, but now?

“Fuck it,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket off the hook.

He didn’t stop to think, just yanked open the door and headed down the stairwell, boots hitting the steps hard enough to echo. The streetlights buzzed above, casting a pale yellow over the pavement as he walked, fast, shoulders tight.

He told himself he just needed to burn off the need and the heat, get it out of his system before he did something worse, before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from. Before he gave in to the temptation to knock on your door and beg for something he didn’t deserve.

The night air bit at his skin, but he welcomed it, let it sting, he just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking.

The brothel was tucked behind a small café, down a side alley with no street sign, just a dim red light glowing above a narrow doorway. Bucky stood outside for too long, frozen in place, jaw tight, stomach churning. He almost turned around. Twice.

The air inside was warm and perfumed, low-lit, with soft music playing from speakers tucked somewhere behind velvet curtains. It didn’t smell bad, just overwhelmed by too many scents competing at once, cloying and artificial. The front room resembled a lounge, with a wide bar, a few small tables, and plush armchairs arranged in soft pools of lamplight.

The girls were scattered around the room, some perched at the bar, others lounged in armchairs with some kind of detached stillness on their faces as if they were waiting for a train. Most wore lingerie or barely-there dresses, skin glowing under the amber light. They looked bored. Tired. Used to it.

The girls smiled when they noticed him, some with interest, others with habit, a few leaned forward a little, resting arms on crossed legs, their makeup was perfect, hair done and eyes expectant.

Bucky’s throat tightened, as he didn’t quite know where to look, so he kept his head down and moved further in, already regretting every step.

His hands stayed jammed in his pockets while every part of him whispered that this was a bad idea but just when he was about to turn around and walk back out his eyes landed on a half-lit figure seated near the corner with legs crossed and hands folded in her lap. Bucky’s heart instantly dropped somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked, dragging his hand over his face as if trying to dispel a vision, but there was no doubt that it was you.

You looked different, made up and dressed for the part with lips painted red, you were turned just slightly away, chin lifted, with an expression telling that maybe if you didn’t look directly at anyone, none of it was real, but Bucky knew you.

He knew that curve of your jaw, the shape of your mouth, the way your fingers curled when you were nervous and then you suddenly turned and your eyes met his, wide and stunned, recognition hitting you with the force of a slap.

Your mouth parted just a little but your face crumpled, eyes turning glassy and embarrassed, even beyond embarrassed, as shame hit your face in a wave, and you quickly turned away again, in futile hope it could make him unsee you. 

Bucky froze, as if the air had been sucked out of the room. He didn’t know what to do, where to look or how to breathe as his throat closed and chest collapsed inward like he had been struck.

So he did the one thing he was trained to do: react. He turned his head and nodded to the girl sitting closest to him, someone blonde, someone whose face he didn’t even register, and reached out, letting her take his arm.

"Come on, sugar," she said, voice smooth and low. “I’ve got a room free.”

Bucky didn’t look back at you, he couldn’t, he just gave a stiff nod and followed her, not even knowing why, not thinking. She led him quietly down the hallway without saying much. The door clicked shut behind them with a soft snick, and suddenly he was in a tiny room that smelled of rose perfume, cheap soap and dust.

The room was small but clean, the walls painted in muted tones that tried and failed to feel warm, the only furniture being a narrow bed and a dim lamp in the corner. The girl turned toward him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Tell me how you like it,” she said gently, reaching for his belt, as her fingers brushed lightly against his stomach. “Rough? Slow? You want me to talk, or keep quiet? From behind, maybe? Blowjob costs extra, but since it’s your first time here, I can cut you a deal.”

Bucky flinched, visibly, as if she’d slapped him.

The girl froze for a beat, her hand still hovering near his belt, eyes narrowing just slightly as she registered the shift in him, as Bucky stepped back, fast, like the air between them had turned toxic.

“I…” His voice caught, raw and hoarse. “I shouldn’t be here.”

She raised her hands in quiet surrender, backing off. “Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to…”

Bucky was already moving, stumbling back toward the door with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, stomach twisting and hands shaking.

“Sorry... I’m so sorry, I…I can’t. This was a mistake,” he muttered, reaching for the handle without even glancing at her as he shoved the door open and fled.

He didn’t stop, didn’t look at anyone, didn’t even breathe.

He rushed down the hallway, past the bar and the velvet chairs, past the painted smiles, until the front door hit his shoulder and the night air his lungs. He turned the first corner he saw and slammed his back against a cold brick wall, gasping for air and dragging both hands through his hair.

He felt sick.

Not because of the place, not because of the girl, but because, even in that room, with a stranger’s fingers brushing his belt, it was you he’d been thinking about.

He didn’t just want you, he needed you, and there wasn’t a single part of him that believed he deserved to, not even after he’d seen you there.

But somehow, that wasn’t even the worst part.

It wasn’t that you had been there, it wasn’t that this was how you apparently got by, that made his heart ache in a thousand unfamiliar ways.

The part that truly gutted him was that he hadn’t seen it, not once. After all those lunches, after all those moments spent across from you, listening to your voice, watching the way your eyes softened when you smiled, he never saw it and never dared to ask anything. He actually didn’t know anything about you apart from that you made the most delicious pancakes in the whole world.

And worse, far worse than that, was knowing that you had seen him there.

You forced a smile on your face as you greeted the few customers. Your parents had left earlier today and the front was quiet. You were thankful for that, as you were not up to any conversation. 

You’d barely slept the night before, your eyes burned, and your head ached, but it didn’t matter. Because he wasn’t coming. Why would he?

He had every reason to turn around and never look at you again.

You’d ruined it, whatever it was, that quiet rhythm the two of you had slipped into, the steady presence of him sitting at the back table, always listening, always there. The way he’d started looking you in the eye more often, the way his smile had stopped feeling as  something he had to force. It had all felt like the beginning of something soft and unspoken, but real.

And now it was gone.

He’d seen you, dressed as someone else, sitting with other girls, waiting to be picked like a bottle off a shelf.

You felt sick just thinking about it.

He must think you’d been playing him this whole time, that your kindness was fake, that your stories were an act, that you were just another girl who sold herself. Yes, you were.

You hated that thought, hated that your chest felt hollow and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as you wiped down the same counter for the third time. You hated how ashamed you felt, not for what you did, but for how he might see it, for how he might see you now.

Every time the door creaked open, your eyes darted up and your stomach twisted, but it wasn’t him. Until it was.

You looked up and there he stood just inside the doorway, still in his jacket, hair slightly damp from the drizzle outside.  You froze and he didn’t move either, just stood there, jaw tight, hands buried in his pockets.

You swallowed hard and turned back to your stack of napkins.

Bucky stepped forward slowly, the bell above the door jingled behind him, but he still didn’t say anything. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unsure, … and lost, it seemed he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin.

You opened your mouth, no idea what you were going to say, but the words never made it out because the door swung open again and three men stepped inside like they owned the place. Cheap leather jackets, thick chains – the kind of guys who always talked too loud and wore smiles that cut. You felt your stomach drop as soon as you saw them.

Not again.

“Morning,” the one in front said, grinning as he tapped his knuckles on the countertop. “You know what time it is, sweetheart.”

Your blood ran cold.

Bucky turned slightly, body tensing.

“I already told you,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re not paying, not again. My dad said…”

“Yeah, well,” the man interrupted, leaning closer, “maybe next time Daddy should come out here himself instead of sending you, huh?”

One of the others chuckled darkly, and the third turned to Bucky, giving him a once-over. “This ain’t your business, man. You should leave.”

Bucky didn’t move, he didn’t even blink.

The first man clicked his tongue and turned his attention back to you, eyes sweeping over you slowly, like he was sizing up something on a menu.

“Would be a shame if something happened to this cute little place,” he said, tapping his fingers on the counter. “Could start with the windows, you know… accidents happen… a fire could even break out if you aren’t careful enough or... maybe there’s another way to settle things.”

He leaned in closer, breath sour, voice dropping to something low and greasy.

“How about we knock a little off the price… if you treat us right.”

The others chuckled behind him, one of them muttering, “Heard she’s not a stranger to that kind of arrangement.”

The leader smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “Yeah. Word around is you’re good at making things... personal, friendly even. That’s true, sweetheart?”

His hand inched across the counter toward yours, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer, while his other hand reached out stroking your cheekbone. 

You closed your eyes just for a heartbeat, taking a deep breath as you tried to pull your hand back with a hiss, it was when you heard it – a sharp groan of pain and your eyes fluttered open again. 

Bucky had grabbed the guy’s wrist and twisted hard, the sound of bone popping echoed in the shop like a gunshot, and the guy dropped to his knees with a howl.

The other two lunged, shouting, but Bucky was already moving – fast and controlled as if someone had flipped a switch, erasing the shy and hesitant guy who could barely meet your gaze and replacing it with someone else entirely, someone sharp, efficient, and dangerous.

One punch sent the second guy crashing into a chair, the other took a knee to the gut and went down gasping. No wasted motion, no hesitation, your friendly and kind neighbour moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

One of them scrambled back to his feet, pulled a knife from inside his jacket, and slashed out blindly. Bucky sidestepped and caught the man's wrist mid-swing – a twist, a sharp crack and the knife clattered to the floor with the man screaming.

The last thing you saw was the second one pulling a gun from his waistband. 

Bucky closed the distance in two steps, knocked the gun aside, grabbed the guy by the front of his jacket, and slammed him into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed menu hanging next to the register. The gun skidded across the floor.

The third was crawling for it but Bucky stomped his boot down on his wrist before he could reach it. There was a crunch, followed by a howl of pain. Another knife came out, flashing toward his ribs, but he caught that too, twisted the guy’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first onto a table, snapping the wood clean in half.

“You done?” Bucky growled and you didn’t even recognise his voice.

There was no answer, just coughing and groaning as the men scrambled to their feet and limped their way toward the door while one of them looked back, clutching his ribs, and hissed through broken teeth, “You’re dead, man. You don’t know who you’re messing with.”

Bucky found you behind the counter, curled up tight in the corner, back pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes squeezed shut, and hands clamped over your ears. You were rocking, small, rhythmic movements, like your body was trying to calm itself the only way it knew how.

Bucky carefully crouched down beside you. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “it’s me. You’re safe now. They’re gone.”

You didn’t see him and didn’t hear him, you didn’t flinch when he crouched beside you, didn’t move when he reached out but stopped short, afraid to touch you. Your chest heaved in ragged and shallow breaths, as if even the air had turned against you. 

You didn’t respond, just kept rocking, the same distant, hollow look frozen on your face. You weren’t fully there, your mind had retreated somewhere deep, sealed itself behind a door and refused to come out.

The soft rocking didn’t stop, your lips moved, but no sound came.

“Hey,” he whispered again. “It’s over.”

Nothing.

Bucky knew that place you were in. He’d lived there, knew what it felt like when your body stopped feeling your own, when your mind disconnected and drifted somewhere unreachable, with no promise of return. 

His hand finally dropped, slow and careful, resting gently on the floor beside yours, still not touching, waiting. You didn’t move.

“Please, look at me,” Bucky’s arm rose shakily and stopped just an inch from your shoulder before slowly brushing the back of his fingers against it.

You flinched violently, a choked, guttural sound bursting from your throat as you recoiled, arms flying up to shield your head, body curling in on itself, shrinking down, bracing for something awful.

“I’m not…I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said quickly, the words tripping over his breath, even as he tried to steady his tone. “Hey, it’s me. It’s just me.” 

You shook your head in sharp denial, lips parting in a frantic whisper – no, no, no – again and again.

At first, it was just pressure. Arms. Someone’s arms wrapped around you, slowly, hesitantly, carefully, as though whoever it was wasn’t sure they should be doing it. You didn’t register who it was, your body didn’t give you time, acting on pure instinct as it jolted and you screamed – a raw, cracking sound that tore out of you louder than you thought possible. 

“No, …don’t,” you gasped as you pushed against them, trying to twist away, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. You thrashed, tried to shove away the arms, the weight, the contact as your fists uselessly beat against something solid – a chest, a shoulder – hard, broad and unmoving. You felt fabric. A jacket. The scrape of a zipper. 

“Hey, hey…” the voice came low, just beside your ear. It was familiar, soft. “It’s me. It’s just me. You’re alright. You’re safe now. Just… just breathe, okay?”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. Your breath kept catching in your throat, your chest tightening as though it didn’t know how to work anymore.

“Can you hear me?” Bucky asked and your mind finally registered that it was really him. 

You nodded a little, barely.

His arm stayed wrapped around your shoulders, warm and unmoving while his other hand, the gloved one, settled lightly against your back. His touch wasn’t soft exactly, but it was gentle, like he’d thought about every place he could hold you and chose the safest ones.The pressure wasn’t hard, but it anchored you as his palm moved slowly, just a slight shift. Up, down. 

He was rocking you now.

“Try to match me,” he said. “Breathe in.”

With a sob trembling on your lips you sucked in air too fast. It hitched, ugly, useless, and you almost choked on your own breath

“It’s okay,” he said. “Try again.”

You could feel his chest against you, broad and muscular, but not crushing, just steady like he knew exactly how much weight to give and nothing more.

You didn’t mean to lean into it, you didn’t even realize you had, until your forehead rested against the curve of his shoulder and you could smell him – leather and sweat.

“Let’s do it together. Breathe in,” he repeated, inhaling slowly, his voice even quieter now. “There you go, in and out. Slow. You’re doin’ good.”

You followed it this time, barely, but it was enough, your fists slowly unclenched, but one stayed gripping his sleeve, you didn’t even remember grabbing it.

“Don’t think. Just breathe. In and out.”

Bucky’s chest rose and fell steadily, and you focused on that, on the weight of his arm around your shoulders, on the sound of his breathing.

His hand on your back… it felt strange, stiffer, harder, as if something hidden beneath the glove wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t harsh. He kept it gentle, stroking your back, its movement rhythmic, but not touching more than he needed to.

“I’ve got you,” he said again.

You didn’t answer, not out loud, but your body gave in and you leaned into him a little more.

Your kitchen was warm and quiet, the light above buzzing faintly. You pressed a cotton pad soaked with antiseptic to the cut in Bucky’s forearm and he flinched, not from the pain but from the touch itself.

You weren’t sure how long you’d sat on the floor behind the counter earlier, folded into his arms, his grip steady and quiet and solid around you. He hadn’t rushed you, hadn’t asked if you were okay. He’d known you weren’t and that asking wouldn’t help. So he just held you, tucked awkwardly but securely against his chest.

He didn’t let go until your fingers finally loosened their grip on his sleeve, until your breath started to even out, until your body, still shaken, had come back to itself. 

After that, he helped you clean up the mess the fight had left behind including the broken chair and table. He locked the door, flipped the sign, turned off the lights. Neither of you said much beyond the basics. Where’s the mop? Where should this go? You didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t seem to, either. He walked you home, in silence. 

It was only at your door, just as he turned to leave, his sleeve shifted and you caught the smear of red blooming through the fabric on his forearm, and now he was here, sitting in your kitchen, jacket off, sleeve rolled up. 

His eyes were on you, watching, tracking your every move, but you didn’t look up. Not yet. The silence started getting heavy, but you still didn’t know what to say.

“I just wanted…”

“About last night…” both of you spoke at once and both stopped.

Bucky looked down at the floor, then up, then back down again, rubbing the back of his neck.

You folded the gauze you’d used, just to have something to do. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “You go.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said, voice quiet. “You first.”

He nodded, but didn’t speak right away, just stared at his hands, the one gloved, the other freshly bandaged.

“I, uh… I wanted to say I’m…” He paused, swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

You blinked. “For what?”

His eyes darted to yours, then away again just as fast. He looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin.

“For… being there. Last night.” The words came out rough. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean… I didn’t even…” He stopped himself, ran a hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have been there.”

You didn’t say anything as you were still trying to make sense of what he was actually apologising for.

“I mean, I wasn’t…shit…,” he dragged a hand down his face, cheeks slowly turning crimson. “I didn’t know, I swear, I didn’t know that’s…,” he cut himself off again, voice trailing into a frustrated sigh.

His leg bounced under the table, his fingers tightening into a fist.

“I just… I was stupid. I shouldn’t’ve gone and then I saw you and…” he shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do.”

You watched him unravel, slow and quiet and real, his usual stillness gone, replaced by a boyish, nervous energy you hadn’t seen before. 

Bucky looked up, slowly. “It wasn’t about that, not really. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His eyes widened slightly, as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, a flush crept into his cheeks as he immediately dropped his gaze again.

“I mean – not like that or not just like that. I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” He groaned and stood up suddenly, pushing the chair back with a soft scrape. “Shit…sorry. I think I should go.”

“No, James,” you said quickly, reaching out to him but he wasn’t looking at you. He stood there, arms hanging somewhat awkwardly by his sides, eyes locked on a spot on the floor.

“I just wanted something to make it stop,” he said, quieter now. “The wanting. The… whatever it is I feel around you. It messes with my head, makes me forget myself and I thought if I just... took the edge off, maybe I could look you in the eye again without…” He shook his head. 

You stood still, heartbeat in your throat. The words sank in slowly, as if your mind had to replay them twice just to believe what you’d heard. He wanted you, not just in passing or by accident, but enough that it scared him, enough that he’d gone looking for ways to make it stop.

“I wasn’t trying to replace you,” he continued. “That’s the thing. I know that now. I didn’t want anyone else, I just didn’t think I had any right to want you and… and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went there. I’m sorry you saw me, I’m sorry I let you see how messed up I really am.”

He finally looked up at you. “Please don’t hate me,” he said as if the words hurt coming out.

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table as you stared at him. 

You looked down at his hand, hanging by his side, his bare one, not the gloved one, and slowly, carefully, you reached out. Your fingertips brushed his knuckles first, feather-light and when he didn’t pull away, you gently curled your fingers around his.

He froze and you heard the sharp breath he sucked in, saw the way his jaw tightened.

“Hate you?” you echoed softly, eyes still on the wound you were tending. “James, you just risked your neck taking on men no one else even dares to argue with.” Your thumb brushed faintly across the skin of his forearm. “You sat with me while I fell apart… helped me clean up, walked me home and now you’re sitting here asking me not to hate you?”

You gave a small, sad smile and leaned back slightly against the table behind you. “I thought you’d never come back after last night. That you’d seen me there and decided I wasn’t…” You hesitated. “Wasn’t worth the trouble.”

Bucky blinked, his mouth parted slightly, then shut again, and his brows drew together like the words physically pained him.

You took a breath, steadied yourself, and kept going.

“I’m not proud of it,” you said, voice low but sure. “But I’m not ashamed either.”

His eyes snapped up, surprised, not at your confession, but at the strength in your tone. There was no bitterness, no apology.

“This is what it takes,” you said. “My mom’s got a heart condition. She needs medication every month just to keep things steady. It’s expensive and not covered. And we try, God knows, we try to make the shop work, but it’s never enough. Rent, bills, food – there’s always something.”

You paused, mouth dry, your other hand nervously fidgeting with the edge of the tablecloth.

“She doesn’t know,” you said finally. “If she ever found out how I’m paying for it… she wouldn’t take the pills. She’d rather die than let me… do this.”

Your voice cracked, just barely, as you looked down.

“So I’m asking you,” you murmured, “please don’t tell anyone, especially not her, and please… don’t hate me.”

There was a beat of silence, then Bucky’s head snapped up like you’d struck him.

“What?” His voice came out stunned, almost breathless.

You gave a small, bitter laugh. “You asked me not to hate you, remember?” You glanced at him. “So I guess… now it’s my turn.”

His brow furrowed, deep, as he shifted closer. “You really think I could hate you?”

Your gaze dropped again. “I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I think I’d hate myself, if I were someone else, if I found out the way you did…”

You stood there, so close you could feel the heat of him, your hand still holding his, the tension in his fingers making your own tremble slightly.

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to yours, then back down again.

“It’s Bucky,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Call me Bucky.”

The way he said it, it wasn’t casual, it wasn’t just a name, it was an offering, a piece of himself handed over to you as if something fragile.

“Okay,” you whispered, your lips tugging into a soft, surprised smile. “Bucky.”

He looked down at you, the sound of his name in your voice changing something in his expression, softening it, unraveling some quiet thread inside him. His features eased, and he leaned in, just slightly, until your breaths met in the narrow space between you, until your noses nearly brushed. 

But then, at the very last second, he paused and pulled back, and you had a feeling he was bracing for rejection, for punishment, for something to crash down and ruin this before it even began.

You didn’t let him retreat. 

“I like that name,” you murmured, rising to your tiptoes, your hand lifting to his face, fingertips grazing the edge of his jaw as you tilted his chin toward you and pressed your lips to his.

Bucky exhaled sharply, it seemed almost the air had been punched from his lungs, but he didn’t pull away. His lips parted and he kissed you back, hesitant at first, then deeper, his hand tightening gently around yours.

When your tongue brushed his, he inhaled sharply through his nose, then kissed you deeper, his mouth parting to let you in and his tongue met yours with careful pressure, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed this much of you, but when you didn’t pull back, when you kissed him harder, he let go of the reins.

You leaned in closer, your hand still cradling his jaw, the warmth of his stubble beneath your palm tickling and grounding you simultaneously.

And that was the moment something inside him gave out, he groaned low in his throat, his free hand finding your waist, fingers curling tight into your shirt, seeking to hold onto something. You barely had time to catch your breath before he deepened the kiss, searching and hungry, mapping your mouth with his tongue with a kind of need that felt older than memory, the kind born from years of wanting nothing but to stay alive.

His hands moved, one sliding down to the back of your thighs, the other bracing your spine, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he lifted you.

Your breath hitched as he picked you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his hips without thought. He stepped forward, guiding you gently backwards and setting you down on the table, not breaking the kiss for a second.

You gasped softly as Bucky moved between your legs, hands firm at your hips, his body was warm and solid between your thighs, his mouth eager and relentless.

You could feel the tremble in him, even as he held you. Every kiss carried a storm of want, fear, and aching restraint, each touch told you he'd been waiting for this for far too long, that closeness had always come with pain, either his own or someone else's and yet, in this moment, he let it happen, he let himself be there, with you, without pulling away.

A soft, guttural sound escaped him, low in his throat, muffled against your lips. It made your stomach twist and heat spread low and fast.

You tangled your fingers in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and his hands moved without hesitation now, one sliding up the curve of your waist to your ribs, thumb brushing beneath the edge of your shirt, the other gripping your hip, firm and anchoring, keeping you where he wanted you.

You arched into him instinctively, and you moaned softly, feeling his arousal pressing against you, hot and hard even through the layers between you. He groaned softly, the sound lost against your mouth, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help it.

Your breath caught, fingers curling into his shirt, but just when it seemed he might give in completely, he froze. Something inside him slammed shut, his hands went still, breath stuttering against your cheek, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder.

He stayed that way, silent, unmoving, chest heaving as though dragging himself back from some invisible edge while the tension in him buzzed under your hands, his whole body wound into hesitation, caught between fear and want.

Slowly, he pulled back.

You blinked at him, lips still parted, heart hammering in your chest as his gaze searched your face, looking for something, maybe for a sign, or for a reason not to do what he was about to do.

“I need to… show you something,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked, startled. “Okay.”

He stepped back a fraction, as if putting even that tiny bit of distance between you made it easier to breathe, and looked down at his left hand – the gloved one. Without another word, he began to peel it off, slowly, as if it cost him. 

You hadn’t thought much of it before, he always wore it, even when it was warm, even when it didn’t make sense.You knew he was working in construction, and the most reasonable thing to assume was that the hand was damaged, may be broken and healed wrongly, may be something else. 

The leather creaked until it finally slipped free and there it was. Metal – seamless and gleaming in the low light. 

Bucky didn’t look at you, his jaw was clenched tight, eyes fixed on the floor as if he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

“This is what I am,” he said, voice low and bitter. “A monster. You must have heard the stories. They are all true.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out yet. You were too stunned, not by the metal, but by the pain in his voice.

“I don’t deserve this,” he went on, motioning vaguely toward you. “Not you, not your kindness, not the way you look at me like I’m – like I’m good.” His voice cracked slightly, and he turned, as if he meant to walk away.

“Bucky,” your voice was sharper than you intended, but it stopped him cold, he froze, half turned away, shoulders stiff.

“Don’t,” you said, more quietly this time. “Don’t walk away from me. Don’t end this, whatever this is, before it has even started.”

He turned, slowly, reluctantly, eyes flicking to yours and then down again, still expecting to see fear or disgust there. The metal arm hung at his side – a weight he had long ago grown used to carrying, but never learned how to stop hiding.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Your shirt,” you repeated, a little more firmly now. “I want to see you.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, he looked stunned, like you’d asked him to strip off his skin, not a shirt. “You don’t… you don’t want to see this.”

“I do,” you said, your voice steady. “All of you.”

He took a breath, shallow and shaky. “Why?”

“Because you’re standing in front of me, waiting to be punished for existing, and I just want to see you, Bucky. Not the name. Not the stories. You.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and for a moment, he didn’t move, but then you reached for him, gently, fingers curling around his metal ones, the other hand sliding along his waist, tugging him back between your thighs until he stood close again. You let your hands find the hem of his shirt, pausing.

Still nothing from him – just breath, warm and unsteady against your cheek – so you tugged it upward.

He flinched, only slightly, but then lifted his arms and helped you pull it over his head.

The shirt hit the floor with a soft sound and there he was – lean muscle and scarred skin, the broad lines of his chest, the pale stretch of his stomach, the gleam of metal where it fused to flesh at his left shoulder with an angry seam.

Your fingers moved almost reverently, trailing across the curve of his human shoulder first, then down across his chest, then, carefully, you lifted your hand to the place where skin became steel, the place they had remade him.

You brushed your fingertips there, light and gentle, and Bucky shuddered beneath the touch.

“This must have hurt,” you whispered. “Beyond reason.”

He didn’t speak, but his eyes – dark, glassy, locked onto yours – said enough. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like this – like he wasn’t broken, like he could be wanted , like he could be seen.

Your palms settled at his shoulders and you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the scarred edge, right where the line blurred between man and machine.

His breath caught sharply.

Then another kiss, just a little higher, and then another, trailing gently up toward the curve of his neck. 

You felt him tense, just slightly, as if unsure what he was supposed to do with this kind of tenderness, but then his hands came back to your waist – hesitant, as if he was asking for permission – and you didn’t pull away. 

Instead, you leaned your forehead to his and whispered, “You’re not a monster, Bucky. Not to me.”

Your fingers curled lightly at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. His lips brushed yours once, barely there, then again, with a little more pressure, slowly letting go of all the hesitation that had built up inside him.

You felt his hands shift, slide around your back, palms large and warm as they pulled you gently against him. His chest rose against yours, so solid as if made of rock. Your mouths moved together, deeper now, his tongue swept tentatively against yours and he moaned softly into the kiss, so quiet, like it slipped out before he could stop it, making your stomach twist with heat.

You let your hands roam up his arms, across his shoulders, down the ridges of his back, feeling the way he trembled under your touch, as if he was holding himself together by sheer will.

He leaned into you more, his body fit between your thighs like it had always belonged there, and still, his lips never left yours. Bucky’s hands roamed, unsure at first, hovering, almost afraid to hold too tight, to want too much, but when you tangled your fingers in the back of his hair and pulled him closer, another quiet sound escaped him – something between a sigh and a moan – and he gave in.

His hands slid down to your thighs, grounding himself there, his touch still careful even as he pressed in closer between them. 

You let your lips leave his just long enough to catch your breath, your forehead pressed against his again. His eyes were still closed, his long lashes brushing his cheek, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He nodded, barely. “I just… I didn’t think this would ever happen.”

Your thumb traced a line down his cheekbone. “Me neither.”

You kissed him again, slower, deeper. His hand found your lower back, fingers splaying out, warm and strong, pulling you flush against him. There was nothing rushed in the way he moved, just longing held back too long, finally finding air.

Your hands slid up over the ridges of his chest, over the warm skin and hard muscle. When you touched the metal shoulder again, you felt him tense for a second, but he didn’t pull away. 

Then, slowly, he bent to kiss your neck, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. Your fingers slid to his waistband, testing the boundary, and he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching like the air had just gotten thinner.

“Hey,” you whispered, your lips grazing his. “It’s just me.”

He let out a broken sound that might’ve been a laugh or a prayer. “What are you…? Wait… I…” is voice cracked, low and raw as your fingers deftly unbuckled his belt, undid the zipper and slipped inside, wrapping around him. “Oh, God.”

You gave him a slow stroke, feeling him instantly getting rock hard and pulsing.

“No… no… God, no…” he breathed, but his hips betrayed him, stuttering into your touch. “I… I can’t… oh fuck…it’s too much… I’m…”

His words dissolved into a strangled breath, hips jerking once more despite himself, his one hand clutched the edge of the table, the other buried in the fabric at your lower back, holding on for dear life.

“Shit,” he hissed, head dropping to your shoulder, forehead pressed into your skin, slick with the heat rising in him too fast and too strong as your touch sent shivers down his spine. 

His forehead rested against your shoulder, damp with sweat, his eyes shut tight, fingers trembling where they gripped your back, and every exhale sounded more like a broken moan.

You could feel it in the way his breath faltered, how it hitched, caught, and broke somewhere between your collarbone and the soft space behind your ear. He was shaking now, as if his body couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling, as if it was all too much, too fast, and somehow still not enough.

You gave his pulsing cock another slow and gentle stroke, as you felt it twitching and warmth spilling over your hand, quiet and sudden, followed by a low, broken groan that tore from somewhere deep in his chest. You didn’t pull away, you kept your touch steady, gentle, letting him ride it out, but Bucky froze.

His breath hitched sharp, and he pulled back, horror already creeping into his eyes before he’d even looked at you fully. 

“Hey,” you murmured, your thumb brushing across the edge of his hip before he could say a word. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not… I’m…shit…” He swallowed hard, hands fumbling as he tried to fasten his pants. “You must think I’m…”

“Bucky,” you said softly, cutting him off, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “Please, look at me.”

He hesitated, but slowly, his eyes found yours. 

“Can you just… for one moment,” you whispered, “accept that I really like you? And that I want you. I’ve wanted you since the day I knocked on your door asking for sugar and that hasn’t changed. Not because we owe something to each other, or what you think I expect.” 

Your thumb brushed along the line of his jaw, and your voice dipped a little, quieter now, but still honest. “I don’t think anything. I know how it feels to be broken, to be used and casted away. I know how it feels to be lonely and starved for love.” 

He stared at you, unmoving, his breath faltered, not sharp or dramatic, just a quiet stutter, and his eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes, as if checking again, making sure this was real. 

“I didn’t think…” he started, then stopped, his brow pinched, and he shook his head slightly, trying again. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

You smiled gently, thumb stroking his cheekbone.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

But he did, he lifted his hand slowly, uncertainly, like you might vanish if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed your jaw, calloused and warm, then settled against your neck, hesitant but tender. 

“I’ve imagined this – you saying something like that. Me… being allowed to hear it, but I thought if I got too close, I’d ruin it…and I did…”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you said, holding his gaze – those impossibly blue eyes that still made your heart stutter every time they landed on you. Eyes that had followed you quietly, gently, from doorways and reflections, across rooms and silent hallways. They didn’t just watch, they had always made you feel seen and wanted. Not in a way that burned or demanded, but in a way that was steady and sweet, the kind of wanting you’d half-convinced yourself didn’t exist anymore.

Bucky’s thumb traced your cheek. “You’re the only good thing I’ve got,” he whispered, almost ashamed of how much he meant it. “You walked into my life and I haven’t stopped thinking about you since.”

He leaned in, slower this time, and his lips found yours again in a soft, searching kiss, trembling at first, betraying how much he still didn’t trust it, but then it got deeper and more certain.

He exhaled against your mouth, a shaky sound so soft, so full of relief it made your heart ache.

“Then stay,” you breathed against his lips. “Stop running, and stay.” 

His forehead came to rest against yours, his eyes still shut, his hand cradling your cheek, as he whispered back. “Tell me this isn’t just a dream.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. “It’s not.” 

It did feel like a dream though, hours later as you lay in your bed with sheets tangled around your legs, warm and soft and smelling faintly of him – soap, sweat, something deeper, something his. Your body felt heavy and pleasantly sore in the best way as every inch of you had been touched, worshipped, held like something precious.

You’d lost count of how many times he’d pulled you over the edge, how many times he’d made you unravel with his hands, his mouth, his cock, his whispered name on your lips.

Your body still hummed with how he had touched you, like every inch of your skin mattered, how he had pushed inside you, like he was learning you by heart, afraid to miss a single detail, kissing every moan, every stuttering breath from your lips, reading your every expression.

You lay on your side, curled toward him, one leg slung loosely over his. Bucky was half-asleep, his breathing deep and steady, one arm slung protectively around your waist, his bare chest rising and falling against your cheek. You could feel the smoothness of his dog tags where they rested between your collarbones, cool against your skin.

His metal hand, surprisingly gentle, rested on the small of your back, fingers twitching now and then almost as if he had to keep checking you were still here. You’d half expected him to pull away after, to retreat into himself, but he hadn’t, not even for a second. He’d held you like you were safety, like you were home.

You sighed, a quiet, content sound, and pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, and the scruff there scraped lightly against your lips.

“I’m not dreaming, right?” you whispered, not expecting an answer.

But his voice came anyway, low and hoarse from sleep. “If you are,” he murmured, “don’t wake me.”

The movers had dropped it all off and left without so much as a grunt. Something about “upstairs fees” and “not included” and “policy.” You could barely remember the specifics. Just the tight, sour twist in your stomach when you realized what it meant.

You were on your own.

The elevator was broken. Of course it was.

Now you were two trips in, shoulders screaming, breath short, arms trembling as you clutched a stack of boxes. They tilted in your grip, one on top threatening to slide with every uneven step. You couldn’t see. You didn’t care. You just needed to make it to the third floor and unlock your apartment without crying.

“Careful there.”

A voice, unexpected, drifted down from the landing above.

It was calm. Amused.

You froze mid-step, heart leaping slightly. Didn't know whether from surprise or imbalance, you weren’t sure. A moment later, a pair of boots appeared in your limited line of sight. Black. Worn. Slow, steady footsteps descending toward you.

“You losing a fight with gravity,” the voice said again, closer now, “or should I mind my business?”

You huffed out something between a laugh and a groan. “Little bit of both, honestly.”

Then the weight shifted. Hands, gentle and sure, lifted the top box from your arms. Your breath eased slightly, the burden less impossible. You blinked up, finally getting a glimpse.

He was tall. Quiet in movement. Hair short and neat. Stubble catching the low hallway light. A black duffel bag slung over one shoulder. You noticed that he was wearing gloves. The leather gave a dull shine under the low light.

You straightened instinctively. “I can handle it.”

His eyes found yours then, an unreadable blue, tired in a way that felt older than he looked. But something flickered in them. Dry amusement, maybe. Or a kind of silent understanding.

“Sure,” he said. “In another three hours. I’ve got time.”

He waited. Letting you decide.

You hesitated, then nodded. “Thanks.”

Hey, you're more than capable of doing everything on your own, but if a man offered to help then… why not?

“Bucky,” he introduced his name as he followed you to your door. You replied your name back as you unlocked your brand new home.

And that was the first real moment—the one that would replay later in your mind, quiet and odd and meaningful in a way you didn’t fully understand yet. 

Together, you climbed the stairs. Neither of you spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It just… settled. 

Your door was the corner unit. 3C. When you reached it, your arms ached and your lungs burned, but you turned to him anyway.

“I’d offer you dinner or something as a thank-you,” you said, voice breathy, “but I haven’t cooked yet. There’s a suspicious amount of instant noodles in my cupboard, and not much else.”

His expression didn’t change, but something softened. “Rain check. Consider this a neighbor thing.”

You smiled. “Okay. Thanks again, Bucky. See you… around?”

It came out awkward. A little hopeful.

He just nodded once, no smile but not cold. “Yeah. See ya.”

Then he turned, keys already in hand, and disappeared into the apartment across yours. 3B. A meow can be heard with the soft jingles of a bell. He’s got a cat?

You watched the door shut behind him. Stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then leaned back against your own with a sigh.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “The hot neighbor helps you move in, and you sound like a middle schooler with a crush.”

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

You didn’t see him much after that.

Not really.

There were glimpses. Fragments. Faint silhouette of presence that slipped between the folds of your day like pages in a worn book. Sometimes you thought you'd imagined him entirely, like a figure that belonged to the shadows.

Your mornings were early—too early but it came with the job. You’d shuffle out with coffee in one hand and a stack of lesson plans in the other, shoes half-tied and clothes a little wrinkled because you didn’t push down the iron hard enough sometimes. The hallway would always be quiet. Still. Like the building hadn’t quite woken up yet. And his door, just across the way, would be closed. Silent.

You didn’t know what he did for work. Or if he even worked at all. His hours seemed... sporadic. Untethered. Sometimes, when you returned in the late afternoon, arms full of groceries and finger-painted crafts from class earlier, the hallway would still be empty. His door unchanged. Even the cat was silent. You thought you had imagined that white feline. 

But other times, quietly, in the hush between night and sleep, only then you’d hear it.

A door closing softly. The low click of a lock. Footsteps in boots, measured, unhurried moving down the hall. The whisper of movement just beyond your wall.

It was strange, how you began to notice his rhythm without ever sharing a schedule.

Occasionally, your paths would cross in the laundry room. Or on the front steps. A murmured “Hey.” A small nod in passing. No more than that.

Yet somehow, it stayed with you.

The way he moved—carefully, like someone used to measuring space. The way his eyes flicked to every corner before they rested on you. Like he was always bracing for something. Or maybe trying not to be seen at all.

You found yourself thinking about him more than you should.

Wondering. Noticing. The quiet apartment with the lights rarely on. The absence of sound. No music. No television. No signs of life that should have trickled through the walls of shared space.

You didn’t hear phone calls. You didn’t hear laughter.

Once, you saw a shadow move past the bottom gap of his door, and for a second you stood there, frozen. Just listening.

And it hit you.

Maybe he was lonely.

Or maybe you were just projecting.

You didn’t know which would be worse.

At least he has a pet. You didn’t have anything.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It had been raining for hours. The weather now is unpredictable. 

A soft, relentless kind of downpour—the kind that turned the city quiet, like it was wrapped in a blanket of gray. The kind that made everything ache just a little more. Petrichor strong in the air. 

You hadn’t expected the delivery to arrive so late. The text from the courier had come just as you were settling in, socks pulled high and a mug of tea steaming at your side. But the bedframe had finally come. Two weeks of sleeping on a mattress on the floor, and now it was here. A future piece of stability, currently boxed in soggy cardboard at the front door.

You pulled on your coat again and went to retrieve it.

It was heavier than you’d thought.

You wrestled it awkwardly down the narrow hallway, trying not to scrape the walls, your arms burning beneath the weight. Your breath fogged in the cool stairwell air, the box threatening to tip from your grip.

And then—his voice.

“Need a hand?”

You froze, the box slipping slightly. You looked up.

There he was again.

Bucky.

Standing at the top of the landing, hair a little damp from the rain, tiny curls formed at the end of each strand. Did he just get back? You didn't see him at the front door.  His eyes caught the dull light in a way that made the whole stairwell feel smaller. His duffle bag slung over one shoulder again like it always was, as if he was never staying, always just arriving or leaving. Like he didn’t really live here, rather just paused here sometimes. Maybe the house belonged to the cat, and he was just paying rent to live in it.

You smiled, breathless. “What gave it away?”

He didn’t answer. Just took the box from you like it weighed nothing and started walking.

You followed, unlocking the door as he waited behind you. He stepped inside first, carrying the frame like it was just another thing he was used to lifting.

You weren’t sure what you expected—but the way he paused just inside your apartment surprised you.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked around.

The room was small but lived-in. Books stacked on the coffee table. Two mismatched mugs by the sink. A candle burned quietly near the window. There were little things everywhere—things that told stories. A photo from college. A crocheted blanket your mother made. A houseplant already starting to lean toward the light.

And something shifted in his face.

“Wow,” he said quietly.

You bit your lip. “Too much?”

His gaze landed on a tulip shaped light sitting on a table in the corner. Then on the throw blanket. Then on you.

“No,” he said. “It’s warm. Cozy.”

You relaxed. Just a little. “I like cozy.”

He helped you unpack the frame without being asked. Tools in one hand, quiet strength in the other. The gloved hands moved expertly as he held the pieces steady. You worked in tandem, falling into rhythm, your bodies moving easily in the tight space. 

Huh, you never questioned why he always wears gloves, but you guessed it was just a personal styling choice. It did look good on him. Maybe he's a detective? You never asked what he does.

He didn’t talk much, but it didn’t feel like silence. More like... ease. Like he was someone who’d learned how to be quiet without making it feel cold.

When it was finally done, you flopped backward onto the mattress, sighing dramatically.

He smirked faintly, wiping his hands with a towel from your kitchen counter.

“You okay there?” he asked.

You grinned up at the ceiling. “Better now that I won’t be waking up on the floor with a sore neck.”

He knew that ache.

He nodded, stepping back toward the door, and you sat up quickly.

“Hey,” you said. “Stay for dinner?”

He paused, halfway through slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“I made gochujang chicken,” you added. “And mango sticky rice for dessert. Kind of a weird combo, but—”

“I’ll stay,” he said quietly.

Your smile lingered longer than it should’ve.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The kitchen was small with barely enough room for one person to move comfortably, let alone two but it had good light during the day, and at night, it glowed soft under the warm bulb above the stove.

Tonight, it was filled with the faint crackle of oil in the pan, the scent of garlic and gochujang lifting gently into the air. The rain outside had slowed to a whisper, tapping faintly against the window like it, too, was listening in.

Bucky sat quietly at the little table tucked against the wall, his hands resting on the edge, fingers curled loosely. He didn’t say much, just watched. You could feel his gaze, steady but not heavy, following the slow movements of your hands as you stirred the sauce.

There was music playing from your vinyl player, something low, jazzy, soft with a little swing in it. The kind of music that filled space without demanding attention.

“I don’t usually cook for guests, I only cook to my own taste” you said, glancing over your shoulder with a crooked smile. “So if this turns out terrible, just lie to me.”

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was small, but real. “Noted.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… familiar, in a way. Like you were both pretending this wasn’t the first time he’d been here for something like this. Like it could be normal. Like it already was.

To be true to yourself, you missed having human interaction other than the utter chaos at work. Him being here made you miss home, your friends, your family. His presence was a comfort but it brought you a fresh wave of emotions.

Dinner was simple, but there was something about the way he ate that made it feel like more. He didn’t rush. He took small bites, chewed slowly, set his utensils down between each one. Like he was cataloguing the taste of it. Like it was something he hadn’t had in a long time. Homecooked. 

You took a sip of water and leaned back. “So,” you said, “what do you do?” An attempt at getting to know him better.

He looked up, just a flick of his eyes, like the question had pulled him from somewhere far away.

“Odd jobs. Freelance stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

He smirked faintly. “It’s all I got.”

You didn’t push. There was something in his tone that told you not to, not yet. So you pivoted.

“I work with kids,” you offered. “Preschool. Lots of glitter. Too many tiny sticky fingers. More snack-time drama than you’d think humanly possible.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

He gave a low chuckle. It was the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, like it had to travel a long way to reach the surface.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” you admitted. “But… they’re good kids. They say weird things. They care about stuff like dinosaurs and whether or not the moon has feelings.”

Another smile from him—faster this time, easier. Like you’d surprised him.

“I have a cat,” he said. Trying to keep the conversation going. 

“I noticed on the first day I got here,” your face lit up with joy, “What’s the name?”

“Alpine. She’s a rescue.” The corner of his eyes softened as he looked at the spoon in his hand, a fond memory replayed in his mind you assumed.

“I should introduce you to her sometimes,” he continued, “I think she’s getting tired of me.” That earned a laugh from you.

You kept talking, the two of you sliding into a rhythm. You told him about your move, your hometown, how strange the city still felt sometimes. He didn’t say much about himself, but every now and then, something in his expression shifted, as if he recognized what you were describing, like he knew the feeling too well.

At one point, he leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the books on your shelf. His eyes lingered there.

“I know the feeling,” he said softly.

You looked up, fork paused halfway to your mouth. “What feeling?”

He shook his head once, slow. “Being new. Not really knowing where you’re supposed to fit. I was like that too when I first moved here.”

You didn’t say anything. But you saw him then—not just the way he looked, not just the tired blue eyes or the careful way he moved—but something deeper. The quiet gravity of someone who’d seen too much.

“Yeah…”

Later, he helped you wash the dishes. You stood side by side at the sink, hands brushing once, twice. Neither of you mentioned it.

When the last plate was on the rack, he dried his hands on a kitchen towel and looked toward the door.

“I should go,” he said, but not like he wanted to. No urgency in his voice.

You nodded, trying not to let your disappointment show. “Thanks again… for everything.”

He turned to you then, and there was something in his face, unspoken and unreadable, but it lingered just a moment before he nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

He stepped out into the hallway, quiet as ever. You watched the door close behind him and stayed there for a long moment, leaning lightly against the frame, fingers curled around the edge of it.

It was quiet again.

Still.

But the space around you felt different now, warmer somehow, even after he’d gone.

That night, you lay in your newly built bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft tick of the rain against the windows.

And you didn’t sleep much at all.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The hallway was dim in the early evening. That golden window of light had already passed, and now it sat in that quiet in-between where things turned grey and blue and the shadows started stretching long across the walls.

You were running late.

Typical.

Dinner plans with friends from back home had been on the calendar for weeks, and yet here you were, still checking your reflection in the mirror, still second-guessing your outfit. Not quite casual. Not quite dressy. You had finally thrown on something comfortable and a leather jacket, touched up your lip balm and grabbed your bag.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket as you slipped out of your apartment. A sharp breeze moved down the stairwell, stirring your jacket. You were halfway to locking your door when you nearly ran into someone.

Someone standing right outside 3B.

“Oh—! Sorry,” you blurted, stepping back.

The man turned, hand halfway raised like he’d been about to knock. He was tall, shoulders broad under a leather jacket, smile warm and easy in a way that disarmed you almost instantly.

“Didn’t realize Bucky had a neighbour,” he said.

You blinked. “I just moved in. Couple months ago.”

“Sam,” he offered, sticking out a hand.

You shook it, replied with your own. His grip was firm, and his energy was… well, different. Lighter. Like someone who knew exactly who he was, and didn’t mind sharing pieces of it with you.

“Nice to meet you, Sam,” you said, smiling.

Before either of you could say more, the door to 3B opened.

Bucky stepped into the hallway, brows furrowed like he’d expected someone else—or no one at all. Alpine followed him, twisting between his legs.

His gaze found you first, held for a second too long. Then shifted.

Sam raised both eyebrows, grin slowly and knowing. “You didn’t tell me you had a neighbour now.”

Bucky looked vaguely irritated. “Didn’t come up.”

You tried not to smile. He looked… awkward, flustered even. It was endearing.

“I’m headed out,” you said, slipping your keys into your pocket. “Dinner with some friends. I’ll be back late.”

Bucky gave a small nod, one hand still braced on the doorframe. His eyes lingered. “Take care.”

“I will,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “See you guys later. Bye Alpine!”

You didn’t look back as you stepped past them. But you heard the pause in the air behind you—felt it more than heard it. The brief silence that follows after someone’s gone, but not quite.

And then—

Muffled, like they thought you were already too far to catch it.

“She’s cute,” Sam said, voice carrying just enough to reach you.

You paused at the top of the stairs, lips tugging up before you could stop them.

“Shut up, Sam,” came Bucky’s reply, gruff and low.

“You sound like a concerned boyfriend.”

“She lives alone,” Bucky muttered. “And I'm trying to be polite.”

Another beat.

Then, quieter still—like something pulled from a thought he didn’t want to say aloud.

“What about her?”

“Shut up, Sam.”

You stood there a moment longer, one hand resting on the stairwell rail. The sounds of the hallway faded behind you—door hinges, low voices, the soft thunk of it closing.

And as you made your way down the stairs, out into the city night, your pulse was a little lighter. Your steps just a little slower. Like maybe you weren’t in such a rush after all.

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The office was too bright.

Not in a harsh way. It was more like artificial warmth, like someone had tried to make it feel safe with soft lighting and strategically placed throw pillows. There was a plant in the corner. A small diffuser humming quietly on the shelf. A clock ticked somewhere, steady and slow, marking time like it was waiting for something to break. Maybe that something was him. Bucky felt like he was suffocating sometimes in here.

Bucky stared at the floor. A single scuff in the carpet. He’d been looking at it for ten minutes.

Dr. Raynor leaned back in her chair, a pad in her lap that she wasn’t writing on. Nothing more to add by the end of their session. However, a question popped up. One he disliked.

“So,” she said at last, like the silence had finished breathing, “any developments in your personal life?”

Her voice was even. Measured. Not judging—just watching.

He said nothing.

This time, he didn’t actually resent the question as much.

But in his head, it was already happening.

The smell of lavender when he stepped into your apartment. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled, unguarded. The faint sound of music playing while you stirred something on the stove. You humming under your breath as you do your laundry one day.

You didn’t notice him entering the room because you had your headphones on. He remembered pausing in the doorway, his laundry basket in his arms, Alpine in it. It took Alpine to meow once before he broke out of his reverie. As if the cat was saying to him, “Snap out of it. Don’t be a creep.” 

You turned at the sound too. He remembered your quick raise of the brows before your lips formed into a sweet smile. 

He almost smiled to himself. Then he remembered where he was.

“No one,” he said aloud.

He didn’t look up, but he could feel her expression shift. Not in disbelief exactly, but in recognition. The kind of pause that said, I know when someone’s lying, and I’m letting you lie anyway.

She didn’t push it.

Instead, she crossed one leg over the other and said, “People need people, Bucky. You can’t keep pretending otherwise.”

He didn’t respond.

But the words echoed long after he’d left the office. They followed him down the hall. Sat with him at red lights. Tugged at the corners of his memory while he sat at home and tried not to think too much.

He didn’t plan to knock the next morning. 

He told himself he was just passing by your door. Just checking. No reason.

But there he was anyway, standing outside 3C, fist raised halfway before he even realized it. He knew your routine by heart.

You opened the door after one knock—surprised, hair pulled back as you were getting ready, the sleeves of your sweatshirt pushed to your elbows like you’d been in the middle of something. You blinked up at him.

He held up the spare helmet.

“Need a ride to work?”

You paused. Not in confusion. Just… processing. Your eyes softened.

A breath, then, “Sure.”

The morning air was crisp and clear after a night of fading rain. He waited downstairs, bike rumbling quietly as he leaned on it. You walked toward him with your bag slung over one shoulder and a look on your face like you couldn’t quite believe it was real.

He helped you with the helmet. Your fingers held onto his shoulder when you climbed on behind him.

Your arms wrapped around him awkwardly at first, like you weren’t sure where to hold. But then he took hold of your hands in his, guiding it to hold onto his waist. Your heart jumped in your chest, suddenly thankful that the cold air cooled your heating face.

He dropped you off in front of the preschool, early light spilling across the pavement. He didn’t say anything as you climbed off—just watched, quietly, like he was tucking the image away for later.

You turned back once. Smiled.

“Thanks again,” you said, breath visible in the morning air.

And then you disappeared inside, one step at a time.

He didn’t linger long. Just enough. Just until you were gone from view.

And you spent the entire day smiling like you couldn’t remember the last time the world felt that simple.

And outside, Bucky smiled to himself, before pulling away. 

ִ ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It had been drizzling since dawn, soft mist clinging to the air like breath on glass. Rain tapped against the fire escape, gentle and persistent, and clouds loomed heavy above Brooklyn.

You hadn’t planned to linger in the kitchen, but there was something comforting about the slow mornings of a weekend and the chill that made you wrap your cardigan tighter. Steam curled from your coffee mug as you padded toward the fire escape window, then—on impulse—opened it.

You didn’t expect him to already be sitting there.

Bucky looked over his shoulder, startled just enough to blink. He was in a hoodie today, dark gray and too big on him in the way that meant it was probably worn for comfort more than style. His hands were curled around a chipped old thermos, and his hair was pulled back loosely, it was longer now, some strands already escaping. He didn’t look like the guy who made you blush on the back of a motorcycle. He looked like a man who didn’t sleep well and needed a quiet morning.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He scooted to the side wordlessly, making room on the metal grate.

You sat beside him. The fire escape creaked but held, rain pooling slightly at your feet.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you added.

“You’re not.” He sipped. “It’s… nice. Not being alone out here.”

You smiled at that. Your fingers curled around the warm ceramic of your mug. For a while, neither of you said anything. The street below was quiet. The air smelled like concrete and clouds. His knee barely brushed yours, and neither of you moved away.

“You’re always up early,” you said eventually. 

“Habit,” he said simply. “And you’re always up late. One the weekends.”

You chuckled. “Kindergarten paperwork is no joke. You’d think finger painting wouldn’t come with so many reports.”

He tilted his head. “Sounds taxing."

“It’s not. Just… lonely sometimes,” it came out of nowhere but it slipped out of your lips, “Moving to a new place is harder than I thought even if I had been here for like what? Six months now?”

He nodded like he understood. “Yeah. It takes time. But you’re doing good.”

You looked at him. “You think so?”

He met your eyes, and the honesty there made your breath hitch. “Yeah. I do.”

“I guess having a nice neighbour like you makes it bearable.”

People need people. That phrase crossed Bucky’s mind.

You needed someone, and that someone had been him. And it was hard for him to admit that he needed you. Maybe not yet.

For the past six months, you have been a constant in his life. Someone who fits into his roster without even meaning too. But he had to admit that it was easy with you.

Your presence wasn’t something that bothered him. It was warm, gentle, and soothing. 

Sometimes, when he had to go away for a long time, he would ask you to take care of Alpine, to which you were more than happy to. After he got back, he would offer to cook for you at your place as a thank-you before picking Alpine up to go next door. But he always stayed longer into the night. You didn’t seem to mind him being there in your space.

He always noticed your blush though. It was captivating to him to have it replayed in his mind every now and then, how your face turns red whenever he compliments your looks or anything that you do.

The comfortable silence returned. Rain whispered around you.

You shifted, your arm brushing his. “Do you want some coffee? Mine’s sweeter than most people like.”

He held out his thermos, exchanging it for your mug. You sipped his black brew. He tasted yours.

You laughed. “Too sweet?”

His nose scrunched, and he grinned. “You trying to give me a sugar rush?”

“That’s what the kids say. Life’s better with a sugar rush.”

He huffed a soft laugh, and the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of something you didn’t dare name yet, but welcomed the ever growing presence.

 ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

The storm rolled in without warning—thick, void-coloured clouds swallowing the horizon by mid-afternoon. You’d barely noticed it at first, too busy organizing preschool worksheets at the kitchen table, but then the wind picked up, rattling the windows with a sharp insistence. By evening, the sky cracked open.

Rain slammed down in sheets, drumming against the fire escape like a warning. You flicked on the living room light just in time to see it blink—once, twice—before the entire apartment was cloaked in silence.

The power was out.

You stood there for a long second, adjusting to the sudden darkness. The heater sighed its last breath. The fridge clicked off. The silence felt heavier than it should have.

With a quiet sigh, you reached for your phone and flicked on the flashlight, casting a cone of harsh white light against your familiar, cozy furniture. You padded barefoot to the kitchen, pulling open the drawer where you kept random odds and ends. Batteries, loose rubber bands, and—yes—a single tealight candle.

Not nearly enough.

You lit it anyway, crouched on your knees by the counter, watching the small flame flicker weakly. It wasn’t the darkness that bothered you so much. It was the stillness. It made the apartment feel unfamiliar. And the lack of sound filled your ears with a loud ringing.

Your eyes drifted to the front door.

The hallway would be dark too, but maybe—just maybe—he would have something. A candle. A flashlight. Anything.

You hesitated only a moment before opening the door and stepping out, the soft creak of the hinges muffled by the storm’s howl outside. The corridor was pitch black, illuminated only by your phone screen. You padded two steps to the next door and knocked gently.

The sound of footsteps reached you a few moments later—bare, slow. Then his voice low, steady.

“Coming.”

The door opened with a soft groan, revealing Bucky standing in the warm glow of candlelight. Alpine with him. He held the melting wax in his hand, the flame casting gentle shadows across his face. His hair looked slightly damp, curling near his temples like he’d only just come out of the shower. He wore a soft red henley, clinging to his frame in a way you tried not to notice, and a pair of well-worn gray sweats.

You blinked at him.

“Hey,” you said. “Power’s out.”

“I noticed,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He looked down at the candle in his hand, then back at you. A lighting cracked outside, “You okay?”

You held up your phone flashlight, giving a sheepish grin. “I’ve got this and one sad little tealight. That’s about it.”

Bucky nodded, then extended the candle toward you. “Here. Take this one.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. It was warm, comforting.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, but didn’t turn to leave.

After a moment, he stepped back from the door. “You can wait it out in here if you want. It might be better than sitting in the dark alone.”

You hesitated. You hadn’t expected the offer. But the thought of being in your quiet, dark apartment alone, while the storm thrashed outside, wasn’t exactly comforting either, as much as you love the rain.

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure. Alpine can use more company too.” An excuse. 

You stepped past him into his apartment, blinking as your eyes adjusted to the glow of three more candles scattered across the living room. The soft light warmed the space, flickering against the bare walls and reflecting off the polished vibranium of his arm, which he rested casually at his side. It was well into the year where some things about him were revealed.

You didn’t look at him differently when you first noticed it.

It had been on a random day. One of those quiet Sundays. You were over for your monthly duty of taking care of Alpine. He had asked you to come over first for lunch. Usually, he’d just knock on your door with everything ready to go—but today, he had time to kill.

You were playing with Alpine in the living room, dragging a mouse-on-a-string across the carpet while she pounced and skittered like a kitten despite her age. From the kitchen, the smell of garlic and something warm drifted through the apartment. It was the same layout as yours—same counters, same scuffed floors—but it felt different. Quieter. Sparser. Lived in, but not full.

That’s when you noticed it.

He’d rolled up his sleeves while chopping something, and the light caught on the curve of metal where flesh should’ve been. It wasn’t showy. Wasn’t something he was drawing attention to. It was just… there. His left arm. Sleek, burnished. Glinting where the sun snuck through the blinds.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t flinch or shift to hide it. Just kept working, but truthfully, that day, he just didn’t notice it. It felt like it wasn’t a secret anymore.

And maybe it wasn’t. At least not with you.

You watched for a moment, quiet. Not out of shock. Not fear. Just curiosity.

“Cool arm,” you said casually, leaning back on your elbows while Alpine gnawed ferociously on her toy mouse.

That made him glance over.

You shrugged. “Not that I’m surprised. I mean—there are gods flying around and portals above cities every other month. A cybernetic arm barely cracks the top ten. Gives you kind of… an interesting backstory.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, “It’s vibranium.” eyes dropping back to the cutting board. But there was something softer about the way his shoulders eased.

“You didn’t ask,” he said after a moment.

“Didn’t need to.”

You stretched out beside the cat. “You’d tell me if you wanted to.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just finished chopping, slid the veggies into a pan, and reached for the seasoning with that same vibranium hand.

Comfortable. Unbothered.

Trusted.

And maybe that was the part that stayed with you more than anything else. Not the arm. Not the mystery. But the fact that he didn’t hide it from you.

Like maybe, for once, he didn’t feel like he had to.

Back to the thunderous night, you cross into his threshold. 

It was minimal, but not empty. A mug of half-finished tea sat on the coffee table, steam curling from it slowly. An open book rested beside it, a pen on top.

You sank onto the edge of his couch, the spot familiar. “It’s… quieter in here.”

“Quieter than your place?” he asked, settling down across from you.

“No,” you smiled. “Just quieter than the last time I was here.”

“That was three days ago.”

“I know, but with no electricity it feels even more.”

He gave a low hum of acknowledgment, watching you with that curious, assessing gaze he always seemed to carry. It never felt invasive but just… observant.

“You’ve made yours cozy,” he said after a beat. “Warm. Like a real home.”

You tilted your head. “That surprises you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Most places don’t feel like anything. Yours does.”

The compliment settled over you gently, like a blanket.

You studied him for a moment, then braved the question that had been pressing at the back of your mind since that first evening on the stairs.

“What do you do, Bucky? The freelancing…”

His jaw tightened just slightly, the flame dancing in his eyes. He exhaled slowly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

“I help people,” he said finally. “It’s... different from what I used to do. But it matters.”

You could hear the weight in his voice, even if you didn’t know the full story.

You nodded. “You seem like someone who cares a lot.”

That made him look up. His gaze softened. “I try.”

There was a long stretch of quiet after that. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. The rain softened against the windows, thunder rumbling farther away now.

You glanced at him again, your heart beating a little faster. There was something about the way the candlelight painted his features, how the shadows curved along his jaw and softened the hard lines of his face.

But he didn’t look at you.

Not yet.

He was staring out the window instead, where the storm had settled into a steady rhythm. The kind that made everything feel farther away. Softer. Safer.

“Storm’s not letting up anytime soon,” you said quietly, voice barely above the hum of the rain.

He nodded, leaning back against the couch, arm resting over the backrest. You were close, but not quite touching.

“Do you mind if I stay here?” you asked.

He glanced at you then. “Not at all.”

Silence stretched out. Not awkward, just full of things neither of you had said yet.

You pulled the blanket higher over your knees, fidgeting with the corner. “You always this quiet?”

His mouth twitched, just a little. “Not always.”

You tilted your head. “Just with me?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Not because of you.”

Your eyes lingered on him, tracing the edge of his silhouette in the low light. There was a gravity to him when he let himself relax. Like the room shifted around it. Around him.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t do this a lot.”

“What’s this?”

“Sitting around. Talking. Letting someone in.”

You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you reached for the mug on the coffee table—lukewarm now, but comforting. You held it in both hands.

“I’m glad you did,” you said finally.

He was quiet again, and you thought maybe the moment had passed.

But then—

“I like your place,” he said, voice low. “It feels… lived in. Like it has a heartbeat.”

You smiled. “It’s just a lot of mismatched furniture and impulse buys.”

“That’s what I mean.” He looked at you. Really looked. “Feels like you.”

That made your breath catch a little. You weren’t used to being seen like that. Not just observed—but understood.

“Yours is quiet,” you said. “Not empty. Just… waiting.”

He blinked, surprised. “Waiting?”

You nodded, fingers still wrapped around your mug. “Like it's making room for something. Or someone. Like it’s still figuring out what it wants to be.”

He let out a soft exhale, almost a laugh, like you’d touched something he hadn’t realized was there. “You sound like you talk to your furniture.”

“Only the stubborn ones.”

He smiled again, more visible this time. The kind that made the candlelight feel warmer.

Outside, the storm didn’t let up. But in here, the silence turned companionable. Easy.

Eventually, you both leaned back on the couch, shoulders close.

What came next was a story.

One of his. Just a small one—about an old bookstore down the block that let him read for hours when he was new in the city. He told you about the smell of the paper, the owner who never asked questions, and the corner chair that creaked every time someone sat in it.

You told him about your favorite coffee shop. The one with the terrible playlists and the indoor tabby cat named Pluto. You said you liked it because they always remembered your name—even when you wished they wouldn’t.

And just like that, the minutes slipped by.

Not filled with declarations or grand gestures—but with slow, quiet things. With a kind of closeness that wasn’t looking to rush anywhere.

It would be later—after the power came back, after you both stayed up too late talking, after Alpine came to curl between your feet—that you had accidentally fallen asleep beside him. Your weight leaning on his side made him tense at first, but he relaxed once he reminded himself that it was just you. He let himself drift to sleep too, because to move, he would wake you up, but he didn’t want to.

 ࣪𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ

It was late afternoon when he knocked — not in a rush, not with food, not even with Alpine. Just him.

You opened the door, confused for half a second because this wasn’t one of the usual drop-ins. His leather jacket was unzipped, gloves off, and his expression… unreadable in that familiar, Bucky Barnes kind of way. Thoughtful. Still. A little unresolved.

“Hey,” you said, stepping aside instinctively. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping inside. “Just got back from a session. Needed some air.”

There was something in the way he stood. A weight behind his eyes, like he’d been walking with it all day.

“Wanna come in?”

He nodded once, stepping into your apartment like it was a space he knew well. Which he did, by now after a year.

You made him tea. You always did. He never asked, but you always put honey in it because you’d noticed, early on, that he took his time drinking it otherwise.

You both sat down. The light through the window was warm and lazy, casting dappled shapes against the floor. A quiet breeze stirred the curtains. For a while, you just sat in the soft domestic stillness.

Then he spoke.

“I saw my therapist today.”

You glanced up. “Yeah?”

He nodded, staring into the tea he hadn’t touched yet. “She said that thing again.”

You waited.

“‘People need people,’” he murmured. “She says it every time. Like she’s trying to convince me.”

You smiled a little. “And? Is it working?”

He gave a small shrug, but it wasn’t indifferent but more like he wasn’t sure how to put it into words yet. You didn’t push. You just let the moment breathe. Giving him space.

After a while, he said, “Back then... I didn’t really believe that. I thought if I needed anyone, it meant I couldn’t survive on my own. And if I couldn’t survive on my own, I wasn’t safe. I wasn’t strong.”

You turned slightly, giving him your full attention. He wasn’t looking at you, just staring ahead, like tracing thoughts across invisible paper.

“I’ve had to rebuild myself more times than I can count,” he continued, voice low. “Sometimes I still don’t know who I am when I wake up. But this… this has been the most time I’ve spent just… existing without needing to watch my back.”

You were quiet. Listening.

“I didn’t expect that from Brooklyn,” he said with a soft breath of amusement. “Didn’t expect it from a neighbor who talks to cats like they’re tiny roommates.”

That made you chuckle. “She is a roommate.”

He smiled, briefly. Then it faded.

“It’s weird,” he said, staring down at his vibranium fingers. “I used to hide this arm like it was a warning label. People always saw it first. Like it already explained what I am without me speaking. But you didn’t even blink when I had it out that day.”

You shrugged, gently. “Didn’t seem like a big deal.”

He looked at you then — really looked. His eyes didn’t move away this time.

“Exactly,” he said. “You didn’t make it a big deal. You treated me like… I wasn’t a stranger. Just a guy with a cat and a weird arm.”

You grinned. “Hey. You’re also a pretty good cook.”

He gave a short, quiet laugh. “That too, apparently.”

The moment stretched. You could feel something shifting — not dramatic or sudden, just quiet and inevitable. Like a tide changing directions.

“I think…” he said slowly, fingers drumming once against his mug, “…maybe I get it now. What she meant. People needing people. It’s not about being weak.”

He paused, trying to steady something in himself.

“It’s about choosing to stay. About deciding that it’s worth it. That someone is worth it.”

He looked down, then back up. There was something naked in his voice when he said, “And maybe… I found my person. Without realizing it.”

You didn’t speak. Your throat was tight.

He glanced away again, suddenly unsure. “I’m not great at this. And I don’t want to screw it up. But if there’s a chance you feel the same… I’d like to try.”

“Try what?” you asked gently.

“Us,” he said. “For real. Not just neighbours who hang out with a cat and share tea. I want to take you out. Date you. Learn everything I don’t know yet.”

You blinked, and something inside you went very, very still. And then it warmed. The feeling spreading in your chest.

“I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” you said softly.

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it all this time, “Sorry it took so long.”

You reached for his hand. Flesh, not metal. He let you take it, and held on.

“Don’t be. I was always here.”

Outside, the world moved on — cars passed, someone’s music filtered in through the walls, life hummed as it always did. But here, in the quiet of a tiny Brooklyn apartment warmed by a fading afternoon, something had settled.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a slow, steady understanding that anchored itself in his chest.

After all the noise, after all the years of pretending he didn’t need anyone—

He looked at you. The way you smiled at him like he wasn’t broken. The way you were just there, again and again, without asking him to be anything more than himself.

And in that moment, he realized what his therapist had meant.

That people need people.

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

Bucky Barnes is not someone you’d call a friend.

He’s more of a nuisance, really. A fossil, dropped off at your door by one Sam Wilson with a simple request: “Can he crash here for a few days?”

That was four months ago, and Bucky’s still living on your couch.

Which is exactly where he’s sat right now, head buried in a book you barely even remember owning. The pages, so full of neglect, give him hassle as he tries to turn them, catching on one another and refusing to be pried apart by vibranium fingers.

“How do I look?” You ask as you step out from your bedroom, hands fastening an earring into your right ear.

Unfazed by your appearance, he doesn’t bother glancing up from his book as he sardonically replies, “With your eyes, like the rest of us.”

You contemplate plucking one of your heels off and throwing it at his head. Knowing your luck, it will fly right past him and smash your coffee table into pieces. Just like your roommate, it’s vintage. Unlike your roommate, you willingly brought it into your home.

“Ha. Ha.” Rounding the couch, you swat his feet off the table before snapping his book closed. “Now if you’re done playing comedian, would you answer the fucking question?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know? You swear more than you breathe.”

“Better than waging a world war every few years.”

“Considering the current state of the world, I wouldn’t rest too comfortably on that one,” Bucky rises from his seat and squeezes past you, irritatingly close in a way that makes sure you feel each defined muscle in his chest as it brushes against your shoulder. “Anyway, you look fine, as always.”

“I look fine?” You parrot his words and follow his footsteps over to the kitchen. “Careful Barnes, don’t get too excited, it’s not healthy for a senior citizen’s heart.”

“You know what I mean,” a heavy sigh slips out the soldier’s mouth as he busies himself filling the kettle, glancing back at you from over his shoulder as he continues speaking. “I don’t understand why you worry so much about all of… this.” He gestures at you, water splashing off the tips of his fingers.

“God forbid a woman cares about looking good on a date,” you’re becoming annoyingly aware of the pout on your lips and try your best to correct it, whilst prying open the fridge door and fishing out a bottle of beer. “Gee if only it were still the 40s, then I could slap some mercury on my lips and hit the town with a man ready to buy me off my daddy for the cheap, cheap price of two goats!”

The frustration within you only rises as you struggle with the bottle’s cap, the skin of your hand pinching as you put all your force behind removing it. Since when are twist-tops so damn hard to twist off?

Bucky’s by the kettle, pouring boiling hot water into a mug he’s wrongfully claimed as his and looking irritatingly fine surrounded by steam — which has your mind trailing back to a few weeks ago: an early morning, exiting your bedroom to find your lodger stepping out the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and the remnant dew of a steaming hot shower trailing down his very naked, very defined biceps, and pectorals, and- He’s not even trying to mask the amusement on his face as he indulges in your failure.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?” He asks and pries the bottle out of your hold, effortlessly ripping the cap off with a twist of his left hand. A familiar warmth curls between your legs, awakening a response from you that you’ve sworn, under no circumstances, will happen due to Bucky Barnes. You barely want to exchange air with him, nevermind bodily fluids. “There’s no way you’re worth two goats.”

“Every day I wake up and resist the urge to smother you in your sleep.”

Your vitriol is met with a smirk taking over his lips. Watching as he brings the beer up to his mouth, you catch yourself forgetting to blink as the soldier engages you both in a staring contest, all the while he’s tilting the bottle up to steal the first sip. He presses the cold glass back into your hand. You try not to focus on his tongue, peeking out to swipe over his bottom lip and clean up a remnant drop of beer.

In a move that puts you even more on edge, Bucky shuffles closer to you. Delirium floods your mind as the smell of smoke, and musk, and a just a twinge of sweat floods your nose, a smell so masculine it has you debating setting feminism and your own self-preservation back hundreds of years by nuzzling your face into the pulse point of his neck, like you’re some damn animal being exposed to pheromones. Meanwhile, he appears none the wiser to the negative effect he’s having on you, too busy reaching his arm behind you and into the fridge.

“Those boys you entertain, do they ever pay you any compliments?” His voice is so gentle, you almost wonder if that’s how it would sound whispering in your ear. Luckily, you don’t actually wonder about that. Not at all, not even a little. “Or is that your job too, like the bill?”

As quickly as he caged you in against the fridge, he moves away and leaves the cool air to rush over your skin, dragging your mind back into reality and away from whatever thoughts it keeps trying to tempt you with. You track his movements towards the island counter as he sets down a glass bowl, marked by condensation and filled with a batter of some sorts.

It's becoming more and more common to catch Bucky pottering around in the kitchen, a recipe on his phone screen and a personalised ‘Kiss the Baker’ apron — which Sam bought as a joke for his birthday — tied around his waist. He’ll never admit it, but a part of you believes baking helps him relax, to shut off whatever thoughts are floating around in that disturbingly pretty head of his and let him focus solely on measuring, mixing, and making delicious sugary treats. You can hardly complain when he’s gifting you the privilege of an at-home bakery. Fortunately, he gives you plenty of other reasons to complain. 

“Boys I entertain? Way to make me sound like a stripper,” you huff, sneaking over to dunk a finger into the batter as he turns to grab his coffee. “And I’ll have you know, they do pay me compliments.”

Licking your finger clean, you can’t fight the humm of approval that creeps up your throat nor the way your eyes slip shut as you savour the cold, tangy sweetness of the cake mix. Something warm presses against your left side as Bucky returns to the island, setting down his mug and a cake tin.

“Really? What kinda things do they say?” Just as you go to double dip, he smacks the top of your hand with a wooden spoon, and you nearly freeze at the contact. For a few short seconds, the factory in your mind goes into lockdown as every single one of your brain cells scramble to not conjure up the image of him smacking that utensil on a very different part of you. “Hands off. It’s a lemon cake, not a lemon and your-dirty-fingers cake.”

You silence your thoughts with a swig of beer before putting a safety distance between Bucky and you, unsure whether to be relieved at his obliviousness to the less than ideal affect he’s having on you, or offended by his complete lack of reaction to being so close to you while you’re all dressed up and waiting for another man to take you out.

Not that you want him to be affected by that, or you in general, though.

Your phone lights up with a text from an unsaved number: im hear, r yu coming down or shuld i com up? You shut it off and stuff it into your purse, deciding it's best to keep a man waiting anyway; he’ll appreciate your presence even more once you finally give him it.

Besides, you’ve yet to answer Bucky’s question.

“I’d tell you but I’m too sober to stomach you yelling ‘Heaven to Betsy!’ and giving me a lecture on your medieval dating ethics.”

You earn a genuine laugh, in which his knees bend a little and his head is thrown back, while his vibranium hand winds up splayed across his midriff. The sun is setting beyond the window, lingering shades of orange warmth frame a heavenly glow around Bucky, highlighting a slight curl in his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes. The view is uncomfortably pleasant, so you bring the bottle back to your lips and turn your head away, suddenly utterly fascinated with the eggshell colouring of the kitchen cupboards.

“I think there’s a leak under the sink,” the comment is absentminded, a meager attempt at steering your mind away from the man and his mixing bowl.

Bucky ignores it and drags you right back to the actual topic at hand.

“That’s funny,” there’s a shuffle of tin behind you. You glance back around to find him smoothing batter into the cake mold, wooden spoon clasped in metal fingers spreading the mix evenly. You’ve never noticed how good Bucky is at spreading things. “Cause I swear I remember Sam mentioning something about the last guy moaning his own name in your ear.”

Beer shoots to the back of your throat.

In a spurt of coughing, amidst the burning pain of the carbonated liquid dripping out your nose, you hurry over to the sink. Mouth dropped open in a dry heave, you lean into the basin and try to minimize the mess you make in search of a breath. Heat envelops you from behind and a pair of sock-clad feet come into view next to your maroon heels. You briefly register the cool brush of metal against the back of your neck as he tries to tidy back your hair and, while you appreciate the action, you can’t help note how completely unnecessary it is. Too distracted to care, your attention shoots straight to the weight of his flesh hand pressing into your lower back. Heavy, warm, large, it pollutes your mind with the knowledge of how it feels to have him soothe your skin — even if there is a layer of silk in the way.

The moment air returns to your lungs, you shoot up straight and ache to step away from him and his wandering-to-all-the-wrong-places hands. The battle against his touch is mute, not even one percent of his strength is put behind the way he grips your forearms and turns you to face him.

Bucky’s eyes scan over you, studying your features. You swallow back whatever feeling brings salivation to your mouth. His thumb reaches towards his own and you watch, transfixed, as a pink tongue darts out to greet it, licking a stripe over the pad of it. A splash of cake batter stains his ring finger. You swallow back more saliva; confusingly, your mouth feels drier than ever. Only when he delicately presses his thumb beneath your eye and swipes over your waterline do you realise you’re teary-eyed.

“See how clumsy you are?” There’s a chastising lilt to his voice that sends blood rushing to your face, and then immediately back down to the overwhelmingly empty space between your legs. “Can’t even swallow properly without ruining your mascara.”

You need distance.

You need to move.

You need to leave.

“He’s here!” The words are almost a gasp as you turn out of his hold. The weight of his gaze trails over your legs as you rush around the kitchen island, fishing your keys out of your purse and rambling out the nerves he’s summoned. “Okay, there’s some leftover pasta in the fridge if you’re hungry, and you’re welcome to the beers if you get thirsty. Big remote turns on the TV, the little one changes the channel. Behave and take care of the place while I’m away, okay?”

“Quit talking to me like I’m some kind of guard dog,” he complains as you pull open the front door and cross one foot over the threshold to safety.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You cheer back, trailing the door behind you as you go. “I wasn’t aware you were going to start contributing rent, I’ll send you my bank details.”

With that, the apartment door slams shut and you head out for a date in which three things will happen: you’ll flirt, you’ll fuck, and you won’t think about your roommate.

Only one of those things ends up happening.

It’s not from lack of an offer that you wind up taking a cab back to your apartment. Your date had been nice… enough. He complimented your outfit, took a sufficient amount of interest in you, and he even bought you flowers — of course, he’d accidentally left them in his parent’s home. Where he lived. In the basement.

And the thing is, you’re not shallow. Time’s are tough, the economy sucks, and the world is still adjusting to the sudden return to half its population post-Blip. So you were more than game to play sneak-me-into-your-bed-without-waking-your-parents, but, as the pair of you waited on a taxi to arrive, his hand found your waist and your treacherous mind noticed something it shouldn’t.

Bucky’s hand was larger. And warmer. And more welcomed against your skin.

Sick to your stomach by your own thoughts, your night ended with you tip-toeing past the familiar figure sleeping on your couch — definitely not pausing to take in the sheer width of his naked shoulders dangling half-off the cushion — and crawling into bed alone, belly full of Thai and mind full of Winter.

When morning comes, the bedroom door creaks as you pry it open, a fist rubbing sleep out your eye and a yawn announcing your arrival.

“Did you eat my ice cream?” Bucky calls out from somewhere, voice muffled and full of accusation.

Despite barely finishing a glass of wine the night before, there’s a throbbing pain beginning in your temples and souring your already bitter mood.

“Wow, good morning to you too,” you stumble more than walk over to the kitchen, in search of the salvation of ice cold water.

That’s where you find him: laid out on his back, grey sweatpants clinging to bent knees, with everything from his shoulders up inside the open cabinet beneath the sink. His arms are inside too, tinkering away at something above his face.

“Good morning. Did you eat my ice cream?” If ever a thing such as a verbal eyeroll were to exist, Bucky would be doing it. From the lack of seeing his eyes, there’s every chance he is literally rolling them.

Your journey toward the fridge is interrupted by the troubling sight of a glass full of water, a plate hosting a slice of lemon sponge cake, and two miscellaneous white pills that anyone who suffers the unusually cruel punishment of a menstrual cycle is likely familiar with. A post-it note with your name written neatly across it sits next to the unexpected care package.

“So what if I did?” The painkillers go down effortlessly, though there’s a lingering chemical taste that has you gulping down an extra sip of water. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“I paid for it!” For all his outrage, he doesn’t care enough to poke his head out as he chastises you. “You said there was a leak, so I’m checking your pipes. I’m quite good with my hands, you know.”

Is he dense, or is he saying this shit on purpose? The double entendre in his words is glaring, yet you haven’t the confidence nor the will-power to address it, to poke the proverbial bear out of fear. Fear of him scolding your dirty mind, or fear of him doubling down on his suggestive wordplay, you’re not quite sure.

You choose to steer clear of the topic and, more importantly, the unexpected twinge in your chest in response to Bucky’s unrequested help.

“And I paid for the freezer you left it in, the electricity that kept it frozen, and the apartment you live in,” you don’t intend to sound so snappy, like a sulking child fighting against their own self-confessed crimes. “So I think you can spare me some goddamn ice cream.”

You’ve taken to joining Bucky on the floor, sitting across from him, cross-legged and back pressed against the cabinets that surround the kitchen island. In your lap lies the slice of cake, a mouthful already missing and melting its tangy sweetness onto your tongue. You almost moan, but it’s unclear whether the sugary treat just tastes that good or the visual of the soldier laid out on his back and tinkering away beneath your sink is just so stimulating.

If you mention the strange noise your car’s engine has been making recently, would he fix that too? You can already picture him slicked in sweat and oil, hands on his hips as he stands over the opened hood and assesses whatever the damage is. You’d have to watch over the whole thing, of course — not out of your own self-interest but on the off chance something goes wrong and Bucky needs help taking off his oil-stained shirt, or pants, or-

“Your date was that good, huh?” You almost jump out of your skin when he speaks.

“He bragged to me about how he and his college roommates used to play pool,” the pause in your sentences seems to capture Bucky’s attention, coaxing him out from beneath the sink. “Using a shotgun instead of cues.”

As he sits up, elbows finding rest upon his knees, you can’t help but note the five-o’clock shadow he’s sporting. For reasons that have nothing to do with the fraying seams of your sanity, you need him to shave.

To Bucky’s credit, he doesn’t laugh. Yes, his lips glitch somewhere between a cheeky grin and a serious frown, but he does not outright laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he nods down at the half-eaten cake and tilts his head — an unspoken question, is it good?, that only weakens his argument about not being a guard-dog. Between the puppy-dog blue eyes and the yearning for approval, you half expect him to sprout a tail and start panting.

Scratch that last thought, actually. Bucky and panting should not coexist in a sentence together, nevermind in your imagination.

“Mind feeding me a bite?” Yes, actually, you would mind, but one glance at his fingertips stained in whatever-the-hell is going on with your sink leaves you no choice but to tear off a corner.

Bringing the piece of cake to meet his awaiting mouth, you brace yourself for the tentative scrape of teeth stealing it out of your hold. The delicate brush of his lips enveloping your fingers throws you off your axis, and the challenge in his eyes as they hold contact with your own has your thighs involuntarily squeezing themselves together.

For a moment, you swear you catch him glance down at your lips.

Then you remember the health insurance your job provides does not cover the cost of being institutionalised, so you stop hallucinating and come back to reality where Bucky Barnes is not so much a flirt as he is a pest, a stray animal abandoned at your doorstep by a friend who decided to take advantage of your good-natured heart.

“Can you give me the exact phrasing your date used to describe this shotgun-pool?” The soldier is gone in the blink of an eye, flat on his back again and continuing his attempt to seal the leak.

“Why?”

“I’m making this list,” he says, and he must shift his hands higher above his head because suddenly the soft cotton of his white shirt has ridden up his torso, presenting your eyes with a golden platter of sun-warmed skin. “I’m calling it ‘the manchild files’.”

“That’s not even funny,” neither is the way he inches deeper into the cabinet, exposing not only the glaringly white tan-line delineating where the band of his boxers should be resting but also the beginning dark curls of a happy trail. 

“Well ‘the stupid files’ sounds so simple, I was worried you’d try to jump into bed with it.”

“Are you seriously about to slut-shame me in my own fucking kitchen?” Whilst slutting yourself out on my floor like your name is Mike and you’re about to show me some magic? is the quiet part you don’t say aloud.

“I’m critical but I’m not hypocritical,” there he does again with that verbal eye-roll. “I wasn’t exactly the image of celibacy when I was your age-”

“Yay, more grandpa lore!” Your interruption earns you a nudge from his leg, but you know it made him laugh because his shoulders gently shake.

“I’m not slut-shaming you, I’m taste-shaming. I swear, being useless must be the precursor to having a chance with you.”

“It is not!” You gasp, yet you’re hardly surprised — Bucky’s not exactly subtle in his disapproval of the men you date.

If there is anything to be thankful for, it’s the alleviation that comes with Bucky shimmying out from the sink again, happy trail redressed and a hand diving into the pocket of his sweatpants. With a dramatic clearing of his throat, he brings his phone up to his face and starts reciting.

“After being told you have a nut allergy, Carter B. said Wait, like, you’re allergic to cum?” You’d always known showing him how to use the notes app would come back to bite you in the ass somehow. “Tommy L. walked into a lampost because he got distracted… watching a squirrel run up a tree. You almost got stood up by Steve K. because he accidentally locked himself inside his own car. Lee B. asked you-”

“Bucky B. is about to lose his other arm if he doesn’t shut up.”

“I rest my case,” and he still has the nerve to open his mouth, awaiting another bite of cake.

You cave with no fight and give it to him.

Because you’re a nice person, not because you want to feel his mouth on you again.

Something cool drips onto the bottom of your naked thighs after Bucky reaches over you and grabs at the glass of water, stealing an obnoxiously large gulp; or is it just exaggerated by your stare zeroing in on the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he drinks?

A thought pops into your mind.

“Did you leave these on the counter because you expected me to be hungover?” Your tone is inoffensive, and unoffended, a simple curiosity you need answered.

“You have a headache, right?”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes narrow skeptically.

“Yeah, I figured you would,” Bucky takes another sip, more condensation trickling down onto your legs. “You always have one after eating Thai food.”

Something inside of you stops.

Your heart, or your lungs, or your mind. Your goddamn liver, for all you know.

This is not supposed to be happening. Bucky is not supposed to fix things just because you mentioned it, once in passing and as a scapegoat from focusing too much on him. And he certainly isn’t supposed to notice things, useless little factoids that not even you know about yourself until he brings them to light. Hell, he’s not even supposed to still be here, sleeping on your couch and criticising your love life.

When the thing inside of you clicks back into place and starts again, a new weight rests atop your conscience.

Maybe it’s not so bad having a roommate, having Bucky be that roommate. Maybe you’re starting to get used to coming home to the smell of baked vanilla and the signature grouchy look he wears as he asks you about your day, about how your co-worker pissed you off, about why you’re home later than usual and not wearing a jacket out in the cold of winter.

“By the way,” he’s calling out from beneath the sink again. “You’ll be happy to know I’m touring an apartment next week.”

“Oh.” The bite you just took turns sour in your mouth. You struggle to swallow it down. “That’s great. Finally! You’re going, and I’m staying here, and I’ll have my apartment back to myself. That’s… Great. It’s great!”

No, really, it’s great.

“You’re joking,” a palm on your lower back guides you to the right, just in time to avoid being trampled beneath a cart.

“I wish,” you say, and saunter over to some colourful packaging that’s captured your eye.

After a moment of inspecting the product in hand from every angle, you put it back on the shelf.

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky pushes the cart along behind you, grabbing that same colourful packaging and dropping it in with the rest of the groceries. “You lean through his window, kiss him goodbye on the cheek and then he just… What, crashed his car?”

“Into a wall with street art of a cliff painted on it,” as you add the most important detail, laughter is already bubbling up your throat. “He literally crashed his car into a cliff without even getting to switch out of first gear!”

The pair of you make up quite the sight.

An entire morning of tiptoeing through the limbo of delirium, after an entire night spent trying to block out the relentless banging from the upstairs neighbours. The door to your bedroom crawled open some time past four and there was Bucky, head poking through the space and looking rather pleased to find you wide awake — despite his claims of just wanting to make sure you were asleep.

Seated on opposite ends of the couch, both of you found a quiet solace in the other’s inability to sleep. While a movie marathon played over the TV, the sex marathon above continued. When exhaustion took claim of your body, you drifted off with your arms resting on the armchair and your head resting on your arms. You awoke atop a pillow and beneath a blanket, legs stretched out over the couch and Bucky curled up on the floor by your feet — like any good guard dog would be.

After a botched attempt to sneak past the soldier, only to have him scare the living daylights out of you by grabbing your ankle as you tried to step over him, you both came to the shocking realisation that the fridge was void of any food.

Which brings you to here: standing in aisle 7, laughing an ache into your ribs over yet another one of your failed dates, with a half-filled cart and matching bags forming under your tired eyes.

“I think it’s time we had an intervention about where you’re finding these men,” Bucky says that last word like it's covered in poison, burning his tongue on the way out.

“They find me!” You say, as he reaches for the box of strawberries you just put down. “As generous as I am, do you want to maybe slow down on how much shit you load into our cart?”

His hand freezes, the box of red fruit clasped in a confusingly delicate grip of vibranium fingers

“You picked it up,” his tone is riddled with confusion. “Don’t you want them?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not made of money.”

“Okay?” He replies, like it’s the most irrelevant piece of information you’ve ever given him — and you once spent an hour ranting to him about the inefficiency of the ink cartridges in your office’s printer. “I’m paying, so do you want it or not?”

“Since when do you have money? Did your pension finally come through? I mean… You are old enough. Also, aren’t you literally a vet?”

 “You managed to say all that in one breath, yet you failed to answer a yes or no question.”

A bubble of silence surrounds you both. Bucky blinks, slowly, exaggeratedly. It’s the perfect opportunity to stare at his face and notice the five o'clock shadow has grown. A gruff ‘excuse me’, followed by a man shoving between you both to grab some strawberries, pops the bubble.

Without a word, you snatch the box and place it in the cart.

Half-way up the fruit aisle, Bucky gets the genius idea to open his mouth again: “You wanna know what my theory is?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p and glancing back at him over your shoulder. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He looks vexingly domestic like this, wearing a sweater and pushing your shopping around. Thoughts betray you, wandering off into dangerous territory as they begin to question how others perceive you from the outside.

What do strangers see: two roommates that quarrel like it’s a biological need, or a couple doing their weekly shop? Two strangers forced together by a circumstance named Sam Wilson, or two lovers unwilling to voice that the metal container between them is too much distance?

“I think you date idiots because they’re idiots.”

“Gee whiz, grandpa, that’s so insightful. I sure do hope I’m as wise as you when I’m your age, but I’ll probably just be dead.” You feel the cart meet your back in a gentle bump, a non-verbal warning to cut the teasing.

“Dating those incompetent men, it’s like…” he pauses, searching for the right words, and plucks a bunch of bananas from your hand, dropping them in with your mounting pile of fruit. “Jumping out of a plane! You get the thrill of falling but, the moment something a little too real and solid appears on the horizon, you pull out the parachute and, that’s it, you’re safe. No danger of falling flat on your face and getting your feelings hurt.”

“I don’t know when you last jumped out of a plane-”

“Remember that Karli situation a few months ago?”

“But not ejecting your parachute leads to a little more than just falling flat on your face.”

“So my metaphor isn't perfect,” Bucky trails off, eyes staring past you and mind lost in thought. You follow his line of sight and find a couple at the end of the aisle, hands intertwined and smiling at each other like they’re the only two people in the world. An unnamed emotion tugs at the soldier’s lips, but he won’t let it take over his stoic features. “But you get my point. If you were actually looking for something serious, you’d date someone better than those men.”

Unprompted and unwarranted, his words spear your heart.

Memories replay in your head, a kaleidoscope of the featureless faces you let take you out, dine you, wine you, kiss you. A handful of immeasurables: how many times you’ve brushed off mispronounced versions of your name, how many excuses you’ve made for the way they talk to you, how many times you’ve lowered your own standards to help a man feel desired. In your wake lies a graveyard of failed relationships, with no proper funeral nor mourning.

You swallow back the lump in your throat.

“Okay, psychoanalysing me aside, what’s left on the list?” You ask, making your way round to Bucky’s side of the cart.

“Well, I still need to write down Jeff G.’s cliff accident.”

“The other list.” You watch as he struggles to fish out the scrap of paper from his pocket.

“Eggs, pasta, feta, toilet roll,” his brows are furled, his eyes are glaring, and with each item he lists off, his words grow more unsure. “Grapefruit? Your handwriting is shit.”

“I was in a rush!”

“And sitting on a jack-hammer?”

“Gimme that,” you snatch the list, he yields it with no protest. As you scan over the scribbled ink, a frustrating truth comes to light. Bucky’s right, your handwriting is shit. “Is grapefruit even in season?”

“Huh,” it’s the sound of hollow amusement.

“What?”

“Just…” His presence looms over you, infecting your senses with the woodsy smell of his cologne and the arduous heat that radiates off of him. When he nods his head to the right, scoffing out a laugh and poking his tongue into his cheek, you find yourself wrestling between temptations of slapping him or pulling him closer. “You really don’t notice what’s right in front of you, do you?”

Lo and behold, on the right side of the aisle, grapefruits.

You make it through the rest of the shopping list in relative silence, with the occasional side-comment from the super soldier that either rouses a grin onto your lips or has your eyes rolling in faux disagreement. Little by little, you peruse the aisles and fill the cart; and, when Bucky picks out the only ice cream flavour void of nuts, you bite your tongue and choose to say nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” you finally speak, standing in the self-checkout zone and struggling to find something to do with your fidgety hands as Bucky scans each item — you insisted on helping and he insisted he’d get it done quicker alone. “How did the apartment viewing go?”

“Oh. Fine,” you grimace as he says your least favourite f word. “The current lease isn’t up yet, so you’re stuck with me a little longer.”

Are you supposed to feel this relieved?

In theory, you were never supposed to feel anything in regards to Bucky Barnes. In practice, it’s a lot more complicated, a pendulum that seems to swing in constant motion between red hot aggravation and red hot something else you refuse to give a name.

All you know is there are times where you wonder if his back is okay sleeping on the couch, and you contemplate asking him to come meet you during your lunch breaks, and you crave to have the anxious shake in your leg quelled by his daily check-in calls whenever he and Sam go off on another misadventure. Whatever reason lies behind your behaviour, the familiarity of ignorant bliss tempts you away from seeking the answer.

Besides, Bucky will be leaving soon. He’ll no longer be your roommate and you’ll both fall out of whatever routine convenience has forced upon you both.

A series of beeps capture your attention.

At the epicentre of the noise stands an elderly woman, grey hair pristinely curled and an outfit that screams Sunday-bests, struggling with the check-out machine. With no employee in sight and no do-gooder fellow customer stepping out of their way to help, the woman’s distress grows with each beep the machine makes at her.

Knuckles brush down your arm, and there’s Bucky at your side, waiting for you to pay him any mind.

“You mind handling the rest?” He asks, in that softly-spoken tone of his that would make anyone feel like swooning. Maybe that’s why it takes you a few moments to notice the wallet he’s holding out to you. “Cash is in the back pocket. I’ll be a few minutes, okay? Just finish bagging everything, leave the carrying to me.”

There’s no time to get a single word out before you’re staring at the back of his head and watching as he makes his way over to the elderly woman.

For every item you scan, you sneak a glance. The butter beeps onto the screen, and you peek how Bucky has effortlessly become the woman’s personal helper. You pass the strawberries through and reward yourself with the sight of Bucky’s cheeky grin — with the way the elderly lady laughs and swats at his arm, you can only assume he’s made some flirtatious comment. Clicking on the option to pay cash, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you turn to watch them again, Bucky’s just about finishing bagging her groceries while the woman opens her shopping-trolley bag.

Waiting on the receipt to print, your reflection stares back at you on the self-checkout screen: a hue of endearment glowing off your features. The smile quickly melts off your face when you realise that he… Oh no.

Bucky is charming.

Part of you has always known he was handsome — you’re stubborn, not blind — yet the sight of him now, all dashing smiles and twinkling eyes playing rescuer to a woman who, despite the difference in their physical ageing, is closer to his own age than you, it troubles you. The acid burn in your throat is not a manifestation of jealousy, no; it’s the queasy feeling of knowing you’ve never looked across at a date, caught him in a moment of content, and felt the unyielding desire to be the reason behind it.

Someone clears their throat beside you, a man with a wrinkle in his forehead and an agitated look upon his face, so you quickly excuse yourself and, with plastic handles digging into your fingers, you approach Bucky and the elderly lady.

Upon noticing you, Bucky’s quick to tug the bags out your grip, a scolding already falling off his tongue: “I told you to leave these to me.”

“Yeah, well, Mr. Frowny-Magoo over there didn’t appreciate me hogging up the cashier,” the comment is meant as nothing more than a lighthearted joke, yet you swear you see something shift in the soldier’s stance, his shoulders tensing and his jaw clenching as he glances back at the stranger.

Fortunately, the elderly woman interrupts whatever he’s contemplating doing to him.

“Она твоя жена?(Is she your wife?)” She’s looking between you both expectantly, speaking words you don’t understand. “У нее лицо ангела. (She has the face of an angel.)”

Whatever she says, it clearly has an effect on Bucky. His head turns to the side, to you, and a visible softness overcomes his gaze as it traces over your face. His shoulders are relaxing, his jaw is unclenching, and he’s switching the bags over to his metal hand, renewing his grip and freeing up the hand that now hangs right by yours, knuckles gracing over your own in a way that feels like a dare, a challenge, a temptation to lace your fingers together.

You clench your fist shut.

“Я знаю. (I know.)” He says, eyes lingering on you a few moments longer than necessary, before he’s back to smiling at the elderly woman.

Halfway home and doubling your pace to keep up with his effortless stroll, curiosity finally gets the better of you.

“What did she say back there, that lady you helped?”

A stranger rushes past you both, phone glued to their ear and stressing down the speaker. Bucky takes grip of your arm and tugs you closer to him.

“Do you spend your time getting bumped into when I’m not around?” His fingers give your arm a squeeze before releasing you. “And, if you must know, she said I was the most handsome man she’s ever seen.”

Little force is put behind the shove you give his shoulder.

You’re too busy agonising over how much you agree with her.

Bucky leaves.

Not forever, but three weeks away on some stealth mission with Sam sure begins to feel like it.

It happens on a Friday. After the week from hell at work, a friend’s mid-week engagement party, and the unexpected downpour of rain during the journey home, you walk into an unlit apartment and a note stuck to the fridge.

Sam needs me. Be safe, don’t bring strangers home. B. 

The batch of freshly baked cinnamon rolls sweeten your night up, at least.

There’s a quiet that always seems to blanket the house whenever you lose Bucky to missions.

Before he was dumped on your front door, you’d been used to living alone and the peaceful silence that came with it. Independence, the ability to need no one and want nothing, a trait of yours that once brought pride, now brings you nothing but the static sound of a muted television and the hum of the microwave spinning a meal fit for one.

Mornings become a ritual of waking later yet leaving earlier, no one is there to distract you from drinking your coffee. Though the workload is the same, somehow the slow drag of hours still finds a way to pass quicker than ever, the revolving doors of the office building spit you back out onto the streets of New York before you’re fully ready. Your evenings waste away, starved of noise and company, while you run out of shows to watch and books to read, and count the hours down until all that silence becomes necessary for your eyes to close and your mind to rest.

It’s when darkness rules over the sky and the hour is a single digit that the phone finally rings. A blocked number, untraceable, pulling you out the hands of sleep and filling your room with the noise of your ringtone. He never speaks first, not until there’s an echo down the line of your own sleep stained ‘hello?’.

“You can go back to sleep now.”

You never stay on the line long enough to find out how quickly he hangs up after he speaks. Because it’s only ever meant to be a way to let you know he’s safe, alive, somewhere out there doing who-knows-what and stopping who-knows-who. It’s just an unrequested favour he’s granted you, after the incident in which both he and Sam fell-off the grid for five days and you were nearly rounding up a search party. He’s not missed a call since, once a day while he’s away.

So, when he doesn’t call, it’s only natural that you worry.

The alarm bell rings when you wake up to birds chirping, sun spilling through the crack between the curtains, and not a single missed call nor voicemail awaiting you.

It’s Saturday and there’s no work to occupy your mind, so you force down a bagel, toss a tote bag onto your shoulder, and head out to the local market. But there’s no joy in perusing fruit stands without a six foot soldier trailing your heels and muttering to himself about how exotic fruit has gotten, and how ‘back in my day you had your apples, your oranges, and your pears.’

You wind up home by noon, and the dwelling begins to grow, still no call.

There’s a weight on your chest, and a balloon of anxiety that grows in your throat, and an unwarranted agitation burning at your skin as you read over his note again, still very much stuck to the fridge and taunting you — Be safe, says a man who clearly can’t take his own advice. 

Then, why should you?

You agree to go on a date, one you’ve been dancing around agreeing to for a few weeks yet reach for it the moment you decide you’re not pleased with the way Bucky’s lack of a call is ruining your well-earned free time.

And, hey, the guy’s not a complete loser this time. On paper, at least. He’s handsome, tall, and an athlete — ex-athlete, really, but you don’t bother to point that out while he talks about the gymnastic studio he runs. Most importantly, he’s eager to call a cab and get you home, screw Bucky’s warning. If you want to bring a stranger into your home, you’ll do it. 

Brooding, uncalling soldier be damned!

After stumbling through the dark of your apartment into your bedroom, and fumbling with your bra long enough for you to grow tired and just take it off yourself, you and Mister Gymnast tumble into the sheets for a performance so lacklustre, it warrants taking all his medals away. At least your date seems to enjoy himself, spilling onto your stomach and falling asleep the minute his head hits the pillows.

“I finished,” last you checked, he hadn't even started.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and try to will the phone to ring. Encased by a stranger’s snoring and a guilty feeling, you let Lady Sleep whisk you away. When your eyes open next, morning has broken and you’re alone in bed with a remnant trace of warmth on the sheets. But the silence is finally gone.

Beyond your door you hear the faint thud of footsteps, the ding of the fridge being opened, the whistle of the kettle. You almost trip in your rush to get dressed, and nearly rip the hinges off the door as you tear it open. Then the smile falls from your face.

“You’re up!” Everyone’s favourite gymnast is there to greet you, a mug in hand as he goes to pull you in for a kiss. The way you swerve is automatic, unplanned, leaving his lips to land on your cheek. “Uhh, I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer, I wanted to bring you breakfast in bed but-”

“He couldn’t figure out how to boil the kettle.”

And there’s Bucky, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look on his face. Aside from the butterfly stitches above his left brow, he looks unharmed. Fine, even. Dressed in all black, with a t-shirt that’s hugging his frame a little too tightly for your liking, the double-combo of his dog-tags and vibranium arm on display. Perfectly safe for a man who couldn’t call.

Your date laughs and sheepishly scratches the back of his head before you get the chance to speak.

“Your brother was kind enough to help me.” It’s unclear who laughs first: Bucky or you. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, just…” Bucky says, shaking the laughter away with a nod of his head. “In what world do me and her look related?”

“Wait, if you’re not her brother then, are you-” Fifty shades of horror spill over the gymnast’s face, his head darting between looking over at Bucky and back at you. “Holy shit, is he your boyfriend?”

“Husband, actually,” the soldier’s all too quick-witted, pushing off the counter and reaching for a mug of brewing coffee. “But don’t worry, we’re open. What do you think of our kitchen lights, by the way? My wife here likes them dim.”

Dumb as he is, your date tilts his head up to inspect the light fixtures.

“Oh, they’re nice!”

That does it for you.

“Bucky, shut up!” You snap, finger pointed over at the menace who’s biting back a smirk and stirring away at his mug, face as innocent as sin. Is this some twisted version of revenge, a punishment for bringing a stranger home? You’d prefer the punishment to be a little more… hands on. Preferably in the form of your slapping that twinkle out of his eyes. “He is not my boyfriend, or my husband. He is the bum that lives on my couch.”

“You see how she treats me, Vince?”

“It’s Lance,” the gymna- Lance corrects him.

Moving towards the kitchen, your eyes check over your roommate once more, as though they expect some previously unseen injury to make an appearance on his skin. Come the end of your search, you’re left looking into a face that is sporting a split brow and a cruel level of entertainment from the situation at hand.

There’s a relief to having him back, and it’s wrestling with the exasperating emotions a single missed call conjured up.

“What are you doing here, anyway? Aren’t you and Sam still meant to be… I don’t know, on a homoerotic getaway, fighting crime?” The questions fire out of you as you slip into one of the island’s stools.

“We finished early,” Bucky appears by your side as though from thin air, hand clasping the back of your seat and pushing you in closer to the counter top.

“Aww, don’t worry, big boy, it happens to the best of you,” you tease, an empathetic pat against his shoulder.

The mockery backfires when you notice his brows shoot up and his stare shifts towards your date, who’s too busy trying to open the sugar jar to notice the dig at his own sexual inabilities.

Wait, when exactly did Bucky get home?

“How do you take your coffee?” One-Thrust-Lance asks you over his shoulder.

Before you can answer, a cup is nudged into your grasp and Bucky looks over you with triumph, metal fingers reaching out to drag over a plate of freshly-baked cookies. The smell of warm vanilla pairs well with the soft musk of his cologne, your eyes nearly roll back inhaling it.

“Mmm,” one sip of your coffee is all you need to know it’s perfect, made exactly to your taste. “Coffee and baked goods… I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

In lieu of any verbal response, the soldier takes to dunking one of the cookies into your mug before stealing a bite out of it. You watch as he chews on the sweet treat, head nodding in approval at his own skills. After he dips a second time, you expect him to take another bite, only to find him offering the chocolate chip goodness up to your mouth. Two eyes, blue as any winter, stare encouragingly while you sink your teeth into the cookie.

Heaven couldn’t taste any sweeter, you think, as the perfect blend of coffee stained dough and the sharpness of the dark chips flood your tastebuds. 

“So messy,” Bucky tuts quietly, his right hand grabbing a steady hold of your chin while his thumb swipes away the crumbs dusting the corner of your mouth.

That thing inside of you stops again as you watch him bring his hand up to his own mouth, a pink tongue poking out to lick his thumb clean.

Arousal thrums through your blood, a pulsing rhythm that spreads straight to your clit. A squeeze of your thighs brings momentary reprieve, yet the ache fights back with renewed force, drying up your throat and knocking the sense right out of you.

Squirming where you sit, your legs switch position until one foot finds itself tucked beneath the opposite thigh, the heel of it sitting perfectly against your clothed core. You find no mercy, no chance to roll your hips forward in search of the balm only friction will bring to your burning skin. Instead there’s simply Bucky, eyes trailing down the length of you and settling on your short-clad legs. As though his behaviour is not cruel enough, he wets his bottom lip with his tongue

“You like that?” More than you’ll ever know, you almost scream until the logical side of your brain takes the wheel again and you notice him pointing down at the half-eaten cookie. Of course he’s enquiring about his baking skills, what else would this scrambled-egg-for-brains senior citizen be talking about? “Are you gonna make me wait all day for an answer?”

Something smashes behind Bucky, just in time to startle away the racy thoughts from your mind.

“My bad!” Your date — who you damn near forgot was even here — is apologising, bending at the waist and trying his best to collect the fractured pieces of a mug off the floor. “Where do you guys keep your dustpan?” 

Bucky pushes away from the island counter, taking the smell of his cologne with him; if you weren’t fully back to your rational senses, you’d miss it.

“I’ll get it, Vince, you just stand there and look pretty.”

“Okay!” Lance, it seems, is just as eager to please the ex-assassin as you almost were a moment ago.

You decide you need to move, to stand up, to stretch your legs. This has nothing to do with the lingering effect of Bucky’s antics, nor the damp patch gathering against your panties.

Slipping off the kitchen stool, you work on chugging down gulps of coffee with every intention of dumping the empty mug into the sink, dashing to your bedroom, and conjuring up the best plan you can come up with to get not only yourself, but also the trash you brought in with you last night out of the apartment and away from an infuriating roommate.

Something on the floor derails you, however, dragging you away from the path to sanctuary. The tiniest red petal, lonesome and neglected upon the cold tile. Three steps over, and there’s another petal. One step until the next petal. You follow the breadcrumb trail all the way over to the garbage can where, with one gentle push of a button, the lid opens up to reveal the unexpected, thrown away like a dirty secret.

A crumpled bouquet of roses.

Everywhere you turn, there’s tension.

In your neck, from sleeping at an unfavourable angle. Within your stomach, where a queasy feeling keeps threatening to spew your guts out onto the bathroom floor. Between you and Bucky, a foreign energy that’s grown over the course of this last week, during which you’ve been avoiding eye contact and his stare is full of accusation.

Retracing your steps, they take you back to the moment Lance left the apartment and you found yourself drowning in Bucky’s company for the first time in weeks. He was barely half-way through poking fun at the choices you made in his absence — most of his focus being on the blubbering fool you brought into your bed — when your patience ran thin and snapped.

Now here you are, bearing the consequence of your own short temper, wiping lipstick off your teeth whilst mentally preparing yourself to go on a second date, planned sheerly out of spite and the need to prove a point.

Poor Lance is none the wiser to his role as pawn in your game of ‘Screw You, Barnes!’.

“Everything okay in there?” Think of the devil and he shall knock on the bathroom door, apparently. “Thought you had your big date at seven.”

The gymnast’s text thread stares back at you, a wall of grey bubbles. You have to swallow down the lump in your throat to speak, “He’s not answering my calls.”

“You’ve been stood up? By that loser?” There’s every chance your storm of emotions is impeding you from thinking straight, but you swear you almost hear a hint of disbelief in Bucky’s voice. Disgust, even.

There’s no point dwelling on the thought.

After a quick wash of your hands, you pry the door open and watch as the soldier leaning against it nearly topples forward before catching himself against the frame. He’s entirely too close for comfort, close enough for you to notice the different shades of blue in his eyes.

“Maybe he broke his phone?” The lack of assurance in your voice has you cringing, the fear of being called out suddenly doubling.

Bucky scoffs, arms crossing over his chest.

“More likely he forgot to charge it.”

Is that what happened to him? Is that why he left you to dwell in the dark over his whereabouts and wellbeing, rendering the usual distraction of a night-time companion useless? Only for you to find him the following morning, right as rain and as annoying as ever, standing in the kitchen and casting judgement-filled glances at your overnight guest?

Thinking about it, about him, brings on an onslaught of anger you’re not willing to address. Not right now.

“Shut up!” It comes across as less independent girlboss and more petulant child, but you’re too busy noticing how firm his chest feels under your palms as you push past him out of the bathroom to care.

Prying open the freezer, you hear the soft click of the toilet door closing. Good, you think, he’s gone away. Out of sight, out of mind. Even if it is only for the short time it takes him to do his business.

That time ends up being even shorter than expected, for only minutes after you’ve dug your spoon into the creamy, frozen goodness of vanilla fudge, the object of both your fascination and your torture is making his way towards the kitchen.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop eating my ice cream?”

“Didn’t I tell you to move out?” Mouth full of vanilla, you shoot him a toothy grin and relish in the grimace it earns you.

Satisfaction melts away when Bucky invades your personal space, metal arm reaching over head and pulling open a cupboard.

“Don’t do that,” you swat at the vibranium bicep, a futile fight that simply makes you all too aware of how smooth it feels beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” Brain of a caveman, Bucky continues his rustling through the cabinet behind you, features as stoic as a rock as though he’s none the wiser to how your chests brush against one another with each exhale.

“That,” another swat at his arm, though this time he yields. The space between you doesn’t grow, however. It worsens, his attention fully falling onto you now. “Reaching over me like you can’t just ask me to move.”

“Fine, if it really bothers you that much,” are the last words you hear before you’re airborne, two hands squeezing at your hips and moving you two steps over and out of the way.

The soldier doesn’t struggle, not even for a moment, the serum that’s altered his DNA leaving him primed and ready to manoeuvre the most steadfast of objects. Manhandle them, too. Pick them up, turn them over, pin them down, make them scream… Objects, of course, or those big, bad guys he and Sam are always chasing after.

The anger in you is renewed, burning brighter than a star ready to die. You shove his hands off of you and secure another step of distance between you.

“Well aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.” With the rate he’s going at, one would think the soldier makes a living out of deepening the frown on your face. “Is this princess’ first time being stood up?”

You’d slap him, right here and now, if it didn’t mean moving closer and touching his skin; the current top two of your ‘Things To Not Do’ list.

Luckily, the tub of ice cream sits just within reach and your eager fingers take grip of it, sliding it over the counter towards yourself. A mouthful of coolness precedes the burning question on your tongue, “Why didn’t you call?”

“Are you serious?” Now he’s the one scowling and taking a step closer.

“Deadly,” you dig the spoon back into the carton. “Now answer the question.”

“You’re pissy with me for not calling, meanwhile I’m the one who came home to some asshole in your bed?”

He’s moving closer. You try to step backwards.

“Yeah, well, if you’d called like you were supposed to, I wouldn’t have ended up with said asshole.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, “Oh, so now it’s my fault that you date degenerates?”

The cackle that escapes you could break the soundbarrier.

“Wow! Everybody, give it up for another original dig at my love-life from James Buchanan Barnes!” Voice dripping with seven layers of venomous sarcasm, you give three slow claps of your hands. The cynical smile that overcomes your face feels borderline deranged, something plucked right out of a horror movie. “Okay, yeah, I date losers! Happy? Jesus Christ, Bucky, what do you expect me to do? It’s not exactly like there’s anyone else lining up to date me.”

“I am!” His voice is raised, his eyes are wide, his chest is heaving. “Maybe I’m the biggest idiot, rushing home last week to surprise you. Even brought you flowers.  I just… Fuck!”

You don’t move, don’t blink, don’t breathe.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, knuckles going white as he pulls on the tresses.

There it is again in his eyes, the accusation.

Even though he’s shaking his head, he steps closer.

The kitchen counter is right behind you, there’s nowhere for you to run.

The heels on your feet almost give out beneath you, you try to steady yourself with your hands.

Bucky has other plans and grips both your forearms.

“I am,” he repeats, softer. Slower. The icy exterior of accusation melts away to reveal vulnerability.

A hand meets your cheek and holds you like you are glass, breakable beneath his touch. Your heart’s in your throat, and there’s a current of electricity running down to your toes, and that neglected hunger in your loins creeps in again. His eyes search your face, while his thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, prying it out an involuntary capture from your teeth.

It’s unclear who reaches for who first, whether he dips and takes possession of your mouth, or you grab him by the collar of his shirt and lay your claim over him. In a matter of seconds, a tentative press of lips against lips divulges into loss of breath, tongues in mouths, and fevered kisses.

The soldier kisses with starvation, like he has walked through the desert of loneliness and at last stumbled upon an oasis, like a bee seeking every last drop of nectar from a flower dying off with the spring, like a body clings to sleep in the throes of exhaustion. It’s a necessity, a human need, a matter of survival to keep your lips interlocked.

The hand on your face holds you steady as he tilts himself deeper into the kiss. Noses brush against the swells of cheeks, eyelids rest close, feet shuffle closer in search of eradicating the crevice of distance between you two. Metal fingers curl around the nape of your neck, a gesture you reciprocate while your spare hand lays flat-palmed against his beating chest. One of his legs winds up between yours and, as he shifts weight from one foot to another, there’s the faintest relief of friction against your cunt and a whine gets caught between your throat and Bucky’s eager mouth.

Despite how you chase his lips, he pulls back and grants you the sight of pure endearment.

“Look at you, whining already. Where’s all that fire gone?” It’s practically a whisper, spoken with fascination. “Or were you just needing Old Bucky to touch you, huh?”

Second-hand embarrassment burns the tips of your ears, while your own unspoken agreement to his question has your stomach twisting up. Survival instincts, that have never been much of a friend, scream at you to flee this feeling, to throw away Pandora’s box before you risk fully opening it and having it consume you.

Bucky intercepts your attempt to push out of his arms.

“Ah, ah, get back here. Not done kissing you,” his words divulge into a barely coherent mumble as he reconnects your lips.

Beneath the heat of his kiss, the discomfort in your chest turns to ashes. Because, while instinct tells you to run from danger, this is Bucky.

Bucky who fixes cupboard hinges, and sleeps with both eyes on the door. Bucky who carries all the shopping, and holds every door. Bucky who calls to hear your voice while he’s away endangering his life, and brings home the silliest trinkets he finds on missions. Bucky who wakes you when you miss your alarm, and knows if you’ve had a bad day simply from looking at your face.

How could you possibly be in danger when it comes to him?

While you’re overcome with epiphany, he’s taken to tracing his lips over the slope of your jaw and mouthing at the skin of your neck. It’s when he lifts you up onto the kitchen counter that your wandering mind is reeled back in, to the physical present where your legs rest on either side of the soldier and the prized possession of vanilla fudge once again sits within reaching distance.

“Are you stealing my ice cream right now?” His lips tickle your collarbone as he speaks, barely  a moment after you’ve scooped the spoon into your mouth.

“I’m warm, and it's melting,” his head pops up just in time to accept the spoonful of vanilla you deliver. There’s a glow in his eyes, one that has you questioning if it's been there all along or if it's a consequence of touching your skin. “Don’t want it to go to waste.”

His mouth is on yours again, a rush of three chaste kisses seared against you before he replies, “Then let’s cool you down.”

At a teasingly slow pace, you feel his fingers tug down your dress’ straps, leaving the silky fabric to slip down your frame and pool around your hips. Under the golden hue of the kitchen lights, his gaze studies your bare skin like it's a work of art, an eighth wonder of the world, the greatest poem never written woven into it. Yet it still manages to pale against the face that overcomes him as he removes a final layer of lace.

Unlike Vince, he has no trouble removing your bra.

“So responsive,” he talks as though only his ears are meant to hear it, his vibranium palm gently taking hold of your left breast and rolling the hardening nipple between two fingers. 

He’s studying your reaction, bewildered by the goosebumps spreading over your flesh.

When was the last time he truly touched another person? Weeks, months, years, decades? The thought of his hands on a faceless shape makes you sick. First with envy, and then with hypocrisy, an amalgamation of all the men you’ve taken to bed flashing before your eyes. But none of them ever touched you like you were porcelain, and none of them looked at you like you held the key to eternal pleasure. None of them were Bucky.

A chill runs down your spine and a gasp rips out your chest as Bucky swipes the spoon over your skin, leaving a trail of ice cream atop your right breast for his tongue to follow. He plants a garden of kisses along the swell of your chest before pulling away to give the left side equal treatment, another creamy river along your skin for him to clean up.

Moving at their own volition, your hips grind gently against his steady figure as Bucky coats your nipple in vanilla, moaning into your chest as he lays claim over you with his mouth. Spoiling you in his kisses, the soldier begins to yearn for friction, meeting the careful roll of your hips with his own.

Your hand finds his hair and his stare meets yours, intense and all-consuming as he releases your nipple with a scrape of his teeth. You want to soothe his kiss-swollen lips but they’re already wrapping themselves around your other breast, not even patient enough to lather you in the vanilla goodness this time.

Instead, the coldness on your skin stems from metal fingers, perched on your thigh and creeping up the length of it, inch by tormenting inch. A hesitant hand wraps around a vibranium wrist, tightening its grip before you begin guiding his touch inwards, upwards, to where you need it most. Bucky's stronger, more resistant, and holds off your interceptance, left hand continuing its intended path beneath the skirt of your dress and grabbing hold of your naked waist.

He’s everywhere, all over you. Mouthing at your chest, gripping at your hip, rutting into your pussy. The sweet drag of his bulge over your clothed core sires a wet patch against your thong and has your fingers tugging on the roots of his hair, winning you the hair-raising hum of a groan against your breast.

Desperate to feel more, you renew your efforts to lead his hand to the space between your legs and are met with a shake of his head.

“No,” he mutters, and robs you of a hand beneath your dress, using it instead to cradle your jaw while his lips skim over the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you.”

The warmth of flesh brands your thigh, Bucky’s right arm now leading the charge beneath the silky fabric. With bated breath, you brace yourself against his strong chest and try not to squirm in anticipation of his touch. With one final squeeze at your inner thigh, the soldier’s hand engulfs your clothed cunt and his breath cracks in your ear, a strangled out, feral noise that has your toes curling.

“She’s so wet, darling,” his voice has you delirious, breathy against your ear. His fingers flex against your pussy and a moan catches in your throat. “You gonna let me touch her?”

Something about the way he’s speaking to you, the words he’s choosing, makes you want to fall apart. Your sex-life has always been liberal, you know what it is to have a man’s hands all over you, trying to take ownership of parts of you he thinks belong to him. Men who take, and take, and take, until there is nothing left of you to give, and not once do they care to win your favour, to plead for permission. But Bucky…

“Please, say I can touch her, wanna give her what she needs,” he’s pleading for it, begging for you — wrecked and desperate, breath run ragged from no more than the relief of rolling his groin against your thigh. “Promise I’ll be real sweat, make you feel good.”

Too caught up in his own head, he doesn’t notice you nodding, until you’re granting him salvation verbally, “Touch me, Bucky.”

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time on taking off your underwear, just moves it to the side and drags the tip of his fingers down the inseam of your pussy. You hear it, more than you feel it, the moment he touches your opening, a sharp inhale at your ear telling you he’s exactly where he wants to be.

As his middle finger slips in, it’s hard to tell which of you reacts louder, both a mess of guttural moans. Once it's fully sheathed within you, he curls it and presses against your soaked walls, grinning against your skin at the reaction it coaxes out of you.

“Don’t hold back,” he chastises you as you bite back another pathetic whimper, a second finger slipping into you. “Let me hear what I’m doing to you.”

He must have a magic touch, you’re sure of it. Thick fingers that fuck into you at a steady pace, curling and teasing at that world-bending spot inside you, while his thumb makes itself useful against your clit, a firm force for your bucking hips to grind up into while you chase the pleasure he’s unleashing on you. In a matter of minutes, the room is alive with your melodic moans, Bucky’s endless hums of approval, and the damn-right embarrassingly loud squelch of him fingering your drooling cunt.

You make the mistake of letting your eyes slip shut, relinquishing yourself to the way he touches you with the rough hands of a soldier yet the delicate stroke of a musician playing his favourite instrument. He must feel the shift in you, for he’s instantly prying his face away from your neck and tightening the metal grip on your jaw, fingertips digging into squished cheeks.

“Look at me,” his words are both a command and a plea. An order you follow and a prayer you answer, eyelashes fluttering open to find his face in front of your own. His lips are a hard line, his brows furrowed in disapproval, and there’s a vein threatening to split down the middle of his forehead, but his eyes. His eyes are affection incarnate, two pools of lust and worship that pose no threat of drowning. “Do you want to cum?”

Never has a more needless question been asked. 

You nod into the force of his vibranium hand, but that’s not what he wants, frown deepening.

“Say it,” needy, helpless, spoken like he’s the one on the brink of ecstasy. “Please.”

“Bucky,” it feels good to say his name like this, brain melting into mush and heart racing in your chest. “I want you to let me cum.”

“Let you?” He’s offended by the word, fingers burying impossibly deeper inside of you while he continues to stare you down. “I beg of you.”

No warning precedes the coil in you snapping. The muscles in your core tense, your back arches into his broad figure, your pussy squeezes at Bucky’s fingers with a death grip. He guides you through it, ignoring the cramp in his wrist in favour of continuing to fuck his hand into you, a smile finally cracking over his face as he watches you fall apart atop the counter, nothing but Bucky, Bucky, Bucky surrounding you.

He tries to give you reprieve, a moment to breathe and savour the buzz in your veins, the hand around your jaw shifting to stroke at your cheek while the hand between your legs soothes you with featherlight touches.

You don’t let him, hand pawing down his torso and gripping at the belt of his jeans, delighting in the familiar clang of a buckle being undone, nimble digits that tear leather out its loop and tug down his zipper. Bucky’s bringing his lips back against yours just as you palm at his bulge, his tongue licking into your mouth when you finally release him from the confines of his boxers.

Fingers coated in your own slick grip at your thigh while the soldier makes it his mission to steal your breath, rendering you blind to the sight of his cock. But you can feel it. The weight of it in your hand, the burn of want ingrained in his skin. The width of it, and the length of it, and the perfectly mushroomed tip that has him keening into your touch as your pointer finger drags over the head.

“Is this what I do to you?” Still lost in the maze of your orgasm, you manage to gain back crumbs of your usual confidence watching Bucky fall mute. When he merely nods, you play him at his own game, fingers back in his hair and forcing him to look you in the eye. “Say it.”

He doesn’t.

He says something much better.

“D’you even realise how many nights I’ve laid on that fucking couch, hard as a rock and willing you to come out your room?”

“That’s your generation's problem, you know?” You whisper teasingly, incapable of fighting off your own laughter. “You swear more than you breathe.”

“C’mere,” he’s rolling his eyes and pulling you in, kissing you like it’s been a milenia and not a minute, hand nudging yours out the way to take a hold of himself.

Your teeth graze over his tongue as he drags the head of his cock through your folds, and he groans into your mouth before pulling back. Resting his forehead against yours, he’s teasing you both as his tip brushes over your hole before continuing its rutt up, bumping against your sensitive clit.

A wicked voice takes control of your mouth.

“Lance would have fucked me by now.”

“Vince would have cum by now, too,” he’s still rocking his hips, no sense of urgency behind the way he soaks himself in you.

Meanwhile, you’re a handful of seconds away from screaming at him to just stick it in already.

“You- Oh!” Prayers answered, hallelujah, his cock finally sinks into you. It’s a shallow thrust, barely more than the tip before he’s retreating, yet it's enough to mess with your head. “You heard us?”

“Unfortunately,” and he means it, the most subtle of pouts forming on his lips before he feeds himself a little deeper into your pussy. “I’m not great when it comes to timing.”

“I only slept with Lance because you-” Right on cue, he fucks into you even deeper and your words dissappear before they can reach your tongue.

“New rule,” a hand rests on your knee and encourages you to spread your legs wider. “No speaking another man’s name when you’re in bed with me.”

“Technically, this is the kitchen counter-” The bastard does it again, cuts you off with his dick — if it didn’t feel so damn good, you’d slap him.

He’s bottomed out at last, buried himself fully in your cunt. Hands snake around your waist, one palm flattening against your lower back while the other rests a little further up and guides your spine to arch into him, closer, like there’s anymore space left between you to devour.

His pace is still slow, teasing. A toe-curling drag of his cock out of you, letting you feel every ridge and vein before his hips promptly snap back into you and send your eyes rolling back, your head falling back — and smacking loudly against the cupboard door behind you.

Bucky freezes, one hand quick to cradle the back of your skull while his eyes scan over you.

“Jesus, doll, you okay?” 

“Please don’t stop,” you plead, ridiculously unfazed by the faint ache when you’ve got him inside of you.

Even though he rolls his eyes, he complies.

“Might have just given you a concussion and all you care about is getting fucked?” He asks, like you could possibly care about anything else when his arms are hooking themselves under your knees and rucking you up off the counter, away from any rogue cupboard that means you harm.

If anything, you’ll gladly shoulder the burden of any possible injury, if it means being granted the sight of his biceps tensing as he effortlessly stands there and fucks you down onto him. Were you in any sane state of mind, you wouldn’t think it, but god bless that super soldier serum.

“You can give me a cockcussion for all I care,” head perched on his shoulder, you watch your nails sink into the fabric of his shirt and wish it would disappear and gift you the naked view of his back.

“Adding that to the list,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing a kiss against it.

Legs bent at the knee, you watch how, with one particularly deep thrust, they bounce at either side of him and one of your heels clatters to the floor.

The room pivots as Bucky turns, you still in his arms and your ankles locked behind his back. At first, you believe he’s aiming to move things into the bedroom, where the only thing your head will be hitting is the mattress when he lays you down. He proves you wrong, however, the cold press of marble against you once more as he settles you down onto the kitchen island.

Much to your chagrin, he slips out of you, cock now sitting pretty against his clothed abdomen and glistening with the sheen of your essence. In the blink of an eye, the soldier is sinking to his knees, metal finger reaching back for your fallen shoe.

The scene plays out like something stripped right out of a morally dubious, low quality pornography retelling of Cinderella, in which Prince Charming has his dick out, Cinderella’s gown is half-way off, and the infamous glass slipper is just a pair of heels you bought on sale.

Bucky is delicate and slow, mouth tickling at your inner knee as he secures the shoe in place. He rests back on his haunches and fully takes in the sight of you, perched upon the counter, hands splayed out on marble, a tangle of silk around your waist, lips parted in search of steady breathing.

There’s an intensity to his gaze, burrowing itself beneath your skin and becoming part of your bloodstream, spreading throughout your body. It makes you want to hide, flee like you do best, but Bucky has other plans.

“The shoes stay on, but this,” Bucky’s fingertips tug lightly on the hem of your dress, exposing a sliver of new skin. “I need this gone. Am I allowed to take it off?”

There he goes again, face the model of innocence while he asks for permission to your body. If you weren’t already dripping against your panties, you would be now. Luckily, he doesn’t push you to verbalise your agreement this time, more than eager to comply the moment you nod your head.

You wiggle your hips as he pulls the fabric out from beneath you, his grip snagging on the waistband of your thong and dragging it away alongside the dress. When your ass cheeks press back down onto the cool of the counter, reality hits you like a freight-train: you’re completely nude, with Bucky on his knees before you, in the middle of the kitchen.

“Buck,” the y of his nickname disappears as you feel him peppering kisses of your leg, inching that little bit higher each press of his mouth. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to remember where your rational thoughts are stored, conjuring up images of friends, of Sam sitting at this very surface. “I don’t think we should… I mean, people eat off this counter!”

“Don’t worry,” reaching the threshold of your thigh, his kisses seem to speed up, that sauve and composed exterior chipping away to reveal a man who no longer wants to take his time with you. “I intend to eat.”

No sooner than the words reach your ears, Bucky swipes his tongue up your pussy and any fight left in you melts away as you turn to putty beneath his touch, soft and malleable, willing to sit there and take whatever he wants to give.

Give, he most certainly does. Lips latch onto your clit, hands hold your squirming hips in place, tongue dances over your most delicate areas before dipping into your entrance. He drinks from you like you’re the sweetest honey, the richest of red wines, the Holy Grail promising an eternal youth to a man whose time was stolen from him.

“You should see her, doll,” there’s a rasp in Bucky’s voice, a feral undertone to the growl that rests in the back of his throat. One hand tugs his shirt off while the other snakes between your legs, two fingers spreading your lips open in an obscene gesture that has you clamping down on your bottom lip. “She’s drooling for me, all pretty and wet.”

Dropping both your legs over his shoulders, he tugs you right to the edge of the counter and dives back in. You feel his nose bump against your clit and your hand grabs onto your thigh, nails piercing into flesh as your mouth sings a whined symphony.

Vibranium curls around your wrist, prying harm away from your own skin and silently imploring you to hurt him instead, nestling your fingers back into his hair. He’s renewing his effort, a touch that’s more determined than ever to make you fall apart, on his knees and worshipping the altar of your body — fealty and devotion seared into each lap of his tongue, each brush of his lips, each stroke of his fingers.

Who are you to reject his piety? You welcome it, with closed fist and glassy eyes. The soldier shudders — a full-body shiver that shakes down his spine — as the point of your heel digs into his back and your fingers squeeze at his scalp, no mercy shown as you lose yourself in the throes of lust.

When you cum, a silent scream rips through your chest and a burning-too-bright white light turns you blind. He doesn’t let up, tongue still buried in your convulsing walls as your thighs clamp around his head and your feet kick at his back, shoes flying elsewhere into the kitchen. He pays none of it any mind, content to prolong your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, slowly rising off his knees with two hands pinning you back against the counter while he continues to feast on your pleasure.

“Ja-mes,” a fractured call of his name is all it takes for him to stop, pupils more black than blue as they stare down at the picture you paint atop the counter: teary-eyes, swollen lips, heaving chest.

He’s hardly the image of composure either, red lines along the expanse of his back, hair a tousled mess, the scruff on his face covered in a sheen of your juices. And, yet, never have you wanted to kiss him so bad.

All you manage, after minutes of floating atop the cloud of your peak, is a cheeky grin and a comment that makes him roll his eyes: “For a fossil, you’re pretty kinky.”

“War camps aren’t exactly known for being fun,” as he speaks, he slowly lowers your legs off his shoulder. “You find ways to keep yourself entertained.”

“Bet you were quite the pleaser, huh?” Trying your best to play it cool, you lay your head fully back on the counter and stare up  at the ceiling, praying he doesn’t notice the hypocritical pit forming in your stomach as you listen to your own words. “Probably had all the prettiest nurses fighting over who gets to tend to your poor, aching, throbbing co-”

“Jealousy looks cute on you,” he interrupts, amused, as his hands soothe over your hips.

“I’m not jealous!” You exclaim, barely believing yourself.

One hand reaching out for him, you watch your fingers intertwine with the prosthetic digits and let him tug you back up, chest to chest when his hand finds your cheek.

“I was,” his confession is crooned whilst staring right into your eyes, the tiniest up-turn to his mouth. “Everytime you walked out the door to go date a new loser.”

“Who knew,” your voice is as gentle as his own, nonchalant as a finger dances down the well-defined muscles of his abdomen and elicits a groan out of him. “All along I had my own loser at home.”

Bucky opts for silence as your hand reaches his groin and pays no mind to his cock, red-tipped and leaking, flushed against his stomach. You’re more interested in his jeans — in removing them, to be exact. It doesn’t take much, a sharp tug at the hem before they’re slipping off, meeting restraint as they cling to his muscled thighs and implore him to finish the job on your behalf, shucking them off blindly to where the rest of your clothes lie.

You must have saved a village in a past life to be rewarded with the view of a completely nude Bucky Barnes, skin stained by lust and laced with gold beneath the kitchen light. You must have saved the rest of the world, too, to watch how his eyes roll back and his mouth falls slack when you take his length in hand and give one slow pump of your wrist, releasing it just to watch it slap back against his abdomen.

As you reach for his dick again, his hand secures itself around your own and guides it up and down the length of it. Once, twice, thrice, till he’s breathing heavily and dripping in pre-cum.

“You must be close,” a statement you make with his own bodily reaction as evidence to back it up, yet there’s still room for doubt — to what extent does that soldier serum interfere with him?

“Put me back down on my knees and I’ll cum to the taste of you,” the soldier certainly makes a tempting offer, one that it almost pains you to refuse.

Almost, if you hadn’t already felt the sweet stretch of him inside you.

“Pretty sure putting you back down on your knees might be considered elder abuse, ole buddy.”

“My age may be a hundred and six but-”

“Exactly my point.”

“But my body isn’t,” he’s using that stare of his, the one Sam always warns you about, while  you’re full-on cheesing, a rush of adrenaline shooting through your veins as you wind him up.

“Remind me, who threw their back out a few weeks ago pulling a tray of muffins out the oven?”

His flesh hand grips behind one of your knees and tugs you right to the edge of the counter, while his left one, still clasped over your own, drags his tip over your folds.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain when you drunkenly ate half the tray and then threw up over the rest,” admittedly, not one of your proudest moments.

“Shut up and fuck me, Barnes.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Just like that, you’re drowning in him again, gasping for breath as you lose yourself in a flood of lust. Bottomed out, stuffing you full, Bucky barely graces your pussy with the chance to adjust to his stretch once more before he’s moving, the sweet graze of every inch being dragged along your sensitive walls.

Your nerves are still reeling from his mouth, a quiet hum of electric pleasure reawakened by his throbbing cock and his vulgar mouth.

“She fits me like a fucking glove,” his hands are pawing at your waist, your breast, your face, never in one place for too long as he begins to settle into a rhythm of thrusts. “Doing so good for me, darling.”

The softness put into his term of endearment births an ache in your chest, one that will accept no medicine other than your arms around his neck and his lips on yours. Mouths tangled in kisses and sweat dripping down your skin, Bucky halts — your hips pressed together, the swell of his balls resting right against your swollen cunt, the head of his cock resting right against your sweet spot — and grinds.

Slow, deliberate, delicious. You whine into his mouth and feel how he swallows it, feasts on your ecstasy with a willing tongue, and a smiling mouth, and possessive teeth that tug at your lip as he pulls back. He stretches out the feeling, grinding a second time as your noses bump against one another.

“Bucky,” his name is an anchor, a paperweight, something to ground you amidst the floaty feeling of being two orgasms deep with a third approaching any time now.

“I know,” he says, and you believe him. Believe that he knows, that he’s known, that he always knows when it comes to you.

You lay your head to rest upon on his left shoulder when he returns to chasing a high between your thighs, a renewed vigor behind each thrust that has your hips rolling to meet his and your nails raking over the straining muscles of his back.

“I lied,” an unprompted confession stumbles out his mouth, fingers flexing into their grip on your waist. “About the apartment viewing. I didn’t go.”

“Bucky,” is all you can manage, branded into his skin with a kiss along his neck.

“Is that all you can say? Huh?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, paired to perfection with the pad of his thumb rubbing at your clit. “I’m giving pivotal revelations here, and you’re just gonna reply with that?”

Another echo of his name, walls fluttering around his dick.

“Bucky, Bucky,” he’s mocking you, a torturer’s laugh as he moans his name into your ear. “Keep going, you sound so pathetic it’s almost cute.”

Beyond words and beyond sense, you give in to the weight of his palm splaying against your stomach and guiding your back down onto the island. The soldier hooks your legs over his elbows, deepening the angle that his cock fucks into you, and you swear you see stars dance along the kitchen ceiling.

A hand smooths over your gut and you look back at Bucky to find adoration in his eyes.

“You see that?” You almost want to cry when his movement switches back to a slow drag — innnnn and outtttt — until you notice it: the smallest hint of movement beneath your flesh, a subtle visual of the outline of his tip bulging against your skin from inside you. “See how full she is, how good I’m making her feel?”

Pressing your hand against it, you can’t help but giggle as you feel him poke at your palm, only to fall back into a puddle of incoherent noises when he keeps pushing at that sweet spot, over and over. Harder and faster with each draw back of his hips, you feel rivulets of your own arousal roll down your ass and onto the marble, tainting the counter forevermore in the sins the soldier commits against you, the sins you welcome with open legs.

You’re near the edge again, and he feels it, pushing you closer and closer as he slowly spirals into a mess of phrases that barely begin before he’s cutting them off with something new.

“Don’t deserve this-” He catches himself, rips the insecurity in his voice out by the roots. “C’mon, let me see it one more time. Need to see you fall apart.”

“Want you to fall apart too,” you manage to beg, unwilling to watch him hold back or pull out before he finishes. “Please!”

Like any good soldier, he obeys.

Crashing over you like a wave, he’s doubled-over by the waist and sandwiching you between the counter and him. You feel him spill into you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls white as a third crescendo washes over your body.

Both of you seek out the other as his thrusts grow languid and your walls spasm, milking him for every last drop he’s got. When your mouths meet, it’s less of a kiss and more of you simply breathing into the other, exchanging air and body heat.

“So,” you croak eventually, exhausted and spent atop the counter yet completely unwilling to relinquish him from blanketing you. “Are you gonna do that every time I steal your ice cream?”

Somewhere between jello-ed legs and cold compresses, you wind up in bed.

Skin clammy, lips swollen, lust satiated, you practically melt into the buttery softness of your bed sheets as Bucky lays you down. Despite how you’re still basking in the glow of your third and final orgasm, the soldier seems to think, for a second, you can handle another.

With gentle hands prying open your thighs and a curious tongue diving in for a second helping, licking up the dribble of his own cum spilling out your hole, he’s quick to be corrected when you roll away from his touch with a whine and a plea, “think I might actually die if you make me cum again, Buck.”

He’s unbothered by the rejection, wholly embracing it as he curls up behind you and snakes his arms over your naked skin. It’s you who drags the sheet up and over you both, turning in his arms to plant your head on his chest. His heart races beneath it, but you hold off on teasing — your own isn't any better.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” you whisper out into the room, when moonlight is peeking through your curtains and both of your heartbeats have calmed down.

“I’m sorry,” you feel him shift beneath your head and, though you can’t fully see him, you feel that blue gaze land on you. “Have I not made it clear enough what name you should be saying in bed?”

“There’s a serious chance I’ll die and you’re thinking with your dick,” he squirms as you pinch at his nipple. “You’re no better than the men on your list, Barnes.”

Silence floats back in between you for a moment, peaceful as the slow stroke of his fingers dancing up your spine.

“Why would Sam kill you?” He pauses, hand pressing a little harder down against a knot in your shoulder.  “He knows you have a crazy guard dog.”

Your crazy guard dog just pressed a kiss against your forehead, how frightening.

“He made me swear I wouldn’t get involved with you. He said you weren’t in the headspace for a relationship, that you needed to focus on inner peace first.”

“Turns out inner peace is being inside of you,” you pinch at his nipple again. This time, he doesn’t run from it. This time, you almost swear you hear a little moan creep up his throat. “So, Wilson’s to blame? I can get behind that.”

“To blame for what?”

His hand’s now running up and down the back of your arm, leaving goosebumps wherever its tender touch goes. 

“Why it took you so long to jump my bones.”

“You think I jumped your-” Your head rises off his chest and you stare into the navy darkness of the room, trying to make a concrete shape out where you see shadows of his face. “Wait, so these past few weeks, I’ve not been hallucinating? You’ve been… flirting?”

“It’s been more than a couple weeks, sweetheart,” Bucky seems to have no problem finding you in the dark, hand cupping your cheek and dragging you up to press a chaste kiss against your mouth. “You don’t seriously think I waited until morning to check that sink without hoping to be caught, do you?”

“So you were slutting yourself out on the kitchen floor!”

“Think the kitchen’s seen worse,” worse might be the understatement of the century.

Clothes still lay discarded, counters unwiped, ice cream completely melted. Cleaning you up had been the soldier’s only priority, and you weren’t in the mood or the mindstate to argue with him on that.

A fingertip tickles down the slope of your nose.

“Stop fighting it, you’re tired,” you hear him whisper.

“I want to hear more about your desperate efforts to get my attention,” it’s nothing but a weak protest.

“We have all the time in the world for that. Sleep,” you don’t hesitate to comply when Bucky’s hand presses you back down against the warmth of his chest. “You’re going to need it. Our upstairs neighbours still need a taste of their own medicine.”

+ extra hyde !

· 70% of this fic is just dialogue, these two losers would not stfu! · writing banter + sexual tension feels more exposing than writing literal porn. · lore accurate photo of me whenever bucky barnes exists:

The man who stepped in looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His jacket was damp, his hair curling at the ends from the rain, and when his eyes met yours, your Fig chirped in your ear. 

You almost missed it, but when your eyes dropped, and you saw the metal arm— Wakandan vibranium peeking from the edge of his jacket sleeve. You recognised him immediately. 

Fig tilted his head sharply and gave a warning chirp, feathers fluffed. His stranger danger mode had kicked in.

“He’s not a threat,” you whispered to the bird, which was easier said than done, considering the adorable thing was deathly protective over you.

Bucky looked at Fig. Fig looked back. 

Fig chirped again, and he was not disapproving, just skeptical. He was always wary of people with metal limbs after a bad experience with a garden gnome.

“Another Avenger in my shop,” you said with a welcoming smile. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be.”

He blinked, stopped mid-step like you’d just spoken in Morse code. “I—what?”

“You’re taller in person.” You repeated and shrugged. “Our mutual acquaintance showed me some team-outing photos.”

That earned you a half wary, half confused head tilt, maybe a little amused, but he walked up to the counter anyway. Fig ruffled his feathers, clearly intrigued.

Bucky rested his non-metal hand on the wood between you, glancing around the cosy space. “Bob did say this place was good.”

You gave him a half-smile. Bob came in a few months when he moved to the tower in New York, asking for a blend of herbal leaves that would aid in his recovery, and since then, he had already sent in two other avengers in here– Yelena needed a calming brew and Ava needed one that helped with her energy— but you didn’t think he’d send yet another one your way. 

“He’s right,” you said confidently.

“He said,” Bucky measured his world carefully, “You could help me sleep.”

The words were small, but they didn’t feel fragile. It was as if he’d said them before to empty rooms and gotten nothing back.

You nodded, already turning to reach for a jar labeled Nightangel Brew.

“Do you have trouble falling or staying asleep?” you asked. 

“I….” he paused. “A bit of both.”

You worked while you talked, scooping a blend of lemon balm, passionflower, valerian root, and a few curls of dried orange peel into a parchment sachet as an addition to the basic blend. The scent drifted up into the air. It was soothing, almost citrusy.

“No allergies?” you asked, as you scooped a bit of sea salt.

“No,” he confirmed.

You hesitated only a second before writing something on a notecard and slipping it into the brown paper bag with the tea.

He glanced at it, then at you. “You put your number on here.”

“Yep.”

He looked at you, amused but not complaining. “That’s… bold.”

You leaned in a bit. “Relax,” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “I only put my phone number in there in case you have questions about brewing the tea.”

Bucky took the sachet, eyes narrowing slightly. “You brew it differently?”

You shrugged like it was obvious. “It’s not just steep-and-dump. If you want flavour and effect, you’ve gotta be kind to it. Use a covered mug to keep the volatile oils from evaporating. Bonus points if you add honey after it cools a little. Or call Bob, he’ll tell you I lectured him for ten minutes once about not microwaving water in a mug.”

He huffed between a scoff and a laugh. Fig chirped curiously.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip twitching again. “And if I had questions about… more than the tea?”

You blinked, a little thrown off. But still, you leaned a little closer and said, “Then I’d probably still tell you to steep it for five minutes and not call after midnight unless it’s a tea emergency.”

He picked up the bag and took a step back. “Thanks…?”

You offered your name.

He repeated it slowly, like he was letting it settle on his tongue. “Okay. I’ll, uh… let you know how it goes.”

You shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, come back. We’ll adjust the blend. Or if you want to introduce yourself to Fig properly. He’s still undecided about you.”

As if on cue, Fig flapped his wings slightly and let out a single unimpressed chirp.

Bucky smiled, giving the bird a mock salute with his vibranium fingers. “Tough crowd.”

“Don’t worry,” you said. “He warms up. Eventually.”

The door jingled again as he left, disappearing into the curtain of rain outside.

You turned back to your shelf and sighed. Fig nuzzled into your cheek like he agreed.

“Yeah,” you whispered to him, smiling. “He’ll be back.”

—

After the last customer left and the bell over the tea shop door gave its tired little jingle, you flipped the sign to CLOSED, turned off the lights, and let out a deep breath.

It had been a long day — stormy weather always brought in the insomniacs, the anxious, and the romantics. You didn’t mind. You liked helping people who let tea cool in their hands before sipping it. People who didn’t ask questions about the strange, overgrown rosemary plant in the window that occasionally moved on its own as if readjusting their posture. People who didn’t ask questions when vines curled around your wrist as you asked permission to pluck her delicate leaves.

But tonight… you were tired.

Fig settled on your shoulder with a chirp and nuzzled into your neck.

“You really shouldn’t judge customers,” you scolded him. “Even the one who asked if we had matcha Red Bull.”

Fig screeched, offended.

“I know, I know,” you whispered, locking the back door. 

You walked home in the drizzle, jacket wrapped tight around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way your fingertips itched with energy.

You had a feeling something was waiting for you at home.

And sure enough — when you pushed open the creaky door of your little apartment across the street, you felt the presence of… magic. 

You dropped your keys into the wooden bowl by the door and looked around.

There, on your kitchen table, was a scroll, the mystical equivalent of a fax machine.

You sniffed the air, smelling sandalwood, ash, and a touch of cosmic ozone.

“Wong,” you muttered, stepping closer as Fig flew up to his perch in the corner of the room.

The scroll unrolled the moment you touched it.

To the Esteemed Herbalist of Fig & co The Sanctum Sanctorum requests your assistance once again. We are in need of a Class IV Lucidity Draught (stable, shelf-safe, dream-filtered, and no substitutions). Preferably before next quarter moon. Strange has broken another Mirror of Insight and refuses to admit it. Discretion appreciated. Your potions are still the most reliable in this dimension, no matter what the New Orleans apothecaries claim. Payment enclosed, as always. - Wong P.S. Fig is due for his magical familiar certification renewal. Please see attached.

You sighed, a mix of fondness and exhaustion tugging at your lips. “Of course he broke another mirror.”

Fig puffed up proudly at the mention of his name and squawked. You held up the attached pouch — sure enough, a handful of glittering stardust coins nestled inside, along with a single enchanted pearl. Payment, plus a bonus. Wong never forgot to tip.

You carefully rolled the scroll back up and tucked it into the hollow panel behind your spice cabinet — the one no one ever noticed because you’d warded it with three layers of disinterest. 

You lit a few candles, cast a quick circle, and whispered the potion recipe into the air, watching the herbs rearrange themselves on your shelf. 

The Lucidity Draught would take three nights to finish. The rarest ingredients you needed were water from the last rainfall (you always kept a bucket on your roof), rosemary that had bloomed under starlight, and a vial of sleep-ink that could only be harvested from a page left unread for seven years.

Luckily… you had all of that. Fig helped. He always knew where you stashed things.

“I told you not to bring me the experimental saffron strain,” you sent him away to fetch another vial, “It messes with dimensional boundaries.”

As the potionwork began and the ingredients simmered in your teapot, you glanced out the window, down at the street. From here, you could just barely see the windows of your own shop below, the sign swaying slightly in the rain.

Fig hovered over your shoulder, preening like a supervisor.

“You know,” you muttered as you decanted a viscous blue liquid into a tiny vial to age over a couple of days, “I like the tea shop because it doesn’t ask anything magical of me.”

Fig whistled knowingly. You glanced at him.

None of your normal customers knew, and you’d like to keep it that way. You never used magic in the shop — not even the smallest charm. 

Everything you sold, everything you brewed, was just herbal blends. Because you loved tea in all its simplicity, its kindness, and its ritual.

As you sealed the last potion bottle, Fig let out a pleased trill and landed back on the candleholder.

You smiled, finally letting your shoulders relax.

Tomorrow, you'd go back to being the local tea seller who definitely wasn’t a real witch.

You’d refill your Nightangel Brew, maybe add a new jasmine blend to the shelf.

And maybe—just maybe—keep an eye on the door.

In case a certain former assassin with a metal arm came back.

Not that you were thinking about him.

Much.

—

Two days later, the shop had just opened for the morning, and you were doing what you always did first thing: steeping a pot of your current favorite (today: chamomile, cinnamon, and a drop of pear extract), restocking the honey jars, and politely telling Fig that no, he could not perch directly on the loose-leaf tins like a goblin king.

There were no customers yet. You put on classical cello music on the speakers, whispered a patience charm into your tea steam, and Fig flipped the “Open” sign in the window.

And then your phone buzzed.

Fig, perched on the hanging rack above you, looked down with narrowed eyes. He hated when technology interrupted your tea time. You ignored him.

The message was from a number you didn’t recognise.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Bucky. I think I burned it last night.

You blinked. A second message came in immediately after.

BUCKY : The tea. Not the tower.

You snorted in amusement, already typing.

YOU: I told you to steep it for five minutes in a covered mug. Not boiling water. I gave you the rules, Barnes. Did you microwave it?

Fig hissed. It sounded personal.

Your phone buzzed again.

BUCKY: I didn’t microwave it. I used a pot. Then I forgot about the pot.

You burst into laughter, startling Fig so badly he flapped his wings and knocked over your cinnamon jar. You sighed but didn’t stop smiling.

YOU: I'm not mad. Just disappointed.

BUCKY: Is this a customer service line or an ouija board for my dad?

YOU: sorry.

There was a longer pause before his next message.

BUCKY: Can I come by later? Try again, maybe supervised?

You stared at that message a moment longer than you meant to. Fig peered down at your screen, then made a throaty little hmm noise.

You didn’t look up. You just typed.

YOU: Sure. I think Fig wants to watch you try.

BUCKY: Of course he does. Is it weird I kind of want to impress a bird.

You smiled.

YOU: He is the true owner of the shop.

And as you set your phone down and turned to your blend-in-progress, you chuckled excitedly to yourself.

—

That afternoon, you were restocking the lemongrass jars when the door chimed.

Not the jingle-jangle of a casual browser or the clumsy shoulder-first push of a tourist trying to escape the rain.

You didn’t even turn around before speaking.

“Been waiting for you all day, Barnes.”

He paused before huffing out a small laugh. “I think I’ve earned ‘Bucky’ by now.”

You turned, and yep — there he was,standing just inside the shop like he wasn’t sure if he should touch anything, hair still slightly damp from the mist outside. He wore a dark sweater this time, sleeves rolled halfway up. 

And under his arm was… a mug.

You tried not to smile too obviously. “You brought your own?”

“I figured if I’m going to fail,” he said, “I should at least fail in my favourite one. And maybe Fig would be kinder to me because I’m not going to ruin one of your mugs.”

As if summoned by name, the parakeet popped up from the shelf behind you and gave a long chirp — somewhere between amused and unimpressed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Bucky muttered to the bird, pretending to understand him. “I’m not microwaving it this time.”

You took the mug from him, inspecting it. It was chipped near the rim, clearly well-loved, and had a faded print of a tree with roots stretching into a starry sky.

“This one’s seen things,” you said.

He gave a small smile. “Like its owner.”

You looked up. “That’s not always a bad thing.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between you, long enough to be noticeable. Just long enough for Fig to tilt his head like oh?

You cleared your throat. “Come on. To the bar.”

He followed you to the counter where you had already set out the tin of Nightangel Brew and a small linen pouch of fresh lemon.

You placed the kettle on its heating plate. “Step one. Know your water.”

“...Know it?”

You nodded. “Boiling water is murder on herbs, remember? You don’t want a rolling boil — you want a simmer with little bubbles.”

Bucky leaned in a little, his brow furrowed in focused concentration — or maybe just to smell. You pretended not to notice how close he was standing. Fig, however, absolutely noticed, and can’t decide if he was rooting for you or jealous of his proximity. 

Bucky watched as you spooned the herbs gently into a steeping sachet and placed it in his mug. You handed him the kettle.

“Go ahead. Don’t rush.”

He raised an eyebrow but followed your instructions. Carefully, he poured slow circles, then covered the mug with the little ceramic lid you passed him.

“Five minutes,” you said. “Exactly. ”

“Noted.”

You leaned against the bar, watching the steam rise from the gaps. “So what happened yesterday? Got distracted?”

He hesitated. You saw it in his jaw.

Then he said, “I didn’t need it to sleep at first, but… then I woke up from a nightmare. Couldn’t get back to sleep. Thought I’d try the tea, but I didn’t time it right. Kinda… zoned out.”

Your shoulders dropped kindly, “Well, hopefully, brewing it right will help.”

Fig fluttered down and landed between you both on the bar, watching Bucky quietly, tilting his head like a therapist trying to decide how to phrase advice kindly.

“I don’t usually talk about that,” Bucky said.

“I don’t usually let people behind the bar,” you replied.

Fig chirped like an alarm.

“Five minutes is up,” you said.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrows, wondering how a bird was even trained to even have a perfect internal clock, “How—“

You ignored him and lifted the lid, gently removed the sachet, and handed the mug back to him. “Moment of truth.”

He cradled it in both hands and took a careful sip.

Then another.

He closed his eyes.

“…Okay,” he said, eyes opening again. “That’s… nice.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but this feels… good.”

Fig chirped proudly once, then flew back to his perch.

Bucky set the mug down, but didn’t back away from the counter.

“So… how do I know if it’s actually working?”

“It works differently for different people.” You shrugged. “But it usually calms people down enough to doze off.”

He nodded, “You ever drink it?”

You hesitated, patting the bench next to you as you sat. “Not lately.”

And as he sat down beside you, sipping tea while the shop filled with the smell of brewing herbs, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe you didn’t mind letting this one in.

—

Bucky came back a few days later and said the blend was “doing something,” which for him, apparently, meant actually falling asleep. He looked better. Still guarded, sure — but the edges were blunting.

He came alone at first. Always late morning or just before closing. He brought his mug. You helped brewed his tea.

He never asked for anything else.

But he lingered every time. And each time, it got a little longer.

By week two, Bucky was coming in more days than not. He was always watching you  in that not-trying-to-stare way that somehow made the staring worse.

You noticed he always sat at the same stool, second from the left, near the side table that housed your pothos. 

You didn’t tell him it was your favourite spot, but you started making tea for two without asking.

You sat down next to him and started talking about your day. 

Fig, meanwhile, hopped over to Bucky’s elbow and gave it a single approving peck. You paused mid-sip.

“Did he just…?”

Bucky nodded solemnly. “He’s warming up to me.”

“Must be the mug,” you said. “Or the absurd amount of honey you put in your tea.”

“I like sweet things.”

You glanced up and looked away. 

By week four, Fig had officially defected.

He no longer dive-bombed Bucky’s boots.

He started landing on his shoulder.

And once, he let Bucky feed him a dried goji berry by hand without biting him.

“You’re a traitor,” you said, crossing your arms.

Bucky grinned. “He likes me.”

Fig preened like a smug little demon and settled into Bucky’s scarf like it was his new throne.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered playfully, sweeping behind the counter.

Then came the day he walked in with Bob Reynolds.

Bob had been a customer before Bucky. He loved your rosehip tisanes. He said they calmed the void in his chest, whatever that meant. He said it also helped with his cravings.

He greeted you, his usual dandelion-yellow hoodie bunched at the elbows. Then glanced back toward Bucky with a half-smirk.

“This the one who keeps you smiling when you’re supposed to be restocking the chamomile?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You’ve been talking to Fig, haven’t you.”

“Bird’s got opinions,” Bob said, shrugging. 

Bucky, behind him, tried very hard not to react. You caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth anyway.

They sat, ordered. Bob teased. Bucky endured it with the long-suffering patience of someone who was painfully aware of the dynamic forming in plain sight.

And it wasn’t just Bob.

Next came Yelena— a regular customer who insisted your “spicy blend” was the only thing that ever helped her relax. She strolled in one rainy Tuesday, spotted Bucky already at the counter, and raised one finely shaped brow.

“Oh,” she said, flicking her hair back. “You’ve been domesticated.”

“I came for tea,” Bucky muttered.

“You came for her tea,” she corrected, greeting you with a wave and eyeing you both with curiosity and delight. 

“Leave,” he said flatly, but didn’t actually tell her to stop.

You served her with a smile, and she left with a wink — but not before whispering loud enough for Fig to hear, “She’s too smart to be pretending she doesn’t know what’s going on.”

The next day, Ava came in to try a new blend. 

Ava was more subtle, but no less perceptive. She came in between field assignments, ordered your anti-inflammation brew, and then paused when she saw Bucky sitting behind the counter with Fig perched on his shoulder.

She looked between you two. 

Then simply said, “So… how long have you been not-dating?”

You coughed into the tea towel. Bucky didn’t even look up. “We’re not—”

“Sure,” Ava replied, deadpan. “Fig won’t even look at me, but he likes Bucky? Something must be going on.”

Neither of you confirmed it, but you didn’t deny it either.

—

Over the next few weeks, it became routine.

Bucky would try new teas. He’d ask questions. He also learned to tell the difference between the citrus tang of lemon verbena and the grounding scent of ashwagandha.

He learned how you tapped the teapot twice before pouring — a little ritual, perhaps unconscious. You learned he stirred his tea clockwise, like muscle memory. 

He smiled more. Not always at you — but often because of you.

Once, Fig dropped a dried hibiscus petal into his cup by “accident.”

You knew it wasn’t— Fig knew that used correctly, only if you cast a spell on it— it could induce an infatuation spell.

Not that Bucky needed it. The parakeet knew Bucky was already infatuated. 

You, seemed hopelessly oblivious to it, though. 

Bucky simply lifted the mug to Fig like a toast. “Thanks.”

And Fig preened.

—

One evening, just after closing, Bucky lingered while you wiped down the counter.

“I’ve been sleeping better,” he said, quietly.

You nodded. “I can tell.”

He looked at you the way someone examines a door they want to open, but aren’t sure they should. “You put something else in it?”

You just smiled. “Just plants, Barnes.”

“That’s enough,” He nodded, but didn’t look away. he said. “You got any of that cinnamon-pear blend left?”

You turned to the jar, hand already reaching. “Always.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Because I think I’ll keep coming back.”

You didn’t turn around. “I know.”

—

Bucky came in mid-morning two months later. He hadn’t been in for a couple of weeks, and that was not unusual— Bob said he had gone on a stealth mission. 

His hoodie was drawn up over his head. He didn’t say anything at first. He just dropped his usual mug on the counter, and sat in silence. Fig came over to greet his friend, but he got no reaction from Bucky. 

You tilted your head in confusion, but put on the kettle anyway. This time, you brewed Jasmine with a touch of lemon balm, a whisper of skullcap. 

“I didn’t sleep,” he said after a long silence. “Not… since I got back from the mission two nights ago.”

You glanced up. “What’s up?” you asked gently.

He shook his head once. Not embarrassed — just exhausted.

“This… this mission just reminded me of the worst fucking part of humanity. I did what was necessary,” he added. “I… tried the tea. I tried all the steps. I took a deep breath like you said. It helped for a bit. But once I fell asleep…”

His voice faded.

You didn’t need him to finish his thoughts. If whatever he saw in that mission was enough to shatter his mind all over again, you could only imagine how bad it got. 

You poured him the tea and started making him a different blend to go. 

You prepared a bit of Nightangel brew but added added a pinch of mugwort. Then a little blue lotus, for clarity. Then hawthorn, for flavour. 

Bucky noticed. “That’s not the usual.”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s not.”

He didn’t ask questions, just watched your hands move.

You looked up once the sachet was full.

“This is… stronger,” you said. 

He nodded gently and murmured, “Alright. Let’s try.”

—

He came back the next morning, hunched deeper in his jacket.

You didn’t even greet him with a joke this time. Just took his mug and went straight to the blend. “Did it help?”

“No,” he admitted, partially scared of offending you. “Not at all.”

You frowned, wondering how much more herbal remedies you could add without it being redundant.

“Woke up sweating,” he explained, “I… Couldn’t breathe. It felt like—”

He stopped. His fingers curled slightly against the counter.

You didn’t push. Instead, you leaned on your elbows, “Okay. Then we go gentler.”

“Gentler?”

You nodded, already pulling down a different tin. “No mugwort. No lotus. Just chamomile to remind your body it’s not in a cage.”

He blinked.

“Holy basil. Rose. Passionflower. A little oatstraw.”

Bucky watched you. “Will it work?”

“For some people,” you said. “But we have to… try.”

He sat back and looked at you like he wanted to ask a hundred things. 

Fig fluttered down from his perch and didn’t land on the counter this time, but directly on Bucky’s knee. 

Bucky blinked, and for the first time in days, his shoulders relaxed. “Hey, buddy.”

You pushed the mug toward him, hands brushing again.

“I’ll keep adjusting the blend,” you promised with an encouraging sigh. “As long as you keep showing up.”

He nodded. 

—

A month later, the bell chimed softly as the door eased open.

It was a sound that now felt like a sixth sense waking. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. 

The second Bucky stepped inside, Fig perked up, puffing his feathers and letting out a trill of affection.

You smiled faintly. Fig loves him. You thought. He only sings like that for me… and Bucky.

“Hey,” you said gently, eyes lifting from the tea counter where you were measuring out dried verbena. “You’re early today.”

He nodded, and walked over to his usual still. You wanted to ask if he was okay, though you never did.

That wasn’t how Bucky worked. He wasn’t made for direct questions.

“Same as last time?” you asked.

He looked up at you, then away.

You didn’t wait for an answer. You knew it anyway.

You turned to the wall of shelves, fingers ghosting over jars. Skullcap. Passionflower. Fennel. Chamomile. You’d changed the recipe multiple times since last month. Each blend tailored to soothe, to calm, to untangle knots that Nightangel couldn’t reach.

None of it worked.

Still, you went through the motions. You always did. You wouldn’t stop trying, not for him. Not when he kept dragging himself through your door like he was searching for something solid to hold onto.

You set the tea to steep and moved to lean on the counter across from him.

“Is it not working?” you asked gently.

Bucky huffed a humorless sound— a mix of a scoff and a sigh. “You’ve changed it four times. You’d think I’d be out cold for a week by now.”

Your lips turned into a frowned.

“You’re perfect,” he added suddenly, urgently. “You… you’re good at this—at what you do. But that mission… I…”

He looked up at you, and for a moment you saw the wreckage behind his eyes. “I think I’m the one that’s broken.”

You swallowed hard, the words lodging in your throat like a stone. All of your vows, all of your promises to never intervene with magic in the shop, they started to fray at the edges. He wasn’t just tired, he was unraveling.

And you were standing here with shelves full of herbs and nothing that could hold him together.

That’s when you felt it: the  ache in your chest shifting into guilt, like glass under skin.

You turned away.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, going to the back room, where you store all your stock and closing the door. 

Fuck, today, he looked broken.

You froze, hands trembling slightly over the apothecary jars, and your mind went to your apartment that was just across the street. Upstairs. Your real workbench was there. The hidden shelf with dried mystic root. The moon water. The preserved glass vials with hope tinctures and dream oil and truth dust.

“No,” you whispered to yourself. “No, no, no.”

But then you remembered at Bucky again—shoulders hunched, head bowed, fingers twitching ever so slightly—and your resolve shattered.

“…Just this once.”

You leaned down toward Fig, who had hopped closer on his perch and was watching you with keen eyes.

“I need to go home for a second,” you said, pulling off your apron. “Keep him company, okay? Chirp a little. He likes it.”

Fig flapped once and gave a peep of approval. 

You slipped out the back door and jogged across the street to your apartment above the bakery. 

Inside, you didn’t light a single lamp. 

You moved directly to the old armoire that served as your private altar, opening the false panel and pulling out the worn wooden box. Inside: the forbidden things. The ones you kept under lock and key. Your grandmother’s spoon, etched with runes. The jar of dried starblossom petals. A tiny, sealed vial of liquid desire.

You were going to infuse his latest tea blend with… magic.

It wasn’t that it was dark magic. It wasn’t evil. It was just… potent. And dangerous if used carelessly. You had vowed never to use your craft in the shop. 

Never to enchant something as intimate as tea.

But you remembered the first time Bucky came in, Since then, he’d been a constant.

And now he was in trouble, and this was the only way you could help. 

You whispered the spell as your fingers worked fast, blending more herbs with practiced care: blue lotus for dreams, rosehips for warmth, passionfruit for clarity, and just a bit of the liquid desire. 

The spell would draw from his desire, not yours, showing him not what he feared… but what he wanted most— perhaps peace. Or comfort. Perhaps he wanted to be back in the forties. Maybe he just wanted a life on the farm. 

You closed your eyes and sealed it with breath, steadying the tremble in your hands.

“Just this once,” you whispered aloud.

And you were going to tell him, right?

—

When you stepped back into the shop, it felt warmer. Or maybe that was your guilt heating up your skin.

Bucky looked up from where he sat, with Fig perched on his shoulder and nuzzled his hair. You paused, surprised—and not surprised at all. Fig never did that to anyone but you.

“I told him not to get too attached,” you said softly, setting the new cup on his table.

“Well,” Bucky replied, a faint smile pulling at his lips, “I’m getting attached, too.”

To you or the bird, you weren’t sure. 

You watched him look down at his hands as you handed him the pouch. 

It was darker than your usual blend, its surface flecked with starlight-like shimmer. You hoped he wouldn’t ask.

But Bucky just leaned forward, hands clutching the bag. 

You took a deep breath, readying yourself for the entire I’m actually a witch confession, but then he said… 

“I don’t even wanna know what’s in it,” he muttered. “I just want peace.”

Your fingers brushed his as you sat beside him. “Are you sure?”

Bucky nodded.

You hesitated. Then, said. “It’s on the house today.”

He looked up.

“…Thanks,” he said. “Really. You—”

His gulped like he wanted to say something else, but the words got stuck.. “You always know what to do.”

You watched him slip the tea into his coat pocket, rising slowly.

The bell above the door gave that same gentle chime as he left.

—

That night, in the new Avengers Tower, on the other side of town from your tea shop, Bucky sat on his bed and drank the tea.

The first time in weeks, his body eased against the sheets instead of bracing for war.

And when he dreamed, it wasn’t of screams or steel or blood.

He dreamed of a cosy shop with a parakeet singing in the corner. 

—

You were still tying your apron when the door burst open the next morning.

The bell above the tea shop was a frantic, startled chime — not the usual gentle ring. Before you even looked up, you knew it must  be him.

Fuck. Did he know? Could he tell something was… different?

You turned just in time to see Bucky push through the doorway like he’d run the entire way here. He was breathless and flushed. His hair was messy, jacket unzipped, like he hadn’t even thought to fix himself before coming straight here.

“Bucky—?” you began, eyebrows lifted as Fig flapped his wings in greeting.

He didn’t stop walking until he was at the counter.

“It worked.”

You froze, one hand still on the apron’s tie. “What?”

“The tea,” he said. “It… worked. Last night. I—I actually slept for the first time in… weeks.

There was relief in his voice.

Your heart clenched behind your ribs.

He let out a shaky breath, glancing toward the floor like he didn’t quite believe he was saying it out loud. “Usually I either have nightmares or… nothing. But last night, I… I dreamed.”

He looked up at you, and your throat went dry.

“I dreamed of here,” he said softly. “Of you.”

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. What?

You nodded slowly. “I’m… glad it helped.”

But you knew exactly what that meant.

The spell you used hadn’t just offered comfort. It hadn’t simply calmed his nerves or quieted his thoughts. It had shown him his deepest desire to get rid of the terrors.

And he dreamed of you.

“I-I don’t mean to be weird,” he said suddenly. “I just…,” he added, so softly you almost missed it. “Didn’t want to wake up.”

You should have told him then. You should have told him what you’d done. That you’d bent your own rules for him. That you’d taken a tiny vial of liquid desire and dropped it into his cup.

That his dream wasn't a coincidence.

But your words wouldn’t come out past your throat.

Because a part of you was afraid that if he knew, he’d doubt the dream. That he’d think it was a trick. That he wouldn’t believe that what he saw was already true.

So instead, you forced your lips into a tight smile and said, “That’s good.”

“You were behind the counter in the dream. Laughing,” he said. “You were wearing that pink cardigan you always say you’re gonna throw out.”

You blinked, unaware he remembered your little neither-here-nor-there conversations. “I… still have it.”

He smiled faintly. “Fig was there, too. He kept trying to eat my scone.”

Fig gave a soft chirp and fluttered down to land on Bucky’s shoulder again, completely unbothered.

Bucky huffed a surprised breath, one corner of his mouth lifting.

“Traitor,” you muttered fondly toward Fig.

Bucky shifted on his feet.

“Can I come back tonight?” he asked.

You smiled, but hesitated. “Of course.”

—

That night, just after closing the shop and wiping down the counters, you stared at your phone.

Bucky had said he’d be back. He wanted to come back.

And you—being you—had gone and messed everything up with your damn heart and your emergency vial of dream-altering magic.

So instead of texting what you wanted (which was: come back, sit with me, let me explain the dream wasn’t real but also definitely was)...

…you typed: Not feeling great. Raincheck?

You hit send before immediately grabbing the emergency sling ring from under your floorboard, called to Fig with a sharp whistle, and opened a portal to Kamar-Taj.

The sky through the portal was blazing orange at dusk. Fig fluttered through first with a defiant chirp.

You stepped into the cool stone corridor just as a familiar voice groaned from around the corner.

“Speak of the devil.”

Stephen Strange rounded the archway, Wong at his side with a tray of your tea.

You blinked. “Why were you talking about me?”

“We need to place an order.” Wong held up a scroll and payment. “Three jars of moonstilled chrysanthemum, two of dreamroot, and that thing with the dried violets that makes people cry for two hours.”

“Oh, right. Cryleaf blend. Yeah, I’m low, too. Bad harvest year.”

“Well double the payment if you can get it done,” Strange promised, already walking away.

You didn’t follow him immediately. You were still trying to breathe past the knot in your chest.

“I need a hypothetical ethics consult,” you said suddenly.

Wong stopped and raised a brow. “Oh.”

You followed them both into the dim library room they used for absolutely everything, where Fig landed atop a shelf and immediately started pecking at a crystal ball.

You dropped into a floor cushion, rubbed your eyes, and began.

“Let’s say… hypothetically… someone who runs a completely magic-free tea shop made a promise to never use enchantments on the drinks they serve.”

Wong was already frowning. Strange narrowed his eyes.

“But let’s say—still hypothetically—that someone they care about is clearly not okay. We’re talking not sleeping for weeks, barely holding it together, that type of stuff.”

“I already know where this is going,” Wong muttered.

“And so the hypothetical tea shop owner makes a completely irrational, heart-dumb, reckless decision and enchants one tea blend with dream magic. The kind that reveals the drinker’s deepest desire and blocks out trauma-based nightmares.”

Strange folded his arms. “Uh huh.”

“And,” you went on, your voice getting smaller, “let’s say the person drinks it, sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, wakes up saying they dreamed of… the person who gave him the blend.”

“Still sounds hypothetical,” Wong said sarcastically.

You stared at your hands. “Is that unethical?”

Strange stared at you. “That’s it? That’s the ethical dilemma?”

“I enchanted his tea, Stephen. I interfered with his subconscious.”

“You gave a traumatized super-soldier a warm nap and a vision board,” he deadpanned. “You didn’t scramble his brain or bind his will to a blood pact.”

“How did you—?” You furrowed your eyebrows, unaware your personal life was their business. 

“You are one of the best potions witch in the northern hemisphere,” Wong deadpanned, “do you really think we don’t keep tabs on your more… influential customers?”?l

“Fine,” you snapped, “but back to the question—“

“He’ll be fine,” Strange dismissed.

You frowned. “But he didn’t—“

“Did you cast an obedience charm?”

“No!”

“Corruption sigil?”

“No!”

“Memory trap?”

“NO!”

“Then,” he said, leaning back with an insufferably casual smile, “it sounds like you did what every good magic-user has done at least once: you broke your own rule to save someone you care about.”

You stared at him. “So… it’s fine?”

“No. It’s weird.”

Wong agreed. “You witches are odd sometimes.”

You scowled. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m not here to be helpful. I’m here to stop Dormammu and make sure no one drops reality into a blender.” He waved his hand. “This? Not even in the top fifty ethical dilemmas I’ve heard this week.”

“It feels icky!” you said, frustrated. “I didn’t mean to influence him!”

Wong raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think a man like James Barnes is so fragile he’d fall in love because of a dream?“

You opened your mouth. “But—”

Strange held up a hand. “Let me guess. You’ve read three books on ethical divination, one essay by an excommunicated greenwitch, and now you’re spiraling.”

You blinked. “…Yes.”

Wong shoved extra currency for the order it into your hands.

“Tell him the truth if you feel bad, but don’t act like you’ve done dark magic just because you caught feelings.”

You stared. “I knew I should’ve joined a coven. At least they’d have a Code.”

Strange rolled his eyes. “Please. Most covens barely agree on how to bless water. One time I watched three hedge witches almost fistfight over which moon phase was best for making lavender oil.”

From your shoulder, Fig gave a loud, scolding chirp.

You glanced at him.

“What?” you muttered. “It was just a passing thought—”

He chirped again, this time louder. His little clawed feet gripped your shoulder tighter.

Wong chuckled. “Sounds like your familiar’s insulted.”

“M’sorry,” you muttered, giving Fig a sideways look. “I didn’t mean to imply I needed anyone else but you, bud.”

Fig gave a dignified huff and fluffed his feathers.

“I wasn’t actually going to join one!” you hissed.

Fig preened pointedly.

“I just panicked.”

He chirped again as you said your goodbyes opened the portal back to your shop.

—

Later that night, you returned to your apartment.

You half expected Bucky to be waiting outside, but was disappointed when there was only the empty street and the patter of rain on cobblestone. 

Inside, the tea ingredients sat untouched on your back shelf, tucked away again.

You made yourself a cup of tea and sat with Fig in the dim shop light, wondering if he was still dreaming of you, or if the magic had already faded.

But still a thought whispered. If you were his greatest desire… what would yours be?

You hadn't asked that question before.

Not seriously.

Because you didn't want the answer.

But now you stood, and walked to the back shelf where the last vial of desire sat sealed under moonlit paper, humming faintly with dormant power.

No.

Nope. 

Maybe?

Fuck.

Just this once.

You quickly dropped the same dose into your tea and casted the spell.

You carried the cup back to your seat, Fig watching you from the counter with glassy eyes.

“This is dumb,” you whispered aloud. “This is so dumb.”

Fig let out a chirp. Not scolding, but more like, Then don’t do it. But if you’re gonna, stop whining and sip.

You sughed before raising the cup and drinking.

—

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But when you opened your eyes… the world was a warm amber, flickering like candle glow.

You were standing behind the tea shop counter, apron tied snugly around your waist, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla in the air. Fig was perched beside the cash box.

And there he was.

Bucky.

Sitting in his usual spot, back slightly hunched, cradling a steaming cup in both hands. He was in a navy sweater, sleeves pushed to his elbows, his metal hand glinting faintly in the light. He was looking at you like… you were the best part of his day.

And in the dream, you weren’t hiding.

You smiled. And he smiled back.

—

You woke up on your bed with a gasp.

Fig flapped in surprise, his wings fluttering.

You sat forward on the couch, pressing a trembling hand to your chest, breathing coming fast.

Fig chirped, and he knew… you had your answer.

—

The next morning, you had an early customer who ringed the bell in five minutes before opening. 

Even before you turned around… you knew it was him. 

Here goes nothing.

You expected Bucky to slink in, like he usually did. 

Instead, he stood just inside the door with a bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his hand.

They were… wild flowers — your favourite — wrapped in recycled newspaper like he’d tried to make it not a big deal.

Oh. 

He looked… terrified.

His hair was still a little damp from the morning drizzle, jacket open over a plain black henley, boots tracking faint footprints on your floor.

“Hey,” he greeted.

“Hey.”

“Can I…” he started, “can I talk to you?”

You nodded once. “Of course.”

He approached slowly, as if he was afraid to break a fragile thing. Maybe himself.

“I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “Did a bit of thinking and… I was scared I freaked you out.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “You didn’t, I promise.”

He looked at you with that wide-open gaze that always undid you.

“I kept thinking about it,” he said. “About why I dreamed of you.”

Your fingers curled against the counter. Fig, on his perch behind you, let out the softest warning trill.

Bucky went on, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I thought maybe you… I don’t know. I… I thought maybe I’ve been seeing too much of you.”

You opened your mouth—but Fig flapped a hard THWIP of wings.

“But then I realised,” he admitted sheepishly. “I could never have too much of you.”

You met his eyes. “You… what?”

He hesitated. “I think… I’ve felt like this for a while now.” He lifted the flowers slightly. It was awkward, sweet, almost bashful.

“I don’t want it to just be a dream,” he said. “I want it to be real. I want us to be real. So…”

He took a deep breath.

“Would you maybe go out with me?”

For a good five seconds, you only stared at him.

You should tell him.

You almost did.

But then Fig let out a pointed chirp from behind you.

Not yet, he seemed to say. 

So, you smiled—nervous, but sincere.

“Sure,” you said, trying to play it off as casual. 

His brows lifted slightly, like he hadn’t believed you’d say it. “Yeah?”

You stepped around the counter, closing the space between you. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And for the first time since you met him, you saw the weight on his chest loosening.

He held out the flowers, finally, with a shy smile. “I’m not great at this… anymore.”

“You’re doing just fine.” You chuckled, taking the bouquet from his hands. It was wild and imperfect and beautiful, just like your magic.

—

The day say he took you out, it was raining again.

Thankfully, it was the good kind, the kind that gave the streets that shimmer like everything’s been kissed by silver. You’d always loved nights like this, when the world felt like a mystic secret.

Bucky had offered to pick you up at your place. 

You told him to meet you at the shop instead. It felt right. It felt like you now had gone full circle.

When he arrived, you were already waiting in the doorway with a tiny umbrella, saying goodbye to Fig, who was tucked into his little cosy corner. He wouldn’t shut up, not until Bucky knocked on the door, and you were convinced he sensed what kind of night this would be.

Bucky looked unfairly good. He adorned simp clothes — a dark sweater and stormy-blue jacket he’d worn a few times — and that nervous smile you had come to crave.

He held out a hand.

“You ready?”

You nodded. 

—

The place you chose for your first date wasn’t fancy.

It was a tucked-away little bistro down the block, with candles flickering in mismatched holders and tables close enough to each other to hear laughter, but not close enough to interrupt it. You were seated by a window, and Bucky was across from you. 

Going on a date with Bucky felt daunting at first. But now… that you were actually in it… it felt natural.

You had both eaten, talked, laughed a little — but it wasn’t until the plates had been cleared and your dessert had arrived that the room shifted.

Bucky had been watching you all night.

Not in a way that made you feel exposed, but like he was learning you. Like he was memorizing every little expression, every gesture.

Like he wanted to know you.

Your fingers curled around the ceramic mug in your hands.

“Can I tell you something?” you said, voice quiet.

He leaned in slightly. “Of course.”

You hesitated, before looked him straight in the eyes.

“You said you dreamed of me. Of… us.”

His mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, not quite not. “Yeah.”

“It was… because of tea I gave you.”

“Worked like magic,” he confirmed, almost wry.

“Bucky, I’m trying to tell you…” You swallowed hard. Fuck, here goes nothing. “That it wasn’t a normal blend.”

The silence that followed was short enough, but it made your heartbeat pick up. His brow ticked, and he set his desert spoon down carefully. “Okay…”

“I don’t normally do this,” you started, sighing. “I never do this. I have rules. You know I make regular blends—“

“Regular?” Bucky chimed in, furrowing his eyebrows. 

“—for sleep, anxiety, energy,” you continued anyway, “but that night, you said that you hadn’t slept in weeks. and I—” your voice caught, “—I panicked. I didn’t have anything in the shop that would worked that I didn’t try already.”

The night flashed before your eyes — the hollow look in his eyes, the way his voice had been almost brittle.

“So I… ran across the street to my apartment. And I used a spell.”

Bucky blinked, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “…A spell. Like actual magic.”

“Yes.”

You could see him process it, in the way a faint crease formed between his brows, the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

His voice came quieter. “You didn’t tell me.”

You felt the blood rush to your ears. “You… didn’t want to know.” You explained, looking down in guilt. “Remember? That night, you said you didn’t want to know what was in it.”

“It sounds like you put something in my head,” he said, not unkind, but blunt.

Your stomach turned. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

“It’s a spell meant to ease nightmares. It doesn’t control, doesn’t twist. It just… reveals.”

He sat back slightly, studying you. You could see the flicker of wariness in his eyes, and it made your chest ache.

“Reveals what?”

Fuck.

“Their… their greatest desire,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Oh.

He leaned back, his expression warping. It wasn’t anger. But you couldn’t quite place where it fit. 

“And what I saw in the dream… was you.”

“Yes.”

The candlelight flickered between you, catching the edge of his metal knuckles where his hand rested on the table.

He ran a hand over his face. “You’re an actual witch,” he said finally, looping back to the fact.

“…Yes.”

“Like, sorcery?”

“No. Sorcery’s learned. I was born with it. I work with potions.”

He shook his head, staring down at the table. “I should’ve guessed. Wong’s walked out of your shop before. And Fig… I swear he talks sometimes.”

Your nodded. “He does.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. “You know I’ve had my mind messed with before. That dream… it didn’t feel wrong. But it was still… I don’t know. I don’t like thinking someone else had a hand in it.”

You stared at him. “You think I made you see me?”

“I think you gave me something that made me see something I didn’t know I wanted,” he said quietly. 

Your chest tightened. “It can’t create anything that isn’t already there.”

He looked at you like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know if he should.

“And you?” he asked. “If you drank it, what would you see?”

You hesitated. “…I did.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“And?”

“I saw you.”

That landed between you like a dropped stone disturbing a waveless ocean.

Bucky’s eyes darted away. His shoulders shifted restlessly. “I… I gotta go.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bucky—”

“It’s not—” He stood abruptly, fumbling for his jacket. “It’s not that I’m... I just… I need to think.”

The chair legs scraped so against the worn wood floor as he moved back.

“Okay,” you said quietly.

He hesitated a moment longer, looking at you. Then he nodded once, like he was answering a question only he’d asked himself, and turned toward the door.

You just sat there in the glow of candlelight, your hands curled around the cold desert spoon.

—

Bucky didn’t knock as he reached the 177A Bleecker Street. 

He figured if Strange really didn’t want visitors, the Sanctum Sanctorum would’ve swallowed him whole the second he stepped on the stoop.

Instead, the door creaked open on its own, and there was the sorcerer himself, one brow arched in that perpetual look of annoyed judgment.

“Barnes,” Strange said dryly. “You’re a long way from Brooklyn.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “Needed to… talk to someone who’d get it.”

“‘It’ being…?”

Bucky hesitated. “…Magic.”

That actually earned him a flicker of genuine curiosity from Strange. “Alright.”

The Sanctum smelled faintly of incense and something older, like paper and storms. Strange led him down a long hall and into a high-ceilinged library, gesturing to a pair of mismatched chairs in front of a low table.

Strange said, flicked his wrist to summon a cup. “You like Earl Grey?”

Bucky followed him inside, glancing around the vast space. “Not much of a tea guy lately.”

“Oh, right,” Strange said lightly, leading him toward the library while sipping the brew. “You’ve already been drinking something far more potent.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks. “…You know?”

Strange turned with the faintest smirk on his mouth. “Barnes, I know exactly who runs that little shop you’ve been visiting. I also know exactly what kind of magic she works with, who’s been there. She’s supplied Kamar-Taj for years. Her blends are high-quality, magical or not. Wong swears by her migraine remedy. I’d trust her brewing over most trained potion masters I’ve met.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “So you know she—”

“Gave you a desire spell?” Strange cut in. “Yes. And judging by the fact that you’re here, I’d say it worked.”

Bucky’s teeth clenched. “I saw her. In the dream.”

“You’re afraid it was compulsion.” Strange said, like he’d been expecting this. Bucky’s jaw tightened. “…Yeah. After what I’ve been through—”

“I know,” Strange cut in gently. “But no. It wasn’t compulsion.”

Bucky looked up. “How can you be so sure?”

Strange leaned back in his chair, watching him with that unsettling kind of stillness. “Because she came to Kamar-Taj the day after she found out you saw her. She was rattled. Wouldn’t stop apologizing. Wanted to know if it was unethical. Told me she never, ever uses magic in her shop. That she only did it because you looked like you looked like shit. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

Bucky froze. “…She said that?”

Strange nodded. “She didn’t want to change you. She didn’t even want to risk revealing herself to you. She just—” He gestured loosely, as if the right word was somewhere in the air. “—couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that.”

Bucky swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the tea cup.

“What she used,” Strange continued, “wasn’t suggestion. It wasn’t manipulation. It’s a mirror. It brings forward what’s already there — a truth you’ve either ignored or haven’t admitted to yourself. It reveals. And revelation, in this case, is a gift.”

Bucky’s brows drew together. “So it was me.”

“It was always you,” Strange said simply. “She just cleared the fog.”

Bucky stared at the steam curling from his tea. The memory of that dream — the sound of your laugh, the warmth in your eyes — burned fresh in his mind. He’d told himself it was too vivid, too convenient. But if Strange was right…

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low.

“Barnes,” Strange said, faintly exasperated, “I’ve seen enough true desire reflections to know one when I hear about it. You think I’d be this calm if she’d tampered with your mind? I’d have half the Masters here dismantling every floorboard in her shop, and she’d lose both her shop licenses and the potion license.”

That startled a small, reluctant smirk out of Bucky. “…Guess you would.”

Strange’s expression softened just slightly. “You trust her, don’t you?”