margaret

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”

You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.

Now, you were starving for him.

And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.

Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.

Then—bzzzt.

The phone on the nightstand lit up.

The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.

You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.

He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”

Bzzzt.

He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.

“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”

He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.

“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”

Bzzzt.

The sound felt louder now.

Persistent.

You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”

He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

But then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Buzzing. Relentless.

Like it knew it was ruining something.

His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.

And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.

“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.

Then he reached.

You froze. Staring.

He reached for the phone.

“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.

“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”

You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.

“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.

And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.

────────────────────────

The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.

A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.

Your stomach twisted.

He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”

You nodded, still chewing.

You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.

“In the city?”

He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.

Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”

You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.

He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.

“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”

His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”

You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:

“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”

He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.

“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”

Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.

“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”

“Mmhm.”

“But the drive’s only ten.”

You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.

“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.

The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.

You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.

Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”

Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Call me after?” you said casually.

He looked back, already halfway out.

“Always.”

────────────────────────

The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.

This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.

Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”

At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”

Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”

Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”

Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”

“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.

Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”

“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.

Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”

“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”

Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”

“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”

Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”

Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.

“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”

He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”

“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”

Alexei beamed.

“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”

Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”

Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.

“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”

She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.

“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.

Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.

“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”

She paused.

“Available.”

That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”

He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”

Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.

“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.

Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

“You want to make me into a fantasy.”

“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”

Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”

But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.

And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.

He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.

The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.

The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.

Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.

Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.

Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.

His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.

You handed him the charger without ceremony.

“You left this.”

He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”

You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.

Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.

He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.

You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.

When he finished, you just shrugged.

“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”

Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”

You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”

Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.

“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”

You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.

“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”

Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.

Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.

Because then he had to say the next part.

He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.

“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”

He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.

Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.

You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.

“I need to go anyway.”

Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.

“See you at home,” you murmured.

Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t bitter.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.

He didn’t follow.

And that hurt more than you cared to admit.

────────────────────────

It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.

A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.

Just quiet.

But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.

Now, it was in everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.

They were in Brooklyn.

Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”

His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.

He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.

You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.

Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.

He hated it.

He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.

Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.

Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.

Something normal.

Like you had.

You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.

You lived in the world like a real person.

And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.

Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.

But now?

Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.

And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—

He felt it.

The drift.

And he hated it.

────────────────────────

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it.

The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.

It was just living.

And tonight? Tonight was fine.

It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.

You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.

So, you cooked.

Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.

It was fine.

Okay, it was your cheat day.

Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.

You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.

Had Bucky noticed?

The thought came and went before you could kill it.

He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.

The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.

You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.

And then—there he was.

Bucky.

His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.

Then it happened.

One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She clung to him like he’d saved her life.

Maybe he had.

And Bucky? He smiled.

Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.

You blinked.

Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.

You weren’t jealous.

You were just being dramatic.

This was not about you.

But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.

You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.

Dinner would keep.

You weren't sure if he would.

────────────────────────

It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.

The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.

But you weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.

He said six.

Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.

And now it was 10:18.

He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.

He was supposed to be here.

In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.

And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.

You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.

The bathroom door clicked open.

He froze.

You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.

You stopped when you saw him.

Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

Then he remembered how to breathe.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.

Just quiet.

Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.

And then you walked past him.

No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.

Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.

The door clicked softly behind you.

And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.

────────────────────────

It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.

Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.

He just needed to be sure you were asleep.

The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.

He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.

Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.

You were already in bed.

Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.

He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.

Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.

It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.

His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.

You didn’t move.

So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.

Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.

Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.

And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And he held on to it like it might save him.

────────────────────────

The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.

But it wasn’t.

You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.

Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.

It wasn’t.

He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.

His stomach twisted.

He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.

“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”

He waited for more.

Nothing.

“You like it?”

You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.

That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.

He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.

Now?

Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.

And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.

He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.

You weren’t angry.

You weren’t cruel.

You were just... gone.

And it was killing him.

The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.

Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.

Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.

He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.

So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”

You froze mid-fold.

Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.

And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.

Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.

There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

The words hit harder than he was ready for.

You didn’t know.

And that terrified him.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.

You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“I try not to think about it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.

You still loved him. He knew that.

But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.

He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.

But neither of you were good at this part.

You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.

You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.

And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.

So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.

The laundry was folded.

That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.

You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.

The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.

You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.

Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.

“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.

“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”

The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.

“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”

You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.

Because you did.

That was the problem.

“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”

He froze.

You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think of you like that—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He stared at you, helpless.

“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

Your hands didn’t clench.

You weren’t yelling.

But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.

Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.

“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”

The silence returned. Bigger now.

You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.

Soft. But final.

While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.

The coffee in his mug had gone cold.

The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.

He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.

If it meant losing you?

Then it wasn’t worth anything.

And he would fix it.

He didn’t know how yet.

But he would.

Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—

He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.

And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.

────────────────────────

Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.

It was about you.

The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.

And you hadn’t told him.

You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.

So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.

It felt like armor.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.

It was for you.

Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.

"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”

“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”

Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not—”

“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”

He rolled his eyes.

Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”

“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”

Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.

He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.

But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.

────────────────────────

The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.

Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.

Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.

Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.

And then he saw you.

It hit him like a sucker punch.

You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.

It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.

You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.

But then—

Like you felt him.

You turned.

Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.

Bucky froze.

Time narrowed.

The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.

And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.

Just a little.

Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.

Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.

Right.

He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.

And now?

He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.

So he’d have to find another way.

One that would mean something.

One that would be yours.

And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.

────────────────────────

Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.

The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.

Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.

But Bucky?

Bucky stood there.

Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.

Watching you.

You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.

Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.

“You’re up.”

Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”

Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”

He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”

“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”

And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.

Public speaking. God help him.

But then his eyes found you again.

Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.

And he thought, maybe this is it.

He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.

He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.

Cleared his throat.

You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.

God.

He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

A few polite nods from the audience.

“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.

“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”

People leaned in.

“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”

His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.

“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.

“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”

A pause.

“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”

That’s when the shift happened.

Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.

“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t glance away from you, not even once.

“She’s my rock. My clarity. The only person who ever looked at me and saw something worth saving. She didn’t ask me to be a hero. She just asked me to be me. And somehow… she still loved what she saw.”

A breath.

“She is the reason I believe I deserve peace.”

Your eyes were locked on him, wide, unmoving.

Some of the audience was blinking. A few whispering.

But Bucky didn’t care.

Because he wasn’t talking to them.

He was talking to you.

“I was a soldier. Then a weapon. Then a politician. Now I’m trying to be a man. And I can’t be that without her.”

He swallowed, but didn’t falter.

And for the first time in weeks, his voice felt steady. Because for once, he wasn’t hiding. Not his love. Not his pain. Not what you meant to him.

He took a breath.

Then finished, simply:

“So thank you for supporting this cause. It’s not abstract. It’s personal. For all of us.”

A pause.

Then the room erupted in applause.

But Bucky didn’t hear it.

He was still looking at you.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel the distance.

────────────────────────

The applause was still echoing faintly through the ballroom, conversations blooming again like nothing had shifted—but Bucky knew better.

Something had shifted.

He stepped off the stage and straight into the tide of well-dressed bodies. Donors, board members, media people—shaking hands, smiling, complimenting him, dropping half-formed praises about “moving” and “authentic” and “genuine vulnerability.”

But he didn’t care.

He barely registered any of it.

His eyes were scanning the room. Looking for you. Like if he could just find you, ground himself in your orbit, maybe he could believe that what he’d just done was enough.

But you weren’t by the bar. You weren’t at the staircase. You weren’t by the back exit or near the dance floor or—

Then he felt it.

A hand—your hand—sliding around his arm, fingers warm against the fabric of his sleeve.

He turned, heart already beating faster.

You didn’t say anything.

Just gave him a look.

And gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged him away from the crowd.

Bucky followed without thinking, letting you lead him through a discreet side corridor, past a curtained alcove where the sounds of the gala dulled to a hum.

And when you stopped, when you turned to face him, he opened his mouth—

But he didn’t get a word out.

Because your hands were on his face, firm and sure, pulling him down into a kiss that knocked the breath from his chest.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t cautious.

It was needy. Real. Like you’d been starving for weeks and finally allowed to taste again. Like he was something you couldn’t help but want.

He melted into you with a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh, wasn’t quite a groan—just relief. One hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair like he couldn’t believe this was real.

When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his lips, you didn’t let go.

Didn’t step away.

You just leaned your forehead to his and whispered, voice tinged with a half-smile—

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble.”

He huffed out something like a laugh. “Worth it.”

Your fingers lingered against his jaw.

The soft glow from the hallway barely reached the small alcove where you stood, still tucked away behind velvet drapes and polished columns. The noise of the gala felt far-off now—like another world neither of you belonged to.

Bucky wouldn't let go of you. His hands still rested on your waist like he didn’t trust the moment to last. Like if he blinked, you might fade again.

You leaned your shoulder into the wall, breathing finally steady. He looked at you—really looked at you—and reached for your hand.

“I’m gonna try,” he said, voice low, steady in the dark. “I know I’ve said it before, but this time… I mean it. I’m gonna try, really try. I don’t care how many speeches they want. I don’t care what the media says or what Val plans next. You’re it. You’re my whole damn life.”

Your lips parted, but he kept going.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know that’s not always enough to make it easy. But I want you to know that if you asked me—if you looked me in the eye right now and said to walk away from the Avengers, from all of it—”

His hand cupped the back of your neck.

“I would.”

Your heart twisted, eyes burning in that way they always did when he got too sincere.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, fingers brushing along his clean-shaven cheek, thumb skimming the line of his jaw.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you know I’d never ask that.”

He leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Doesn’t change the fact that I would. You come first. You always do.”

You smiled, so gently he almost missed it.

“I don’t need you to walk away,” you murmured. “I just need you to walk back. To us. To me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

You kissed him again—slower this time. Like a promise. Like you were giving him something he already owned but forgot how to hold.

And when you pulled away, his mouth curved, that old smirk creeping back into place as his hands slid subtly down your back.

“You know,” he said, voice dipping, “this is a pretty dark corner. Not a lot of foot traffic.”

You snorted. “James.”

“I’m just saying,” he grinned, leaning in, “no one would see.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Keep it in your pants, Barnes.”

“What about when we get home?”

You kissed his jaw and murmured against his skin— “When we get home, Sergeant.”

His grin bloomed—lazy, boyish, free—and before you could say anything else, he kissed you again.

Longer. Slower. Sweeter.

“You know, I think you might be the only agent that would complain about getting to pose as Bucky’s wife,” she hums, grabbing a dark colored lip liner and leaning down to begin outlining your lips. When you’d asked her for help, you only meant with the false eyelashes - but you can’t deny that having someone else do your makeup does seem to be calming your nerves a bit, so you let her continue. “As far as undercover husbands go, you could do a lot worse.”

“It’s not that posing as his wife sounds bad,” you huff. “It doesn’t sound bad at all. I’ve just.. never pretended to be married to someone for an operation before. I don’t know if I can fake something like that.”

Something like that being holding hands, dancing, embracing, gazing lovingly, maybe even kissing if it comes to that…

You’re not an actress. How are you supposed to do all of those things with one of the most attractive people you’ve ever seen and it not fuck with your head?

Not just attractive. Caring, and brave, and funny, and selfless too.

“So don’t,” Nat shrugs. “Let it be real. Just for the night.”

You scoff. You don’t blame her for the suggestion – she’s gone on countless undercover missions like this. This kind of thing comes effortlessly for someone like Natasha.

“Easier said than done,” you sigh. You don’t elaborate – you don’t need to. She gives you a look that tells you she knows exactly what you mean.

“So, where’s my ring?” You hold up your left hand, wiggling your bare fingers. “If I’m going to do this, I better get to wear a shiny rock on my finger for the evening.”

She purses her lips together in an attempt to hide a smirk.

“You’ll have to get that from your husband.”

••••••

After giving Bucky’s bedroom door a few soft knocks, you readjust the uncomfortable satin material that squeezes your curves for the dozenth time since you put it on less than half an hour ago.

The two of you should be well on your way to an estate located in the Upper East Side of Manhattan by now, but after waiting for Bucky in the common area of the compound for the last twenty minutes, your anxiety couldn’t handle waiting any longer, so you decided to go check on him.

“Bucky?” You call out when you he doesn’t answer the door after a moment. “We really need to head out, we’re gonna be late—”

The door swings open, revealing a disheveled and frustrated looking Bucky. Your eyes immediately go wide as you take in his appearance. You ignore the fact that he isn’t even dressed yet – still wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a white t-shirt – you’re more surprised with the state of his hair. Or rather, the lack thereof.

When you’d seen him demolishing a pile of breakfast taquitos just this morning, the ends of his hair had dusted the tops of his shoulders. Now, judging by the strands of brunet hair that litter his t-shirt and the electric hair trimmer that he clutches in his hand, it’s apparent that he’s in the process of attempting to give himself a haircut. Your eyes trail back to his face, noting that he’s clean-shaven for the first time in a few weeks.

“Fury suggested that I shave and get a hair cut to change up my appearance before we go undercover,” he explains. “Figured I’d do it myself since I used to cut my own hair back in the forties, but…” He trails off, seemingly avoiding looking you in the eye. “I can’t get the back of my head even.”

You give him a sympathetic smile, no longer caring that you’ll likely arrive to the party later than planned. This is probably his first real haircut in well over half a century. In the time that he’d been living at the compound, his hair had always been long enough to at least cover his ears.

“Want some help?” You offer. “I don’t have much experience cutting men’s hair, but you’ve already done most of the work for me.”

A large part of you expects him to tell you not to worry about it, so you’re surprised when after a brief second of hesitation, he opens his door the rest of the way and motions for you to come inside.

When you step through the doorway, it dawns on you that you’ve never been in his room before. In fact, you don’t think anyone has, other than Steve. You’ve seen glimpses of it from the hallway, but this is the first time that you’ve stepped inside.

Unsurprisingly, it’s pretty bare bones. A dresser, a nightstand with only a lamp on it, and a king sized bed that looks as if it has never even been slept in. You can’t help but notice that in the corner of the room, a singular pillow and a throw blanket lay on the floor. The implication that he’s been sleeping on the floor isn’t lost on you, but you say nothing as you silently follow him to his en-suite bathroom.

The bathroom shows further evidence of his haircut attempt. There’s dark strands from both his beard and head on the counter, as well the floor in front of the sink. The black suit that he’ll be wearing for the evening hangs on the door, waiting for him to put it on.

“How do you wanna do this?” Bucky asks you, hints of hesitation and embarrassment in his voice.

“Um..” You hesitate. You hadn’t thought of the logistics of it – he’s taller than you, so you need him to come down closer to your level. You look around, realizing that the only place for him to really sit is on the toilet. You close the lid, and motion for him to take a seat.

Once he’s in front of you, you’re able properly see the back of his head. You look at his hair from different angles, deciding exactly where it needs to be evened out.

“How bad is it?” Bucky sighs, handing you the trimmer over his shoulder.

“It’s not bad,” you assure him quickly. “Not bad at all. Just a couple hairs here and there need to be trimmed, and then everything will be even.”

His shoulders seem to relax at your words. You take the trimmers from him, turning them on the lowest setting and getting to work. It only takes a couple minutes – you were being honest when you told him that it wasn’t bad. Considering it’s his first time cutting his own hair since the 1940s, you can’t believe what a great job he did.

When you think you’re finished, you back away before inspecting him from the front, back, and each side.

You can’t deny that you think long hair suited him very well – you’d be lying if you were to say that you hadn’t been partial to it. But looking at him now, all freshly shaven and his hair the shortest that you’ve seen it since you met him, you feel as if you are looking at a picture of him straight out of 1944.

“What is it?” Bucky hums with an amused lilt. His voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You glance up, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the mirror in front of you. There’s a faint smirk on his face, as if he heard your thoughts. Your cheeks warm at the idea.

“Just looks really good. That’s all,” you shrug, playing it off. He’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your fucking life is what you’re actually thinking, but you bite your tongue.

“You really think so?” He asks, standing to take a closer look in the mirror. “It’s been so long since I’ve had short hair. I barely recognize myself,” he sighs with a forced chuckle.

“I really think so, Bucky,” you assure him. “It’s a big change. Give it a few days. If you don’t like it, you can always grow it back out once the mission is over.”

Silence falls over you. He meets your gaze in the reflection of the mirror once again, an indecipherable expression on his face as he seems to truly take in your appearance for the first time since you knocked on his door. His eyes flicker from the dress that you already can’t wait to get out of and then up to your face that feels overly caked in makeup. You know that Natasha did a great job with applying it, but the boldness is out of your comfort zone and the way he’s looking at you certainly doesn’t help.

“Speaking of the mission,” he murmurs, breaking the silence after what feels like an eternity. He steps around you, his arm grazing against yours due to the limited amount of space in the small bathroom. He reaches into a pocket of the suit hanging on the door, retrieving a small, black velvet box.

“I suppose you’ll need this.”

He opens the box, revealing a large, sparkling marquise cut diamond with a gold band. He removes the ring from the box, pinching it between two of his flesh fingers before grabbing your left hand in his vibranium one. Your breath catches in your throat, the room suddenly feeling even smaller and a dozen degrees warmer as he slips the ring onto your finger.

It's just for the mission, the voice in your head reminds you. Nothing to stop breathing over. You take a breath, examining the ring up close once he drops your hand. He could’ve just handed you the box and let you put it on yourself, the voice contradicts itself.

“What do you think? Is it good enough for this evening?” He asks, his voice teasing.

“I think it’ll do,” you laugh. “I don’t even wanna think about how expensive it—”

Your watch vibrates. You glance down at the small screen at that same time that he looks at his own. It’s Sam – wondering where the hell the two of you are at.

“I’ll uh – I’ll leave you to get dressed,” you say with a nod towards his suit. Before he can say anything else, you exit the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You pause for a moment, massaging the thumb of your right hand over the goosebumps that the cool metal of his hand had caused when he held yours in his.

••••••

In your experience, undercover operations usually involve outdated Motel 6 rooms, a lot of gas station coffee and too much fast food.

From the moment that you saw the dress that you’d be wearing tonight – and the Rolls Royce that you and Bucky were given for the evening – you knew that you were out of your element. As if pretending to be married wasn’t intimidating enough, you also have to pretend to be millionaires – tech investor Henry Monroe and his wife, Cecelia.

If Bucky is as nervous as you are, he’s good at hiding it. He appears calm and collected in the driver’s seat beside you, whereas you’ve spent the duration of the drive to Manhattan picking at the cuticles of your freshly painted nails.

You glance at him from your peripheral every so often, which does little to settle your nerves. He looks damn good in his suit, and you can’t seem to stop your eyes from settling on the gold wedding band that adorns the ring finger of his left hand. Nanotechnology disguises the normally vibranium appendage as human flesh, preventing the metal from giving away his identity.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Bucky tells you softly as he pulls up to the front of the estate, bringing the vehicle to a stop beside a valet driver. “Just remember, we have been on missions far more risky and complex than this before. We mingle, act a lot richer than we are, get the information that we need, and get the hell out.”

“I know,” you nod in agreement, and hope that it’s convincing. “The objective is simple. Lying is just… not really my thing. That’s all.”

He huffs a laugh before unbuckling and getting out of the car as the valet driver opens the door for him. Within seconds, Bucky walks to the passenger side and opens the door for you, offering you his hand. You accept, letting him help you out of the SUV.

“So convince yourself it’s true,” he shrugs, looping his arm through yours and leading you up the cobblestone steps to the entrance. “Anytime you need a reminder, just look at that ring on your finger. For the next few hours, I'm your husband. And you are my wife.”

You roll your eyes. “You sound just like Natasha.”

The first half hour after arriving is spent conversing with other guests – socialites, investors, and business moguls who you’ve never heard of and will likely never see again. Bucky introduces you to so many people that you lose count – the many faces pumped with excessive Botox and filler begin to all look the same after the first dozen.

He keeps an arm around you or a hand on you at all times. You know it’s not truly necessary, but you find it comforting and appreciate it nonetheless. You’re only mildly distracted by the musk of cologne and the feeling of his hand on the small of your back. You can always tell it’s his flesh hand by the warmth that it produces – his vibranium hand disguised by nano-tech just doesn’t radiate the same heat.

Both of you have small, discreet communication devices in your ears. Your instructions are to blend in and act as if you’re just any other guest at this party until your team taps into the security system and someone gives you the go ahead to sneak upstairs to the off-limits, private office of the owner of the estate – Carmine Vance, billionaire tech CEO who happens to be trafficking illegal arms. Once you’ve made it into his study, all you have to do is hack into his computer long enough to upload intel to a hard drive that is tucked inside Bucky’s coat pocket.

“See?” Bucky says lowly when the couple you two had been chatting with excuse themselves to get another drink from the full service bar catering the event. He loosens the hold he has around your waist, but doesn’t retract his arm entirely. “This isn’t too bad, yeah?”

“Not too bad,” you agree, taking a small sip of your own drink that you’d been nursing for the sake of keeping up appearances. “I mean, it helps that everyone here is too inebriated to notice or care about the fact that no one actually knows us. It also helps that you happen to be an incredible storyteller.”

You turn into him, your chest brushing against his. “The story you told about how we met at a ski resort and it was love at first sight. Did you think of that ahead of time or did you make that up on the spot?”

Bucky laughs. You think you see a hint of blush bloom on the apples of his cheeks, but you chalk it up to the room’s low lighting and the martini that you’ve been slowly sipping on for the last half hour.

“I came up with that in the moment,” he all but whispers, glancing around to make sure that no one is listening in on the conversation. “When I was being prepped for the mission, I was told that if I get asked questions about our history to draw inspiration from the truth and just.. embellish it. Of course, we didn’t meet at a ski resort, we met at the compound. I don’t know if you remember, but… it was snowing that day.”

You’re taken aback by his answer. He’s right – you hadn’t made the connection when he was telling the story, likely because you were too busy being impressed by his ability to lie so effortlessly, but he’s right. To say that it had been snowing when you met would be an understatement. It was nearly a damn blizzard, even by upstate New York standards. Wanda had practically begged you to come outside with her, convincing you only after promising to build the biggest snowman that you’d ever seen with the help of her powers.

When Steve pulled up to compound with Bucky in his passenger seat that afternoon, snow was still steadily pouring down. Looking at him now, you can still envision the amused look on his face when he saw the twelve foot tall snowman in the front yard of the compound.

“I remember,” you say, shaking your head when you realize you’re just staring at him. “Of course I rem—”

“We’re tapped into the security system,” Sam’s voice erupts from the communication device in your ear, startling you and cutting you off. “The second floor is empty right now. You two are clear to head up to Vance’s study.”

“Copy that,” Bucky murmurs.

“We’ll be watching so that we can give you a warning if you’re about to run into anyone. Otherwise, just pretend we're not here.”

The device clicks off a second later.

You and Bucky lock eyes for a split-second before he raises his hand and cups the side of your face. You’re momentarily taken by surprise, but quickly remind yourself that right now, he’s your husband. Right now, you can’t make it obvious that you’ve never experienced such an intimate gesture from him. Right now, you can’t let your micro-expressions give away just how brand new his touch feels.

“Just follow my lead, yeah?” He whispers. Before you can even nod in affirmation, he lowers his mouth to yours. It’s soft and short-lived, but you instinctively close your eyes and melt into it. It’s easy to forget that you’re surrounded by dozens of complete strangers, until he pulls away and breaks the kiss with a soft grin.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” He asks. His voice is still low, but loud enough to cause the couple standing a foot away from you to shoot their eyes in your direction.

That was his goal, you realize. If any guests happen to question the whereabouts of Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, at least one couple witnessed the two of you wander off to some less crowded part of the estate because you’re so in love and just can’t keep your hands to yourself.

“Please,” you giggle, mimicking the playful expression on his face.

He guides you through the throng of guests, keeping a hand on your lower back. You try to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other in an futile attempt to steer your thoughts away from the feeling of his lips on yours.

The two of you navigate the less populated areas of the house in silence, relying on both Bucky’s keen hearing and Sam’s visual on the cameras to anticipate any security guards who might question what you’re up to. You’re not concerned about running into Vance himself – when you’d last seen him just minutes ago, he was downing his third shot of some kind of whiskey that is undoubtedly older than you and costs more than your car.

“We’re on the second floor,” you whisper as you turn down a long corridor with at least a dozen doors on each side. “Which room is his office?”

“Sixth door down on your left,” Sam answers back right away. “No one has been in or out since we gained access to the cameras, but that doesn’t mean no one will. Stay alert and get out as quick as you can.”

To no surprise, the door is locked. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see it’s a simple lock on the knob, nothing fancy about it. Dumbass.

Bucky, being the more mechanically inclined of you two, pulls a simple lock-picking kit out of his pocket and kneels down so that he is eye-level with the lock while you keep watch. “He must not be too concerned about anyone getting inside,” Bucky mumbles as the lock clicks open. “Because a determined seven year old with a paperclip could.”

You both step into the room, the door softly clicking shut behind you. It’s the most mundane, stereotypical looking office that you’ve ever seen – not at all like the extravagant ballroom the party is being held in or the lavish kitchen you’d passed on your way upstairs. No décor whatsoever, mostly empty shelves with a book or two here and there, and one large, L-shaped desk in the far corner of the room. On top of it sits a desktop computer, which is where you come in.

“The room was easy to break into,” you agree, taking a seat in front of the computer. “I doubt we’ll be able to say the same about this.”

“You’ve got this,” Bucky assures you, taking a seat beside you on the edge of the desk. He reaches inside the jacket of his suit, pulling out the hard drive and handing it to you. “There’s no one better at this than you, but let me know if I can be of any help.”

Your cheeks heat at the his compliment. You advert his stare, focusing on the screen in front of you instead. “Just sit there and look pretty,” you snort.

As soon as the screen turns on, you know you have your work cut out for you. Of course it isn’t a simple numerical passcode like Vance’s wedding anniversary or his only child’s birthday. That would make your job way too easy. You can’t even tell how many firewalls you’re going to have to bypass just to get into the damn thing –

“Uh, guys,” Sam’s panicked voice suddenly breaks the silence. You immediately cease typing, looking up at Bucky. “Three guards are storming up the stairs to the second floor right now. If I had to guess, I’d say they’re headed your way.”

“What?!” You whisper-shriek. “I’m not even into the system yet—”

“I know,” Sam interrupts. “It must have sent out some kind of alert when you powered the computer on. Do whatever you’ve gotta do to get out of there without causing a scene. We'll figure out another way to get the intel.”

“They’re almost here,” Bucky sighs, grabbing the hard drive back from you and shoving it inside his suit once more. “We’ve gotta play this off. I need you to trust me and go with what I’m about to do.”

“Of course I trust—”

“Stand up,” he commands. The authority in his voice leaves no room for hesitation. You do as he says, knowing security guards will likely be walking through the door any second now.

He all but lifts you onto the edge of the desk, causing you to let out a small yelp in surprise. Your dress hikes up just enough for him to ease between your thighs. The newfound close proximity – in addition to the knowledge that you’re about to be caught – has your heart beating a mile a minute.

“Now I need you to act like you’re really fucking into me,” he whispers, grasping your face in his hand and making you look him in the eye. “Think you can do that?”

You nod, your throat suddenly bone dry. “I am. I mean, I am your wife—”

He cuts you off by bringing his lips to yours for the second time this evening. Whereas the kiss in the ballroom was short and sweet, this one is fast and fervent. He wastes no time slipping his tongue past your lips, exploring your mouth as you pull him closer to you. You shove his jacket off of his shoulders – some tiny part of your brain is thinking rationally enough to know you need to make the scene look believable. He catches onto what you’re doing and copies your action, tugging the straps that sit atop of your shoulders down your arms so that your breasts threaten to spill over the neckline of the dress. His fingertips trail back up your arms, until his hands come to rest on either side of your neck. He tips your head back, allowing him to deepen the kiss –

“What the fuck is going on in here?”

You knew it was coming, but the loud, thick Russian accent startles you nonetheless. You and Bucky break apart and you quickly tug your dress straps back into place. Bucky feigns a few oh shit, shit, oh shits under his breath, while you immediately jump into a stream of apologies.

“This room is off limits to all guests,” a second guard booms, taking a step closer to the desk. “You shouldn’t even be on this floor. What are you trying to do with that computer?”

“Computer?” you ask innocently, glancing behind you as if it’s your first time seeing said computer. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must have accidentally turned it on when we were—”

“We were just looking for somewhere more private, that’s all,” Bucky interjects with an embarrassed laugh. “Just couldn’t wait to get my wife home. Can you blame me?” He gestures towards you.

The three guards exchange awkward, uncertain glances. They appear to be torn between believing your ruse as horny newlyweds, and throwing you off the second story balcony.

“We’re very sorry,” you apologize once more, racking your brain for a way out of this. “Henry here has been out of town for the last few weeks, and this is our first day back together. I’ve just been so, so lonely and really need—”

“Okay, okay,” the third guard speaks up for the first time. Visible discomfort is written across all three of their faces. “Just… get back downstairs. Don’t let us see you wandering this way again, or we won’t be as forgiving.”

“Of course,” Bucky nods, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you with him as he begins to exit the room. You adjust your dress that is still bunched uncomfortably high around your thighs, not looking back at the guards again as you thank them and apologize several more times.

“I thought you said you were a bad liar,” Bucky says with a breathy laugh after you’re far enough away from the guards.

“I said lying isn’t really my thing. I never said I was bad at it.”

You don’t exhale the sigh of relief you’d been holding in until your feet hit the stairs leading back down to the main floor.

“I think I need to flush my ears out after having to listen to the sound of you guys make out,” Sam’s voice rings in your ear. You grimace at the realization that he and God knows who else had been listening to the entire ordeal. Had you moaned? Whimpered? You had been so caught up in making it believable that you weren’t even sure.

And goddamn, it had been easy to get caught up in. It couldn’t have lasted longer than fifteen seconds start to finish, but the feeling of his lips moving in tandem with yours made it easy to forget that you were kissing for show. None of this is real, but for a few seconds, you could have convinced yourself otherwise.

“No one forced you to listen, pervert,” Bucky grumbles before reaching up to his ear to click the device off. You hear Sam begin protesting before you decide to follow suit.

“Well, that was a fucking bust,” you grumble under your breath. “This was pointless.”

Back on the main floor of the estate, the party looks exactly the same. Vance is still entertaining a group of his guests, and other couples still mingle amongst themselves. No one bats an eye at you and Bucky as you reenter the room.

“Let’s just be glad those security guards are bad at their jobs and believed us,” Bucky sighs. “We should probably go ahead and get out of here.”

An unmistakable wave of disappointment washes over you. You know that you should feel relieved. From the moment you’d been assigned this mission you could hardly wait to be back at the compound, in your pajamas, eating whatever you decide to treat yourself to from DoorDash in the comfort of your bed. But now that it’s actually time for your time as a couple to come to an end, you can’t help but wish that you could extend your time here just a little longer.

It's silly. Borderline stupid. But who knows if you’ll ever have the chance to kiss him again after you leave this building?

“Maybe we should wait a little while,” you say hesitantly. Bucky raises his brow, as surprised by your words as you are yourself. “If we leave now, it'll look suspicious. If we were really just innocently fooling around, we'd have no reason to get out of here so quickly. We don't wanna raise any more red flags.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, though there’s an edge of uncertainty in his voice. “That’s a fair point. We'll hang around long enough to have another drink. But then I want to get you away from these people.”

You agree, knowing that the sooner you get out of here, the better. But you made a fair point, you think – you hadn’t just been innocently fooling around, but if you had been, would you leave right away after getting caught? The guards hadn’t asked you to leave the premise. They had essentially given you a stern talking to with the order to get back downstairs and behave.

At least, that’s how you rationalize the decision to stay a little bit longer in your mind.

Since you’d already had a martini upon first arriving earlier, you decide that a second drink while you are technically still on the job wouldn’t be the wisest decision. So, Bucky goes to the bar to get you both Shirley Temples while you text the team’s group chat, letting them know that you and Bucky would be staying a little longer for the sake of keeping up appearances and that you’d let them know as soon as you’re on the way back to the compound.

After sending the message, you put your phone back in your clutch. You look up, searching for Bucky at the bar across the room. Beside him stands a woman with long blonde hair wearing a short, cherry red cocktail dress. Their backs are turned to you, so you can’t see their expressions or attempt to read their lips, but you can tell that she’s speaking to him. You’ve always prided yourself on being able to read people's body language – and right now, with the way that Bucky is awkwardly angled away from her while he taps his fingers against the bar top, you find it obvious that he’s uncomfortable.

At first, you can’t help but hold back a giggle. You’re sure she’s the wife of some business mogul who hasn’t paid an ounce of attention to her tonight because he’s more concerned with making connections and stroking his own ego – she’s likely just tipsy and bored. You can’t fault her for jumping at the opportunity to make conversation with someone as attractive as Bucky.

But then she places her hand on top of his with her long, French manicured nails and all of your logical thinking goes out the window. Your feet seem to move of their own accord, transporting you from your spot in the quiet corner of the room and across the crowded floor of the party towards the bar. You don’t even know what you’re going to say – hey, can you please not put your hands on my fake husband because it makes me irrationally fucking angry? Thanks. I like your shoes, by the way. Where’d you get them?

There’s an instantaneous expression of relief overcome Bucky’s face as he glances out of the corner of his eye and sees you storming towards him. You step into the small amount of space between where Bucky sits and she stands beside him, forcing her to back away a few inches in surprise.

“Ah, there she is,” Bucky smiles at you.

“Everything okay here?” You ask in a sickly sweet voice as you shoot her a venomous smile.

“Oh, yeah,” she answers quickly. Her face flushes beet red. “I was just—”

“Hitting on my husband? Funny how your hand was on his but you somehow didn’t notice the wedding band on his finger.”

She’s stares at you, eyes wide and mouth agape when the bartender walks up with her drink. You turn to Bucky, not wanting to cause any kind of scene. “I’d like to go home now, honey,” you say with a squeeze to his bicep.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he hums, an amused smile on his lips. He stands up from the barstool, forgetting all about the Shirley Temples that he was still waiting on.

“Have the night you deserve!” you call back to the woman as you practically drag Bucky away from the bar.

Once you’ve made it out of the busy party room and enter a practically dead corridor, you loosen your hold on his arm but don’t slow down. You know you’re allowing your emotions to get the best of you, and you don’t like it one bit. You’ve never considered yourself to be the jealous type, but now you’re suddenly fuming over a stranger simply touching the hand of your pretend husband? A man who you’ve never so much as kissed before tonight?

Screw hanging around for a while to not raise suspicions. You need to get the fuck out of here before you make yourself look even more foolish.

“Slow down,” Bucky laughs as he pulls you to a stop. He glances around to make sure there’s no one behind you before his gaze settles on you. It’s another one of those looks that makes you wonder if he can actually read your mind. For a brief moment, his eyes flicker down to your lips. “What happened to wanting to stick around long enough to play it off?”

“I changed my mind,” you shrug, feeling small under his intense stare. “Is that cool with you?”

“Changed your mind?” He asks in a tone that makes it obvious that he doesn’t believe you.

“Yep,” you retort, making sure to pop the p at the end. “I just wanna go get some food and go the fuck ho—”

You’re cut off by him suddenly backing you against the wall directly behind you, effectively pinning you between him and the wall. He rests a fist against the wall beside your head, his face just inches from yours as he peers down at you.

“Wanna know what I think?”

No, you don’t think you do.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. The smirk on his face tells you that he finds your lack of response amusing.

“I think,” he starts, bringing his other hand to your face. He cups your jawline in his palm, placing the pad of his thumb on the swell of your bottom lip. You have to consciously remind yourself to breathe. “That you got a little jealous when you saw blondie coming onto me.”

“And?” you whisper. “What if I did?”

If he’s surprised by your answer, he doesn’t let it show. You could cut the tension that hangs in the air with a knife.

"So that's all it takes, then? I kiss you one time and you get all possessive over me?"

He hardly gives you time to respond before he pulls you away from the wall, wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins to quickly maneuver the both of you further down the hallway.

“Bucky? Where are we go—?”

He comes to a stop in front of a door. He gives it one brief knock before barging in, pulling you inside with him. It's a bathroom – a really fucking fancy bathroom, but still, a bathroom. You’re acutely aware of the sound of the door clicking shut, followed by a lock turning.

“How'd you even know what this room was?” You scoff, leaning against the sink countertop.

“Lucky guess,” he breathes, closing in on you. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

So that’s all it takes, then? I kiss you one time and you get all possessive over me?

He looks down at you expectantly.

“You didn’t kiss me once,” you shrug. You reach for his tie, gently tugging on it so that he’s face level with you. “You kissed me twice. And unless you’re planning to go for number three, I’d really like to get the hell out of here.”

You might regret it when this mission is really and truly over. When you’re driving home in loaded silence or you’re back at the compound, trying to fall asleep while replaying tonight’s events over and over again in your head. When you wake up in the morning and wonder if you dreamed it all or when you have to sit across from him at breakfast and act like nothing happened.

He inches his face closer to yours, until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. You have to close your eyes to keep the room from spinning around you.

“And if I do that…” he murmurs, his breath fanning across your face. “Should I do it as Henry Monroe? Or as Bucky?”

You give his tie another sharp tug, bringing his mouth the rest of the way to yours for the third time that night.

You take your time, knowing that this kiss isn’t for show. It’s less rushed, less panicked. Your hands find the short tufts of his hair and his find your waist, both of you pulling the other as close as possible. Without any interruptions this time, you take your time, not pulling away until you’re both dizzy from lack of air.

“As Bucky. My Bucky.”