Pandas ^•^

steve rogers brings him in on a tuesday, which is already suspicious because nothing good has ever happened to you on a tuesday, and he introduces him the way you imagine you'd introduce a feral cat you'd found and were hoping someone else would take responsibility for. with a kind of cautious optimism that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"this is bucky. he needs someone."

bucky barnes is standing in the middle of your office looking at the framed new yorker cover on your wall like it has personally offended him. he's in a dark henley with the sleeves pushed up and he is, your brain notes before your professionalism can stop it, enormous. not in a way that reads as threatening exactly, though you clock that it could, but in the way of someone built by something other than a gym, broad through the shoulder and solid in a way that takes up space without trying to. his hair is long, pushed back from his face, and his jaw has the set of someone who has already decided this meeting is going to be a waste of his time.

he doesn't look at you when steve says his name.

"mr. barnes," you say.

he looks at you then. the full weight of it, direct and assessing in a way that most people aren't, the kind of look that takes actual inventory. his eyes move over your face like he's filing information and you feel it more than you'd like to.

"hi," he says. low and flat, not unfriendly, just stripped of any performance of friendliness.

not hello. not nice to meet you. hi, like he's been dragged here against his will and has decided to be minimally polite about it.

you look at steve. steve looks at you with the expression of a man who is about to leave you alone with a problem he created and knows it. "he's been doing some public appearances," he says carefully. "it's not going great."

"it's going fine." bucky doesn't turn around when he says it, still looking at the new yorker cover with the focused displeasure of a man with a genuine grievance against editorial photography.

"the senator's press team called it a diplomatic incident," steve says to you, in the tone of someone choosing their words with care.

"the senator said something stupid." flat. matter of fact.

"you told him that."

"he needed to hear it." a pause, and then, almost as an afterthought: "i said it quietly."

you look between them. you pick up your pen. "okay," you say. "let's start from the beginning."

the beginning takes forty minutes and two cups of coffee and at one point bucky gets up without explanation and walks to your window and stands there looking down at the street with his arms crossed over his chest, the muscle of his forearm catching the afternoon light, and you look at your notepad instead.

"i don't see why any of this is necessary," he says, to the window. the afternoon light catches the line of his jaw and the fall of his hair against his neck and you write something that is not a word on your notepad and then scratch it out.

"because you told a sitting senator he said something stupid."

"he did say something stupid." he says it the way people state facts. the sky is blue. water is wet. the senator said something stupid.

"bucky." it comes out before you've decided to use his name and he turns from the window when you do, which you weren't expecting. "i'm not here to manage what you think. i'm not here to tell you to agree with people you don't agree with. i'm here to manage how it lands when you say what you think out loud in front of cameras. that's a different problem."

he looks at you for a moment. really looks, in that inventory way he has that you are going to have to get used to because it is already apparent it's not going anywhere. "is it different," he says, not combative, actually asking.

"what you think and what you say and how you say it are three separate things," you say. "i only get paid to handle the last one. the rest of it is yours."

something shifts at the corner of his mouth. not a smile but the suggestion that one exists somewhere in his vicinity. he comes back and sits down in the chair across from you, picks up the coffee cup he'd abandoned, and looks at you over the rim of it with an expression that has reclassified from closed off to something more like considering.

"fine," he says. "what do you need."

"everything," you say, and flip to a new page

the first month is the hardest.

not because he's hostile, he isn't, not exactly, but because the kind of difficult he is doesn't fit any category you've worked with before. you've handled entitled and you've handled fragile and you've handled the specific nightmare of both at once. what bucky barnes is is quieter than any of those and more structural, the kind of difficult that comes from a person who has very precise ideas about what he owes the world and is in the process of deciding whether that number needs adjusting.

he shows up on time. he does what you ask. he wears the tote bag.

the first time you hand it to him he holds it at arm's length for a moment, looks at it, looks at you, and then puts it on his shoulder with the expression of a man adding something to a list he's keeping somewhere you can't access. you make a note to revisit the tote bag conversation when you have better standing to have it.

what he doesn't do is make things easy. not in a hostile way. in the way of someone who has learned to be careful about what he gives people and has not yet decided where you fall in that system. he answers your questions with the minimum words technically required to constitute answers. he reads the talking points you send and then delivers them stripped of anything that sounds like it was written by someone else, which should be a problem and somehow never is, because the things he says in his own words are usually better, and you find this professionally irritating and personally you're not examining that right now.

he's got a way of listening, too, that you notice early and keep noticing. most people, when they listen, are doing something else underneath it, preparing their response or getting bored or cataloguing the room. bucky goes still when he listens. his eyes stay on your face and the full weight of his attention settles on whatever you're saying like it's the only thing happening, and it is, you come to understand, the same quality that makes him unsettling in press situations. he's too present. people aren't used to it.

you try not to notice how it feels when it's aimed at you.

you are not always successful.

your first week with him you sit in on a public appearance at a veterans' foundation fundraiser in midtown, stationed near the back of the room with your phone and your notepad and a clear sightline to both him and the nearest exit, which you have learned to identify at every event you attend because it is professionally useful and in this particular case feels especially relevant.

the event is fine. he shakes hands. he says the right things in the right order. he has, you note with professional satisfaction, actually read the briefing document you sent him, which not every client does, and the ones who don't tend to generate incidents. he is wearing the blue henley you'd suggested because it reads as approachable without trying too hard and his hair is pushed back and he is, standing in a room full of people, still the thing everyone's eyes go to first, not because he's performing anything but because there is a quality to him that rooms respond to involuntarily, some combination of the size of him and the stillness and the fact that when he talks to someone he talks to them like they're the only person in the building.

you're watching him talk to an elderly man in a navy blazer near the drinks table when the woman next to you leans over to her companion and says, in the quiet voice of someone not quite trying to be overheard: "no string though. interesting."

her companion makes a considering sound. "maybe he just hasn't been close enough to them yet."

"or maybe they're not—"

"don't."

"i'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

you write something in your notepad that is not relevant to the event and shoot them both a nasty look for the insinuation.

on the car ride back he's quiet, looking out the window, and you're going over your notes when he says, without turning from the glass: "they were talking about it."

"yes," you say.

"they're always talking about it."

"yes," you say again, because there isn't a better answer and you have learned that he doesn't need you to have better answers, he needs you to not pretend that the worse ones aren't true.

he nods once, slowly, like he's filing this away next to everything else he files away, and you look back at your notes and don't ask the question that is sitting at the back of your throat, which is: does it bother you, and which you don't ask because you already know the answer and knowing the answer is not the same as being entitled to hear him say it.

the email came in at 7:43 in the morning, before you had finished your coffee, before you had fully accepted that this was your life now.

subject: incident at whole foods (columbus circle)

you put your mug down.

the body of the email was from suki in media response, who had been working at the firm for eleven years and had the tired, slightly faraway look of someone who had witnessed a great many things that could not be unseen. she had a habit of prefacing genuinely bad news with a single period, like a warning shot, so when you opened the email and saw the period sitting alone on its own line before the main body of text, you already knew you were going to need more coffee.

.

hi,

so the columbus circle whole foods has a new instagram account. they started it last month to post pictures of their prepared foods section. as of approximately twenty minutes ago, 47,000 people follow it.

footage attached.

best, suki

the footage was twelve seconds long. it had been captured by someone standing near the olive bar, phone at chest height, capturing the unmistakable blue-and-white striped tote bag that the office had specifically sourced for bucky barnes on the basis that it made him look approachable and domestic, because the internet had decided two months ago that the former winter soldier going grocery shopping was a form of national healing and your firm had leaned into this extremely hard.

in the twelve seconds of footage, he could be seen holding a paper number from the deli counter. he was looking at it with the focused stillness of a man who had survived more than one war and was currently deciding whether this small rectangle of paper had personally wronged him. then he looked up at the deli counter employee with an expression that was not quite threatening but was definitely in the general neighborhood of threatening, the way that certain weather systems were in the general neighborhood of catastrophic, and he said, clearly and calmly, into a whole foods that had gone somewhat quiet: "i've been waiting for seventeen minutes. i watched three people who came in after me get served. i want you to look me in the eye and tell me that the number system is working as intended."

the employee looked at him.

he waited.

"i can get a manager," the employee said.

"i would appreciate that," he nodded.

then the video ended.

you picked up your phone and called him. he picked up on the second ring, which was already a bad sign because when he was in a good mood he let it ring four or five times on principle, something about not being at anyone's beck and call, a policy you had tried to explain was inconvenient for your professional relationship and he had listened to with polite, focused attention before continuing to do it anyway.

"good morning," he said.

"good morning," you said. "i'm looking at a video."

"mm."

"of you."

"i know which one you mean."

"do you want to talk about it?"

there was a pause. in the background you could hear what sounded like eggs being cracked, which meant he was home and calm and had already filed this particular incident away into whatever internal architecture he used to categorize things that had not gone the way he planned. this was, you had learned, both a relief and a source of ongoing professional anxiety, because his equanimity about these situations was directly proportional to how little he felt he had done anything wrong.

"the number system," he said, "was not working as intended."

"bucky."

"i'm not saying the video misrepresents me. i'm saying it lacks context."

"the context being."

"that i had been waiting for seventeen minutes."

you set down your coffee mug with a small, careful click and opened your laptop. you had a google alert on his name. you had seven of them, actually, each with slightly different keyword combinations, because the internet had a great many creative ways to discuss james buchanan barnes and you needed to be ahead of at least some of them. the first one had already surfaced a reddit thread titled bucky barnes vs. whole foods: a reckoning with fourteen hundred upvotes and a comment section that was divided roughly sixty-forty between people who found this deeply humanizing and people who were concerned about the deli employee's wellbeing. buried somewhere in the middle of the thread, under a subthread that had gone sideways in the way reddit subthreads did, someone had posted a link to a quora quiz titled which avenger is your soulmate? with a caption that said touched grass once, still got bucky. it had forty-seven upvotes. you did not click it. you had a professional policy about clicking those.

"the comment section on reddit," you said, "is currently arguing about whether you were scary or whether you were in the right."

"both can be true."

"bucky, you can't say both can be true, that's not the answer."

"why not?"

"because i need to issue a statement and the statement can't be 'both can be true.'"

he was quiet for a moment. you could hear the eggs going into the pan, the sound of butter in a skillet, and you thought about how twelve months ago you had been managing the communications rollout for a mid-sized pharmaceutical company's rebranding and your biggest problem had been that the new logo looked slightly too much like a competitor's and how that problem, in retrospect, had the clean simple contours of a problem that could be solved by a graphic designer and a mildly strongly worded letter. you had been recruited for this position by a woman named linda who had the energy of someone who had survived multiple pr crises at a governmental level and who had explained the role to you over lunch in a way that made it sound like a fascinating challenge, and you had said yes because you had been twenty-five and ambitious and had believed that your skillset was transferable.

"the statement," he said, "could be that i was politely advocating for fair service."

"you made a whole foods go quiet."

"i spoke in a normal tone of voice."

"your normal tone of voice has a particular quality."

a beat of silence. "what quality." 

you looked at the comment section. someone had written: he didn't even raise his voice and i am terrified. someone else had written: this is literally just a man asking a reasonable question, leave him alone. someone else had written: i need him to be patient at me next. you elected not to read that one aloud. there was a fourth comment, further down, that had been upvoted enough to sit near the top: whoever his soulmate is has the most chaotic life possible and i am so jealous. you elected not to read that one aloud either, and not only for professional reasons.

"a quality," you said carefully, "that reads as intimidating on video even when you're saying completely reasonable things."

"that's not my fault."

"it's not a matter of fault. it's a matter of optics."

"i don't like the word optics."

"i know you don't."

"it implies that what things look like matters more than what they are."

"in communications work, what things look like is literally the entire job."

there was a long pause. the eggs sounded like they were being moved around the pan with some deliberateness.

"i'll call the store," you said. "we can do a thing where you bring something. flowers or something. for the employee."

"i wasn't rude to the employee."

"i know you weren't rude. we're not correcting rudeness, we're doing gesture of goodwill, context-adding public action. we can photograph it. the tote bag reads well."

another pause. "the tote bag.." he said, in the tone of a man who had many thoughts about the tote bag and was choosing not to share them at this moment.

"the tote bag," you confirmed, "is doing a lot of heavy lifting for both of us and i need you to keep carrying it."

he made a sound that was not quite agreement and not quite disagreement, which you had learned was as close to cooperative as you were going to get on short notice. you told him you'd send logistics by noon, you told him to stay off social media until you'd drafted something, and he said "i'm not on social media.”

you made a note to check what he'd looked at.

the whole foods thing was resolved with a photograph that got picked up by three separate media outlets under headlines like bucky barnes brings flowers to whole foods: a timeline and america's redemption arc continues, apparently and, most usefully, former assassin: just like us, turns out. the employee, whose name was devon and who turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old studying film at hunter college, ended up with twenty thousand new followers and a viral clip of himself accepting the sunflowers while saying "it's all good, man" to a slightly stiff nod of acknowledgment, and the ratio on the original video shifted decisively toward deeply humanizing and away from concerning.

you had been in the job for eight months at this point. you were, by some metrics, very good at it.

the harder part was not the incidents. the incidents were, if not predictable, at least finite. something would happen, you would learn about it, you would manage the fallout, the news cycle would move on. you had a system. you had talking points. you had a laminated sheet in your desk drawer, which you had made in a moment of dark humor three months in, titled standard barnes incident response framework with categories including physical altercation (minor), physical altercation (property damage), unsolicited commentary on current events, interaction with other enhanced individuals (friendly), interaction with other enhanced individuals (unclear), and the category you revisited most often, which was simply staring.

you had also, in a small section at the bottom of the laminated sheet that you had added after the first stark foundation gala, a category called red carpet (walking out), which had its own sub-columns for time elapsed before exit, documented reason if any, and public response (scale 1-10, 10 = full crisis). you had used it four times.

the briefing for the times interview happens on a wednesday afternoon in month four, in your office, rain coming down the windows, and you've been through the likely questions and the deflections and the things to stay away from and he's been listening the way he always listens, that full and present attention that you have stopped trying to get used to and started simply accounting for, when you get to the last item on your list.

"the soulmate question," you say, keeping your voice completely even, "is going to come up. it comes up in everything."

the quality of the air in the room changes. you feel it before you can see it, the way he goes a different kind of still. not the resting stillness but the other kind, the one that costs something.

"i know," he says.

"i need to know how you want to handle it. we can prepare a deflection, something short that doesn't invite follow-up. or you can decline and we frame it as a private matter, which most outlets will respect. or we address it briefly and on your terms, which takes more preparation but gives us more control. it's your call." you keep your pen on the notepad and your eyes on him and you don't soften it or over-explain it because he doesn't need that, he needs you to treat him like a person who can look at a hard thing straight on.

he's quiet for long enough that the rain on the window becomes audible.

"i went into the ice in forty-three," he says, finally, not looking at you, looking at his own hands. "no string. came back, still no string." a pause. "you know what the logical explanations for that are."

you do know. you have worked in this industry for three years and you have absorbed the mechanics of it the way you absorb everything, thoroughly and at a professional distance, but you know. the string appears in proximity. if it hasn't appeared, either you haven't been close enough to your person yet, or your person is gone. or, and this is the one that sits in your chest in a way that the others don't, there's a third explanation, one that gets posted in reddit comments and deleted by moderators and reposted again because people can't stop pulling at it. that during seventy years of work in god knows how many countries and god knows how many rooms, he might have been close enough. might have crossed paths with his person without knowing it. might have been sent after them on a mission he didnt remember.

he's never said this out loud in front of you. he says it now with the flatness of someone who has had to make peace with a thought by saying it enough times that it stops having edges.

"the most likely explanation," he says, "is that they were born in the twenties. that they died decades ago. that it just never happened in time." he looks up at you then, and his eyes have the quality they get when he is being precise because imprecision would cost him something. "the other explanation is that it did happen in time. that i was in the right room. and i—" the muscle in his jaw moves. "i made sure they never came out.”

the rain comes down the window.

"i'm not going to talk about it in the interview," he says. the flatness is back. "i'm not going to talk about it because there is nothing to say about it that doesn't—" he stops. starts again. "it doesn't have an ending that i can give people. it's not something i've worked through and come out the other side of. it's just a thing that's true and that i live next to."

"okay," you say again. and then: "we'll keep it off the table."

he nods once. he picks up the briefing document and looks at it and the conversation moves on, and you make a note that says no soulmate questions and underline it and don't look up for a while because you are a communications professional and your face is doing something that isn't professional and you need a moment.

you have a sticky note on the inside of your desk drawer that says if red string: do not speak to press. that night you open the drawer and look at it for a long time before you close it again.

the times interview is in june, in a rented room at a hotel in midtown, the journalist across the table with her recorder and her water glass and her careful professional warmth. you're in the corner with your notepad. you've been through the likely questions. you've gone over what to sidestep and how. he'd listened to all of it and said sure at the end, which you took as agreement.

forty minutes in she asks whether there are aspects of the past seventy years he hasn't made peace with.

he looks at her.

"most of them," he says.

she waits.

"the thing about peace is that people use it to mean you've stopped being affected by something. i don't think that's what it is. i think it's more like you've stopped letting it make your decisions for you. i'm working on that. i'm not done."

your hand is on your notepad. you are not writing anything down.

"are there specific things you feel you haven't processed?" she asks, carefully.

"sure. i was used as a weapon. not metaphorically. i hurt people because someone else had control of what i did. i live with that. i don't think i'll stop living with it. i just try to do something with it that isn't destructive."

"and do you feel like you're succeeding?"

he thinks about it. gives it the full weight of himself, the way he does. "on good days," he says.

the journalist shifts in her chair, the small professional movement of someone arriving at the question they've been holding. "i have to ask," she says, with the careful casualness of someone who has been building toward this for forty minutes. "the soulmate question comes up in nearly every piece written about you. you've never addressed it directly. your file with us goes back to your reintroduction to public life and there's not a single comment on record. is there anything you want people to understand about it?"

across the room, you go very still.

he doesn't answer immediately. the silence stretches in a way that a less experienced journalist would fill and she doesn't fill it, she's good, she lets it sit, and you watch him look at the table in front of him and you watch something happen behind his eyes that you recognise from your office four weeks ago on a wednesday afternoon with rain on the windows and you put your pen down.

"the assumption," he says, slowly, "is that i haven't found them yet. that it's a waiting game. that i just need to be in the right place at the right time and the string is going to show up and that'll be it." a pause. his voice has gone to a place that is very quiet and very level, the tone of someone managing the distance between themselves and what they're saying. "but i was in a lot of places. over a lot of years. in a lot of rooms with a lot of people and the string never came, and at some point the more hone–" he stops.

the journalist is very still.

his jaw moves. his hands on the table are very still. "i'm not going to talk about it in an interview."

the last sentence comes out differently from the ones before it. the ones before it were him thinking out loud, following a thought somewhere he hadn't planned to go, and the last one is the door closing.

"i appreciate you sharing—" the journalist starts.

"no." he says, and it's not rude, it's not even sharp, it's just the end of something. he looks at you.

you are already standing up.

you don't think about it, you don't make a professional calculation, you cross the room in the time it takes the journalist to register what's happening and he's pushing back his chair and you put your hand out and he takes it. his hand is large and warm and closes around yours with the certainty of someone who knew you were going to be there, and he stands up and you walk out of the hotel room with your hand in his and the journalist's recorder running on the table behind you and you don't look back.

in the hallway he stops. he drops his chin and he breathes and you stand next to him holding his hand in a hallway in a midtown hotel and you don't say anything because there is nothing to say that would be better than just being there.

after a while he says, without looking up: "sorry about the interview."

"don't be," you say.

"you're going to have to—"

"i'll handle it," you say. "it's fine. she'll frame it right."

he's quiet for another moment. then he looks at you. his eyes have come back from wherever they were in that room and they're on your face now, doing the inventory thing, and his hand is still around yours and neither of you has moved to change that.

"thank you," he says. low and even and meaning it completely.

"that's the job," you say, which is true, and also not entirely what you mean, and the slight shift in his expression suggests he knows the difference.

you take the car back in a quiet that is different from other quiets. his hand rests on his thigh and the space between you in the backseat is smaller than it usually is and you watch the city go past the window and you think about his hand around yours in the hallway and the certainty of it and you don't examine it. you file it in the folder you haven't named and you look at the city and you think about what you're going to say to the journalist and none of the professional thoughts stick because underneath all of them is the feeling of his hand and the way he'd looked at you in the hallway, like you were the thing in the room that was solid.

the piece comes out two weeks later and it is the best pr you have ever been involved with because it isn't pr, it's just him telling the truth and the truth being, without any help from you, something that moves people. the section about the soulmate question is three careful paragraphs that the journalist has handled with more generosity than you had any right to expect, framed around the idea of a man who has chosen not to speculate publicly about private pain, which is accurate and which generates its own news cycle for four days, and a slate piece calls it the most honest thing a public figure has done in years, and you read it with the face of someone who is not having feelings about it and is succeeding at a rate of maybe fifty percent.

you text him: the piece is good.

after a while: you sound surprised. - b

you send: you were honest.

he leaves you on read.

the stark foundation gala is a thursday in september, the fifth major red carpet you've managed for him, and you have data. two completions, one walkout at twenty minutes, one near-walkout that you'd managed by standing at the end of the carpet and looking at him in a way that communicated, without words, that you would prefer he didn't, and which had worked in a way that you had written up in your notes afterward as unclear why and had been thinking about since.

in the week before the gala you call him three times about nothing in particular. his schedule. the coffee place on ninth you'd mentioned in july, which he'd tried, and he'd had opinions about it that were more detailed than you'd expected and the conversation had gone over twenty minutes and you'd had to manufacture a reason to end it, which you had done and then sat with the phone in your hand for a while afterward. you do this, the calling about nothing, because you've learned that the best way to get a red carpet to go smoothly is to make sure he doesn't arrive at it feeling like something being deployed. he needs to feel like a person who decided to go somewhere. the distinction matters and you can't manufacture it, which means your job in the days before a major event is less about logistics and more about being someone he has actually talked to recently. this is not in the framework document. you haven't decided what to do with the fact that it doesn't feel like work when you do it.

the gala is at the met. you're stationed at the edge of the carpet just past the arrival point, where you can see the full length of it and where he has a direct sightline to you, a logistical choice you made after the third event and which he has never commented on but which you've noticed he uses. he finds you in the first twenty seconds every single time now. some quality of his posture changes when he does. you have noticed this and you have not written it in any document.

he arrives at 7:12 in a dark suit that fits him and he stands on the pavement doing his version of gathering himself, which looks like stillness from the outside and feels, you have come to understand, like something considerably more effortful from within. the crowd notices him a beat after the press pit does and the noise goes up and he walks onto the carpet.

he is good for eleven minutes. personal best. he does the photographs. he nods at the press pit. he says three things you didn't script that are better than anything you did, consistent enough a pattern that you've stopped scripting things for him entirely and started having conversations with him in the days before that surface what he actually thinks, which he then sometimes says in public when asked variations of the same questions, and this works better than anything else you've tried and you are not going to examine why talking to him is the most effective pr tool you have. he stops to speak to someone from the foundation board and the photograph of that exchange is going to be excellent and you know it from forty feet away.

then something shifts.

you see it before you can name it, the change in the quality of his stillness. he's looking at the press pit, not at any one person in it but at the whole of it, all cameras and lights and controlled professional noise, and his jaw sets.

he turns.

the exit is to your left, which means he is walking toward you, which means you have approximately four seconds before he reaches the edge of the carpet and then he is in a car and you are managing a walkout and the night is over. you have done this before. you have the framework for it. you know the headlines it generates and the spin cycle that follows and the three days of careful repositioning it costs you both and the specific expression he gets when you debrief him afterward, not apologetic exactly, just tired in the way he gets when he has reached the end of himself and had nothing left to give the room.

you are not doing that tonight.

you step directly into his path.

not to the side of it. not near it. into it, planting yourself between him and the exit with your arm extended and your finger pointed back down the carpet, back toward the lights and the cameras and the press pit, and the look on your face says what your voice can't say across forty feet of noise, which is: turn around. right now. you are not done.

he stops walking.

he stumbles.

not a trip. not a misstep. his body lurches toward you like something has grabbed him by the sternum, one long step forward that his legs didn't decide to take, and then his knees hit the red carpet and the sound of it cuts through the noise of the press pit like a frequency change and for one suspended second the entire stark foundation gala goes quiet.

he is on one knee in front of you.

his head is down.

and then the light catches it.

thin and luminous, running from his wrist to yours, red and impossible and unmistakable, crossing the distance between you like it has always been there, like it has been waiting patiently for the two of you to end up in the same place at the same time and stop moving long enough for it to show up. the string. the thing that means one specific thing and only one specific thing and that you have had a sticky note about in your desk drawer for eight months that says if red string: do not speak to press and which, you now understand with a clarity that feels almost funny, was a note you wrote about yourself without knowing it.

the quiet lasts approximately one second.

and then the press pit explodes.

not in the professional sense, not the managed swell of cameras and questions that you have learned to navigate, but in the way that things explode when something genuinely unprecedented has just happened in front of people whose entire job is to document unprecedented things. it is a wall of sound, a wave of it, the camera shutters going off so fast they become a single continuous noise like static, like rain, like something electrical, and underneath it the crowd behind the barriers which has been politely attentive for the past eleven minutes is suddenly not politely anything, it is screaming, actually screaming, the sound of several hundred people watching something they are going to talk about for the rest of their lives and knowing it in real time.

you look at the string.

he raises his head.

he is still on one knee on the red carpet of the stark foundation gala and the cameras are going and the crowd is going and the press pit is going and he is looking up at you with an expression that you have never seen on his face before, not once in eight months of watching his face for a living, not the closed off look and not the considering look and not the look from the hotel hallway and not the careful flat look from the wednesday with rain on the windows. it is something underneath all of those. something that was there before he learned to put the other ones on top of it.

he looks, you think, like a man who just found out that the worst version of the thing was not the true version.

"hi." your voice is completely steady. this is the single greatest professional achievement of your career.

the corner of his mouth moves, just barely, and his eyes are still doing the thing that has no category, and the cameras are still going, and the crowd is still going, and the string between your wrists is thin and luminous and entirely unbothered by all of it. "hi," he says. low. a little rough. like he's had to come back from somewhere to say it.

"you were going to leave."

"i was course correcting," he says. from one knee. on the stark foundation gala red carpet. with the full gravity and composure of a man who has decided this is the version of events he's committed to.

"toward you," he says. like this is a complete and sufficient answer. like it explains something rather than being the thing that requires explaining.

the string sits between you, luminous and patient, catching the gala lights. from somewhere in the press pit someone is saying something into a phone that you can't hear over the noise. the crowd behind the barriers is a living thing, pressing forward, held back by nothing except the barriers themselves and possibly the collective understanding that something is happening that they don't want to interrupt. you are aware, in the peripheral way that you are always aware of everything, that there are somewhere between forty and sixty cameras currently on the two of you and that this is going to be on every front page in the country by morning and that the stringwatch tumblr is probably already loading a new draft and that you have no prepared statement for this, none, not one word of prepared language for the thing that is happening right now, and that this is the first time in three years of professional communications work that you have been completely without a prepared statement and it feels, strangely, like putting something down that you didn't know you were carrying.

"get up, please.” its almost a beg.

he gets up.

he unfolds to his full height right in front of you and you have to tilt your chin up to look at him properly and he is close, closer than the three feet of professional air that you have maintained for eight months, close enough that you can see the exact expression on his face without having to read it across a room, and the expression on his face is the one without a category that you are going to spend a considerable amount of time developing a category for.

he looks at the string.

then at you.

the string.

you.

"okay," he says. quiet enough that only you can hear it under the noise. not to the string and not to the situation and not to the press pit or the crowd or the forty-odd cameras. to you. just to you. like the rest of it isn't there at all.

the crowd screams again, a fresh wave of it, because one of the photographers has gotten the angle that captures both of your faces and the string between your wrists in a single frame and the image is already moving, you can feel it moving the way you can always feel the news cycle shift, except that this time you are inside it instead of standing at the edge of it with your notepad and your talking points and your professional remove.

"we need to walk back down the carpet," you say.

"okay."

"thirty seconds. you're going to be fine. i'm going to be right next to you. then we're getting in a car and dealing with the rest of this somewhere that isn't—" you gesture, slightly, at the entirety of it.

"okay," he says. and then: "you're always serious."

"yes," you say.

"it's one of the things," he says, for the second time in your acquaintance, with the same weight as the first time, and you still don't ask what it means because you are storing it in the folder that now very urgently needs a name.

you turn toward the carpet.

he falls into step beside you and the cameras go absolutely, completely, historically insane, and somewhere in the press pit someone is shouting a question about the string that you are not going to answer tonight or possibly ever, and the crowd behind the barriers sounds like a physical force, and the string between your wrists catches every light on the carpet and throws it back, and you walk, and he walks, and the string walks with you both, and the night air is warm and the cameras don't stop and none of it matters as much as the fact that his arm is against yours as you move and that where eight months of a working relationship and three feet of professional air used to be, there is now just the small luminous fact of the string.

the car is quiet.

you're next to each other in the back of the suv and the string is still there, running between your wrists in the dark, and your phone has forty-seven notifications and you are not looking at any of them. he hasn't moved away from the string. every time you've been near him there's been a distance to it, professional and maintained without either of you having to think about it. three feet of air that existed because it was correct. the string makes that distance theoretical. it runs between you with the ease of something that has been waiting for someone to stop pretending it isn't there, and he keeps not moving away from it and you keep noticing that he keeps not moving away from it.

"the stringwatch tumblr," you say, to the window.

"the what."

"there's a woman. she's been running a blog for eleven years documenting celebrity soulmate bonds. methodology section and everything." a pause. "she's going to have a methodology section about this by morning."

he takes this in. "what's a tumblr?"

you look at him. in the dark of the car his eyes catch the light from outside and he is looking at you the way he always looks at you, like you are the only thing in the room that requires his attention, and your professionalism is doing its level best. "it doesn't matter what it is. the point is the internet is going to be a lot for a while."

"okay."

"a real lot. there are quora quizzes. there are ao3 fics. there's a podcast, two journalists, ninety minutes on the probable emotional profile of whoever was bonded to you." a pause that you feel in your chest before you hear yourself fill it. "i listened to it on the train to dc."

a beat. "for work.." he says. not quite a question.

"for work," you say, with slightly less conviction than intended, and you feel him looking at you from the side.

"what did they say?" he asks, quietly.

you look at the city moving past the window. "that whoever it was would need a high tolerance for difficulty."

"that's not wrong."

"they said it was probably someone who didn't need you to be easy. just someone who needed you to be honest."

the car moves through an intersection. a taxi honks at something that isn't you.

"also not wrong," he says quieter.

you look at him. he's looking at you with the expression that doesn't have a category, the one from the carpet, the one from the hallway, and it is doing things to the filing system you've spent eight months constructing.

"i have one thousand and forty-seven notifications," you say.

"you can look at them." easy. unhurried.

"i know i can look at them."

"so look at them."

"i don't want to look at them," you huff, which is true, and he seems to understand that it is also not the point, because he doesn't push it.

the string catches light from a passing streetlamp and for a second it's the brightest thing in the car.

"you pointed at me like i was a dog." his voice is a low grumble, not threatening, more like a rottweiler.

"i was indicating the area of the carpet where i needed you to remain."

"you pointed at me." the warmth in it, wondering and quiet. "and i fell toward you." a pause. "didn't even mean to."

you look at his hand on his thigh. at yours in your lap. at the five or so inches between them that are the last professionally defensible distance you have.

"bucky," you hum.

"yeah."

you think about his hand around yours in the hotel hallway and the certainty of it. you think about a wednesday afternoon with rain on the windows and his voice saying the word maybe in the flat tone of someone putting distance between themselves and a thing so they can say it. you think about the sticky note and the folder without a name and forty-seven notifications and the string sitting between your wrists like it has been there longer than an hour, patient and luminous and entirely unbothered.

"the statement is going to be a nightmare," you say.

"okay."

"the internet is going to be—"

"i know."

"for a long time," you say. "a really long time. and there are going to be—" you stop. you start again. "it's going to change things. for the job. for—" you stop again.

he shifts beside you, just slightly, and his hand moves from his thigh to the seat between you and he turns it over, open, not reaching, not demanding, just offering it the same way he'd taken yours in the hallway. the same certainty. the same ease. like he'd known you were going to be there and is now returning the thing you gave him.

you look at it for a moment.

then you put your hand in his.

"okay," he says. soft. like it means something underneath it. like it has been meaning something for a while and he has been waiting for the right moment to let it.

you look at the city going past and his hand is around yours and the string runs between your wrists and somewhere across the city the stringwatch tumblr is probably already loading the first draft of a methodology section, and you think: okay.

the stringwatch tumblr publishes at 2:14 in the morning.

six thousand words. methodology section. the title is bucky barnes and his pr assistant: a documentation (ongoing) and the subheading is he walked toward her.

she has footage from six angles. a breakdown of the stumble and the knee and the moment the string appears. she has a timeline of every known public interaction between the two of you going back eight months, pulled from red carpet footage and event photographs and the whole foods video, in which, she notes with what appears to be genuine excitement, you can be seen in the background near the olive bar with your phone in your hand and an expression she has labelled professionally resigned but present. 

you werent there.

she has the photograph from the moment of the string. sourced from three photographers, different angles all resolving on the same image: him on one knee and you standing still and the string between you catching the gala lights, and both of your faces doing something uncontrolled and undeniable.

she has a subsection called prior evidence, unconfirmed.

it has more in it than you were ready for. a paparazzi photograph from four months ago outside the firm after a late meeting. you are looking at your phone. he is looking at you. just you, with an expression aimed at the back of your head that you have never personally seen, that the stringwatch tumblr has tagged with two words.

oh no.

underneath it, in her analysis, she has written: he has been looking at her like this in every piece of available footage since month two. there is a hotel hallway clip from june, thirty seconds of security camera footage that has been on youtube with four thousand views and no notes until tonight, in which she walks out first and he follows and in the hallway he stops and she stops with him and they stand there and you cannot see his face but you can see hers, and whoever is watching this for the first time tonight can see what she apparently could not, which is that she is looking at him the way people look at things they are trying very hard not to look at that way.

the comments on the stringwatch post number in the thousands before you stop reading them. someone near the top has written: she pointed at him and he fell toward her and now i need to lie down. someone else has written: the hotel hallway footage has been sitting there for six months and none of us noticed. someone else has written: he took her hand at the senator's thing. it's in the background of the c-span footage. seventeen seconds. nobody noticed because nobody was looking at the background. we were all looking at him.

you had not known that that was on camera.

you had not known that anyone had seen that.

you sit in your apartment at 2:47 in the morning with your phone in your hand and your left wrist resting in your lap and the string going through your walls and across the city to wherever he is, and you read six thousand words about yourself and about him and about the eight months between the first tuesday and tonight, and at some point you stop reading and just sit in the quiet with it.

your phone buzzes.

there's a website - b

it has a methodology section. - b

it has the hotel hallway. - b

you look at your left wrist. at the string. at the middle distance that contains, across some number of city blocks, the other end of it and the person attached to it who has apparently been looking at you since month two in a way that is now documented and timestamped and being discussed by several thousand people.

the three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

i've been looking at you for longer than four months. - b

before you can respond, before you can even work out what your hands are doing.

i used to think there wasn't going to be a string. i'd made a kind of peace with it.- b

that's not what i was thinking about when i was looking at you.- b

you leave him on read for the night.

he knocks on your door at 7 in the morning.

you know it's him before you open it because nobody else knocks like that, three times, evenly spaced, like he's considered the appropriate volume and committed to it. you are in your pyjamas with your hair doing something that is not professional and your left wrist still glowing faintly with the string and you have had approximately four hours of sleep and you open the door anyway because it is him and you have, at 2:47 in the morning with your phone in your hand, stopped pretending that you wouldn't.

he's in a dark henley and his hair is pushed back and he has two coffees from the place on ninth and he holds one out to you with the expression of a man who has made a decision and is not going to explain the decision but is also not going to pretend he hasn't made it.

you take the coffee.

he looks at you. at your pyjamas and your hair and your left wrist and your face, which is doing things you are too tired to manage.

"hi," he says.

“hello barnes.”

and he comes in.

he sits on your sofa the way he sits in the chair in your office, the chair that has become his chair, like his body knows where it belongs in a room and takes it without making a production of it. he wraps both hands around his coffee cup and looks at your apartment with the quiet attention he gives everything and you sit in the chair across from him with your legs tucked under you and you drink your coffee and outside the city is waking up and somewhere across that city the stringwatch tumblr has seven thousand comments and climbing and neither of you mentions it.

"i didn't sleep." you say, eventually.

"i know. me either."

"my notifications are at four thousand and something."

"i know." he looks at you over his coffee cup. "i wasn't looking at the notifications."

you look at your wrist. the string runs from it across your living room to his, thin and luminous in the morning light coming through the window, and it is, you think, the most surreal thing you have ever seen in your own home, which is a high bar given that bucky barnes is also in your home, sitting on your sofa at 7 in the morning, and you have been in this industry long enough to know that surreal is a relative category.

"the statement–" you breathe out a heavy sigh before he cuts u off.

"later." he says.

"bucky, the statement needs to—"

"later," he says again, not sharply, just with the quiet certainty of a man who has decided what is and isn't happening right now. "drink your coffee."

you drink your coffee.

it's good. it is, objectively, the best coffee you have had in months, from the place on ninth that you mentioned in july and that he tried and had twenty minutes of opinions about, and you think about that phone call and about manufacturing a reason to end it and about the photograph on the stringwatch tumblr of his face looking at the back of your head, and you say: "how long."

he looks at you.

"how long were you looking at me like that," you say. "the photograph. the one from four months ago."

he is quiet for a moment. his thumb moves around the rim of the coffee cup, a slow deliberate circle. "longer than four months," he says, which is what he texted, which is not an answer, and he seems to know it's not an answer because he takes a breath and tries again. "i noticed you," he says, carefully, "in the first meeting. not like—" he stops. "i noticed you because you were direct. you didn't make your face do anything when i was difficult. most people's faces do something."

"i have a professional face."

"i know. i noticed that it was professional. and then i noticed—" he stops again, the way he stops when he's being precise, choosing. "i noticed that it was also something else. underneath."

you look at your coffee.

"i told myself it was because you were good at the job," he says. "and you are good at the job. but that's not why i was looking."

the morning light comes through the window and falls across the string between your wrists and you think about eight months of three feet of professional air and the folder without a name and the podcast on the train and all the manufactured reasons to end phone calls, and you think: okay. okay. we are doing this.

"i listened to the podcast," you say, "in october. on the train. i told myself it was research."

something in his expression shifts, warm and quiet. "was it?"

"no," you huff. "not really."

he looks at you for a long moment. then he puts his coffee cup down on your table and he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on your face and the string between your wrists and he says: "i used to think there was something wrong with me. that the string didn't come. every room i walked into, for months after i got back, i was—" a breath. "i was checking. without meaning to. just looking at my wrist. and it was never there, and i made a story about why, the ones i told you on the wednesday, and i believed the story because it was the most logical thing and because believing it meant i could stop waiting." he looks at the string. "i wasn't thinking about the string when i was looking at you. i want you to know that. i wasn't looking at you because i was hoping. i was looking at you because you were—" he looks up. "you're the most interesting person in any room you're in and you don't seem to know it and that's part of it. and you're—" the corner of his mouth. "you pointed at me. in front of about fifty cameras and the entire assembled press of the stark foundation gala. you just pointed at me and expected it to work."

"it did work." you say.

"yeah," he says, soft. "it did."

you look at him. at the distance between you, which is less than three feet, which is less than you have allowed it to be for eight months, which is close enough that you can see exactly what his expression is doing and what it is doing is something that reorganises things.

"this is going to be very complicated," you say, "professionally."

"i know."

"there are protocols. conflict of interest considerations. i'm going to have to talk to the firm."

"i know."

"and the press isn't going to leave this alone. you understand that. this is going to be the story for months and every event, every appearance, everything we do is going to—"

"i know all of that," he says, steadily. "i'm not asking you to figure all of that out right now. i'm asking you to drink your coffee."

you look at him.

"and maybe," he says, with the careful casualness of a man who is not being casual at all, "sit over here."

you look at the sofa. at the space next to him, which is not professionally defensible and which you have been not looking at since he sat down. you look at the string between your wrists. you look at his face, which is doing the thing without a category, patient and intent and warm in a way that you have been filing under other headings for longer than you should have.

you get up from the chair.

you sit next to him on the sofa.

his arm moves, just slightly, and then you are against his side, and he is warm and solid in the way that he takes up space in every room, and his hand finds yours in your lap with the same certainty he had in the hotel hallway, easy and inevitable, and you sit in the morning light with your coffee going cold and the string between your wrists and the city outside and four hundred and something notifications that are going to have to wait.

the logistics of it unfold the way logistics unfold when bucky barnes is involved, which is to say: slowly, on his terms, and not without incident.

the firm meeting happens on a monday. your supervisor, a woman named claire who has been in this industry for twenty years and has the particular equanimity of someone who has managed crises at a level that makes yours look like scheduling conflicts, looks at you across her desk and then looks at the string going from your wrist through the wall in the approximate direction of brooklyn and says, with great professionalism: "well."

"i know," you say.

"the conflict of interest—"

"i know."

"we'll need to restructure the arrangement. you can stay on as lead but we bring in a secondary, someone who handles the pieces you can't be objective about." she pauses. "you haven't been objective about him for some time, based on the stringwatch analysis, but that's a separate conversation."

you look at the wall. "the stringwatch tumblr," your voice is an annoyed grumble, "is not a professional source."

"it has a methodology section," claire says, and moves on.

the restructure happens. the secondary is a man named joel who is competent and professional and who bucky takes one look at in the first joint meeting and then looks at you with an expression that says, clearly and without words: i don't like this. and joel, to his credit, pretends not to notice any of this and asks a question about the upcoming schedule and the meeting continues.

afterward, in the hallway, bucky falls into step beside you and says: "i don't like him."

"you don't have to like him."

"he kept looking at you."

"he was looking at both of us. it was a meeting."

"he was looking at you," he says, with the flat certainty of a man who has been making assessments of rooms and the people in them since 1930 and has not once been wrong, "specifically."

you look at him. he looks back, untroubled, steady, like this is a completely reasonable position to hold. "bucky." 

"i'm not going to do anything," he says. "i'm just telling you what i saw."

"what you observed," you say, "was a professional colleague conducting a professional meeting."

"what i observed," he says, "was a professional colleague who was very interested in your opinion on the q4 calendar."

"he was being thorough!”.

bucky says nothing. he holds the elevator door open for you and you get in and he gets in and the elevator closes and he says, at the wall: "i'm just saying."

"i know you're just saying," you say. "stop just saying."

the corner of his mouth. not quite a smile. "okay," he says.

it changes in increments, the way most things change with him, not in declarations but in accumulations, small decisions that add up to something larger without announcing themselves.

the first time he takes your hand in public that isn't a crisis or a hallway or a car in the dark, it's outside the firm on a tuesday afternoon, no cameras, just the street, and he reaches down and takes your hand the way he does everything, without making a production of it, and you look at your joined hands and then up at him and he is looking ahead, at the street, perfectly calm.

you walk to the coffee place on ninth and he orders without asking what you want and gets it right, which shouldn't be a thing but is, because you didn't know he'd been paying that much attention and you don't know what to do with the fact that he has, so you put it in the folder that now has a label, the label being something you haven't said out loud yet but which is becoming increasingly difficult not to.

the first time he touches your face it's not romantic, exactly, it's practical, you have something on your cheek from lunch, a meeting that ran long and you'd eaten at your desk, and he reaches over without asking and brushes it away with his thumb and it is a three second interaction that your nervous system treats as considerably longer. he doesn't comment on it. he goes back to looking at the briefing document in his other hand.

you look at the middle distance.

"okay?" he says, without looking up.

"fine," you say. "totally fine."

the corner of his mouth.

the first time he kisses you is after a press event in october, a small thing, a foundation announcement, nothing that required the full apparatus, and it had gone well, and you're in the car afterward going over what worked and what didn't and he is listening to you the way he always listens, that full and present attention, and at some point you stop talking because he is looking at you and the way he is looking at you is not the way someone looks at a person they are listening to about press event logistics.

"what?”

he reaches over and tucks a piece of your hair back, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing your jaw, and then his hand stays there, his thumb at your cheekbone, and he looks at you for a moment with the expression that still doesn't have a complete category but that you are building one for, brick by brick, day by day.

"i've been thinking about doing that," he says, meaning the hair, meaning the hand, meaning the looking, meaning all of it, "for a long time."

"how long," you ask, and he just tilts your chin up and kisses you, soft and certain and unhurried, like it's something he has thought through and decided and is not going to do halfway, and your hand finds the front of his henley and you think: this is what the folder was for.

when he pulls back he is still close, his forehead almost against yours, and he is looking at you with something that is warm and certain and a little wondering, the look he had on the carpet on one knee, the look that you are beginning to understand is the look he saves for things that have surprised him in a way he's glad about.

"is this okay?" he almost sounds insecure, and you answer him with another soft kiss..

the driver, who has been professionally pretending to be interested in the middle lane for the past forty seconds, says nothing.

the interviews start some time after. not the solo ones, those have been happening since the times piece, but the joint ones, the ones where you are both in the frame, where the string between your wrists is visible and the journalist across the table has questions for both of you and the world has decided that bucky barnes and his pr assistant is a story it wants to keep telling.

the first one is with a woman from the atlantic, who is sharp and warm and asks good questions, and she sits across from both of you and looks between you with the professional assessment of a journalist who has been told to get the definitive interview and has shown up prepared to get it.

"i want to ask about the nature of the working relationship," she says, "before and after. because you were working together for eight months before the gala, and from the outside looking in, that's a significant amount of time to be—" she chooses her word carefully. "in proximity."

you open your mouth.

"it was significant," bucky says, before you get there, and you close your mouth. "i don't think either of us would say it wasn't."

the journalist looks at him. "can you say more about that?"

he looks at you, just for a second, and then he looks back at the journalist and says: "she's very good at her job. she doesn't tell me what to think. she argues with me when i'm wrong and she doesn't pretend i'm right when i'm not and she—" a pause. "she shows up. that's the thing. whatever room i'm in, she's thought about how i'm going to be in it. not in a managing way. in a—" he stops. finds it. "in the way that you think about someone when you're paying attention to them."

the journalist is writing something down. you are looking at the table in humiliation.

"and from your side," the journalist says to you, with the precision of someone who knows she's got something and is handling it carefully, "what does it look like, managing someone's public image when the relationship has become—"

"the job didn't change," you say. and then, because it's him and because the journalist is good and because the string is there on the table between your wrists and there's no version of this where you are fully professional about it: "not until the gala, anyway.”

the journalist smiles. writes something down. bucky, next to you, doesn't say anything, but his hand finds yours under the table and his thumb moves once across your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and you think: the folder has a name now. you've known the name for a while. you've just been waiting until it wasn't terrifying to say it, and it is still a little terrifying, and that's okay, because some things are supposed to feel like something when they arrive.

the museum updates their exhibit in december.

you find out from an alert, except this time the alert is from the smithsonian's press office and it reads: update to the captain america permanent exhibition: new panel added to the james buchanan barnes section, and you click the link and there is the panel, installed between the one about the howling commandos and the one about the fall from the train, and it has his photograph and a paragraph of new text, and at the bottom of the paragraph, in the careful neutral language of institutional documentation, it says: barnes returned to public life in 2024 and has been an active participant in veteran advocacy work. he currently resides in brooklyn. and then, in the last sentence, which someone at the smithsonian has either added with great intentionality or with no understanding of what it would do to the internet: the string connecting him to his soulmate appeared publicly in september 2025, at a foundation event in new york.

that's all it says. the string connecting him to his soulmate.

you read it three times.

you send him the link.

he texts back after a while: they spelled my name right. - b

you roll your eyes at his play at stupidity, bucky read often and he was almost as annoying as steve when it came to reading the fine print.

does it feel weird seeing it in there?

a longer pause than usual. 

no, its about my history, you’re apart of that now - b

you sit with that.

why, do you mind? if you do, i'll remove it myself. - b

you smile down at your phone, huffing as you try and smother your smile and type back.

you’re apart of my history now too, james.

steve comes to find you in january, at a team event at the compound, directly and with the expression of a man who has something to say and has decided to say it.

"can i tell you something?" he says.

"you're going to tell me something either way," you say into your wine glass.

the corner of his mouth quirks up and he nods towards you, "fair." 

he looks across the room, where bucky is standing with a cup of coffee talking to sam, and there is something in the way steve looks at him that is not complicated at all, just straightforward and glad. "i grew up with him," steve says. "i've known him since we were kids too small to get into a fight without getting flattened, and i watched him—" he stops. "i watched what happened to him. all of it. before and after. and i've been watching him since he came back, every day, trying to find his way back to himself." he looks at you. "i want you to know that he's getting there. he laughs now. not often, but he laughs. he has opinions about coffee and he argues about things that don't matter and last week he told sam he was wrong about something for twenty minutes and didn't apologise once." a pause. "he's getting back to himself. and i think," he says, carefully, "that you're part of why."

you look at bucky across the room. he says something to sam and sam throws his head back laughing and bucky's mouth does the thing, the not quite smile that is better than most people's full ones, and he glances over and finds you the way he always finds you in a room, in the first twenty seconds, and the look he gives you is the one without a complete category that you are still building, brick by brick, and which is getting easier to look at without having to file it somewhere else first.

"he's doing the work," you say to steve. "i just handle the press."

"you do more than that," steve says. not pushing. just accurate.

you look at the string on your wrist.

"yeah," you say. "i know."

steve is quiet for a moment. then: "he used to think there wasn't going to be one. the string. he never said it outright but i knew. i'd watch him in rooms sometimes, not looking for anything, just—" he shakes his head. "he'd made peace with it. put it away somewhere. and i'd think, god, bucky, you of all people." he sniffs before he holds his knuckle to his nose for a moment to collect himself,  "it's like having my best friend back," he smiles. "i don't know how else to put it. it's like having him back."

you look at bucky across the room. he is arguing with sam about something, his coffee cup in one hand and his other hand doing the thing where he makes a point with it, and sam is shaking his head and grinning and bucky looks, you think, like someone who has returned from somewhere very far away and is still learning what it feels like to be back, and is learning it, day by day, in a brooklyn apartment and a coffee place on ninth and a car on the way home from events and a sofa in the morning with the string between their wrists and the city outside, and is not, you think, learning it alone.

"yeah," you say, to steve. "i think i'm getting him back too."

bucky looks over again. finds you and he tips his head slightly, the smallest possible gesture, and it says: come here.

you cross the room in an instant.

he moves his arm and you fit against his side the way you've learned you fit there, and he doesn't make a thing of it, he just keeps talking to sam, his arm settling around you with the ease of something practiced, something decided, and sam looks at you and then at the string and then at bucky with the expression of a man who is choosing not to say the many things he could say and settling for a grin.

"anyway," bucky says, to sam, as if nothing has happened, "i'm telling you, you're wrong about the coffee."

"i'm not wrong about the coffee," sam says.

"you're catastrophically wrong about the coffee," bucky says. "ask her." he means you. he says it with the casual certainty of a man who has already decided you are going to agree with him, which you are, because he is right about the coffee, and also because it is december and the string is there and steve rogers is across the room looking at his best friend like he got something back he'd stopped expecting to get back, and you are against bucky's side with his arm around you and he is arguing about coffee like it is the most important thing in the room and maybe, you think, for right now, it is. maybe that's the point. maybe that's what getting back to yourself looks like. the small things. the coffee. the arguing. the twenty minutes with sam and the not apologising and the finding someone in the first twenty seconds of every room and the hand offered open on the seat of a car in the dark.

"she's going to say you're wrong," you tell him.

"she's going to say i'm right," he says, without looking at you, to sam, and his arm tightens slightly around you, just briefly, just enough.

"i'm going to say," you say, "that you're both wrong and the place on ninth is better than either of you deserve."

sam laughs. bucky looks down at you with the expression, the warm and wondering one, and his mouth does the thing that is better than most people's full smiles.

"whatever, i’m definitely right, doll.”

You’ll be at the kitchen counter making coffee and he’ll come in behind you. Not too awake, he’ll rest his chin on your shoulder, with his whole forearm on your back like you’re load-bearing furniture.

You kind of are, a little, since you’ve come to accept this. Heavy, you think, pouring your coffee. Genuinely a lot of person on me right now.

“Morning,” he says, voice still rough.

“Morning,” you say, though neither of you move; the coffee maker beeps.

More on The Heat Thing: He’s hyper aware of the temperature difference between his limbs.

So, he often presses his flesh hand against your skin just to feel your warmth. Bucky seeks after that biological reassurance he discovers at the pulse of your neck or the soft dip at your waist.

He uses that hand to ground himself when the ghosts of his past start to scream too loud.

He’s Aware and Doesn’t Know What To Do: Bucky notices himself doing it and occasionally the self-consciousness hits:

I’m using this person as an anchor, which is — probably something I should mention, actually, at some point —

Then, your hand shifts to hold his and he forgets what he was worried about.

So, He Files It Away Like a Secret Language: To him, the touch becomes a conversation.

A thumb tracing your jawline is a thank you, and a heavy hand on your thigh is a don’t leave me.

He doesn’t need words when he can feel your heart beat through his fingertips.

The air in the bedroom is thick with the scent of sweat and friction. Bucky’s pinned to the mattress, back arching against the headboard, his flesh hand bound tightly to one of the rungs. He’d been too damn stubborn today, too broody and sharp-tongued, and now he’s paying the price.

You’re straddling him, your hips moving in a slow, delicious rhythm that makes him groan deep in his throat. He watches you with hooded eyes, tracking every curve as you move above him. He’s desperate, breath hitching every time you skin down, but the frustration is mounting in his chest. He wants to pull you closer, to wrap both arms around you and bury his face in your neck, but he’s stuck.

“You’re being cruel,” he rasps, a voice of pure want. He tries to lunge upwards, but the restraint on his wrist keeps him anchored, forcing him to endure the visual feast of you, without the physical release of holding you.

You lean down, your hair brushing his heated skin as you press a teasing, lingering kiss to his jaw, only to pull away just as he tries to catch your lips. You catch his gaze with a wicked smirk, watching the way his pupils blow wide.

“Wasn’t that the attitude you were giving me all morning, James?” You whisper against his ear, his actual name sounding like sin on your tongue.

He lets out a frustrated, needy sound, half growl and half whimper. He realises the only limb he can use to reach you is the cold, unfeeling metal one. He shifts, trying to use the vibranium fingers to graze your hip, but the sensation is muted compared to the heat of your skin.

He wants the friction of your palm, the grip of your fingers, the soul of your touch. But you only allow him the mechanical precision of the Soldier.

“Just let me hold you,” he pleads, his eyes searching yours for a hint of mercy, though the way his hips thrust upward to meet yours proves he wants the punishment, just as much as the pleasure. “Don’t make me feel like a machine when you’re looking at me like that.”

You only laugh, a melodic sound that vibrates through his chest, and increase the pace, grinding your hips against him. You watch the way his jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck corded with the effort of maintaining control while you systematically dismantle it.

He’s a man who’s survived wars and assassins, yet here he is, completely undone by the simple, calculated move of your hips and the denial of his most basic need to hold you. The contrast is exquisite: the cold, unyielding vibranium of his left arm pressing against the sheets, while his right hand remains uselessly trapped beside him. All the while you — warm, soft, and utterly in control — remain just out of his reach.

“Please,” Bucky chokes out, a desperate command disguised as a plea, his hips bucking instinctively to find the friction he craves. You simply lean back, arching your spine to give him an even better view of your pleasure, that little smirk of yours widening as you watch him unravel.

A soldier reduced to a trembling mess by the audacity of your teasing punishment; he truly is at your dear mercy. 

Bucky’s frustration is palpable, a physical weight in the room as he watches you maintain that beautiful composure. He lets out a long, dramatic huff, his head falling back against the pillow as he tries to muster a pout that would be so devastating, if it weren’t so desperate.

“You’re so mean,” he grumbles, his voice cracking with a mix of desire and indignation. “You know this isn’t fair. If you’d just let me loose, I could use my fingers—I could make you forget your own name, sweetheart—just let me touch you properly—”

You don’t even blink, mere offering a nonchalant shrug that sends him into a spiral of agony. “The metal hand works just fine, baby,” you tease, your voice dripping with sweet malice, “It’s precise and efficient, why should we need the flesh hand for everything?”

He lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a defeated whine. He stares up at you, eyes wide and searching for a shred of mercy, but all he finds is the triumphant glint in your gaze. With a heavy, begrudging huff, he finally relents. He’s realising that arguing with you is a losing battle when you’re in a strict-taming mood.

“You’re so damn unfair,” he mutters, his voice dropping into a sulky rasp. Bucky tries to pull his shoulders back, testing the strength of the restraints, but the movement only makes the bond bite deeper. He looks like a man who wants to argue his way out of a corner, but the way his eyes track the curve of you tells a much more desperate story.

“Fine,” he huffs, the word sounding more like a defeated surrender than a choice.

He shifts his weight, straining against the rope at his wrist to maneuver his left arm. The vibranium fingers move with a terrifying, silent precision, gliding up the inside of your thigh. The sensation is jarring with the sudden biting chill of metal against your heated skin. 

He guides those cool digits towards your clit, his movements careful and deliberate, as if he’s trying to prove he can be just as devastating with a machine as he can with his soul.

Bucky knows, and you know, that he could end this entire charade in a single, violent burst of strength. He could snap the restraints on his wrist like they were made of nothing more than dried twigs, freeing himself to pull you down and take exactly what he wants.

But he doesn’t.

He stays pinned, his muscles corded and straining against the bond, because he remembers the look in your eyes when you dragged him into this room. That steely glint in your eyes was enough to silence even his most stubborn retorts, a silent command that told him exactly who was in charge.

“You’re really gonna make me work for it huh?” he grumbles, though the sass in his voice is losing ground to a desperate, heavy need. He continues rubbing thorough circles to your clit, drinking up the sight of your sweet moans, all while you rode him deliciously. Goddamn multitasker you are. Punishing him and having your fun.

He’s methodical, his movements calculated as he studies you. He times each thrust of his hips to bump perfectly against your g-spot with a rhythmic accuracy that makes your vision blur. He’s a man possessed with a singular focus, his metal fingers providing a relentless, vibrating pressure that drives you closer and closer to the edge.

Even as he works, Bucky’s eyes never leave yours, searching for every flicker of pleasure, every gasp in your breath. The pout is still there — a stubborn remnant of his earlier sass — but it’s softened by the sheer intensity of his gaze. He wants to reach out with both hands, to pull you down into his chest and feel the frantic thud of your heart against his. He wants to hold you through your orgasm, to be the anchor you need as you fall apart.

But he knows this is his punishment for the night. He has to endure the sigh of you unravelling, the sound of your voice calling out his name.

As you finally breach your orgasm, body arching towards his larger frame, voice breaking into a high, desperate cry, Bucky’s eyes widen. He takes in every shudder, every spasm of your muscles, his metal hand never wavering from its vibrating assault until you’re completely spent and breathless atop him.

He stays there, pinned and bound, his chest heaving as he watches the aftershocks roll through you. He looks up at you, his eyes dark and swimming with a mixture of profound adoration and the most intense lust you’ve ever witnessed. 

The pout is still there, but it’s no longer about sass; it’s a silent, desperate plea.

“Can I cum too? Please? I’ve been so good, I learned my lesson—.” Bucky begs, voice rambling on like all his thoughts were flooding out, “I don’t even have to touch you, baby, m’being good, just lemme cum— ”

His voice breaks on the last word, a pathetic, beautiful whine through his chest and into yours. 

He’s practically vibrating under you, his hips twitching in a desperate, involuntary rhythm, his eyes wide and pleading as he looks up at you, waiting for a verdict. He looks so utterly undone, so stripped of the Soldier’s steel, that it’s almost impossible to stay unmoved.

You don't say a word, merely offering a slow, languid nod. You are slumped against him, heavy with the delicious lethargy of your own orgasm, your skin slick and warm against his. Your hand, still trembling slightly, begins to trail lazily up his tied flesh arm. Your fingertips dance over his skin in a teasing, torturing path from his wrist to his shoulder. You don't release the ropes, and you don't offer him the solace of your embrace; you simply allow him the release he so desperately craves.

His eyes blow wide, a choked, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he finally orgasm. He arches his back, while groaning your name, a broken, breathless sound, as he spills against you, his hips bucking one last time in a frantic, uncoordinated spasm. 

Even as the waves of pleasure crash over him, he remains a captive to your whims. Bucky wants to wrap his arms around you, to pull you into the hollow of his chest and hold you until the world disappears. But he settles for the agonisingly beautiful reality of being able to feel your warmth against his skin while his hands remain uselessly bound.

As the heavy waves of his release finally begin to subside, leaving him breathless and trembling, you lean down, your lips brushing against his heated temple. Your voice is a low, sultry purr, dripping with the satisfaction of a victor.

"You learned your lesson, Buck?"

He lets out a shaky, defeated breath, his eyes fluttering shut as he nods against the pillow. "Yeah," he rasps, his voice barely a whisper, "yeah, sweetheart. Lesson learned." He looks completely spent, a man who has surrendered his very soul to your whims, his chest still heaving with the remnants of his climax.

But then, the rhythm changes.

Instead of settling into the quiet intimacy of the afterglow, you pull back. You shift your weight, lifting your hips away from his as you prepare to drive back down into him. The sudden absence of your warmth makes him gasp, his eyes snapping open in unadulterated shock.

A loud, long whine tears from his throat not a sound of exhaustion, because his super soldier stamina is already beginning to coil back into a restless, hungry energy, but a sound of pure, psychological agony.

He knows exactly what this means he has to endure the exquisite torture of more orgasms without the solace of holding you. He’s a man starving for the friction of your skin against his, for the grounding weight of your hands on his shoulders, but you are a relentless commander.

$ tag @twentytomidnight @froggibus

He stands in the small green room behind the curtain, suit jacket already buttoned, tie perfectly straight, thick fingers flexing at his sides like he’s about to step into a boxing ring instead of a town hall. His jaw is tight, the faint crease between his brows giving him that serious, intimidating look that made half his district vote for him in the first place.

“You’re gonna scare them,” you murmur, stepping into his space.

His eyes soften immediately when they land on you. That’s the thing about Bucky—he can go from imposing congressman to your husband in half a heartbeat. “I’m not tryin’ to scare anyone,” he mutters, though his shoulders are stiff. “Just want it to go well.”

“It will,” you promise. “You’ve rehearsed this speech like thirty times in the kitchen.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding out of him. “You were supposed to forget that.”

“Never,” you tease, smoothing your hands up the lapels of his jacket. “I have it memorized too, just in case you choke and I have to run out there and finish it.”

He gives you that look—half exasperated, half smitten—that makes your stomach flip even after years together. “You’d love that.”

“I would.”

There’s a stage manager counting down somewhere beyond the door. Three minutes.

Bucky swallows. You can see it—the nerves. Not because he doubts himself, but because he cares. He cares so much it makes him anxious. He wants to say the right thing, do the right thing, represent people well. It’s written into him as deeply as the old soldier instincts he still carries.

“C’mere,” you whisper.

He leans down automatically, and you cup his face in your hands. Your lipstick is a soft rose shade tonight, something you picked because he once told you it made you look like you’d just come in from the cold. You press a kiss to his cheek, right over the faint line of an old scar. “For courage,” you murmur.

Another to his other cheek. “For clarity.”

He smiles, that shy, crooked smile he only ever gives you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And one for luck.” You stretch up and kiss the tip of his nose because it’s right there and because he always scrunches it in the cutest way when you do.

He laughs under his breath, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer. “You’re gonna ruin the image, sweetheart.”

“Your image can handle a little love.”

Someone calls his name. Thirty seconds.

He squeezes you once more, forehead brushing yours. “Stay where I can see you?”

“Always.”

He steps back, shoulders squaring again as he turns toward the stage entrance. You watch him take a slow breath, then another. The curtain parts. The crowd starts clapping.

He walks out into the lights.

You’re too focused on the way he carries himself—confident, grounded, steady—to notice anything else at first. He reaches the podium, adjusts the microphone, flashes that warm, practiced smile at the audience.

Then you hear it. A ripple of delighted laughter.

Bucky falters for half a second, clearly confused. He glances down at his notes, then back up at the crowd, brows knitting together. The laughter swells, mixed with a few audible “aww”s and the unmistakable sound of phone cameras clicking.

You frown slightly, craning your neck from the wings.

And then you see it.

There, bright and unmistakable under the stage lights, are three perfect lipstick marks: one on each cheek and a very prominent one right on the tip of his nose.

You clap a hand over your mouth.

Oh no.

He’s still speaking, because of course he is. “Good evening, everyone,” he starts, voice smooth despite the way his eyes narrow suspiciously at the audience reaction. “Thank you all for coming out tonight—”

More laughter.

Someone in the front row calls out, “We love your wife, Congressman!”

His hand lifts instinctively to his face, brushing his cheek. When he pulls it away and sees the faint smear of pink on his fingertips, his eyes widen just a fraction. He pauses, exhales, and then, to your utter surprise, he laughs.

It’s unguarded and warm and completely disarming.

“Well,” he says into the microphone, shaking his head. “Guess I’ve already got my good luck charm.”

The crowd practically melts.

Instead of wiping it off immediately, he leaves it there. All three marks. He launches into his speech like that, cheeks faintly pink—not from your lipstick, but from the realization that the entire internet is probably watching him stand at a podium with his wife’s kisses stamped all over his face.

By the time the event ends, the photos are everywhere. News outlets pick it up within the hour. “Congressman Barnes Goes Viral for Adorable Pre-Speech Moment.” “Lipstick Kisses Steal the Show.” There are slow-motion clips of him realizing what happened, memes of the nose kiss, comments about how refreshing it is to see a politician so openly loved.

When he finds you afterward, he’s half mortified, half amused. “You did that on purpose.”

“I absolutely did not,” you insist, though you’re laughing too hard to sound convincing.

He wraps his arms around you anyway, burying his face in your neck. “Internet’s never gonna let this go.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The teasing only gets worse when Sam corners him at the next event. “Man,” Sam says, grinning ear to ear, “I’ve seen you take down terrorists without breaking a sweat, but one little lipstick ambush and you’re defenseless.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his arm stays firmly around your waist. “It was a tactical oversight.”

Sam snorts. “You wore it through the whole speech. That’s not oversight. That’s whipped.”

You beam proudly. “Thank you.”

Bucky just shakes his head, trying and failing to hide his smile. “I prefer ‘well-loved.’”

And every time he steps out onto a stage after that, you make sure to press at least one kiss to his cheek. He always pretends to grumble about it, checking reflexively for smears before walking into the lights, but you’ve caught the way his hand sometimes lingers over the spot afterward, like he’s carrying a secret.

Because no matter how many cameras flash or how many speeches he gives, he still walks out there knowing he’s loved.

The guest bedroom door was already slightly open when you reached it, warm light spilling into the hallway. The room was quiet in a way that felt almost aggressive after everything that had just happened - soft lighting, neutral walls, too-normal furniture for a situation that was very much not normal. You turned slightly, suddenly very aware of how much smaller the space felt with just the two of you in it.

“So…” you said, immediately regretting how your voice sounded in here. You slowly sat at the edge of the neatly-made bed, the dandelion on the bedsheet crinkling under your weight.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Damnit, he wasted no time with that one.

You knew it was coming. But, of course, you still had the audacity to act surprised. “Barnes, what in the world are you talking about?”

He was already narrowing his eyes at your Oscar-worthy performance, leaning back against the wall with a look. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you shot back, just a little too quickly.

“That,” he replied flatly.

You shrugged, forcing your shoulders loose. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He said with your name with an assertive breath, pushing off the wall. “You haven’t spoken to me in a week.”

“Not everything is about you, Barnes.” You had to put all your energy into scoffing as annoyingly and realistically as possible that you almost forgot what you were going to say next. “Maybe I’ve just been busy.”

“With what?”

God, he was insufferable.

“Do I need to submit a schedule to you now?”

“No,” he said. “Just an answer would be fine.”

You sniffed. “Just busy. With normal things.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Busy enough to use the bathroom on the other side of the building just to avoid passing my classroom?”

Your back straightened immediately. How the hell did he know that?

You tried to recover as fast as possible, pretending to roll your eyes to buy yourself some time. “I did not do that-”

“Oh, you’re right,” he cut in. “You did use the short way sometimes. And I literally watched you duck past my classroom window.”

“That was not m-”

“It was you.”

“That was a one-time thing.”

“You did it three times.”

You blinked. “…No, I didn’t.”

Apparently you weren’t very convincing, because Bucky just looked at you.

Not even arguing. Just waiting. And that was worse.

You exhaled sharply, looking away. “Okay, fine, maybe I didn’t feel like stopping to talk that day.”

“That day?” he echoed.

You pressed your lips together.

“Or the day after,” he added.

You said nothing.

“Or yesterday,” he finished.

Your jaw tightened. God, this was humiliating. Because he wasn’t even guessing. He knew. And you hated that he knew.

“Look,” he said, pausing like he was choosing his words carefully. His hands were shoved into his pockets, but you could still see the outline of his fingers fidgeting against the denim. “If this is about what happened on Friday… I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows jumped.

Sorry?

Did Bucky Barnes just apologize? To you?

If it was any other day, you probably would have looked around the room to pretend like you didn’t know who he was talking to just to be annoying. You would’ve dragged it out until he got irritated enough to snap.

But today wasn’t just any other day. Because Bucky Barnes just said a word that you didn’t even know was in the vocabulary he reserved for you.

Bucky Barnes didn’t apologize to you. That wasn’t how this worked. There was a whole system in place. He said something annoying, you snapped back, he pushed it further, you escalated, and then one of you walked away pretending it didn’t matter.

He was ruining the system. This was not part of the system.

Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them, and you didn’t even bother covering it up this time. You just looked at him, openly confused, like maybe if you stared long enough he’d correct himself and say something normal.

He didn’t.

If anything, he got worse.

He was looking at the floor. Actually looking at the floor.

He didn’t even get a chance to roll his eyes at your expression and tell you in that annoying Bucky voice “don’t get used to it”, because his eyes were trained at his feet.

His foot shifted slightly against the ground, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. You saw his throat move when he swallowed.

Wait?

Was he nervous?

That didn’t make any sense.

None of this made any sense.

“I overstepped,” he continued after a breath, voice a little tighter now. “I just- I mean, you were upset, and you were crying, and I-” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I was worried.”

“And I know we’re not-” he paused again, jaw tightening slightly, “-we’re not friends. So I probably should’ve gotten someone else. Or called someone. I just… wasn’t really thinking.”

Another breath.

“So I’m sorry,” he finished, quieter now. “For touching you. If I made you uncomfortable. That wasn’t-” He shook his head once. “That wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

Your brain was stalling. But still, it somehow managed to come to the conclusion that he was done talking.

Meaning it was your turn.

And you realized, with a slow, creeping dread, that you had absolutely no idea how to respond.

Technically, technically, you could just say “yeah, thanks” and leave.

Keep it simple. Clean. Polite enough that it didn’t invite anything further, vague enough that he wouldn’t question it too hard. And he’d take it. Of course he would. He’d nod, maybe say something short back, and then that would be it. Conversation over. Problem solved.

Except he would walk away thinking that was why. That you’d been avoiding him because he made you uncomfortable.

And that sat wrong immediately.

Because, technically, yes, you had been uncomfortable. But not because of him. Not in the way that word usually meant.

It wasn’t that he’d been weird, or inappropriate, or crossed some line that made your skin crawl because Bucky simply was not that kind of man. And he’s a kind of man who does not deserve to think that he is.

It was the opposite, if anything. Which was the problem.

And he didn’t deserve to walk away thinking he’d done something wrong. Because he’d done nothing wrong. He did everything right and that was the stupid problem.

He let you cry on him. He didn’t make it weird. He didn’t pull away. He stayed. He held you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t deserve to think that he’d made you feel that kind of uncomfortable. Like he was something to avoid.

You swallowed, the thought settling uncomfortably in your chest.

Because correcting that would mean explaining. And explaining meant acknowledging things you’d been very intentionally not acknowledging for the past eight days.

And that, those feelings- those emotions you were pushing down were what made you uncomfortable. The way your chest felt tight and your heart starting beating faster when he was looking at you after.

That’s what made you uncomfortable.

Not him. Never him.

“No,” you started, the word slipping out before you could even register you’d opened your mouth. Like some part of you had already decided he didn’t deserve even a second longer of thinking this was his fault. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Bucky’s brows pulled together slightly. “But-”

“I mean,” you cut in quickly, sitting up a little straighter, “you didn’t, like, violate me or anything. You helped. That’s- normal.”

God, that sounded worse out loud. Where were you even going with this?

You looked away immediately, pressing your lips together. “So you don’t need to…” you trailed off slightly, searching for a version of this that didn’t sound as awkward as it felt, “…apologize like that.”

Your fingers tightened briefly against the fabric beneath you before you forced yourself to add, quieter this time, “Really.”

You glanced up at him from under your lashes quickly, daring a look. His shoulders were slightly lowered, but he still didn’t look relieved. Bucky’s eyes were knit together in deep confusion.

“But,” he started slowly like he was trying to piece it together in his head. “I feel like you’re upset and I probably have something to do with-”

“No,” you shook your head. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong, Barnes.”

You were apparently terrible at being convincing, because his expression did not budge. “I’ve just got… other things going on.”

That did not help. At all. Because, now, the crease on his forehead became exponentially deeper and a new emotion joined the guilt in his eyes.

Worry.

“Other things?” In a blink, he had crossed the distance between you in two long strides, hovering slightly in front of you. “Is something going on?”

He was hunched over slightly, trying to meet your eyes. But your gaze was fixed religiously onto the floor in front of you, his shoes blurring slightly, eyes not blinking.

Because what the hell were you supposed to do? Look him in those baby blue eyes and tell him, Yes, Bucky, there is something going on because I think I’m in love with you and I’ve probably known it for a while now but I’ve realized at the worst possible time because you have a girlfriend and even thinking about it makes me want to puke?

“Olivia’s mom?”

You shook your head.

“God, is your dog sick again?”

You shook your head again. He was now crouching directly in front of you, and you were forced to meet him in the eyes. He was wearing the softest expression, not unlike what you saw last Friday, as he peered up at you. Like he cared. Like you mattered.

His hands came up, almost like they were about to rest on your knees, but they stilled at a hover.

“I’m here if you want to talk.”

God.

God, he was so good.

The soft eyes. The careful voice. The hands hovering in front of you because he wanted to touch you again but was so terrified of crossing a line that he physically stopped himself.

You hated it.

No, that wasn’t true. You loved it. And that was so much worse.

Because he wasn’t supposed to be good. He was supposed to be annoying and cocky and insufferable and impossible.

He was not supposed to crouch in front of you like this, looking at you like his world was going to end right now if you didn’t tell him what was wrong.

He was not supposed to remember your dog being sick. Or notice you taking different hallways. Or ducking past his classroom.

He was not supposed to apologize. He was not supposed to care.

And he definitely was not supposed to do all of this while having a girlfriend.

The thought hit you so hard it made your stomach turn.

Because Natasha was beautiful. Obviously she was beautiful. She looked like she belonged next to him. They looked right together.

And here you were. Sitting on somebody else’s guest bed trying not to cry because a man you couldn’t have was being kind to you.

Your vision blurred slightly.

Oh, absolutely not.

You blinked hard. Not here. Not in front of him. Dear God, not again.

Your throat tightened painfully.

Because what were you even mourning? Nothing had happened. Nothing could happen.

You had no claim to him. No right to feel sick over it. No right to sit here acting like your heart was breaking over a man who was never yours in the first place.

“Hey,” his voice softened immediately.

Your eyes snapped down.

Shit.

He must have clocked the shine in your eyes that is only ever possible when they’re wet with tears, because Bucky’s face fell immediately.

His hand reached toward you on instinct. Then stopped. Pulled back so fast it was like he’d burned himself.

He got to his feet immediately, the movement abrupt enough that it almost looked panicked. Like his arms and legs had gotten completely different instructions.

“Are you-” He cut himself off, keeping his hands stiff at his sides like he didn’t trust them not to move on their own. “Do you want me to get Wanda?”

You shook your head immediately.

“I’m getting Wanda.”

He was already half turned toward the door.

“Barnes, no-”

“It’s okay, she can help-”

“Barnes-”

“Wait, I’ll find her-”

“Bucky.”

He froze at his name, his nickname that you always refused to use because you insisted it made it sound like you were friends.

Your breathing sounded embarrassingly loud to yourself.

His eyes flicked over your face again, worry practically written across every line of his expression.

“But you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying.”

Not yet, at least. Your eyes felt hot enough to promise reinforcements.

Bucky looked unconvinced in a way that would have been insulting if he wasn’t so painfully right.

Bucky took an instinctive step forward. Then stopped himself again.

You noticed. Of course you noticed.

He looked miserable doing it. Like every part of him wanted to move towards you and he was forcing himself not to.

And for some reason, for some goddamn reason, you did the unthinkable. Maybe the beige walls of this damn room were eating away at the very few brain cells you had left. Or maybe the embarrassment just became too much.

You had already avoided him for eight days. Already humiliated yourself in a hallway. Already practically confessed to having a mysterious emotional crisis while refusing to explain it.

What more dignity was there left to preserve here?

You let out a shaky breath.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Bucky blinked.

You wiped aggressively at your eyes before patting the bed beside you once.

“Sit down.”

His brows jumped slightly.

“What?”

You had avoided him for more than a week, and now here you were, inviting him onto this stupid bed.

“Sit.” You refused to look at him.

He moved before you even finished the word fully.

The mattress dipped beside you. Not too close. Close enough.

You stared at the floor. Your heart was beating so hard it felt embarrassing. You had no plan. Absolutely none. This was a terrible idea.

You were going to ruin your own life in real time. Great. Fantastic.

“Okay,” you muttered mostly to yourself. “Okay.”

Silence.

He waited. Of course he waited.

You laughed once under your breath. No humor in it.

“This is so humiliating.”

“Hey-”

“No, let me talk because if I stop I’m not going to say it.”

He went quiet immediately.

You twisted your fingers together in your lap hard enough that they hurt.

“You’re such a good guy, Bucky.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

You laughed weakly at yourself. “No, because seriously. You’re over here apologizing because you think you made me uncomfortable and trying not to touch me because you don’t want to cross a line and asking about my dog and Olivia’s mom and-” You stopped. “You’re just… you.”

You shook your head. “And I’ve been, like- fighting you all this time and not listening when people tell me you’re a great dude because I’ve just been so- so narrow-minded or something?”

Beside you, Bucky had gone unnaturally still.

“I kept thinking you were annoying and arrogant and all these things because it was easier.” You let out a watery laugh. “And maybe you are annoying. You are, actually. Deeply.”

Nothing.

No eye roll. No “thanks.” No offended noise.

You frowned slightly.

“I’m just saying…” Your voice got quieter. “I was wrong.”

He opened his mouth, but you kept talking. “And you are a great dude because you- you care. I mean, with Olivia’s mom last week. or when I sprained my ankle at Camp, or when I forgot my lunch that day last month and you gave me yours-”

You inhaled. “I didn’t realize it until Friday and then suddenly I couldn’t not realize it.” You rubbed aggressively at your eyes. “And then I spent eight days avoiding you because I was trying to un-realize it.”

Your laugh cracked. “Which is stupid because it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”

Bucky finally moved beside you. Just barely.

“Wouldn’t have mattered?” he repeated quietly.

You nodded once.

He took a breath, like he was scared of hearing your answer. “...Why?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “Because we- this-” you waved vaguely in the space between you guys. “I can’t- this can’t happen.”

His expression broke. Literally cracked in half. He hesitated.

“Did… Sam?

You nodded again.

He immediately groaned into his hands, swearing under his breath. “I fucking knew it. That piece of-”

“I was bound to find out anyway,” you said, almost sharply. “And there’s no reason not to tell me. That’s just unfair to the both of us.”

Of course it was unfair. To you, for pining over a guy you’re probably in love with who you just found out is taken. And to Natasha, whose boyfriend is the one being pined after. This was definitely breaking some rule in girl code.

You swallowed.

“Honestly, it’s probably better I know.” Your laugh cracked weakly. “Because otherwise this just keeps happening and I…” You shook your head. “I can’t do that.” His face fell further.

“You can’t?” he repeated quietly.

You looked down at your hands.

“No.”

Silence.

You forced yourself to continue because he deserved that much.

“You’re so good, Bucky. You make me feel so good.” Your voice shook again. “And it sucks. It genuinely sucks because I think if things were different…” You laughed softly through your nose. “I don’t know.”

He looked like he’d stopped breathing.

“But they’re not.” You rubbed your face. “And I’m not mature enough for this.”

His brows pulled together.

“What?”

“I can’t do the friends thing.” The words came out before you could stop them. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I’m just gonna complicate and ruin everything.”

You made the grave mistake of looking him in the eye. He looked heartbroken. Like an abandoned puppy. Like someone had removed the air from him.

His shoulders had sunk, and all that frantic worry that had been sitting in his face moments ago had disappeared into something smaller. Sadder. His eyes had gone distant, like he was replaying something in his head and suddenly seeing it differently.

His mouth parted slightly before pressing back together again. He looked like he had lost an argument with himself.

“…So this really…” He swallowed. “This really can’t happen?”

Your chest tightened painfully. Of course it couldn’t. You couldn’t be friends. That wouldn’t be fair to him or her.

You nodded once. Tiny. Miserable.

He looked down at his hands. A humorless breath escaped him. Almost a laugh.

“God,” he muttered quietly. “I’m stupid.”

Your brows pulled together immediately.

“I just…” His jaw tightened. “I don’t know. I thought…”

He laughed softly again, except this time it sounded like it hurt.

“Never mind.”

The room felt too small.

“Bucky-”

“No, it’s fine.” He nodded once like he was trying to convince himself. “It’s okay.”

It very clearly was not okay. He finally looked back at you. And somehow that was worse. Because those stupid blue eyes still looked soft. Still looked kind. Still looked like they cared.

Even now.

“I just could’ve sworn…” He stopped himself again, looking away. “Doesn’t matter.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Because for one impossible, awful second- it almost sounded like he had wanted it too.

No.

No, absolutely not. That thought was dangerous. You crushed it immediately. Because Natasha existed. And Bucky Barnes was a good man.

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“I just really thought…” He laughed once under his breath. “You know what, never mind.”

“No, what?” you asked softly despite yourself.

He shook his head.

“Just stupid stuff.” His eyes dropped. “Thinking you were avoiding me because you felt it too.”

Your heart stopped.

Then immediately restarted because of course he meant friendship. Of course he did. Because you’d just told him you couldn’t even be friends anymore.

Obviously. That made sense.

Your throat tightened.

“I do feel it, Bucky,” you shook your head. “But it’s different from what you’re feeling. And I can’t be feeling that because it’s unfair to your relationship.”

Bucky went very still. “My relationship… with what?”

You would’ve rolled your eyes if you were in your normal mood. Followed by smacking him on the arm for calling his girlfriend a ‘what’. But, of course, you just exhaled instead. “The person whose boyfriend I’m basically crying over in a guest bedroom.”

Complete silence.

You frowned slightly and finally looked over.

Bucky was staring at you. Utterly, devastatingly confused.

“…Whose boyfriend?” he asked slowly.

You blinked at him. “Your girlfriend’s.”

That did it. The confusion didn’t leave his face- it multiplied. Like the sentence had physically broken something in his brain.

“My-” he stopped. Started again. “My girlfriend?”

You let out a small, exhausted breath. “Yes. Natasha.”

Bucky.exe not responding.

He was genuinely looking at you like somebody had unplugged his brain. Just… completely, catastrophically lost. Like he was trying to run the sentence through his head again and it kept coming back corrupted.

“Natasha,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the word.

You nodded once, already tired of how obvious this was supposed to be.

Silence.

“Why would Natasha be my girlfriend?”

You hesitated. Because the way he was saying it made it sound insane.

“Because…” your voice wavered slightly, “Sam told me.”

That name hit him like a switch.

“Oh my God.”

He dragged a hand down his face.

“No, no-” he shook his head once, sharper now, like he was trying to physically reset the conversation. He readjusted himself on the bed, hands coming up as he turned to you. “Sam did not tell you I’m dating Natasha.”

Your stomach dropped a little. “…He didn’t?”

Bucky looked at you. Really looked at you.

And then, slowly- “What exactly did Sam tell you?”

The question should’ve been simple.

It wasn’t.

Because suddenly the room felt too quiet in a completely different way than before. Like the air had thinned out and left both of you standing in it with nothing solid underneath.

You swallowed.

“I mean,” you started carefully, already regretting how unsure your voice sounded, “he said you-”

You stopped.

Because now you were hearing it out loud in your head and it didn’t make sense in the same way anymore.

Bucky’s brows tightened slightly. Not impatient. Just waiting.

You took a big breath.

“Well- Steve was Buddy Number One because he was being a chicken about a girl, and you were Buddy Number Two because that buddy and his girlfriend weren’t supposed to make it tonight, and you also weren’t because you RSVPed ‘No’ but obviously you’re here, and Buddy Number Two has a girlfriend so obviously Natasha is your girl-”

“Sweetheart.”

Bucky cut in gently.

Your words tripped over themselves and died mid-sentence.

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Slow down,” he said.

You opened your mouth again immediately. “I am slow, I’m literally- this is slow-”

“Look,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what Sam told you. But I don’t have a girlfriend. Really.”

You stared at him.

“…What?”

He nodded, head still cocked in a confusion that matched yours.

“But you weren’t supposed to be here tonight.”

He nodded slowly. “Correct.”

“But the one who wasn’t supposed to be here tonight was the one with the girlfriend,” you blinked. “And that’s you.”

He stared at you for a few seconds in a haze of confusion before shaking himself out of it. “Okay, I don’t really know what you’re talking about…” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “But Steve wasn’t supposed to be here tonight either.”

“Steve and Natasha had other plans, but it changed last minute,” he continued.

Steve and Natasha. The ‘we’ she had used. It was starting to click. Slowly.

“No, but Sam said-”

“I know Sam said something,” Bucky cut in, sounding deeply exhausted by Sam Wilson as a concept. “But whatever the hell he told you got scrambled somewhere.”

Your brows pinched together. Because that didn’t make sense either.

“So you were the chicken?”

He blinked at you, a small smile tugging at his lips like he didn’t know whether to be confused or amused. “Chicken?”

“About the girl.”

Bucky stared at you. Then he looked away so fast it was practically an answer by itself.

Your eyes widened slightly.

“Oh my God.”

A faint flush crawled up the back of his neck.

“You were Buddy One?”

He groaned quietly into his hand. “Please stop calling me Buddy One.”

“No, wait-” You sat up straighter despite yourself. “You were the one freaking out about a girl?”

Bucky rubbed both hands over his face now like he was trying to physically survive this conversation.

“Yes.” The word came out muffled.

You stared at him.

“But…” Your brain was visibly trying to catch up. “You RSVPd No.”

He cocked an eyebrow, an annoying smirk breaking through his previously grim expression “Should I be flattered by your stalkery of my attendance matters?”

“Oh my God, that is not the point.” Your jaw dropped slightly at his horrible attempt at comedic timing. “And not that I have to defend myself, but the guest list is public information.”

“Mhm.”

“God forbid a woman be cognizant of her surroundings?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “That what we’re calling it?”

“Shut up and answer the question.”

“I don’t remember there being a question.”

“There was a question implied in a previous statement.”

“But it doesn’t make it a ques-”

“Fine,” you cut him off. “I’ll rephrase. You clearly ended up coming so why did you RSVP with a n-”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence this time, jaw dropping. “Oh my God.”

Bucky went still, like he could physically see the realization catching up to you in real time.

“I’m the girl.”

His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but you beat him to it.

“I was the girl you were freaking out about-”

“Okay, freaking out sounds a bit dramatic-”

“-Because you didn’t want to see me after what happened on Friday!” You jumped off the bed at your epiphany as if your butt was on fire.

He blinked. “What?”

“Because I embarrassed myself so you didn’t want to talk to me!” You pointed a finger in his face. “Ha! I was right!”

He shook his head with a wave of his hand and a scoff. “No, what the-”

“And that’s why Sam didn’t want you knowing that he flirted with me!”

“What are you-” Bucky cut himself off with an abrupt halt. “Sam did what?”

You were practically buzzing now, your brain sprinting ahead faster than reality could catch it. “Because you didn’t want your friends talking to me! Because I’m just that crazy chick from work!”

“Okay, you are not a crazy chick from work but we’ll unpack that later-” he stood up hastily. “But first, Sam flirted with you?”

You ignored the second part. “We don’t need to unpack anything because I already solved it!”

“You solved it wrong!”

“I solved it perfectly!”

“You think I blacklisted you from my friend group like the freaking CIA!”

“Well you were acting weird!”

“Because you were acting weird!”

“You started it!”

“I absolutely did not start it!”

“You RSVPed no to an entire event because of me!”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “But not because I thought you were some ‘crazy chick from work’- Jesus Christ, it’s because-”

He stopped himself suddenly. Bucky dragged both hands through his hair with an exhale, jaw tight like he was physically restraining the rest of the sentence.

“Because I was scared of seeing you.”

For a second you just stood there, frozen in the aftermath of your own argument, like the sentence hadn’t fully landed yet and your mind was still trying to decide whether to reject it or accept it.

Bucky sat back down on the edge of the bed like the admission had taken something out of him, elbows on his knees, hands still loosely tangled in his hair for a second before dropping.

“Because the more I saw you avoid me just made it more clear that … you didn’t like me, I guess?”

And for a second, your brain genuinely didn’t know what to do with that.

Because it didn’t match anything you’d assumed was happening in his head. Not even close. You’d been so focused on your own humiliation, your own overthinking, your own carefully constructed avoidance patterns that it hadn’t fully registered that he could be building an entirely different story out of the exact same moments.

All of it had been feeding into something you hadn’t even realized he might be interpreting as rejection.

Bucky rubbed a hand over his face again, but slower this time, like the energy had run out of the frustration and left only something quieter underneath it.

You slowly sat beside him.

“I didn’t know,” he added after a second, voice lower now. “So I just… backed off.”

“And then you were like, rejecting me or whatever a few minutes ago-” he let out a humorless chuckle. “So I guess, yeah, that confirmed things.”

Your back straightened immediately. “Rejecting you?”

Bucky glanced at you with a slight hesitance. “I mean,” he said carefully, “when you said we couldn’t be friends.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “No, but that was when I thought you had a girlfriend-”

You blinked. “Wait.”

“What?”

“If I was talking about Sam telling me you had a girlfriend, what the hell were you talking about?”

Bucky went still, looking like he might just want to sprint out of the room away from this conversation. His jaw tightened slightly, and for a second he looked away like he was debating whether to actually answer or not.

“I thought…” he paused. "-thought he told you that I liked you.”

It didn’t land right away.

Not because you didn’t hear it. Because your brain genuinely refused to attach meaning to it for a second, like it had hit something too sharp to process cleanly. You just stared at him.

Blinking once. Then again.

“…What?”

“I thought Sam told you I liked you,” he repeated, a bit slower this time.

Your brain stopped working.

Like actually stopped - no background noise, no follow-up thoughts, just a blank stretch where that sentence should’ve gone and didn’t.

“But why would Sam tell me that you-”

You cut yourself off.

Your chest tightened in a way that didn’t feel like embarrassment anymore. It felt slower. Heavier. Like something shifting into place that you didn’t get to ignore once it had arrived.

You swallowed, but it didn’t help much.

“…You like me?” you said, and your voice came out smaller than you expected, like you hadn’t fully decided to say it out loud until it was already happening.

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at you for a second that stretched too long to be accidental.

And that was the answer.

“No way.” You were on your feet again, jaw absolutely on the floor. “No, you don’t.”

Bucky blinked up at you from the bed. “That’s your takeaway from this?”

“You do not like me.” You pointed at him accusingly now, pacing two steps away before immediately turning back around.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The letters. The wedding. The lunch date. It all made sense.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, horrified all over again. “You actually do.”

Bucky groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “Please stop sounding so traumatized by it.”

“I’m not traumatized,” you snapped. “I’m- I’m-”

Wow. The guy you couldn’t stop thinking about for the past eight days confessed he liked you back, and all you could do was argue with him.

Actually, no, not just argue with him.

You had accused him of secretly hating you, emotionally blacklisting you from his friend group, and dating Steve’s girlfriend Natasha.

This was potentially the worst crush confession response in recorded human history.

Your hands flew up to your face with a noise of frustration. “Oh my God.”

Bucky peeked at you through his fingers. “That’s usually not the reaction people hope for.”

“I cannot believe this is happening right now.”

“I kinda can’t either.”

You dropped your hands just enough to glare at him. “You are being way too calm about this.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Calm?” he repeated incredulously. “Ten minutes ago I thought you were about to tell me to never speak to you again.”

“That is not what I said!”

“You literally said we couldn’t even be friends!”

“Because I thought you had a girlfriend!”

“And I thought you knew I liked you and were trying to let me down gently!”

You both stopped.

You put your hands on your hips, looking up at the ceiling. “God, we’re stupid.”

A laugh burst out of Bucky before he could stop it. A real one this time. Short and disbelieving and still threaded through with leftover nerves.

And to your horror, you felt yourself laughing too.

Not because this was funny, exactly.

But because the tension had stretched so tight for so long that now it had finally snapped and left both of you standing in the wreckage of the dumbest misunderstanding imaginable.

Bucky shook his head, still laughing under his breath. “I genuinely thought your whole ‘you’re a nice guy but’ speech was you rejecting me in, like, the nicest way possible.”

You groaned loudly. “No wonder you looked like someone kicked your dog.”

“Hey, I was going through it!”

You genuinely cackled in your state of mania. “You looked devastated!”

“Because I was devastated!” he shot back immediately, pointing at himself. “You were sitting there talking about how we couldn’t even be friends anymore. What was I supposed to think?”

“I don’t know!” you laughed helplessly. “Maybe that I was trying not to home wreck your freaking relationship!”

Bucky dropped his head back with a disbelieving laugh. “I cannot believe you convinced yourself I was dating Natasha.”

“You guys are both stupidly attractive!”

“That is not evidence!”

“It was enough evidence for me!”

Bucky looked at you for a second like he genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh harder or lose his mind again.

He stood up from the bed, arms crossing over his chest with a smirk as he rose to your level. “You’re insane.”

You just smiled.

His eyes stayed on you a little too long before he spoke.

“So,” he said carefully, like he didn’t want to scare the moment away by moving too fast inside it, “just to make sure we’re finally on the same page here…”

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “Oh no.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like me too, right?”

You slapped him on the forearm.

“What?” he laughed, recoiling slightly.

“I just spent the last twenty minutes exposing every humiliating thought I’ve had in the past week and that’s the first thing you say?”

“It’s a valid question!” He laughed.

You peeked up at him suspiciously. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He leaned against the wall with a smug grin. “I’m enjoying the part where you like me back, yeah.”

“Don’t look so victorious,” you chided. “I didn’t even answer the question yet.”

Bucky’s eyebrows lifted, his smirk deepening. “Oh, yeah?"

“You,” you continued, pointing at him. “You are making a lot of assumptions for someone who spent the last week convinced I hated him.”

“Hate is a strong word,” he pretended to rub his jaw in deep thought. “There’s no way someone could hate this handsome face.”

You rolled your eyes, but it was getting harder and harder to fight the smile pulling at your mouth.

Bucky noticed immediately, which was unfortunate.

“There it is,” he said quietly, grinning. “That’s not a rejection smile.”

“You’re unbelievably annoying now that you’re emotionally stable again.”

“Again?”

“Yes. Five minutes ago you looked like a widowed Victorian man.”

That got a loud laugh out of him. Real and unguarded enough that it made your chest ache a little.

The grin broke wider across his face, and it hit you all over again how unfairly good-looking he was when he looked relieved.

Like he’d been holding his breath for days and had only just now realized he could let it out.

“You like me,” he repeated, quieter this time, like he was still testing the shape of it even while smiling.

You tried to glare at him. You really did.

But your face was too warm and your chest felt too full and he was looking at you in a way that made holding eye contact feel medically dangerous.

So instead you crossed your arms defensively and looked away.

“…I think I lost the right to deny it somewhere around the part of this conversation when I was mourning your fake relationship.”

Bucky laughed again, softer now.

“Yeah,” he said. “Probably around there.”

You groaned and dragged a hand over your face before slowly sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the floor. “That was actually the most humiliating conversation of my life.”

A beat later, you heard movement beside you.

Bucky slid down the wall too, settling onto the floor next to you with his knees bent up slightly. Close enough that your shoulders were almost touching.

“You good?” he asked, still sounding dangerously amused.

“No,” you stared into your hands. “I think I’m having a cardiovascular event.”

That made him laugh again, softer this time, and before you could overthink it too hard he leaned over and nudged your shoulder lightly with his.

“To be fair, if I hadn’t thought I was being rejected, your speech was pretty good,” he shrugged. “Very heartfelt.”

You turned to stare at him in horror. “Please never say that sentence again.”

His mouth twitched, clearly trying not to smile too hard now. And somehow that was worse than when he openly laughed, because there was something unbearably fond about the way he was looking at you. Like he still couldn’t fully believe this conversation had ended here instead of in disaster.

“Well,” he said, quieter this time. “for what it’s worth…”

Your eyes flicked up to his.

“I’m really glad Natasha and I aren’t dating.”

You let out a startled laugh despite yourself, dropping your head forward immediately after. “Oh my God.”

“What?” he grinned. “Too soon?”

“You are never letting me live this down.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pointed at him warningly. “Barnes.”

“How could you even think we were together?” Bucky laughed, letting his head fall back against the wall like the memory alone was exhausting him. “Me and Natasha?”

“Oh my God, leave me alone.”

Bucky laughed again, shaking his head. “You really sat there and convinced yourself I was secretly in love with Natasha.”

“I didn’t think you were secretly in love with her,” you defended. “I thought you were openly in love with her.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

“It made sense at the time!”

“No, sweetheart,” he grinned, turning his head toward you, “it really didn’t.”

You groaned and slid further down the wall, briefly considering whether it was socially acceptable to dissolve into the floor permanently.

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head like he still couldn’t fully believe any of this had actually happened. “Miscommunication final boss,” he muttered.

That made you pause mid-dramatic-collapse.

You stared at him for a second. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

You shook your head. “I need to tell your TA to stop teaching you things.”

“What! You’re a hater F.R.”

You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and genuine disbelief, grabbing his arm just to keep yourself upright. “You did not just say F.R.”

“What!” he defended, but his other hand came to rest over yours where you were still holding onto his arm, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “That’s the way Peter taught me!”

Your laugh cracked out of you. “Bucky, no- ‘fr’ is like… texting. You don’t say the letters.”

He frowned. “That’s stupid. I’m gonna say the letters.”

“That is not-” you broke off laughing again, shaking your head. “That’s not how acronyms work, Bucky.”

“It is if you’re emphasizing them.”

“No. No it’s not.”

Then Bucky leaned back slightly, still holding your hand on his arm like neither of you had noticed it had stayed there the entire time. “Peter also told me ‘no cap’ means you remove your hat.”

You made a noise of pure despair. “Oh my God.”

“I believed him for a full day.”

“Of course you did.”

Bucky hummed like he was pleased with himself for surviving that. Then, quieter, like he was still mildly offended on principle: “So I’m supposed to say ‘for real’ every time?”

“Yes.”

“That takes longer.”

You leaned back with him, still pressed close enough that your shoulder bumped his as you shifted.

“So?” you said, still catching your breath from laughing. “It’s called communication.”

“That feels inefficient,” he decided. “You are not optimizing your slang usage.”

“I’m not trying to be efficient, I’m trying to be understood.”

“That is literally the same thing in this context.”

You opened your mouth, then stopped, because arguing with him about this felt like arguing with a brick wall. A very attractive, very stubborn brick wall.

Bucky noticed your pause and leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. His shoulder stayed just barely touching yours.

“Also,” he added, like it had just occurred to him again, “what the hell did you mean when you said Samuel Wilson flirted with you?”

It took you a second to recover from the sudden shift in the conversation, but you slowly turned towards him with an evil smirk spreading across your face.

“Awwww, are you jealous?”

Bucky blinked at you like the answer was obvious. Maybe because it was. “Of course.”

Your plan to irritate him with your teasing was unfortunately very quickly foiled.

The butterflies in your stomach immediately performed several illegal gymnastics maneuvers. You hoped the slight arch of your eyebrow hid at least some of the damage.

“Didn't even try to hide it, Barnes?”

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, the hand you hadn't even realized was resting on top of yours shifted slightly, his fingers threading through yours.

“Do I need to?” “You are being alarmingly confident right now.”

His grin widened. “You spent the last twenty minutes mourning because you thought I had a girlfriend.”

Your jaw dropped. “That is a gross oversimplification of events.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Bucky tilted his head. “Okay. You spent the last twenty minutes mourning because you thought I had a girlfriend and because you liked me.”

“That is worse.”

“More accurate though.”

You groaned, trying unsuccessfully to pull your hand away so you could bury your face in it.

Unfortunately, Bucky was still holding it. And apparently had no intention of letting go.

“See?” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “This is why I'm feeling pretty good about my odds here.”

“You're unbelievable,” you huffed, hoping the smile on your face wasn’t too telling. “Maybe I should just go be with Sam.”

Bucky’s expression dropped so fast it almost gave you whiplash. “Stop.”

“Oh my God,” you snorted.

“I'm serious.”

“You said that so fast.”

“Because it's a terrible idea.”

“A terrible idea?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Have you met Sam?”

You laughed harder. “That's not an answer.”

“It is absolutely an answer.”

“Bucky.”

“He owns sunglasses specifically for indoors.”

“That is not a crime.”

“It should be.”

You shook your head, unable to stop smiling.

“Wow. The jealousy is getting ugly.”

“It's not jealousy.”

“Mhmm.”

“It's objective analysis.”

“Of course.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at you. “You think this is funny.”

“I think it's hilarious.”

“You still can’t date Sam.”

You cocked your head with a smirk. “Wow. Quite possessive, aren’t we?”

“It’s concern.”

“Concern?”

“Concern.”

You snorted. “For what?”

Leaning in slightly, unable to help yourself, you added, “That Sam Wilson is going to sweep me off my feet with his incredible flirting skills?”

Bucky made a face. “He does not have incredible flirting skills.”

You pursed your lips mockingly with a shrug. “Hmm, I dunno about that…”

“Name one.”

“One what?”

“Name one incredible flirting thing Sam Wilson has done.”

Your mouth opened.

Then closed.

“…That's not the point.”

“No, no,” Bucky said, sitting up straighter now. “The prosecution has made a claim. Present your evidence.”

You hummed thoughtfully. Then leaned closer and lowered your voice conspiratorially.

“Well, for starters,” you said, glancing pointedly at your joined hands, “he's not currently interrogating me about another man while holding my hand.”

Bucky followed your gaze down.

Then, completely shamelessly, tightened his grip.

“I'm just saying,” he continued, trying and failing to suppress the grin threatening the corners of his mouth, “I think you can do better.”

“Better than Sam Wilson?”

“Significantly.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You have a candidate in mind?”

Bucky's smile turned almost unbearably smug.

“Maybe.”

The butterflies immediately resumed their illegal activities.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Sounds like a really humble guy.”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Good looking?”

His grin widened.

“Undeniably.”

“Reliable source?”

“The most reliable.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck.

“Your self-evaluation process seems deeply flawed.”

“That's funny coming from the woman who spent the night convinced I was dating Natasha.”

“Okay, first of all-”

“Second of all,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself now, “I think my judgment has been significantly better than yours tonight.”

You gasped.

“Significantly?”

“By a wide margin.”

“You thought I was rejecting you.”

“Because you literally said we couldn't be friends.”

“Because I thought you had a girlfriend!”

“Which brings us back to Natasha Romanoff.”

You groaned and dropped your head against his shoulder.

“This conversation is over.”

Bucky laughed softly beside you.

“I'm serious this time.”

“Sure you are.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. Unfortunately, the glare lost most of its effectiveness when he was looking at you like that.

“Stop.”

He feigned complete innocence. “Stop what?”

You gestured vaguely at his face. “...That.”

“Oh, that's helpful.”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.”

“I really don't.”

“You do.”

“I don't.”

You groaned and dropped your forehead back against his shoulder.

“The look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you're being all...” You waved your free hand vaguely. “Pleased with yourself.”

Bucky let out a laugh. “Well, the girl who was literally hiding behind counters to avoid me all night is now holding my hand, so can you really blame me?”

Your neck snapped in his direction. Hopefully not as obviously as it felt. “You knew I was here the whole time?” You blurted out immediately, disbelief slipping out before you could stop it and staring at him with a probably idiotic expression.

He just gave you a small smile like he didn’t want to embarrass your efforts.

“How the hell did you notice me?”

Bucky shook his head at himself with a disbelieving smile. “I always notice you.”

He said it like it was just a simple fact. Like how grass was green or how his favorite color was blue or how Friday was always pizza day at school.

He ran a hand through his hair as he repeated it, still smiling to himself.“God, I- I always notice you. I always notice.”

You stared at him.

Of course he noticed.

Of course he did.

If something wasn't currently squeezing your heart from the inside out, you probably would've laughed at yourself for ever believing you could go unnoticed by Bucky Barnes.

This was the same man who immediately noticed the morning after you got a haircut and announced it in the middle of a staff meeting.

The same man who pointed out when you changed your phone wallpaper.

The same man who once asked, very seriously, if you were “okay” because you were apparently holding your pen differently than usual.

The same man who could somehow tell when you were running on three hours of sleep just by the speed you were walking down the hallway.

And Bucky, still sitting there with your hand in his, just looked at you like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like it had always been you he was noticing.

Your chest tightened.

"Bucky..."

Not for the first time tonight, you didn't actually know what you were trying to say.

And judging by the way his expression softened, he didn't seem to need you to finish it.

He just looked at you for a second, and then let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost like he was amused at himself.

“Would it be totally inappropriate,” he said slowly, “to kiss you in this second grade teacher’s guest bedroom?”

You blinked at him, ignoring the way your heart was attempting to escape your chest.

Then immediately let out a short laugh, because of course that was the sentence he chose.

“You’re asking like I’m going to write you up for it,” you said.

He smirked. “Are you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends if the kiss is good.”

“Oh, that’s your standard?” he asked, leaning forward a little. “Quality control?”

“Obviously.”

“Alright,” he hummed. “I can work with that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Then, softer but still with that faint grin:

“I think I’ve got a pretty good shot at passing.”

You scoffed. “Confident.”

“I’ve been told I’m persistent.”

“That wasn’t the compliment you think it was.”

“It felt like one.”

Then he tilted his head slightly.

“So,” he added casually, still clearly amused, “do I get a testing board or do I just go for it?”

“You’re really ruining the mood with your commitment to this metaphor, Barnes.”

“I think I’m enhancing it,” he said, completely unbothered.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You didn’t even really decide.

You just moved.

Because before either of you could blink, you had already grabbed him by the front of the shirt and pulled him in.

Bucky went still for half a heartbeat, but he didn’t pull back. Not even close.

If anything, he met you halfway a second later like something in him had been waiting for you to do exactly that. A hand cupped your face while the other snaked around you, pulling you closer.

His lips were warm and sweet, and far too soft for you to be able to think straight.

Your grip on his shirt tightened, and that seemed to be all the confirmation he needed to settle closer, thumb brushing once against your cheek like he was grounding himself in it just as much as you were.

The kiss didn’t feel rushed. It just felt like there wasn’t anything left to argue through, nothing left to misread or overthink or accidentally destroy. Just him, right there, finally not second-guessing it.

And somewhere in the middle of it, there was this very faint exhale through his nose, almost a laugh, almost disbelief, that broke against your mouth like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening and also didn’t want it to stop long enough to think about it.

When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to remember you had lungs.

His forehead hovered near yours for a second, like he wasn’t ready to fully let go of the moment yet.

He let out a quiet laugh through his nose, still a little uneven like he hadn’t fully come back to earth yet.

“I can’t wait to do that in front of that damn Mr. Peterson on Monday.”

“Bucky!” You smacked his shoulder.

“What!” he said, laughing now, catching your wrist easily before you could do it again. “He likes you!”

“I don't think you realize that a hallway make-out session would be a HR paperwork nightmare.”

He learned forward with a smirk, lips molding easily into yours.

“Worth it,” he said against your mouth, like it was the most obvious conclusion in the world.

You made a sound of disapproval that didn’t actually do anything useful, fingers tightening in his shirt anyway.

“You’re insane,” you muttered into the kiss.

His laugh came out low, more in his chest than anything else, and you could feel it when he spoke again.

“You love it.”

That made you pull back just enough to look at him properly.

Bucky looked completely unbothered. Like he already knew what you were going to say.

You huffed a small breath, shaking your head slightly.

“…Yeah,” you said.

He was at his desk, feet kicked up, grading with a red pen and eating your pretzels. The special buffalo kind. The ones you had labeled with a clear ‘DO NOT TOUCH. I’M TALKING TO YOU, BARNES’ written in the juiciest Sharpie you could find.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Watermelon. Banana. Licorice. Limited edition root beer.”

He looked up. “Are you trying to cast a spell on me?”

“My Mr. Sketch scented markers, ” you snapped. “They’re gone. And I know it was you.”

He clicked his pen. Slowly. “Have you considered the possibility that the marker fairy took them because you didn’t believe hard enough?”

You rolled your eyes and walked over, snatching your pretzel bag from his desk. All that was left were crumbs. You glared.

“Delicious, by the way.” He licked his fingers obnoxiously.

“Jerk.” You stalked over to the supply cabinet behind his desk and yanked it open.

Bucky swiveled his chair dramatically, spinning to face you. “Excuse me, I believe this is an invasion of private property.”

You didn’t turn around. “You raid my lunchbox on the daily. Don’t start with me.”

Bucky scoffed. “God forbid a man gets hungry.”

“The lounge has snacks. Refilled. Weekly.”

“I know.” He smiled cheekily. “I just like your snacks.”

You groaned. “Go to hell.”

Bucky feigned a gasp. “Don’t you mean H-E- double hockey sticks?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I mean hell.”

“Does this constitute a case of workplace harassment?” he mused. “Because I’ll have you know the law does not take lightly to…”

He trailed off mid-sentence.

You smirked, rifling around the top shelf while balancing on your tiptoes. “Impressive. Didn’t know you knew how to shut up.”

No response.

You paused, turning your head slightly. “What, cat got your—”

Then you saw his face. Wide-eyed. Frozen. Horrified.

Your eyes followed his gaze.

Above you. Inches from your head.

Hulking. Legs too long. Too many joints. One of God's mistakes.

A spider. The size of a softball.

It moved.

Bucky’s scream was so loud that it made you feel better about yours.

You flung yourself backward, nearly knocking over a beanbag. “KILL IT!”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” he shrieked, scrambling out of his chair.

“It’s your classroom!”

“You touched the cabinet, it’s your problem now!” Bucky hid behind his lunchbox.

“Are you kidding me?!”

“I am not built for combat!”

“JUST KILL IT.”

He grabbed a whiteboard eraser and held it like a weapon. “You kill it.”

“You're taller!”

“You’re scarier!”

You pointed at him with shaking hands. “This is karma. For taking my pudding cup. And vandalizing my bulletin board. And stealing my parking spot. ”

“That was one time!”

“You took the staff of the month space!”

He made a strangled noise not dissimilar to a dying goose and pointed behind you. “It’s moving. ”

You turned.

It was.

You screamed again.

You both ran behind his desk, and he clung onto you, knuckles white and nails digging into your arm.

“Do something!” you hissed.

“You do something!” he shoved a glitter glue stick at you. “Use this!”

“I swear to God, Barnes-”

“It’s getting closer!”

“It’s not even moving!”

“I’m calling in air support.”

“You don’t have air support.”

“I have Steve from P.E. on speed dial.”

Yet, his fingers remained locked onto your cardigan.

You stared at the spider.

The spider stared back.

“Okay. Rock-paper-scissors for who kills it,” Bucky whispered.

You turned slowly. “We’re seriously going to-”

He was already holding up his fist.

You sighed. “Fine.”

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

You both picked scissors.

“Again.”

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.”

Scissors again.

“Again.”

Scissors.

You groaned. “We’re going to die in here.”

Bucky dropped his fist, pushing a half-empty Pringles can toward you.

“Use this.”

You blinked. “Why me? ”

“Because you’re the one who got this thing angry.”

“Oh my God.”

“Does that mean you’ll kill it?”

You cursed him out through gritted teeth, snatched the Pringles can, and launched it like a grenade. It bounced off the shelf. The spider didn’t even blink.

“Jesus, that was a terrible throw!” Bucky shrieked, ducking behind his chair again.

“You wanna try, Mr. Roger Clemens?”

“No!”

“Then shut up!”

With a sudden burst of energy, you grabbed Making Math Fun: Kindergarten Edition and smashed the disgusting creature. Once. Twice. 

It crunched.

You gagged.

Bucky made the sign of a cross.

You shoved the dead spider textbook into his arms, and he almost dropped it. 

“I inhaled,” he said, utterly horrified. “I breathed it in.”

“I hate you.”

He reached into his desk drawer and handed you your marker pouch solemnly. “For your bravery.”

“You owe me three pudding cups for doing this.”

“Two.”

“Wanna make it four?”

“Fine. Three. But I’m keeping the cheese stick.”

You didn’t even know he took your cheese stick.

You glared. He grinned.

God, he drove you insane.

You come to the Tower after a HYDRA clean-up operation in Bucharest.

Former intelligence analyst.

Temporary consultant, Fury says.

“Temporary” becomes six months faster than anyone expects.

You’re clever enough to keep up with Tony, sarcastic enough to survive Sam, patient enough to tolerate Bruce’s nervous rambling, and somehow stubborn enough to call Natasha out on her bullshit without fear.

The team likes you immediately.

Bucky doesn’t.

At first.

Mostly because you’re too observant.

You look at him carefully.

Not fearfully.

Not pityingly.

Just carefully.

Like you’re trying to understand him without taking him apart.

He hates that.

Then he starts noticing things.

You don’t flinch around him.

You don’t stare at the metal arm.

You don’t ask questions about the Winter Soldier.

But sometimes he catches you watching him when you think he isn’t looking.

Not because he’s dangerous.

Because he’s alone.

That’s worse somehow.

The touch thing becomes impossible to ignore after a mission in Prague.

It’s ugly from the start.

Explosives.

Gunfire.

A narrow hallway collapsing before Clint can get civilians out.

You get trapped beneath part of a shattered support beam.

Nothing life-threatening.

Just enough to pin you awkwardly until Bucky and Sam can move it.

You laugh afterward.

Brush dust off your jeans.

Tell everyone you’re fine.

But your hands shake for almost an hour.

Bucky notices because he notices everything about you now.

Which is already a problem.

Then Natasha walks by and squeezes the back of your neck absentmindedly.

And you nearly melt.

It’s subtle.

Most people wouldn’t catch it.

But Bucky does.

Your eyes close for one second.

Your shoulders loosen.

Your breathing evens out instantly.

Relief.

Immediate and devastating.

Like your nervous system has been waiting for permission to settle.

Bucky stares.

You realize he saw.

Embarrassment flashes across your face so fast it hurts to witness.

You pull away immediately.

“I’m okay,” you say too quickly.

Bucky says nothing.

But something ugly twists in his chest afterward.

Not disgust.

Not judgment.

Something worse.

Recognition.

He starts testing theories after that.

Not intentionally.

At least that’s what he tells himself.

You’re sitting on the couch during one of Tony’s terrible movie marathons, half asleep beneath a blanket while everyone argues over which “Die Hard” movie counts as the best one.

Your feet are tucked under you.

Your head keeps drooping.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches over and brushes your hair away from your face.

Just once.

A small movement.

Barely anything.

You freeze.

Not frightened.

Just stunned.

Then slowly—carefully—you lean into his hand.

Like it’s instinct.

Like your body chose before your brain could stop it.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky pulls his hand back immediately.

You blink yourself awake, suddenly aware of what happened.

“Sorry,” you mumble automatically.

Sorry.

Like you did something wrong.

The word slices straight through him.

“For what?” he asks quietly.

You stare at the television instead of him.

“Nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t sleep that night.

After that, it gets worse.

For both of you.

Because now Bucky knows.

And now you know he knows.

The tension changes shape.

It becomes something alive.

Something breathing between you.

Bucky starts finding excuses to touch you.

Tiny things.

A hand at your lower back guiding you through crowded rooms.

Brushing shoulders in the kitchen.

His fingers tapping against your knee during briefings.

He tells himself it’s harmless.

Friendly.

Normal.

But he notices the way your entire body softens every single time.

And you notice that he notices.

One night you fall asleep in the common room while reading.

Bucky finds you there around two in the morning.

Curled sideways on the couch.

Blanket slipping off your shoulder.

Exhaustion written all over your face.

The Tower is quiet.

Everyone asleep.

He should leave.

Instead he kneels beside the couch and carefully pulls the blanket back over you.

Your eyes flutter open immediately.

Panic first.

Then recognition.

Then something softer.

“Sorry,” you whisper groggily.

Again.

Always apologizing for existing.

Bucky’s jaw tightens.

“You gotta stop saying that.”

Your brow furrows.

“For what?”

“For wanting things.”

The room goes completely still.

You look at him like he just reached into your chest and pulled something out barehanded.

Bucky realizes too late how honest that sounded.

You swallow hard.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He almost lets you get away with it.

Almost.

Instead he says quietly, “Nobody touches you enough.”

Your face crumples.

Not dramatically.

Not crying.

Just—

wrecked.

Like no one was ever supposed to notice that.

Bucky feels suddenly, horribly protective.

You look away first.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

The silence afterward feels intimate in a way that terrifies both of you.

Then, carefully—slow enough for you to pull away—Bucky rests his flesh hand over yours.

Warm.

Steady.

Gentle.

You stop breathing.

And then—

you turn your hand beneath his and hold on.

It ruins everything.

Because after that, neither of you can pretend anymore.

Touch becomes dangerous.

Addictive.

You start gravitating toward him unconsciously.

Sitting beside him.

Leaning against him during briefings.

Falling asleep against his shoulder during quinjet rides.

And Bucky—

God.

Bucky becomes obsessed with taking care of you.

Not in a controlling way.

In a reverent one.

Like he’s trying to make up for every year nobody held you gently enough.

He tucks blankets around you.

Rubs your back when anxiety hits.

Lets you thread your fingers through his metal hand because you like the coolness of it against your skin.

One night after a nightmare, you end up outside his room at three in the morning.

You look mortified to be there.

“I can go,” you say immediately.

Bucky opens the door wider.

“You can stay.”

You hesitate.

“Only if you’re sure.”

He almost laughs at that.

Like you still don’t understand he’d hand you every broken piece of himself if you asked.

That night you sleep beside him for the first time.

No sex.

No kissing.

Just sleep.

Your head against his chest.

His arm around your waist.

You fall asleep in less than five minutes.

Bucky stays awake almost all night.

Because nobody has ever trusted him with softness like this before.

And because he realizes somewhere around four in the morning that he’s completely fucked.

The team notices eventually.

Sam notices first, obviously.

“You got heart eyes,” he tells Bucky over coffee.

“I’ll kill you.”

“You brush her hair behind her ear like she’s in a Jane Austen movie.”

Bucky glares at him.

Sam grins wider.

“She looks at you like you hung the moon, man.”

That shuts Bucky up.

Because that part scares him too.

You do look at him differently now.

Like he’s safe.

Like he’s home.

And Bucky has spent almost a century being neither of those things.

The first kiss happens accidentally.

Which is a lie.

Nothing between you has been accidental for months.

It happens in the kitchen.

Late.

Rain against the windows.

You’re wearing one of his henleys because you left your clothes in the wash downstairs.

Bucky is trying very hard not to think about that.

You’re standing close enough that your socked feet brush his.

Talking softly about nothing important.

Then your hand lands absently on his chest.

Just resting there.

Warm.

Trusting.

Bucky looks down at it.

Then at you.

And something in his expression must change because your breathing catches.

“Buck,” you whisper.

He gives you every chance to walk away.

You don’t.

You step closer instead.

His metal hand settles carefully against your waist like he’s afraid too much pressure will break you.

You tilt your face up.

And Bucky kisses you like a man dying of thirst.

Slow at first.

Disbelieving.

Then deeper when you make that tiny sound against his mouth.

The kind of sound that tells him this means something.

Your fingers clutch his shirt.

His heartbeat goes completely feral.

When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his.

Neither of you speaks.

You don’t need to.

The devastation is already complete.

Loving Bucky Barnes is not easy.

Loving you isn’t easy either.

You’re both too damaged in complementary ways.

Bucky gives touch like it’s survival.

You receive it like oxygen.

Sometimes that becomes dangerous.

There are nights he holds you so tightly it borders on desperation.

Nights you cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the universe.

You become each other’s comfort too quickly.

Too deeply.

But somehow—

somehow—it works.

Because neither of you asks the other to be healed first.

Months later, after a mission gone sideways in Madripoor, Bucky comes back bloodied and furious and shaking with leftover violence.

You find him alone in the Tower gym at two in the morning.

His metal fist has cracked one of the punching bags clean open.

“Buck.”

“Don’t,” he says immediately.

Like he can’t bear for you to see him like this.

You walk toward him anyway.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

You stop directly in front of him.

His breathing is ragged.

Eyes wild around the edges.

Still halfway in combat mode.

Everyone else in the world might fear him like this.

You don’t.

Very gently, you take his flesh hand first.

Then the metal one.

“You came back,” you say softly.

The anger breaks instantly.

Just—

gone.

Bucky folds around the grief of it with a broken sound in his throat.

And suddenly he’s holding you so hard it almost hurts.

His face buried against your neck.

You stroke your fingers through his hair.

“It’s okay,” you whisper.

No one has ever held the Winter Soldier through his terror before.

No one except you.

Bucky thinks, not for the first time, that this is probably what love actually is.

Not grand gestures.

Not fireworks.

This.

Being known completely.

And held anyway.

The proposal happens almost a year later.

Quiet.

Private.

Perfect.

You’re half asleep in bed, tangled together beneath soft sheets while rain taps against the windows.

Bucky’s tracing lazy patterns along your spine.

Your fingers are linked with his metal hand.

Comfortable silence.

Home.

Then suddenly he says, very seriously, “Marry me.”

You blink up at him.

“What?”

His expression turns nervous immediately, which is honestly absurd considering this is James Buchanan Barnes.

“I’m serious.”

“You’re asking me while I look like this?”

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m wearing an old Stark Industries shirt and one sock.”

“You still look beautiful.”

You laugh softly.

Then realize he isn’t joking.

Your chest aches instantly.

“Bucky…”

He brings your joined hands to his mouth.

Kisses your knuckles carefully.

“I spent a real long time thinking I was too broken for this,” he says quietly. “Then you walked in and started looking at me like I was worth something.”

Tears sting your eyes immediately.

“You are worth something.”

His thumb brushes beneath your eye.

“And you deserve to be loved out loud. Deserve to be held whenever you need it. Deserve somebody who notices.”

Your breath shakes.

“Buck—”

“I notice everything about you.”

That does it.

That destroys you completely.

Because he does.

He notices when you’re overwhelmed before you say anything.

Notices when you need quiet.

Notices when you’re touch-starved and crawling out of your own skin from loneliness.

Notices when you need his hand on the back of your neck to ground you again.

He notices.

And he never makes you feel ashamed for needing.

“Yes,” you whisper, crying now. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Bucky exhales like he’s been holding that breath for decades.

Then he kisses you.

Slow.

Tender.

Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like being chosen.

And afterward you curl into him instinctively, your face tucked against his chest while his arms close around you immediately.

Automatic now.

Natural as breathing.

Bucky presses his mouth against your hair and thinks, with something dangerously close to peace, that maybe ruin isn’t always a bad thing.

Because figuring out you were touch-starved ruined both of your lives.

Bucky had wanted to come. 

That was the first problem. 

Bucky Barnes, unfortunately, had developed a habit of wanting to come wherever you were most likely to be shot, stabbed, poisoned, emotionally cornered, or otherwise inconvenienced by the consequences of your own life choices. This was noble in theory, exhausting in practice, and completely unsuitable for the mission currently requiring you to hang upside down from the ceiling of a private records office in Arlington while Yelena ate cashews beneath you.

The facility was owned by a “strategic consulting firm,” which in Washington meant nothing and everything. The front office handled defense contracts, philanthropic partnerships, political risk assessments, and donor management. The locked archive beneath it, according to the files you had stolen from a very nervous man with a waxed mustache, handled something else entirely. 

Names, movement logs, enhanced-person incident reports that had never been filed through official channels. Old Widow recovery routes.  Contractor payments tied to three shell companies you recognized from Valentina’s orbit. 

Bucky had read the first page of the briefing and said, “I’m coming.”

You had said, “No.”

He had said, “That wasn’t a question.”

You had said. “And yet it has been answered.”

Sam, sitting across the kitchen table with his arms crossed and the expression of a man who knew he had been invited to witness a fight rather than participate in a meeting, had said, “I’m gonna regret asking this, but why isn’t he coming?” 

“Because,” you had said, taking the folder out of Bucky’s hand before he could glare the paper into confession, “this is a stealth retrieval, not a former-Winter-Soldier-and-sitting-congressman-breaks-into-a-contractor-basement situation.”

Bucky stared at you. 

You stared back.

“You can’t be there. If something connects the site to the bill, or to Valentina, you need distance,” You said.

His jaw tightened.

“You’re going,” he had said.

“Yes.”

“That’s different?” 

“This is the kind of thing Yelena and I were trained for,” you shrugged. “You’re the congressional sponsor of the bill that might expose her network.”

He had stayed behind. Barely. 

Which was why your phone currently had several unread texts from him despite the fact that you were in the middle of a felony. 

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

You inside?

11:34

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

Check in.

11:34

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

You good? 

11:42

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

I can still come if you need me. 

11:43

You had read all of them and answered none. Not because you were avoiding him, but because you were a professional.

“You know,” Sam said in your earpiece, voice low and warm and far too amused for a man sitting on a rooftop two blocks away, “for somebody who insisted Bucky stay home, you’ve checked your phone a lot.”  

“I am monitoring external variables.”

“You are monitoring your husband.”

“Fake husband.”

From below you, Yelena stopped chewing. 

You froze. 

Yelena looked up at you from the floor, one eyebrow lifted. 

Her black tactical suit made her blend into the shadows beneath the ceiling panel. A couple cashews fell out of her hand and onto the floor. She had found them in the security break room and claimed them.

“What did you say?” she asked.

You twisted your wrist slightly, keeping the bypass tool pressed to the sensor housing. “I said husband.”

“No.” Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “You said fake husband.”

Sam went silent in your ear. 

You sighed through your nose. “Did I?”

“Yes,” Yelena said. “You did.”

“Could have been an accent issue.”

“You do not have accent.”

“Everyone has an accent.”

“Do not linguistics me.”

The tool in your hand beeped softly, the sensor light shifted from red to green.

“Good news,” you said. “Hallway’s clear.”

“Do not change subject.”

“We’re literally changing rooms.”

You swung down from the panel, caught the edge with one hand, then dropped lightly to the floor beside her. Your boots hit the tile with barely a sound. The hallway beyond the records office stretched dark and cold ahead of you, lined with doors requiring keycards, biometric access, or the kind of confidence only rich men and former assassins possessed. 

Yelena did not move. She crossed her arms.

“You told me it was real.”

“I did not.”

“You let me think it.”

“She sounds pretty mad,” Sam exhaled in your ear.

Yelena smiled without humor. “I am not mad. Explain.” 

“This is not the time.”

“We are in empty hallway after disabling security. Very good time.”

“There are patrols.”

“I will get rid of them.”

“We are on a clock.”

“I am efficient.”

You looked toward the camera you had looped two minutes ago. It would hold for another six before the system caught the irregularity. Behind the next door was the internal archive. Behind that, if the floor plans were accurate, a secure storage room. Somewhere inside it was a physical drive marked with an old Red Room routing cipher that had no business appearing in a D.C. contractor’s foundation file.

You needed to keep moving.

You also knew Yelena well enough to understand that she would stand in the middle of an active mission until sunrise if she decided the emotional injury warranted it. She was very principled that way. 

Terrible trait. 

“We got married by accident,” you said. 

Yelena stared. Sam made a small noise through the comms. 

“I need both of you to remain calm.” You said, pointing toward the door and starting walking.

“By accident,” Yelena repeated. 

“Yes.”

“And you did not tell me?”

“I was going to.”

“When? Anniversary?”

You reached the keycard panel and crouched in front of it, pulling a narrow tool from your sleeve. 

“Probably before then.”

“I would stop talking if I were you,” Sam advised.

“Excellent advice,” you said. “For both of us.”

Yelena crouched beside you, close enough that her shoulder nearly touched yours. Her face had gone still in the way it did when hurt moved under anger. People who did not know her might have missed it. You did not. 

The keycard panel clicked.

“Door,” you said. 

Yelena did not look at it.

“You told Sam.”

“Bucky told Sam,” you corrected.

“You could have told me.” 

“I know.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Or the right thing. Hard to tell. Yelena’s mouth tightened. You pulled the door open and slid inside before she could say anything else. 

The archive room was colder than the hallway. Rows of rolling shelves stood under dim motion lights, each marked with dull metal tags and coded labels. 

You moved down the first row, counting shelves. “Sam, talk to me.”

For once, Sam sounded cautious. “You’ve got eight minutes before the lobby guard cycles back. Exterior’s clear. Van's still clean. No alarms on my end.”

Yelena followed behind you, steps silent. “You lied to me.”

“I omitted.”

“You omitted the fake part of fake marriage. Crucial part.” Yelena’s glare could have stripped paint. “And then you kept lying to me for two months.”

You found the shelf. Section 4-14. Private philanthropic filings. Contractor-linked donor records. Shell entity cross-references. It was exactly where the floor plan said it would be, which made you immediately suspicious. 

You crouched and ran your fingers along the bottom edge of the shelf, feeling for a pressure switch. 

There. 

Tiny, under the metal lip.

“Trap?” Yelena asked, anger pushed aside by instinct. 

“Silent alarm.” 

She crouched beside you, all business now. “Lazy.”

You smiled despite yourself and pulled a wedge from your belt. “Hold this.”

Yelena held the shelf steady while you slid the wedge in, locking the pressure plate. Her shoulder brushed yours. For all her fury, she was exactly where you needed her.

That made the guilt worse. 

You opened the file drawer and started searching.

“You could have told me,” she said again, quieter this time.

You did not look at her. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Several answers circled in your head. Because if you knew it was fake, you’d ask why I kept wearing the ring like it wasn’t. Because Bucky is the first good thing I have held and I do not know how to want him without ruining it.

You pulled a folder from the drawer. “Because it’s complicated.”

Yelena scoffed softly. “That is coward’s answer.”

“I hate to agree with her,” Sam started, “but—”

“Finish the sentence and I will make your shield into a serving tray.”

He stopped.

You flipped through the folder, scanning donor names, dates, routing codes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Then—

Harrington Strategic.

You froze.

Yelena noticed at once. “What?”

“Shell reference.”

You pulled the page free and photographed it. Then another. The codes were old but not old enough. You slid the documents into a scan sleeve and closed the drawer, moving to the next drawer. 

“We need the drive.”

“And real conversation,” Yelena said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Yelena,” you sighed. 

“You have fake husband, real feelings, and did not tell me. We are having conversation.”

You reached the secure storage door at the back of the archive. “I do not have real feelings.”

Sam snorted. 

“Wilson,” you muttered under your breath in warning.

“I’m just saying,” Sam said. “I was in the car after the truth serum.”

Yelena’s eyes lit up. “What truth serum?”

You closed your eyes briefly. 

Wonderful. Excellent. Perfect. 

“Can we focus on the mission?”

“You were truth-serumed?” Yelena demanded.

“On accident.”

“Buck put it in her tea,” Sam supplied.

Yelena stared at you.

You kept working on the lock. “He thought it was peppermint extract.”

“Why was truth serum labeled peppermint extract?” Yelena asked.

“That’s not the point.”

“Oh, well okay then. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

The lock flashed red.

You exhaled, adjusted the bypass needle, and tried again.

“She was telling him how handsome he is,” Sam answered.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wilson.”

Yelena’s smile spread slowly. 

“Oh.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You think Congressman Sad Eyes is handsome.”

“I was drugged.”

Yelena leaned against the wall beside the secure door, arms crossed, her earlier anger rearranging itself into something more dangerous: delight.

“You like him,” she said.

“I do not like him.”

“Yes, you do,” Sam and Yelena said at the same time. 

The door opened. 

You stepped inside. “This is bullying.”

“This is family,” Yelena said. 

“Family needs to be quieter on missions.”

The secure room was smaller, lined with locked metal cabinets. The air was even colder here, a preservation chill meant to protect paper, hard drives, and whatever else men with too much money convinced themselves they could keep forever. 

You knelt and unrolled a thin tool kit from your sleeve. 

Yelena crouched beside you. “Say it.”

“No.” 

“Say you like him.” 

“I like many people.”

“You do not.”

“I tolerate several.”

“You like him.”

“I like his house. It’s a very nice house.” 

Yelena gave you a flat look. “You are in love with townhouse?”

“The water pressure is excellent.”

“Is water pressure why you stare at him when he opens doors?”

“I do not stare.”

“You do.”

“I have to look at him sometimes. He is large and often in the way.” 

“You know, for a former assassin,” Sam said in your ear, “your defense strategy is weak.”

You looked toward the ceiling in disbelief that this was your team for this mission. “I should’ve let Bucky come.”

“No, he would be worse,” Yelena snorted.

“He would’ve spent the whole mission asking if you were okay every five minutes,” Sam said.

“He does that because he is neurotic.”

“He does that because he loves—” Sam stopped so abruptly you heard his teeth click. 

The lock pick paused in your hand. Sam went quiet. Too quiet. Your pulse changed but you forced your hand to keep moving. 

“Because he loves what, Sam?”

“Control,” Sam said quickly. “Mission control. He loves mission control.”

You looked back at the lock until the pins blurred. 

You had spent three weeks pretending the truth serum incident had not happened. Three weeks sleeping beside Bucky in the dark, the space between you warm and impossible. Three weeks watching him read labels twice before making your tea. Three weeks since you told him you were friends and colleagues and nothing else. 

There were many things you could survive. Guns and needles, a bullet through soft tissue. A fall from three stories if you landed well. You were not sure you could survive Bucky knowing you wanted him and being kind about not wanting you back.

The lock clicked open. 

You removed the small black drive from the cabinet, along with a paper index card containing three shell company names and a private event schedule. 

Yelena plucked the card from your hand. “These are spouse events.”

“What?”

“Here,” she tapped the second line. “Foundation dinner. Closed guest list.”

You took the card back. 

She was right. 

A private board reception. A donor retreat listed as “family attendance encouraged.” Not staff. Not aides. Not policy advisors. 

Spouses. 

Sam’s voice came through. “What is it?”

“Access,” you said. 

Yelena’s eyes flicked to you. 

You slid the drive into your jacket. “As chief of staff, I can’t get into half these rooms without raising questions. As his wife…” 

You felt a slow, unpleasant thrill. 

Yelena smiled. “Finally, marriage becomes useful.”

“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Sam sighed. 

“Yes, she did,” Yelena argued. 

“I did not,” you said. 

“You did. You are wasting marriage on longing instead of using marriage to crush enemies.”

“I am not longing.”

Yelena gave you a look. “You’re longing.”

“Oh, she’s longing,” Sam agreed. 

“I hate both of you.”

“Maybe,” said Yelena. “But you like him.” 

You shut the cabinet harder than necessary. 

Fine. 

You turned to face her, and Yelena was wearing the expression of a woman who had decided she would rather be shot than leave this alone. 

“Fine,” you said. 

Yelena stilled. 

“Yes, I like him.”

No truth serum or nausea this time. 

Yelena’s expression shifted. The triumph softened almost immediately into something protective. Sam made no sound at all. 

You continued before anyone could be gentle.

“It’s not serious.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam said. 

“It isn’t.”

“You are stealing files while wearing his ring,” Yelena said, “and pretending not to check your phone every time he texts.”

“It is a crush,” you snapped. “That’s all. A stupid, inconvenient crush caused by proximity. We’re done here.”

You turned to the exit.

“You have feelings,” Yelena said. 

“I have many feelings. Hunger. Irritation.”

“For him. For Bucky.”

You stopped at the secure room door. “That I can’t do anything about.” 

The hallway was still beyond clear. Your camera loop had two minutes left. The guard pattern had changed slightly; you could hear footsteps somewhere above you, a little too quick. Not yet a problem. Soon. 

“Why not?” Sam said.

You kept your eyes on the corridor. “Because we have to stay married.” 

“That seems like opposite of problem,” Yelena said.

“It is a public arrangement tied to his career, his office, and his bill. If we complicate it and it goes badly, we still have to live in the same house, sleep in the same bed, and lie to every camera in D.C. until we can safely undo it.” 

You moved into the hall.

“And besides, he doesn’t want me like that,” you added. 

Sam made a sound that might have been physical pain. 

“You are stupid,” Yelena said. 

“I know what I mean.” You stopped at the corner, checked the reflection in the dark glass of a framed abstract painting, then waved Yelena back a step. “He is kind. That’s what you’re seeing. He treats me well because he treats people well when he thinks they’re his responsibility.” 

Sam went very quiet on the comm. 

“He opens doors because he’s from the forties,” you continued. He makes tea because he feels guilty. He looks at me like that because he looks at everyone he wants to protect like that.”

Yelena’s voice came low behind you. “Does he?”

You did not answer.

“You ever think,” Sam started, “you keep deciding what he feels because it keeps you from ever having to ask?”

You turned toward the camera above the hall and pulled a compact from your belt. 

“You ever think maybe you talk too much?”

“Every day. Doesn’t make me wrong. Just sayin’.”

“You are always just saying. It is your most dangerous condition.”

A soft, red light at the far end of the hallway began pulsing. A silent alarm. Local system only, probably triggered by the guard’s vitals monitor or the camera loop ending sooner than expected. 

Sam swore. “You’ve got movement upstairs.” 

“How many?”

“Four. Maybe six. Coming down the east stairwell.”

Yelena rolled her shoulders. “Good. I was bored.”

You took the keycard from her and started moving. “Exit route B.”

“I’m moving to pick up,” Sam said.

A crash sounded faintly through the comm. 

You closed your eyes for half a second. “Subtle.”

The next ninety seconds were blessedly simple. Men came down the stairwell with earpieces and tactical gear. You and Yelena removed them from the situation. 

One would have a bad knee for a week. Another would wake up zip-tied to a pipe with his own belt. 

You ran through the service corridor, past the bad lighting, through a stairwell that smelled like dust and overheated electrical wiring. The lock clicked open and the night air hit your face as you slipped into the alley. Cold, damp, full of exhaust and rain. The van sat at the curb, lights off. Sam had parked badly. 

Yelena climbed in first, you followed. Sam sat in the driver’s seat and pulled away before the back door was fully shut. 

You leaned back against the seat and pulled out your phone. There were new texts from Bucky. 

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

Alarm? Sam stopped responding.

12:34

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

I’m coming. 

12:36

Your chest tightened and you typed quickly: Mission complete. Do not come. 

His reply came almost instantly.  

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

You okay?

12:42

You stared at the words. Four letters, one question mark, and somehow the equivalence of a hand at your back.

You typed back: No one died.

The Congressman🥵🎖️🦾

That’s not what I asked.

12:43

You locked the phone and shoved it into your jacket. 

D.C. moved past in blurred lights and government buildings, all stone faces and dark windows. Somewhere across the city, Bucky was probably standing in his kitchen, phone in hand, jaw tight, pretending he was not waiting for you to walk through the door. 

Yelena watched you.

“You like being married to him.”

You closed your eyes. The words came before you could make them smaller.

“I like being married to him.” 

The van went quiet. 

You opened your eyes. 

Sam looked at you through the mirror, no grin this time. 

Yelena’s expression had softened in the way she hated showing. Her shoulder pressed against yours for one brief second. 

They were silent for the rest of the ride, which was something you were grateful for. You didn’t really have the energy to talk about your complicated feelings for your congressman and husband. Your Bucky. 

You would have to do better at scrubbing that last idea out of your head. 

It wasn’t long before Sam pulled up outside the townhouse. You slid the door open, grabbed your duffel bag, and hopped out. 

The townhouse waited ahead, warm light glowing in the kitchen windows and front hall, the living room lamp left on low. Bucky did that now. Left lights on when you were coming home late. Not every light, not enough to make the house look exposed from the street, but enough that you never had to walk in darkness. 

You had noticed the first time. You had not mentioned it.

Behind you, the van did not leave. Sam stayed in the driver’s seat with both hands on the wheel, pretending he was not watching you over the dash. Yelena’s face turned toward the townhouse with the pointed interest of someone who had no intention of letting you escape the conversation just because the mission was over. 

“You are going to tell him?” She asked.

You checked the street instead of looking at her. The block was quiet, mostly. 

“About the mission?”

“About the other thing.”

“There is no other thing.”

Sam made a sound from the front seat. 

You looked at him. 

He looked straight ahead.

“Did you have something to say, Wilson?” You asked.

“I’m a vault.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Yelena crunched a cashew. “You admitted you like being married to him. You should tell him.”

“No.”

Sam sighed through his nose. “You really think he doesn’t feel anything?”

You looked toward the townhouse again. 

The kitchen window was bright enough that you could see the vague shape of someone moving past it, broad shoulders, shirtsleeves, dark hair. Bucky. 

Your chest did something embarrassing. You shoved it back down. 

“I think Bucky is a decent man who has spent two months trying to make an insane situation less awful for me,” you said. “I think he is honorable. I think he would rather chew glass than make me feel unwanted in my own fake marriage. And I think if I tell him I have feelings and he does not have them back, he will be kind about it, which will be worse.”

Neither of them immediately answered. 

Yelena’s mouth pressed into a line. Sam looked briefly down at the wheel, his fingers flexing once around it. 

Sam said your name gently. “You don’t know unless you ask.”

“I know enough.”

“You’re making assumptions.”

Yelena looked past you again, toward the house. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion this time, but assessment. She had been doing that since the Red Room fell, deciding what might kill you and what might save you. Sometimes she got the two mixed up.

“You like him,” she said.  “He makes you feel safe.” 

Yelena leaned forward and pressed her forehead briefly to your temple. 

The first time she had done it, you had nearly flinched hard enough to break her nose. Now you stood still and let her, because family was apparently just repeated exposure to the same dangerous person until your nervous system gave up and called it love. 

“You will call me tomorrow,” she said.

“I have work.”

“You will call me tomorrow.”

You paused. “...yeah. Yeah, okay.”

She stepped back, then pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then at you. “Do not do anything stupid.”

“Text if you need anything,” Sam said from the front seat.

“I won’t.”

“I know. Text anyway.”

The van pulled away before you could answer, leaving you alone on the sidewalk with the cold air, the flash drive, and the deeply irritating knowledge that the two most meddlesome people in your life had somehow become a united front. 

You unlocked the front door with your key. 

That was still strange. 

Your key. Not strange enough that you did not use it. Not strange enough that you had not started keeping it on your normal keyring instead of loose in the side pocket of your bag. But strange enough that every time the lock turned, some part of you remembered this was supposed to be temporary. 

The house opened around you, warm and quiet. 

It smelled like roasted garlic, cedar soap, and Bucky’s coffee. 

You stopped in the entryway. Bucky was in the kitchen. 

He stood at the stove in rolled-up shirtsleeves, tie gone, hair slightly mussed like he had run a hand through it too many times. There was a pan on the burner, something wrapped in foil on the counter, two plates already set out, and his phone lying face-up beside the cutting board. 

He looked over the second the door opened. 

His eyes moved over you in one sweep: face, shoulders, hands, jacket, knees, boots. Checking for blood, limp, shock, pain. Anything out of place. 

You shut the door behind you. 

“Stop scanning me.”

“You’re limping. You hurt?”

“No.”

His eyes dropped to your knee.

You sighed. “Slightly.”

“Shoulder too?”

You looked down at yourself. “How did you—”

“You’re holdin’ it stiff.”

“I hate your eyes.”

“No, you don’t.”

You went still for a fraction too long. 

Bucky noticed. His expression shifted, and he looked back toward the stove like the burner required his full attention.

“Food’s almost done,” he said.

“You cooked?”

“You said you were gonna forget to eat.”

“I said that hours ago.”

“Still seemed likely.”

You toed off your boots by the door and hung your coat on the hook beside his. The motion was too familiar. Boot by boot. Coat on hook. Shoulder beginning to throb where the bruise had started to bloom. 

You moved into the kitchen and leaned against the island while Bucky turned off the stove. He had made eggs, toast, roasted vegetables, and rice in a pan with garlic and something else that smelled too good for a man who had once considered protein bars a complete meal. 

“You waited to eat?” you asked.

He shrugged one shoulder. “Wasn’t hungry yet.”

Lie. 

Bucky carried a plate to the island and set it in front of you first. Then he reached past you for the drawer, pulled out a fork, and placed it beside the plate like this was a perfectly normal thing. 

You looked down at the plate, then at him. 

“What?”

“You made vegetables.”

“I know how to make vegetables.”

“You own seasoning now?”

His eyes narrowed. “You bought it.”

“Yes, but you’re using it. That’s growth.”

“Eat.”

“Bossy.” 

“Chief.”

“Husband.”

He went still for half a second. Then the pan on the stove made a small settling sound, and both of you pretended the room had not changed. 

You picked up the fork.

He sat beside you with his own plate, close enough that your knees nearly bumped beneath the island. For a few minutes, you ate without talking about anything important. That had become one of the stranger comforts of living together. The silence.

Bucky let you get four bites in before asking, “Flash drive?”

You tapped the inside pocket of your jacket. 

“The archive was real,” you said. Shell references. Donor movements. Some contractor aliases that match the list from last week.”

Bucky’s face changed. The domestic softness didn’t vanish, but something else slid over it. Focus. Concern. The old soldier and the newer congressman meeting somewhere behind his eyes. 

“Valentina?”

“Adjacent.” 

“Were you seen?”

“No.”

He looked at your knee. 

“Not by anyone who remained conscious,” you amended.

“Sweetheart.”

“I had everything under control.”

“You’re limping.”

“I can limp from many noncombat related causes.”

“Like?”

“Drama. A deep commitment to mystique. Or, really, really good se—”

“Alright.” 

You couldn’t stop the smile that was pulling at your lips. 

There it was. The rhythm. The easy one. The thing that made coming home dangerous because you did not have to force it. With Bucky, you could slide into a conversation already moving. You could say nonsense and he would meet it with that tired patience that somehow made you want to escalate. 

Bucky set his fork down. “Can I see your shoulder?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s minor.”

“Can I see it?”

You unzipped the top of your tactical suit just enough to pull the collar aside and show him the bruise high on your shoulder. The kitchen light caught the darkening patch of skin, already shifting purple around the edges. 

Bucky’s face went still. 

“Do not make that face,” you said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.” 

His eyes moved to yours. “May I?”

You handed him permission with a sigh and a nod.

His fingers touched your shoulder gently. He pressed lightly around the bruise, checking swelling, range, damage. It should have been clinical. His hands had done worse things than tend a bruise, and your body had survived worse things than being touched by a man who cared whether you hurt. 

Still, your breath went strange. 

He withdrew his hand. “You’re gonna be sore.”

“I know.”

“You should ice it.”

“I know.”

“You gonna?”

You smiled. 

His mouth twitched. “That means no.”

Bucky stood, went to the freezer, wrapped an ice pack in a towel, and brought it back. You accepted it and pressed it to your shoulder. The cold bit through the towel, sharp enough to steady you. 

Something in you softened. It had been doing that too often lately. You had learned to take hits without making them matter. Bruises were inventory. Pain was information. But Bucky looked at every mark on you like it was an argument with the world. 

You looked down at the plate. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Acting like this is worse because it happened to me.”

“It is worse because it happened to you.”

Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth. 

Bucky seemed to realize what he had said a moment after saying it. His expression tightened with caution. 

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The house hummed around the silence: refrigerator, old pipes, the faint tick of the burner cooling on the stove. Your shoulder ached beneath the ice pack, but distantly now, like a complaint from another room.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to the bruise again, and you knew that if you let him, he would turn that mark into evidence against himself. You could see the shape of it forming. That familiar Barnes guilt, broad-shouldered and self-sustaining. 

You set your fork down.

“I don’t mind getting hurt on missions,” you said.

Bucky’s gaze returned to yours immediately. “That’s not something you should say like its normal.”

“It is normal.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Bucky,” you sighed.

“No,” he repeated. “Getting hurt shouldn’t be the price of doing good. Not with you.”

You leaned back slightly against the island, ice pressed to your shoulder, tactical suit half-unzipped at the collar, body tired. 

“I mean it,” you said. “I don’t mind. Not like that. I spent years being useful to the wrong people. I was good at it. I was very good at being terrible for whoever pointed me in the right direction.”

Bucky’s expression changed.

You should have stopped, but instead, you looked down at your hand, at the ring sitting there, and continued before the smarter part of you could shut the door. 

“Now I get to choose where I point myself. I get to break into an archive and steal evidence from people who think enhanced bodies and scared kids with powers are inventory. I get to be useful on purpose, for something that might actually help someone.” You swallowed, irritated by the sudden roughness in your throat. “So I don’t mind a couple bruises. It’s fine. Almost comforting.”

Bucky was still beside you. You could feel him listening, not as though he was waiting for his turn to speak, but like every word had weight. Like he knew what it was to have your own history used against you and was careful not to become another hand on the scale. 

You dragged your thumb against the condensation on your glass.

“It doesn’t make up for anything,” you said. “It doesn’t undo what I did. And I know what people say. I know I was conditioned and controlled and trained and handled and used. I know all the words. I’ve written half of them in memos for other people.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

You laughed once, but it had no humor. “There it is.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

You looked at him. 

His face was open in a way he rarely let it be. Bucky Barnes was never fully unguarded but there was no performance in him now, no congressman, no public husband, no careful joke he could hide behind. 

You tilted your head to the side, looking at him from a different angle. “Barnes, you don’t get to say that to me and not yourself. You’re doing the thing where grace applies to everyone in the room except you.”

“That’s not what I’m doin’.”

“It’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Bucky looked down at his hands.

“Steve once told me something similar,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the side of his ring. “He told me that what I did all those years wasn’t me. That I didn’t have a choice.”

Your chest tightened and you looked at him skeptically. “Did you believe him?”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. 

“No,” he admitted. “Not then.”

He breathed in slowly, like he was choosing each word before letting it leave him.

“I wanted to. I knew he meant it.” Bucky’s mouth moved slightly, not quite a smile. “Didn’t mean I could carry it.”

You understood that too well. Belief offered from the outside could feel like a coat in the wrong size. Warm, maybe. But not made for your body. Not something you could move in. 

Bucky looked up at you again. 

“But now?” you asked.

His gaze held yours. “Now I think he was right.”

His words were quiet. Not easy. But there.

“I’m not defined by what they made me do,” Bucky said. “I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen. I don’t get to wash my hands and say none of it touched me. But I get to decide what I do with the rest of my life.”

He looked down briefly at the flash drive sitting on the counter between you. 

“I can do some good in this world.” He shrugged. “Maybe enough that the good is its own thing, not payment. Not atonement. Just good.” 

Your throat ached. 

Bucky’s hand rested near his glass, metal fingers still, flesh hand curled loosely beside it. The ring on his left hand caught the kitchen light. 

He let out a breath. 

“Maybe,” he said, “I can have some good too.”

Bucky said that last part quieter, like he wasn’t sure if he quite believed it yet. He said it like a man asking permission from an empty room. 

You looked at him and felt something in you go unbearably soft. 

“You deserve good things,” you said. 

You had not planned to say it. You were not sure where it had come from. Maybe from the two months of watching Bucky Barnes act like goodness was something he was allowed to protect but never receive. 

His face changed in increments. First surprise, then discomfort. Then something raw enough that he lowered his eyes before you could fully see it. 

He cleared his throat. “Don’t know about that.”

“I do.”

His eyes came back to yours.

Then his phone buzzed on the counter. The moment fractured. 

The screen lit up with a news alert from some garbage entertainment-politics site whose entire business model revolved around grainy photos and hastily made assumptions. 

The headline read:

BABY BARNES? INSIDERS SPECULATE CONGRESSMAN’S SUDDEN MARRIAGE MAY HAVE BEEN A SHOTGUN WEDDING

The house went quiet.

“I’m sorry,” you said, pushing your plate away from you. “Apparently I’m what?”

Bucky picked up the phone, thumb moving over the screen. His expression shifted from confusion to irritation. You leaned closer despite yourself. 

The article had three photos. One of you leaving the donor reception the night of the truth serum incident, hunched slightly forward, one hand pressed to your stomach while Bucky guided you toward the waiting car. Another of him helping you into the backseat. A third, zoomed and blurred beyond decency, of him standing at the curb looking worried enough to make any tabloid editor salivate. 

Under the photos, the caption read:

Mrs. Barnes appeared visibly unwell while leaving an exclusive reception three weeks ago, fueling speculation that the couple’s sudden nuptials may have been prompted by more than romance.

You read it twice, then looked down at your stomach. 

“Well,” you said. “News to me.” 

Bucky did not laugh easily, and he certainly did not laugh loudly when tabloids were speculating about his fake wife. But his mouth cracked first, then his eyes, and then he turned his face away with one hand over his mouth.

“Oh, this is funny to you?”

“No.”

“You’re laughing.”

“‘M not.” 

You picked up his phone and scrolled with one finger. “This is absurd. They cite an anonymous source who says I have been ‘glowing.’”

“You do glow.” 

You stared at him.

He looked mildly alarmed by himself. 

“I mean… you’re sweaty sometimes.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“That came out wrong.”

“I should hope so.” 

He dragged a hand over his face. “I meant you look good.”

Your mouth hung open slightly. His ears went pink. 

The tabloid headline seemed to glow between you like a cursed artifact.

“Right. Well.” You looked back at the phone. “Mia’ll kill it in the morning.” 

The rest of the evening went on with the kind of absurd normalcy that made your life feel like a badly written cover story. You finished eating. Bucky took the plates. You dried them. Two former assassins doing dishes under warm kitchen lights. 

You were putting away the last fork when Bucky said, “You should go upstairs.” 

“Bossy.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“Oh, just because I’m pregnant now I can’t take care of myself?”

He rolled his eyes at your joke, standing near the sink towel in hand. Not ordering or pushing, just reading you too well and giving you nowhere to hide. 

Bucky said your name softly.

You sighed. “Fine.”

He smiled faintly, stopping in front of you and, without seeming to think about it, brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face. 

His fingers were warm against your temple. Your eyes dipped for half a second, your body leaning toward the contact in the automatic way tired bodies lean toward heat. He looked at you with a quiet kind of fondness that had become too common lately. 

Then he leaned down and kissed your forehead. 

His lips touched your skin like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You did good tonight,” he murmured. 

You hummed something that might have been, “I always do,” but you were not sure it had words. 

Bucky stepped back, gathered the towel, and turned to hang it on the oven handle.

You went upstairs because he had told you to, and because your body was beginning to remember it had spent the last several hours crawling through vents and fighting security. You changed slowly in the bathroom, peeling out of the tactical suit and leaving it folded over the hamper. There was a smear of dust along your jaw. You wiped it away with a damp cloth and stared at yourself in the mirror.

You looked tired. And bruised. And married. 

The ring caught the light when you braced your hand on the sink. 

That was when your mind, traitorous and apparently operating on a delay, replayed the kitchen. 

His fingers at your temple. His mouth against your forehead.

You stood very still in the bathroom. 

There had been no audience. No office staff, no reporter looking for a tender line to put below a photo. No donor needing reassurance that Congressman Barnes was stable, married, softened by domestic life. No reason to perform anything. 

He had kissed your forehead because he wanted to. 

But Bucky did things like that. 

Did he?

Did he kiss his friends on the forehead? No. No, he did not. You had never seen him kiss Sam’s forehead, though the thought was so amusing your brain tried to seize onto it as an escape route. He did not kiss Peter’s forehead, or Mia’s, and you knew he wouldn’t even try to kiss Yelena’s forehead.

But you had been tired. He was taking care of you. He did that. He took care of people.

He made food and opened doors and checked locks. Bucky Barnes left lights on and walked on the street side. He was kind. That was all. It had to be all. 

Because if it was not all, then you had a serious problem.

You gripped the edge of the sink. Your face in the mirror looked unimpressed with you.

“Shut up,” you whispered to it. 

You thought of the van. Yelena’s forehead against your temple. Sam watching you through the windshield with that awful careful face. 

You ever think you keep deciding what he feels because it keeps you from having to ask?

Beside you, Lena noticed immediately. “Still okay?”

You looked toward the bonfire.

You saw Sam first.

You knew it had to be Sam because he was standing near the food table with the kind of confidence that suggested he’d either organized everything or was loudly taking credit for it. He had a beer in one hand and was gesturing with the other while a blond man beside him, Steve probably, watched him with the patient exhaustion of someone who had heard this exact speech before and lost the will to interrupt.

Then your eyes moved past them… and there he was.

Bucky stood near the edge of the firelight, a little apart from the loudest part of the group, like he had tried to position himself casually and failed because every line of his body was angled toward the path you’d just walked down.

He was wearing dark jeans again, boots planted in the sand, and a faded navy shirt under an open gray button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was pushed back from his face, though the breeze had already started pulling a few strands loose. Firelight flickered over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark scruff along his jaw, the slight crease between his brows that vanished the second he saw you.

And then he smiled.

Not the careful half-smile from the terrace. Not the controlled, almost shy one from your texts.

This one hit him before he could hide it.

Open. Warm. Relieved.

Like he had, in fact, been staring at the entrance all night.

Your heart did something terribly inconvenient.

“Oh,” Tori whispered beside you. “He is absolutely gone.”

“Behave,” Lena murmured.

“I am observing.”

Jess leaned in on your other side. “For the record, that was a very good reaction.”

Mia hummed thoughtfully. “Supportively less suspicious.”

You tried to glare at them, but the effect was probably weakened by the fact that you could not stop smiling.

Bucky began walking toward you before anyone else seemed to fully notice your group’s arrival. He didn’t rush, exactly, but there was a purpose to it. A quiet intent that made your stomach flutter with every step he took. The firelight followed him unevenly, catching in his eyes when he came close enough to stand in front of you.

For one suspended second, neither of you said anything.

The sounds of the bonfire moved around you: laughter, music, the distant crash of waves, Sam’s voice saying something far too loudly about “optimal marshmallow technique.” Your friends had gone quiet in that very obvious way people did when they were pretending not to be listening.

Bucky’s gaze moved over your face, then dropped, just briefly, to the blue dress.

When his eyes came back to yours, he looked almost pained.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled despite yourself. “Hi.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for longer than was reasonable. “You look…”

His mouth closed.

You arched a brow, trying to save yourself from melting into the sand. “Careful. Expectations are dangerous, remember?”

That got him. His smile tilted, a little sheepish and a little devastating.

“Beautiful,” he said anyway. “You look beautiful.”

Behind you, Tori made a tiny sound that she immediately tried to disguise as a cough.

Bucky’s eyes flicked past your shoulder and you felt him take in the group lined up behind you like a very pretty jury.

His posture shifted, not nervous, exactly, but respectful. Like he knew he was about to be assessed and had accepted his fate.

“You must be the protective friends,” he said.

Jess folded her arms. “Depends who’s asking.”

Bucky held out a hand. “Bucky Barnes.”

Jess looked at his hand for one theatrical second before shaking it. “Jess. Current stance: undecided.”

“Fair.”

Mia stepped forward next, smiling in a way that was friendly but sharp at the edges. “Mia. I hear Sam thinks I’m leadership material.”

Bucky’s mouth twitched. “He does. I should warn you, that’s how he recruits people into doing things he doesn’t want to do.”

Mia nodded approvingly. “Good to know.”

Tori shook his hand with far less subtlety, looking delighted. “Tori. I’m rooting for you, but quietly, because I was told to be suspicious.”

Bucky actually laughed at that, and the sound warmed something beneath your ribs.

“Appreciate the honesty.”

Lena was last. She stepped forward with her calm, steady gaze and took his hand. “Lena.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, and somehow he made it sound like he meant more than manners.

Lena studied him for a beat, then nodded. “You too.”

It was not an endorsement, but it wasn’t a warning shot either.

Progress.

Bucky turned back to you. For a moment, his attention settled so fully that the others seemed to fade around the edges.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me too.”

His eyes dropped to the movement, then back to your face. “Can I introduce you around?”

“Sure.”

He hesitated for half a second, then held out his hand, palm open. Not grabbing. Not assuming, but asking.

You looked at it, then at him, and placed your hand in his.

His fingers closed gently around yours.

It was absurd, how immediate the warmth was. How quickly your body remembered him from the night before. Not just the shape of his hand, but the feeling of being given space and held carefully inside it.

Your friends noticed. Of course they noticed.

Jess’s eyebrows went up.

Tori silently clutched Mia’s arm.

Lena’s gaze softened again, just barely.

Bucky led all of you toward the main group, his thumb brushing once over the side of your hand.

Sam spotted you first.

“Well, well, well,” he called, grin already spreading. “Look who finally stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting by the entrance.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly. “Here we go.”

You looked up at him. “That was very fast.”

“I warned you.”

Sam came forward with a cooler confidence than anyone had a right to possess on sand, smile bright, eyes mischievous. “Sam Wilson. Food director, fire supervisor, emotional support extrovert.”

“Self-appointed,” Steve said, joining him.

“Incorrect. Democracy chose me.”

“No one voted.”

“Because they trusted my leadership.”

Steve sighed and turned to your group with a smile that was instantly calming, all polite warmth and old-fashioned steadiness. “Steve Rogers. Sorry in advance for him.”

“Never apologize for excellence,” Sam said.

Mia stepped forward at once. “Mia. I respect a man who knows his brand.”

Sam’s grin sharpened. “Leadership material.”

“I was told.”

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, looking at Bucky. “I like them.”

Bucky muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

The introductions unfolded easily after that, helped by Sam’s complete inability to let anything become awkward. Steve was exactly as Bucky had described: respectable in a simple white shirt, quietly amused, the kind of man who seemed to listen more than he spoke but somehow missed nothing. There were a few others there too, friends of friends, relaxed vacation acquaintances whose names you caught and then immediately half-forgot because Bucky’s hand was still around yours and your brain had priorities.

And then there was Natasha.

She sat near the far side of the fire, red hair catching every flicker of flame like copper. She had one leg crossed over the other, a drink in hand, and an expression that made it seem like she had already figured out everyone’s secrets and was politely waiting for the rest of you to catch up.

“Nat,” she said when Sam introduced her, standing to greet your group.

Her gaze moved over all of you with cool, clever interest. When Jess introduced herself with a flat, “Current stance: suspicious,” Natasha’s smile sharpened.

“Smart,” Natasha said.

Jess blinked once, caught just slightly off guard, and you tucked that away for later.

Then Bucky’s hand shifted gently around yours and your attention swung back to him like it had been pulled by gravity.

The evening opened around you after that.

Sam swept everyone toward the food table with the authority of a man who had indeed appointed himself director of hospitality. There were foil trays of grilled skewers, corn, chips, fruit, dips, a truly unnecessary number of marshmallows, and a cooler stocked with drinks. Someone had brought a portable speaker, currently playing something mellow and summery beneath the louder rhythm of conversations. The fire cracked and snapped, sending sparks upward into the darkening sky.

Bucky stayed close, but not too close.

That was the thing you kept noticing. He was attentive without hovering. Present without trapping you in his attention. He introduced you, made sure you knew where things were, asked what you wanted to drink, but never made you feel like the entire night had to orbit him.

When you chose a bottled lemonade from the cooler instead of alcohol, he didn’t comment beyond opening it for you when the cap stuck.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, handing it over.

“Yeah. I figured I’d take it easier tonight.”

“Probably smarter than whatever Sam’s mixing over there.”

You glanced over to where Sam was holding court beside a cooler while Mia inspected his drink-pouring technique with theatrical skepticism.

“What is he mixing?”

“Confidence and poor judgment.”

You laughed, and Bucky’s eyes warmed like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

The two of you drifted closer to the fire, standing just outside the circle of chairs. Around you, your friends were settling in with surprising ease. Tori was already laughing at something Steve had said, though Steve looked faintly confused by how funny she found him. Mia and Sam had entered what appeared to be a competitive banter spiral over who was more qualified to manage the roasting sticks. Lena had taken a seat near the edge of the group, relaxed but watchful, though every now and then you caught her smiling into her cup.

Across the fire, Jess had somehow ended up beside Natasha, the two of them speaking low beneath the music. Jess said something that made Natasha’s mouth curve into a slow, approving smile, and you made a mental note to interrogate her later.

A gust of wind came off the water, cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. You tried not to react, but Bucky noticed anyway.

“Cold?”

“A little.”

He glanced down at his open button-down, hand already moving toward it. “Here.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He slipped it off anyway, leaving him in the navy shirt that pulled unfairly across his shoulders and chest. He held the button-down open, but paused before placing it around you.

“Can I?”

The question was soft. Almost too soft beneath the music and waves, but you heard it.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He stepped behind you.

For one second, his body was close enough that you felt the heat of him along your back. Then the shirt settled over your shoulders, warm from him, smelling faintly like cedar and soap and smoke from the fire. His hands lingered only long enough to adjust the collar so it sat comfortably, fingertips barely brushing your shoulders through the fabric.

Your breath caught despite your best effort.

Bucky stepped back around in front of you, watching your face carefully. “Okay?”

You nodded, fingers curling into the edges of the shirt. “Okay.”

His gaze softened.

From somewhere near the food table, Sam yelled, “BARNES, IS THAT YOUR SHIRT?”

Bucky’s eyes closed.

You bit your lip, smiling.

“Sure is,” Steve called before Bucky could answer, sounding far too cheerful.

Sam appeared delighted. “Look at him! Chivalry at the beach!”

“Sam,” Bucky warned.

“Man’s been here five minutes and already donated clothing.”

Mia lifted her drink. “That’s community service.”

Tori beamed. “We love community service.”

Jess called from beside Natasha, “We are observing community service.”

Bucky looked like he wanted the sand to swallow him.

You laughed so hard you had to tuck your face briefly against his sleeve, now draped over you. When you looked back up, his embarrassment had softened into something else entirely.

He was watching you laugh.

Not smiling at the joke. Not glancing toward Sam or the others.

Watching you.

As if the sound had reached into him and turned some hidden light on.

Your laughter faded slowly.

The fire popped between you.

Bucky’s voice lowered. “Worth it.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Being mocked by your friends?”

“Making you laugh like that.”

Oh.

You looked down, suddenly very interested in the sand near your feet.

He let you have the moment, not pushing, not filling the space with another line. That almost made it worse. The quiet sincerity sat there between you, glowing.

Eventually, you lifted your eyes again. “You’re doing very well for someone who promised to disappoint me a little.”

His mouth tipped. “Night’s still young.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Only if Sam offers you something called a Wilson Special.”

You glanced over to Sam, who was now dramatically demonstrating something with a marshmallow while Mia heckled him.

“Noted.”

The next hour passed like something out of a life you hadn’t thought you were allowed to step into yet.

You roasted marshmallows badly.

Bucky roasted his perfectly, which you immediately accused him of doing just to be annoying.

“You’re too good at that,” you said, watching him turn the stick with patient precision.

“It’s a marshmallow.”

“It’s suspicious.”

“Everything is suspicious to your group.”

“Correct. We’ve been through a lot.”

His expression softened just slightly, but he kept his tone light. “Then I’ll try to look less competent.”

“Too late. You’ve revealed yourself as a man with fire-adjacent skills.”

“That going in my file?”

“Jess is probably keeping one.”

Across the fire, Jess lifted her cup without turning around. “I am.”

Bucky leaned closer and murmured, “That woman hears everything.”

You laughed and his smile lingered as he turned back to his marshmallow.

The two of you ended up sitting side by side on a blanket someone had spread near the edge of the fire circle. Not alone, exactly, but apart enough that the conversation around you blurred into something softer. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. Your knees were bent, toes buried in cooling sand, and Bucky sat close enough that his arm brushed yours whenever either of you shifted.

Each accidental touch felt less accidental than the last.

He asked you questions.

Real ones.

Not the easy vacation small talk of where are you from and what do you do tossed out like filler, though those came too. He asked what you loved about your work. What kind of things made you laugh when you were having a terrible day. Whether you were the type to plan every detail of a trip or pretend you were spontaneous while secretly knowing the restaurant menu three days in advance.

You told him more than you meant to.

That you liked knowing people were safe because of you, even in small ways. That your friends teased you for being stubborn but usually meant it as a compliment. That you loved mornings in theory but not in practice. That you bought books faster than you read them. That you used to make playlists for every important era of your life, but lately you hadn’t known what to call this one.

He listened like every answer mattered.

And when you asked him things in return, he answered with that same careful honesty you were beginning to associate with him.

He told you he liked quiet mornings. Old movies. Good coffee. Long walks when his head got too loud. He told you Sam had dragged him into the trip because he’d been “getting broody again,” and when Sam overheard that, he yelled, “I said emotionally unavailable hermit, not broody!”

Bucky threw a bottle cap at him.

You laughed until your side hurt.

He told you Steve had been his best friend for so long that they’d practically grown up under each other’s skin. That Natasha was the kind of friend who knew too much and used it with surgical precision. That he wasn’t always good in crowds, but he was trying to say yes to things more often.

“To bonfires?” you asked.

“To people,” he said.

The answer quieted you.

Firelight shifted over his face, softening the strong lines, catching in the blue of his eyes when he looked at you.

“Is that hard?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands for a moment. They were clasped loosely between his knees, broad and scarred in a way you hadn’t noticed before. Not dramatically, not enough to invite questions, but enough to suggest his life had left marks.

“Sometimes,” he said. “I got used to keeping distance. It’s easier.”

You understood that more than you wanted to.

“Safer,” you said.

His gaze lifted.

You hadn’t meant to say it quite so softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Safer.”

For a moment, neither of you looked away.

Then Sam yelled, “Who wants another hot dog?” and the spell cracked just enough for you both to laugh.

But it didn’t fully break. Not really.

It lingered.

In the way Bucky’s knee touched yours and stayed there.

In the way he passed you napkins before you realized you needed them.

In the way his eyes kept finding you across little interruptions, as though checking that you were still with him.

And you were.

That was the frightening part.

You were so with him.

At some point, the fire burned lower and the sky turned fully dark. Stars began to prick through overhead, faint at first, then clearer the farther your eyes moved from the lanterns. The beach stretched shadowy beyond the circle, the ocean a constant hush in the distance. People had shifted positions, some standing near the cooler, others sprawled in chairs, the conversations looser now.

Tori and Steve were debating something about whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich. Mia and Sam had entered an alliance over music selection, which seemed dangerous for everyone. Lena was talking with one of Steve’s friends, relaxed enough that she’d stopped scanning for emergencies every few minutes.

Jess’s eyes immediately swept over you when you shifted closer to Bucky on the blanket, sharp and assessing. Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her cup, looking entirely too pleased by whatever she’d noticed and wisely choosing not to say a word.

Bucky glanced toward the water, then back at you. Something shifted in his expression… hesitation, maybe. Want, definitely. Carefully contained.

“Would you walk with me?” he asked.

Your heartbeat changed.

Not in alarm. Not exactly.

But awareness moved through you, bright and immediate.

Bucky seemed to sense the flicker of nerves, because he nodded toward the shore. “Just down there. Still in view. Unless you’d rather stay here.”

There it was again. The room to say no.

The space.

You glanced toward your friends automatically.

Lena was already looking at you. Of course she was. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky, then to the stretch of beach he had indicated. Still visible from the bonfire. Still public. Still safe.

She lifted her brows in a silent question.

You nodded once.

She nodded back.

Jess, still watching, gave you two fingers pointed at her eyes, then at Bucky.

Bucky saw it and lifted one hand in solemn acknowledgment.

You snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable.”

“I respect her methods.”

“That will help your file.”

“Good.”

You stood, brushing sand from the skirt of your dress. Bucky rose beside you and offered his hand.

You took it.

The two of you walked away from the fire slowly, leaving the loudest laughter behind. The sand grew cooler as you neared the water, firmer under your feet. You slipped off your sandals after a few steps, hooking them in one hand, and Bucky wordlessly adjusted his pace to match yours.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

It was not uncomfortable.

The night had deepened around you, vast and salt-scented. The bonfire glowed behind you, a warm blur of orange and gold. Ahead, the ocean rolled beneath the moon, dark and endless, white foam curling and vanishing over the shore. The wind moved through Bucky’s borrowed shirt around your shoulders, pressing it closer to your skin.

Your hand was still in his.

You were very aware of that.

“So,” you said eventually, because silence with him felt intimate enough to make you brave and nervous all at once, “do you often invite emotionally compromised women and their entire security detail to beach bonfires?”

Bucky huffed a laugh. “First time.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky me,” he said, and there was no joke in it.

You looked over.

He was watching the water, profile silvered by moonlight, jaw relaxed but eyes serious.

“You can’t just say things like that,” you murmured.

His gaze shifted to you. “Why not?”

“Because I might start believing you.”

He stopped walking.

So did you.

The bonfire was still visible in the distance, the group still close enough to be reassuring but far enough that their voices had softened into indistinct warmth. The waves moved beside you, rushing in, pulling back, leaving the sand shining around your bare feet.

Bucky turned to face you fully.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

He seemed to realize how direct that sounded, because he looked down for a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry. That came out…”

“Honest?”

His eyes came back up.

You tried to smile, but it wavered. Not because of him. Because something about his sincerity pressed gently against a bruise you were still trying to protect.

Bucky’s expression changed at once.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Too much?”

You shook your head quickly, then stopped because the truth was more complicated than that.

“I don’t know,” you admitted.

He didn’t move closer. “Okay.”

“I like it,” you said, and your voice sounded embarrassingly vulnerable in the open air. “That’s the problem.”

His face softened.

You looked out at the water because it was easier than looking at him. “I like how you talk to me. I like that you ask before you touch me. I like that you invited my friends instead of acting like they were in the way. I like that you’re funny in this dry, accidental way and that you get embarrassed when people call you out.” You swallowed. “I like that I wanted you to text me this morning.”

The confession hung there between you.

Your chest tightened immediately with the old instinct to take it back. To make it smaller. To laugh it off before he could hold it.

But Bucky did not look triumphant.

He did not look smug.

He looked almost unbearably gentle.

“I wanted to text you at seven,” he said.

You laughed under your breath, shaky. “You told me.”

“No.” He stepped one inch closer, then stopped. “I mean I had the message typed out. Sat there staring at it like an idiot because I didn’t want you waking up and thinking, ‘Great, the guy from last night is already too much.’”

You turned back to him.

His mouth pulled into a rueful half-smile. “Sam saw me deleting it for the third time and told me I was setting feminism back by overthinking a good morning text.”

Despite everything, you laughed.

Bucky’s shoulders loosened a little at the sound.

“He may have had a point,” you said.

“He usually does. It’s annoying.”

The humor softened the moment, but only enough to make room for the rest of it.

Bucky looked at you carefully. “I know this is bad timing.”

You breathed out slowly.

“Maybe.”

“I know you’re hurting.”

Your eyes stung, sudden and unwelcome.

He continued, voice low. “And I’m not trying to be the guy who shows up on vacation and makes you forget everything for a weekend just so it hurts worse after.”

The accuracy of that fear made your throat tighten.

Bucky’s gaze stayed on yours, steady despite the vulnerability in his own expression. “I don’t want to be a distraction you regret.”

You looked down at where your feet had sunk slightly into the wet sand. A thin rush of water slid over your toes and pulled away again.

“I’m afraid of that,” you said.

“I figured.”

“But I’m also afraid of… not letting myself have anything good because he ruined so much.”

Bucky was quiet.

Your fingers tightened around your sandals. “That’s the part that makes me angry. That he gets to still be in my head. That even meeting someone who’s kind to me turns into this whole internal debate about whether I’m being stupid again.”

“You’re not stupid.”

The words came fast. Firm. Almost sharp.

You looked at him.

Bucky’s jaw had tightened, something protective flashing in his eyes before he visibly tempered it.

“You’re not,” he repeated, gentler. “Trusting someone who didn’t deserve it doesn’t make you stupid.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “My friends said that this morning.”

“Smart women.”

“They keep saying you’re making it difficult to stay suspicious.”

His mouth twitched. “Good.”

“I thought you respected their methods.”

“I do. Still want to pass.”

Something about that made you smile.

Bucky took another small step, close enough now that the wind lifted the ends of your hair against his chest. His shirt still hung around your shoulders. You wondered if he noticed the way you’d wrapped yourself in it, fingers tucked into the cuffs.

He definitely noticed.

His eyes dropped briefly, softening at the sight, before finding your face again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m scared too.”

That surprised you.

“You are?”

“Yeah.”

“Of what?”

His laugh was quiet and a little rough. “Right now? Saying the wrong thing. Moving too fast. Moving too slow. Looking at you too much.”

Your heart stumbled.

“I don’t mind that last one,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened, not in a way that felt heavy or demanding, but in a way that made the air between you feel warmer despite the ocean breeze.

“No?”

You shook your head.

The waves came in again, closer this time, washing over your feet and making you gasp at the cold. You instinctively stepped forward, away from the water.

Straight into him.

Bucky’s hands lifted automatically, catching you lightly at the waist.

You both froze.

His palms were warm through the thin fabric of your dress. Steady. Careful. He held you just enough to keep you from stumbling and no more, though your body had ended up close enough that you could see every shift in his expression.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t be.”

His voice was low.

You should have stepped back.

You did not.

Your hands had landed against his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt. Beneath your palms, he was solid and warm, his breath moving slow but not quite even. His gaze moved over your face like he was trying to memorize the moment without taking more of it than you wanted to give.

The fire was distant now.

The ocean was loud.

Your heart was louder.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

Then back.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question was so soft it nearly came apart in the wind.

For a second, you couldn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want it.

Because you wanted it so badly it frightened you.

And maybe he saw that too, because his hands loosened instantly at your waist.

“You can say no,” he murmured. “Or not yet. Or—”

“Yes.”

The word left you before fear could catch it.

Bucky stilled.

You swallowed, fingers tightening once against his shirt. “Yes.”

His expression shifted, something tender and stunned moving through his eyes.

Then he leaned in.

Slowly.

So slowly that it felt like a thousand tiny choices instead of one reckless one. He gave you every chance to turn away. Every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You rose slightly onto your toes, meeting him halfway because you wanted him to know this was not something happening to you.

It was something you were choosing.

His mouth touched yours softly at first.

A question.

A warmth.

Barely more than a press of lips, gentle enough that it made your chest ache. You had expected intensity from him. Expected the pull you’d felt since the terrace to finally spark into something overwhelming. But instead, the first kiss was careful. Almost reverent. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs still, his body held in check as though he was afraid one wrong move might break the fragile trust between you.

Your eyes closed.

Something inside you went quiet.

Not healed. Not erased.

Quiet.

You kissed him back.

That was when he exhaled, the sound low and unsteady against your mouth, and the kiss deepened by degrees. Still gentle, still restrained, but warmer now. More certain. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, holding you a little closer, and you let him. Your fingers moved up from his chest to the side of his neck, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your thumb, the way his pulse jumped under your touch.

He kissed like he had been wanting to all night and refusing himself until you gave him permission.

Like wanting you did not make him careless, like y tenderness could be its own kind of hunger.

The thought nearly undid you.

When you finally parted, it was only by an inch.

Bucky’s forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes stayed closed for half a second longer, like he needed it.

Then he opened them.

Blue. Soft. A little wrecked.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

Your laugh came out quiet and shaky. “Yeah,” you said, a wobbly smile playing on your lips. 

His thumb moved once at your back. “Yeah?”

You nodded, and this time your smile steadied. “Still okay.”

The relief in his face was almost enough to make you kiss him again.

Almost.

From somewhere near the bonfire, Jess called, “You good?”

You laughed against Bucky’s chest, mortified and fond all at once. “That’s my emotional support menace.”

Bucky’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “I respect her.”

“You should. She’s terrifying.”

“Noted.”

The moment might have broken under the teasing, but instead it only folded itself into something sweeter. Realer. Less perfect in the best possible way.

Bucky reached up and brushed a windblown strand of hair from your cheek. He moved slowly enough that you could have pulled back.

You didn’t.

His fingers lingered near your jaw for one soft second.

“I should walk you back before they organize,” he said.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lifted with visible restraint.

You smiled. “You’re trying to be a gentleman again.”

“Trying real hard.”

“And?”

His mouth curved. “In trouble again.”

Warmth bloomed beneath your skin.

This time, you were the one who leaned in.

The second kiss was shorter, smiling, softer at the edges because you were both laughing a little. But it still sent something bright through you, something frighteningly close to joy.

When you pulled away, Bucky looked at you like he was trying not to say ten things at once.

You slipped your hand back into his.

“Come on,” you said, tugging lightly. “Before Jess files a missing person report.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you.

The smile he gave you was quiet enough that no one else could have seen it from the fire.

But you felt it.

All the way back.

By the time you and Bucky made it back to the bonfire, something had changed.

Not loudly. Not in a way anyone could point to without sounding ridiculous. There was no announcement, no dramatic music cue, no sudden shift in the stars above the beach. The fire still cracked in the sand. Sam was still talking too loudly. Mia was still arguing with him like she had known him for years instead of hours. Steve still looked half-amused, half-concerned by everyone around him. Your friends still watched you with varying degrees of subtlety, which was to say none at all.

But something had changed anyway.

It was in Bucky’s hand around yours.

Before the walk, he had held you like he was asking.

Now, he held you like he knew you had answered.

Still careful. Still gentle. But different somehow. Warmer. More certain. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles as you neared the group, and the small movement lit through you with such ridiculous force that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too obviously.

Jess saw anyway.

Of course she did.

Her gaze dropped to your joined hands, then swept over your face with the precision of a woman collecting evidence. She didn’t say anything, at least not at first. She only lifted her cup to her mouth, eyes narrowing with that sharp, assessing affection you had come to both fear and rely on.

“You good?” she asked.

You tried for casual. “I’m good.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I am.”

“Never said you weren’t.”

Her mouth twitched.

Beside her, Natasha hid a smile behind her drink, looking far too amused by whatever she had pieced together and far too wise to say it aloud.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours once, almost like he was trying not to laugh.

You gave him a look.

He leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs protection.”

“You are.”

“From who?”

“All of them.”

His eyes moved over your friends: Lena watching calmly from her chair, Mia pretending not to grin while Sam whispered something in her ear, Tori practically vibrating with delight, Jess still wearing her best interrogator face.

“Fair,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, and his gaze dropped to your mouth.

It was brief. Barely a second.

But you felt it everywhere.

The rest of the night passed with a strange, glowing ease.

You sat beside Bucky near the fire again, close enough that your knee rested against his and neither of you pretended it was an accident anymore. His shirt stayed around your shoulders. At some point, he brought you another lemonade without asking, twisting off the cap before handing it over. Later, when Sam insisted everyone participate in what he called a “high-stakes marshmallow tournament” and what Steve called “Sam needing attention,” Bucky deliberately burned his marshmallow after your previous accusations about him of being too marshmallow competent.

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped yours.

“There,” he said, holding up the blackened, smoking disaster with quiet dignity. “Disappointing.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“You said expectations were dangerous.”

“I didn’t ask you to commit crimes against dessert.”

His mouth curved. “Can’t please you, huh?”

The words were innocent enough, but the look he gave you was most certainly not.

Heat rose in your face so fast that you turned toward the fire and took an aggressive sip of your lemonade.

Bucky’s quiet laugh landed near your ear.

“You’re terrible,” you muttered.

“I’m behaving.”

“Barely.”

“Trying real hard,” he said.

And there it was again: an echo of the beach, of his mouth close to yours, of his hands at your waist and the way he had asked before kissing you. The memory moved through you in a slow, warm wave, leaving you unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol (not that you had any anyways) and everything to do with the man beside you.

He knew it too.

You could tell by the way his smile softened when you dared a glance back at him. By the way his teasing gave way to that careful, intent look that made everything else fade at the edges.

The night ended late, though not nearly late enough.

People began leaving in small clusters, shaking sand from blankets, gathering coolers, extinguishing lanterns. Sam declared the bonfire an overwhelming success, despite Steve pointing out that Sam had dropped two hot dogs in the sand and almost set a napkin on fire. Mia immediately defended him on the grounds of “visionary leadership,” which only encouraged him.

Your friends lingered near the edge of the group, waiting without making it too obvious that they were waiting.

Bucky walked you back toward them, his hand still in yours.

“I should probably say goodnight before Jess starts timing us,” he said.

“She started timing us before we walked away.”

His gaze flicked toward Jess. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You smiled, but there was a small ache beneath it now. A tiny, premature grief. Because the night was ending. Because tomorrow was his last full day here. Because the morning after that, he would leave, and this fragile, impossible thing blooming between you had a deadline neither of you had chosen.

Bucky seemed to feel the shift.

His expression gentled.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You looked up.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

The question landed low in your chest.

You nodded before you could overthink it. “Yeah.”

“Properly,” he added.

Your brow furrowed. “Properly?”

His thumb moved over your hand once. “A date. Not just running into each other. Not just standing around while Sam tries to burn down a beach.”

You laughed quietly, but your throat felt tight.

Bucky held your gaze. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to be some vacation distraction you regret. So let me take you out. Just us.”

Behind you, someone (Tori, probably) made the smallest possible sound of approval.

You ignored her with great effort.

“A proper date,” you repeated.

“If you want.”

That tiny caveat. That soft exit ramp.

Always there. Always given.

Your heart folded around it.

“I want,” you said.

Bucky smiled like you had given him something precious.

“Good.”

The word warmed you all the way back to the hotel.

And the next morning, when your phone buzzed at 8:03 a.m., you were already awake.

You had been awake for twenty minutes, lying on your back in the soft white bed with the curtains drawn against the early sun, staring at the ceiling while the room around you breathed with the heavy sleep of five women who had stayed out too late for the second night in a row.

Your lips still felt like they remembered him.

That was the problem.

Your body remembered too much. The weight of his shirt around your shoulders. The careful pressure of his hands at your waist. The salt air between you. The way he had kissed you like wanting you mattered less than making sure you felt safe with it.

You had spent so long being angry at yourself for missing signs, for trusting wrong, for loving someone who had made your love look foolish in hindsight. But Bucky’s gentleness had done something strange to the tender, defensive places inside you.

It hadn’t fixed them.

It had simply touched them without hurting.

Your phone buzzed again.

You grabbed it from the nightstand so quickly that Jess, half-buried in blankets in the next bed, mumbled, “Pathetic.”

You froze. “You’re awake?”

“No.”

You looked at your phone.

Bucky: Morning.

Then, a second message.

Bucky: I waited until eight this time. Personal growth.

Your smile spread before you could stop it.

You: Very respectful. Very restrained.

Bucky: Don’t give me too much credit. I’ve been awake since six.

Your stomach flipped.

You: That sounds like a you problem.

Bucky: It is. You free this afternoon?

You bit your lip.

You: Depends what you have planned.

A pause.

Then:

Bucky: Lunch somewhere quiet. A walk through that little market by the marina if you’re up for it. Maybe coffee after. No pressure. No schedule. Just a proper date.

Your chest went soft.

Not dinner. Not drinks. Not something dimly lit and easy to blur into temptation, though God knew the temptation was already there. Lunch. A market. Coffee. Daylight. Time.

Something chosen.

Something intentional.

You stared at the message until Jess rolled onto her side and cracked one eye open.

“If you don’t tell me what he said, I’m going to assume he proposed.”

“He asked me out this afternoon.”

Jess’s eye opened fully. “Properly?”

You smiled down at the phone. “Actually, yes.”

That got the room moving.

Not quickly. Everyone was too hungover-adjacent and sleep-heavy for speed. But one by one, they surfaced: Lena sitting up with her hair in a messy knot and immediate concern in her eyes, Tori emerging from the pullout with a gasp when Jess said “date,” Mia stumbling in from the adjoining room wearing sunglasses and asking if anyone had died or fallen in love.

“Neither,” you said.

Jess pointed at you. “Debatable.”

You threw a pillow at her.

The morning became another debrief, though gentler than the one before. There was teasing, of course. There were threats of interrogation. Mia wanted to know what he had planned. Tori wanted to know if you had already picked an outfit. Jess wanted his last name again “for normal, non-criminal reasons.” Lena stayed quieter, watching you over the rim of her coffee.

Eventually, when the others got distracted arguing about whether you should wear the sundress from yesterday or something more casual, Lena nudged your foot under the table.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

You looked down at your phone, at Bucky’s last message.

Bucky: I’ll pick you up at two? Lobby?

You had already said yes.

“Nervous,” you admitted.

Lena nodded. “Good nervous?”

You thought about it.

The fear was still there. It would probably be there for a while, woven through anything new, anything tender. But beneath it was something else. Anticipation. Warmth. A little flicker of trust you weren’t ready to name but could feel anyway.

“Mostly,” you said.

Lena smiled. “Then go.”

So you did.

At two o’clock exactly, Bucky was waiting in the lobby.

Not at 1:58, pacing so visibly that you would feel guilty. Not late enough to seem casual. Exactly two. Standing near one of the wide windows overlooking the front drive, hands in his pockets, wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved linen button down in a soft blue-gray that made his eyes look unfair even from across the room.

He looked up when the elevator doors opened.

The second he saw you, his face changed.

It was beginning to become your favorite thing.

His expression didn’t break open as dramatically as it had at the bonfire, but it softened in that same helpless way, like whatever he had been thinking simply disappeared and left room only for you.

You stepped out of the elevator, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself: the simple sundress you had finally chosen, the sandals, the necklace resting at your collarbone, the way your pulse had gone quick at the sight of him.

Bucky met you halfway.

“Hi,” he said.

You smiled. “Hi.”

His gaze moved over your face, then down just briefly, respectfully, before returning to your eyes.

“You look beautiful.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You had no defense against him when he said things like that so plainly.

You looked down, smiling. “You look pretty nice yourself.”

His mouth quirked. “Pretty nice?”

“I’m trying to keep you humble.”

“Good luck.”

There it was. That flash of dry humor, the little curl at the corner of his mouth. You laughed, and something in him eased at the sound.

He held out his hand. “Ready?”

You looked at it.

Then took it.

“Yes.”

——————

Lunch was at a small restaurant tucked away from the busiest stretch of the beach, the kind of place with shaded outdoor tables, painted blue chairs, and bougainvillea climbing the wall in bright, impossible blooms. It overlooked a narrow side street that sloped down toward the marina, where sailboat masts cut thin white lines into the sky.

Bucky had chosen well.

Quiet, but not empty. Pretty, but not showy. Public enough to feel easy. Private enough that conversation could settle between you without being drowned out.

“I asked Steve for a recommendation,” he admitted once you were seated.

“You did?”

“Sam offered, but his first suggestion had bottomless rum punch and a mechanical shark.”

You paused with your water halfway to your mouth. “A mechanical shark?”

“Apparently.”

“That sounds incredible.”

Bucky stared at you.

You bit back a smile. “What?”

“I’m trying to take you on a respectful date and you’re telling me I should’ve chosen the mechanical shark.”

“I contain multitudes.”

His laugh was soft and startled, like you had caught it from him before he could guard it. The sound settled over the table, warm as sunlight.

Lunch stretched longer than either of you seemed to notice.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite foods. Worst vacations. Childhood trouble. The kind of music you could never skip. The little habits that made your friends love you and mock you in equal measure. Bucky told you stories about Steve with the kind of affection that made his teasing gentle. You told him about the time Mia got you both kicked out of a karaoke bar for arguing with the DJ about song order. He asked questions and remembered the answers. Noticed when you paused. Let silence exist without trying to conquer it.

At one point, your ex’s name came up. Not his actual name, because Bucky never asked for it, and you loved him a little for that, in a terrifying, premature, impossible way.

It happened because the waiter set down your food and said something about honeymooners getting a dessert discount if you were celebrating.

The words landed awkwardly.

The waiter realized it too late, face flushing as he stumbled through an apology, but you waved it off quickly.

“It’s okay,” you said, because it was. Mostly.

Still, a shadow moved through you.

Bucky waited until the waiter left before speaking.

“You don’t have to pretend that didn’t hurt.”

Your throat tightened. You looked at him across the table, at his steady face, at the way his hands rested near his glass but did not reach for you in public without permission.

“I’m okay,” you said.

“I believe you.”

That surprised you.

He continued, softer, “And I also think it probably still hurt.”

You looked down at your plate, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

“It’s stupid,” you whispered.

“No.”

“It is. I don’t even want him anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not grieving what he broke.”

The simple accuracy of it made your chest ache.

You took a slow breath.

“I hate that he’s still here,” you admitted. “Not here here, but… in things. In words. In stupid assumptions from strangers. In the way I have to explain why I’m on a trip that was supposed to be for a wedding that isn’t happening.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed gentle. “I hate that for you.”

You laughed a little, shaky. “Me too.”

His hand moved then, slowly across the table, palm up.

An offering.

You placed your hand in his and he closed his fingers around yours.

“You don’t have to be over it for this to matter,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“This?” you asked.

The corner of his mouth softened, but he did not look away. “This.”

There was no mistaking what he meant. Not the lunch. Not the trip. Not the flirtation alone.

This thing between you. This fragile, sudden, inconvenient spark that kept refusing to behave like something casual.

Your heart gave one hard, hopeful thud.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

“I know,” he murmured. “Poor timing.”

“Maybe.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

“But not bad?”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you shook your head. “No. Not bad.”

After lunch, you walked through the market by the marina.

Colorful stalls lined the walkway, striped awnings fluttering in the breeze. There were handmade bracelets, linen shirts, jars of local honey, tiny watercolor paintings of the coastline, shells polished into jewelry, sun hats stacked in leaning towers. The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, grilled fish from a nearby stand, and sugar from a cart selling warm pastries dusted with cinnamon.

It was easy with him.

That was what kept surprising you.

The date should have felt loaded after the night before. Heavy with expectation, tangled in all the things you were both not saying about him leaving in the morning. Instead, it unfolded with a sweetness that made you ache. Bucky bought a bag of candied almonds from a vendor and held it open for you without comment. You tried on a ridiculous oversized sun hat, and he looked at you with such solemn admiration that you nearly lost it.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I was thinking it’s a strong look.”

“You’re lying.”

“Absolutely.”

You laughed and put the hat back.

At another stall, you paused over a display of delicate bracelets woven with tiny glass beads. One was sea-blue, nearly the color of the dress you’d worn the night before.

Bucky noticed.

Of course he did.

You moved on without buying it.

Ten minutes later, while you were distracted by a shelf of painted postcards, he disappeared for exactly long enough to be suspicious.

When he returned, his expression was too neutral.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Bucky.”

“Walked.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Been told that.”

He held out his closed fist.

Your stomach dipped.

Slowly, he opened his hand.

The bracelet rested in his palm, tiny blue beads catching the afternoon light.

You stared at it.

“Bucky.”

His voice softened. “I saw you looking at it.”

“You didn’t have to buy it.”

“I know.”

That phrase again. Never defensive. Never trying to turn kindness into debt.

Just: I know.

He looked almost shy when he added, “Wanted you to have something from today that wasn’t complicated.”

The words went straight through you.

For a moment, you couldn’t speak.

Then you held out your wrist.

His eyes lifted to yours, asking silently.

You nodded.

He tied the bracelet around your wrist with careful fingers, his head bent, his touch light and focused. The moment was so small. So quiet. Just a man tying a bracelet beneath the shade of a market awning while strangers moved around you and gulls cried somewhere overhead.

But it felt enormous.

When he finished, his fingers lingered for half a second against the inside of your wrist.

Your pulse jumped beneath his touch.

He noticed.

You knew he noticed because his gaze flicked there, then up to your face.

The market noise seemed to fade.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

His voice was low. “You’re welcome.”

By late afternoon, the date had blurred into coffee, then a walk along the marina, then sitting side by side on a stone wall watching boats drift in and out of the harbor while the sun began to lean westward. Neither of you seemed willing to call it.

Not yet.

The hours had become precious, though neither of you said so.

Bucky’s flight left the next morning, while your group still had another day after that. There was a clock on this, ticking beneath every laugh, every glance, every brush of his hand against yours.

And yet, somehow, the deadline made him more present, not less.

He did not rush. Did not push. Did not treat the day like something to consume before it vanished.

He simply stayed with you.

Fully.

When your phone buzzed with a message from the group chat around six, you glanced down to find a photo Mia had sent of herself, Sam, Tori, Steve, Lena, Jess, and Natasha crowded around a table somewhere, drinks raised, all wearing varying expressions of chaos.

Mia: Dinner acquired. We are alive. Suspicious levels currently moderate. Have fun, don’t be reckless. Actually be a little reckless. Lena says hydrated reckless.

Then:

Jess: Text me your location or I become a problem.

You smiled and sent back a quick update.

Bucky watched your face. “They okay?”

“They’ve adopted your friends.”

“Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

His mouth curved. “Sam’s going to be impossible after this.”

“Mia too.”

“Good pair.”

You looked at him, amused. “Careful.”

“What?”

“You sound like a man trying to merge friend groups after one date.”

His expression shifted, like he’d been caught, maybe, then softer.

“Too much?”

You should have teased him.

Instead, you said, “No.”

The honesty startled both of you.

Bucky looked down, smiling faintly. “Good.”

Dinner happened almost accidentally.

A small place near the water. Outdoor table. Shared plates because neither of you could decide and Bucky claimed ordering half the menu was “efficient.” The sky turned gold, then rose, then a deepening blue. Lanterns came on around you. Your knees brushed beneath the table. Your bracelet caught the light every time you reached for your glass.

At some point, Bucky looked at it and smiled to himself.

“What?” you asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

He leaned back in his chair, gaze flicking from your wrist to your face. “Just like seeing it on you.”

The warmth that moved through you then was dangerous.

Not because it was unfamiliar.

Because it felt like belonging to a moment you didn’t want to end.

After dinner, you walked again.

Neither of you made a decision about where to go. You simply followed the pull of the evening, through quieter streets, past shops closing for the night, past couples walking hand in hand and families carrying tired children back toward hotels. Eventually, inevitably, your feet found the path toward the beach.

The same beach.

The same stretch of sand.

The bonfire was gone now, the permitted fire pit cold and dark, the lantern poles bare. Without the crowd, without the music and laughter, the beach seemed larger. Softer. More intimate in its emptiness. The ocean moved under the moon just as it had the night before, steady and silver-edged, the tide whispering up the shore.

Bucky slowed when he realized where you were.

You did too.

For a moment, both of you stood at the top of the wooden path, looking down at the place where everything had shifted the night before.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your throat tightened.

You looked at him.

The moonlight softened his face, but not the concern in his eyes. He was already prepared to turn around. Already prepared to choose your comfort over nostalgia, over romance, over whatever he might have wanted from bringing you here.

You reached for his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s okay.”

You walked down together.

The sand was cooler tonight, the beach emptier. You slipped off your sandals and carried them in one hand, just like before. Bucky matched your pace, his hand warm around yours. No firelight this time. No friends watching from a distance. No laughter to soften the silence.

Just the two of you.

And the ocean.

You walked along the tide line until the lights from the busier part of the beach dimmed behind you. Not far enough to be hidden entirely, but far enough that the world felt hushed. Private. The waves rushed in close, foaming around your feet before sliding back into the dark.

Bucky stopped where you had kissed the night before.

Or close to it.

You knew because your body remembered.

He turned toward you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

The whole day seemed to gather there between you. The date. The bracelet. The laughter. The quiet confessions. The knowledge of morning waiting too close.

“You leave tomorrow,” you said.

Bucky’s expression dimmed at the edges.

“Yeah.”

“I keep trying not to think about it.”

“Me too.”

The wind moved between you, lifting your hair across your cheek. He reached up slowly, brushing it back with the backs of his fingers.

“I had a good day,” he said.

You smiled, though it hurt a little. “Me too.”

“No.” His thumb grazed your cheek once. “I mean… I had the kind of day I’m going to think about when I’m somewhere else and probably make myself miserable.”

Your breath caught.

“That sounds awful.”

“It will be.”

“Bucky.”

His smile was small and aching. “Worth it.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

You stepped closer.

He watched you carefully, but there was want in his eyes now. Clearer than before. Not hidden, not denied, only held back by the thread of restraint he had kept between you from the start.

You were suddenly tired of restraint.

Not because you wanted him to stop being gentle.

Because you trusted the gentleness.

Because wanting him no longer felt like betraying yourself.

Because grief had taken enough from you, and standing barefoot in moonlit sand with a man who had spent the whole day choosing you carefully, you did not want to hand it this too.

You set your sandals down.

Bucky’s eyes dropped to them, then returned to your face.

Your voice came out soft. “Kiss me.”

He did not need to be asked twice.

Bucky stepped into you, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours. This kiss was not the tentative question from the night before. 

It began gentle because he was Bucky, because care seemed written into the way he touched you now, but the softness deepened quickly into something warmer. Hungrier. Your hands curled into his shirt, pulling him closer as the ocean rushed around your ankles and the wind wrapped around you both.

He made a low sound against your mouth when you kissed him harder.

The sound moved through you like flame.

His hand tightened at your waist.

Not enough to trap. Just enough to tell you he felt it too. The pull. The ache. The day’s worth of looking and wanting and waiting compressed into this one point of contact.

You broke away only to breathe.

Bucky’s forehead dipped to yours, his breath uneven.

“We should slow down,” he murmured, though he did not move away.

“Do you want to?”

His eyes opened.

The answer was there before he spoke.

“No.”

Heat curled low in your stomach.

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I need you to be sure.”

You looked at him beneath the moonlight, at this man who had asked at every step, who had held back not because he didn’t want you but because he wanted you safely, honestly, without regret.

Your fingers softened at his chest.

“I’m sure.”

Bucky went still.

For a second, all you heard was the ocean.

Then he kissed you again.

The world narrowed to his mouth, his hands, the warmth of him against the cool night air. 

You whispered his name against his mouth.

He answered by kissing you deeper.

It was like the careful dam he’d built between you finally gave way. Not in a crash, but in a slow, inevitable surge. 

His tongue traced your lower lip, asking, and you opened for him with a soft sound that seemed to unravel something in his chest. He tasted like salt air and the faint sweetness of the candied almonds you’d shared and underneath it all, something warm and unmistakably him. The kiss grew hungry, tongues sliding together, breaths mingling as your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

Until the ocean reminded you it was there.

The tide rushed in around your ankles, colder this time, a sharp, startling bite that stole a gasp right out of you against his lips. Your toes dug instinctively into the sand as the water swirled and tugged, and Bucky reacted before you even finished flinching with one arm tightening around your waist, anchoring you to him like instinct had already memorized your balance.

You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, half shock and half delight, and he chased the sound with his mouth, smiling against you as the water pulled back again.

His forehead hovered close. “Cold?”

“A little,” you admitted, voice unsteady from more than the water.

His thumb brushed once at your hip, a quiet check-in. “Want to move back?”

You should have said yes.

The practical answer was yes. Away from the water. Back to dry sand. Back to the blanket that had been in the bag he’d brought, because apparently Bucky Barnes prepared for comfort and contingencies and possibilities he was too honorable to assume.

But the moonlight was silver across his face, turning his eyes dark and bright at once. The ocean softened around the edges of the night like a living thing. His hands were careful on your body, his mouth still warm against yours, and something about the tide washing over your feet made the moment feel less like standing on the edge of something and more like finally stepping into it.

So instead, you shook your head.

“No.”

Bucky’s brows drew together faintly, not displeased, just questioning. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t try to steer you. He simply watched you, waiting for you to lead the next step the way he had been letting you lead from the beginning.

You stepped backward.

Not away from him. Not really.

Toward the water.

The next wave slid up around your calves, tugging at the hem of your dress and you bit back a gasp at the cold. The fabric clung instantly, heavy and damp against your legs. Bucky’s grip tightened, instinctive and protective, as if he’d already decided he’d catch you no matter what.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but laced with wonder. 

Your heart hammered hard enough you could feel it in your throat.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was the kind of thing you’d laugh about later, with sand in your hair and salt on your skin and the memory of him looking at you like this burned permanently behind your ribs.

But tonight had already become something you would remember forever.

And you wanted to remember all of it.

The moon. The water. The way he looked at you like he was afraid to want too much and unable to stop wanting anyway.

You took another step back, the water rising around your knees, and held out your hand like a dare.

“Come here.”

Bucky stared at you for a long second.

Then a slow, disbelieving smile touched his mouth, soft and dangerous, like surrender dressed up as amusement.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You only lifted your hand higher. “You coming?”

His gaze dropped to your hand.

Then to the water.

Then back to your face.

Something in him shifted, like a careful internal debate ended, like the last thread of restraint snapped in a way that wasn’t reckless, just inevitable.

“Yeah sweetheart,” he said, voice rough. “I’m coming.”

He followed you into the surf.

The ocean curled around his boots first, then his calves, darkening the denim at his legs. His shirt clung at the hem where the water splashed up, and you watched him take another step without hesitation, as if the cold didn’t matter. As if the only thing that mattered was you.

You backed farther into the shallow water, laughing softly when another wave pushed against your thighs and made your dress cling cool and heavy to your skin.

Bucky caught up to you in two strides.

His hands found your waist again

“Still okay?” he asked.

You nearly broke apart right there.

Even now. Even here. With the ocean around you, your dress soaked at the hem, and the heat between you making every breath feel fragile and bright… he still asked. Still offered you the choice. Still held himself back by the same thread of care that had undone you from the beginning.

You reached up, water dripping from your fingers as you touched his face, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw.

“Still okay.”

His eyes closed for half a second, like the words landed somewhere deep.

Then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss hit differently in the water.

Less polished. Less careful around the edges. The ocean moved around you both, pressing you together and pulling away again, making balance something you had to share. Your hands slid up his wet shirt, fingers curling at his shoulders, while his arm locked securely around your back to keep you steady. The tide surged against your thighs, and Bucky used the momentum to draw you closer, his breath breaking against your mouth when your body met his.

You kissed him harder.

He answered with a sound that disappeared into the rush of the next wave, muffled and ruined against your lips.

The water rose and fell around you, dark and silver, soaking the skirt of your dress. Bucky’s shirt stuck to his chest, outlining the hard breadth of him beneath your palms. Salt gathered on your lips. His hair came loose in the breeze, damp strands brushing his forehead, and when you pushed them back, he looked at you like the touch had ruined him.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice rough yet the question beneath it was gentle, careful as ever.

Everything in you trembled.

The ocean whispered around your legs. The shore waited behind him, the sand pale beneath moonlight. Somewhere far away, the rest of the world existed: hotels, flights, friends, mornings, consequences.

Here, there was only Bucky.

Only his hands holding you above the pull of the water.

Only the knowledge that wanting him did not feel like losing yourself.

Your thumb brushed over the line of his jaw. “You.”

His breath caught.

“You,” you said again, quieter, letting the word carry everything you couldn’t explain. “This. I don’t want to be afraid of wanting this.”

His expression changed. Not into triumph, not into impatience.

Into something reverent.

Something careful and starving all at once.

He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper. The kind of kiss that made the cold water feel distant, the kind that warmed you from the inside out until the night felt liquid around you. His hands slid over your back, your waist, the wet fabric of your dress, never taking more than you gave, yet making it clear with every restrained touch how badly he wanted to.

You rose onto your toes, arms winding around his neck, and the movement shifted your balance.

The next wave came in stronger.

You gasped as it hit, and Bucky caught you instantly, one arm banding around your waist, the other bracing at your back, lifting you just enough that the water couldn’t pull you under. Your laughter broke into the kiss, startled and breathless, and his followed, low and disbelieving, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or completely undone by you.

“Careful,” he murmured against your mouth.

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep making it hard.”

Your smile faded slowly.

So did his.

The air between you changed again, thicker, quieter, charged in a way the ocean couldn’t wash out.

You were close enough now that every breath brushed his mouth. Water streamed from the hem of your dress. His shirt was wet beneath your hands. His eyes moved over your face, down to your lips, then back up again, and the want there made your knees feel unsteady in a way the ocean had nothing to do with.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

His forehead came to rest against yours.

“I know,” he breathed. 

You closed your eyes, heart beating too loud. “I don’t want to stop.”

His hand flexed once at your back, not pushing, just holding.

“I need you to be sure.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. Really looked.

At this man who had turned your ruined bachelorette trip into something that felt dangerously like a beginning. This man who asked, and asked, and asked again, not because he doubted you, but because he respected your answer too much to assume it.

You kissed him softly, then said against his mouth, “I’m sure.”

Bucky’s breath left him unevenly.

For a moment, he only held you there in the surf. 

The water moved around both of you in cool, insistent pulses, but Bucky’s body was warm and solid against yours, his arms locked around your back like he was afraid the tide might steal you away. He was taking the words in, your quiet, trembling confession that you wanted this, that you wanted him, and memorizing them. You could feel it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the slight tremor that ran through him.

Then he bent his head and kissed your shoulder through the damp strap of your dress in a slow press of lips that made your eyes flutter shut. 

The kiss lingered, warm and salt-tinged, his beard rasping gently over wet skin and sending shivers racing straight down your spine. 

He didn’t rush. His mouth traced the curve of your shoulder, then lower, following the line where fabric met flesh. One broad hand slipped beneath the strap, easing it down with a care that made your chest ache, baring one breast to the cool night air and the occasional spray of the tide. 

Bucky pulled back just enough to look.

Moonlight caught on the droplets of water sliding over your skin, tracing the swell of your breast and the tight peak of your nipple. The raw hunger in his gaze stole what little breath you had left, but there was something else there too… wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“God,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re unreal.”

Then his mouth was on you, hot and insistent against cool skin. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, devastating strokes before he sucked it into his mouth with a low groan that vibrated straight through you. 

His hand cupped and kneaded the other breast through the soaked fabric, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple until you arched into him with a soft, broken cry. Your fingers threaded through his damp hair, holding him close as pleasure sparked sharp and bright through the chill of the water.

He lavished you with attention, switching sides, sucking and licking until your knees truly threatened to give out and the only thing keeping you upright was his arm locked around your waist.

The tide kept surging, waves lapping higher against your thighs, but the cold barely registered anymore. All you could feel was him: the solid heat of his body, the scrape of his beard, the low groans vibrating from his chest every time you gasped his name. Your hands roamed desperately over his wet shirt, tugging at the fabric, needing more of him.

As if he sensed it, Bucky lifted his head.

For a moment he simply looked at you.

Water glistened on your skin beneath the moonlight. Your dress clung to your body, soaked through from the surf. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, blue eyes dark with something that looked dangerously close to awe.

“God,” he murmured again, almost to himself.

Then he was kissing you.

Not gentle this time. Not tentative.

His mouth found yours with a hunger that had been building all night, all day, maybe from the moment he’d seen you standing on that restaurant terrace. You felt it in the way his hands tightened at your waist, in the rough exhale he swallowed from your lips, in the way he kissed you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and needed the reassurance of touching you to make it true.

Your arms wrapped around his neck immediately, pulling him closer. The ocean swirled around your legs, the wind tugged at your hair, but everything else disappeared beneath the rush of him.

Bucky made a low sound against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, he straightened.

In one fluid motion he hoisted you up. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips as he lifted you clear of the deeper pull of the water, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs with firm, possessive strength. The movement pressed you flush against him, the hard line of his arousal evident even through his soaked jeans, and a fresh wave of heat flooded your core.

His mouth never left yours. 

Not as he turned, carrying you back through the surf toward the dry sand. Not as another wave crashed against his legs and sent spray up around you both. Not as he walked with steady, determined steps, boots sinking into the wet packed sand before hitting the softer dry stretch. 

The kiss stayed deep and devouring, tongues sliding, breaths shared, salt and heat and desperate want mingling between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his dog tags pressed cool against your chest through his shirt, your soaked dress clinging to both of you like a second skin. Every step rocked your bodies together in the most delicious friction.

By the time he reached the blanket he’d laid out earlier, you were both breathing hard, lips swollen, bodies trembling with restraint that was rapidly fraying. He lowered you onto it with aching gentleness, never fully breaking the kiss until you were settled beneath him, the soft fabric warm against your back compared to the cool ocean air.

Bucky hovered over you, eyes searching your face even as his hands trembled slightly at your waist. “Still okay?” he rasped, the question threaded through with the same care that had defined every moment with him.

You cupped his face, his cheeks warm beneath your palms, and pulled him back down. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, deep and consuming. His hands worked the soaked dress up and off you completely, peeling the clinging fabric away until you lay bare beneath the moonlight and his gaze. 

He drank in the sight of you, scarred hands tracing reverently over your curves, learning every dip and swell as if committing it to memory.

You reached for his shirt. He helped you tug it off, revealing the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. His dog tags caught the silver light as they settled against his skin. Faint scars crossed his flesh, and you traced them with gentle fingers. 

He shivered under your touch, leaning down to kiss a slow path down your body: collarbones, the valley between your breasts, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. 

When he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders holding you open, he looked up at you once more for permission.

At your nod, his mouth found your core.

The first broad stroke of his tongue, flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, drew a broken cry from your throat. He savored you like something precious, humming in pleasure at your taste, the vibration sending fresh waves of heat spiraling through you.

He explored every inch with devastating patience: circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, dipping lower to taste you deeper, then back up with firm, rhythmic strokes. 

One thick finger slid inside you, curling just right against that sensitive spot, and you clenched around it with a gasp. He added a second, pumping them steadily while his mouth focused on your clit with steady, relentless attention. 

The sensations overwhelmed you: the cool night air on your heated skin, the distant rush of waves, the warm, insistent pressure of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, your thighs trembling around his shoulders. 

Your fingers tightened in his hair, hips rolling against his face as you chased the edge. The sounds were obscene and intimate: the wet slide of his fingers, your breathless moans, the distant crash of waves. “Bucky—oh fuck—”

He didn’t stop. He redoubled his efforts, fingers thrusting deeper, tongue relentless. The orgasm crashed over you suddenly, white-hot and life-changing. 

You shattered with a cry that the ocean swallowed whole, back arching, thighs clamping around him, inner walls pulsing rhythmically around his fingers. He worked you through it gently, slowing his tongue to soft, soothing strokes, kissing your inner thighs as the aftershocks rolled through you.

Only when you went limp did he kiss his way back up your body. Soft, soothing presses to your hip, your belly, the curve of your breast until he reached your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss, hands roaming his back, pulling him closer. The hard length of him pressed against your thigh and you reached for the button of his jeans with eager fingers.

Together you worked them open, shoving the wet denim and his boxers down. He was beautiful in the moonlight, thick and heavy, flushed dark, the head glistening with arousal. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, and he hissed, hips jerking into your touch. “Careful,” he rasped, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Been thinking about you all day.”

You smiled against his neck, thumb brushing over the sensitive head. “I want you inside me. Now.”

He reached for his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet with steady hands. You watched, arousal spiking anew, as he rolled it on with careful fingers. Then he settled over you again, the blunt head of him nudging your slick entrance. One hand braced beside your head while the other cupped your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly, eyes locked on yours in the moonlight.

“Eyes on me,” he whispered.

You met his gaze, moonlight turning his blue eyes silver-dark. The intensity there made your breath catch, but it wasn’t just hunger… it was something softer, something that wrapped around your heart and held it gently. He nudged forward, the thick head of his cock parting you, and pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch.

The stretch was exquisite. Your body yielded to him with a delicious burn that melted into fullness, the thick heat of him sinking deeper until your walls fluttered around every ridge and vein. He moved with impeccable control, watching your face the entire time, pausing when your breath hitched so you could adjust. When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours, a low, broken sound escaped him.

“Fuck…” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm and ragged against your lips. “You feel perfect. So warm. So tight around me. Like you were made for this.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, and rolled your hips experimentally. The movement dragged him against that sensitive spot inside you and pulled a soft moan from your throat. Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenching.

“Move, Bucky,” you whispered. “Please—I need you.”

At that whispered plea, he began to thrust.

At first it was slow, deep rolls of his hips, pulling almost all the way out then sinking back in with a smooth, deliberate glide that made you feel every inch. The wet sound of your bodies joining mingled with the distant crash of waves and your shared, shaky breaths. His hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit and circling it in tight, perfect strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

You met him thrust for thrust, hips lifting to take him deeper. The dog tags around his neck swung gently with every movement, cool metal occasionally brushing the heated skin between your breasts. Your hands roamed his back, feeling the powerful shift of muscle beneath warm skin. Every time he sank into you, your inner walls clenched around him, and every time he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew.

Bucky’s control began to fray.

He shifted the angle slightly, rolling his hips so the head of his cock dragged against that perfect spot with every thrust. His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, circling faster. “That’s it,” he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. “Let me feel you. God, you’re so beautiful like this, taking me so well.”

Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Your thighs trembled around his hips. Your nails dug lightly into his shoulders, and you couldn’t stop the soft, desperate sounds spilling from your lips. He kissed you through them, deep, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed your moans and gave you his in return. 

The world narrowed to the slide of him inside you, the press of his body over yours, the cool metal of his arm against your temple when you turned your head, the warm weight of his other hand between your legs, and the endless, rhythmic crash of the ocean behind you.

You felt it building, bigger and deeper than before. Your walls started to flutter around him in warning.

Bucky felt it too. His rhythm grew a little harder, a little faster, hips snapping with more urgency even as he kept his thumb moving in those tight, perfect circles. “Come for me,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours again so you couldn’t look away. “Let me feel you come, want to feel this pretty pussy squeezing me. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

The words, the eye contact, the way he filled you so completely… it all crashed over you at once.

You came with a broken cry of his name, back arching hard off the blanket as ecstasy tore through you in long, pulsing waves. Your inner walls clamped down around him rhythmically, fluttering and squeezing as pleasure rolled through your entire body. Your thighs shook around his hips. Your fingers clutched at his shoulders, at his arms, at anything you could reach. For a few endless seconds the only thing that existed was him: inside you, around you, holding you through it.

Bucky followed you seconds later.

A guttural groan tore from his chest as your orgasm triggered his. He buried himself as deep as he could go, hips stuttering, the thick length of him pulsing inside the condom as he spilled. His whole body trembled above you.

His arm locked, holding his weight off you even as the other clutched your hip like he never wanted to let go. He kept moving through it with small, shallow thrusts that prolonged both your pleasure, until the last aftershocks faded and he finally stilled, still buried inside you.

For a long moment neither of you moved.

You stayed joined, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other. His forehead rested against yours. The cool night air kissed the sweat on your skin, but Bucky’s body heat kept you warm. Sand clung to your hair, to the damp places where your bodies met, to the inside of your thighs, small, gritty reminders that this was real.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you. You made a soft, reluctant sound at the loss, and he kissed it away before reaching for the condom. He disposed of it quickly and efficiently, then pulled you straight back into his arms, settling on his side so he could tuck you against his chest. 

He dragged his discarded shirt over both of you like a blanket, the fabric still faintly damp but carrying his scent. One arm curled securely around your back, hand stroking slow, soothing patterns along your spine, fingertips occasionally brushing through your hair to dislodge bits of sand.

You tucked your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in. Your leg slid over his hip, keeping as much of you pressed to him as possible. The aftershocks still rippled through you in gentle waves, and every time your body gave a little tremor, Bucky’s arms tightened around you.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear.

Steady.

Real.

Morning waited somewhere beyond the horizon, unavoidable and cruel. In a few hours, the sky would lighten. The world would return. There would be bags to pack, friends to meet, transportation to catch, goodbye pressing sharp and necessary at the edges of everything.

You tried not to think about it.

Bucky’s hand stilled against your shoulder.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said.

Your eyes closed.

There it was, the thing both of you had been walking around all day.

“I know.”

His chest rose beneath your cheek with a slow breath.

“I keep telling myself to be reasonable,” he said. “That this is fast. That we met two nights ago. That you’re still dealing with everything he did, and I shouldn’t make it harder by acting like this is simple.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

His face was turned toward the stars, jaw tight, eyes bright in the moonlight.

“But?” you whispered.

His gaze found yours.

“But nothing about this feels simple,” he said. “And I don’t want to insult it by pretending it does.”

Your throat tightened.

Bucky shifted slightly, rolling toward you so he could see you fully. His hand came up to touch the bracelet at your wrist, thumb brushing over the tiny blue beads.

“I meant what I said,” he continued. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“You’re not.”

The answer came quickly. Clearly.

His eyes searched yours.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not.”

Something in his expression broke open, quiet and vulnerable.

“I don’t know what happens after tomorrow,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to be… whatever this is, with everything still messy. I don’t know how to not be scared.”

“You don’t have to not be scared.”

A sad little smile touched your mouth. “That easy?”

“No.” His thumb moved over your wrist. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

The words settled into you with almost painful tenderness.

You looked at him, at the man who had appeared in the wreckage of a trip that was supposed to hurt and somehow made it feel like the beginning of something instead. The man who had met your broken edges with patience instead of pressure. The man leaving in the morning, looking at you like distance was already an enemy he intended to fight.

“You barely know me,” you whispered.

Bucky’s gaze did not waver.

“I know enough to want to know the rest.”

Your breath caught. He lifted your hand, pressing his mouth softly to the inside of your wrist, right beside the bracelet.

The kiss was gentle. Devastating.

“I’ll call,” he said. “I’ll text. I’ll come see you, if you want me to. You can take all the time you need. You can tell me to slow down. You can tell me when it’s too much.” His voice roughened. “But I’m not walking away from this just because morning came too soon.”

Your eyes stung.

“Bucky.”

He moved closer, forehead resting lightly against yours.

“I’ll follow you anywhere,” he whispered.

The words broke something open in you.

Not the old wound. Not the grief. Something beneath it. Something tender and terrified and alive.

You kissed him because you did not know what else to do with the feeling.

Soft and slow this time. Like a promise neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt anyway.

Above you, the stars burned quietly.

Beside you, the ocean kept moving.

And for the first time since everything fell apart, tomorrow did not feel like an ending.

It felt like a place he might meet you.

But biting?

That urge had never been there before.

Until it was.

The first time it happened, you were riding him slowly in the dim lamplight of your shared apartment, your hips rolling in that lazy rhythm that drove him insane. Sweat slicked your skin, making the soft underside of your breast glisten as you arched above him.

Bucky’s metal hand anchored your waist while his flesh fingers dug into the generous swell of your ass, guiding you down onto him again and again. You felt so good—tight, wet, perfect—and when you leaned forward, your breasts swaying heavy and full right in front of his face, something in him snapped.

He latched onto the side of one breast without thinking, teeth sinking into the give of you.

Not hard enough to break skin, but firm.

A low, guttural growl vibrated against your flesh as he bit down.

You gasped, hips stuttering.

For a split second, Bucky froze, horror flooding him.

What the fuck was that?

He pulled back immediately, eyes wide, lips already forming an apology.

“Shit—baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But you were looking down at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, pupils blown wide. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him right back.

“Do it again,” you whispered.

“Harder.”

That was all it took.

---

Months later, biting wasn’t just a sometimes thing.

It was mandatory.

Foreplay. During. After.

Anywhere his mouth could reach, he marked you.

And you craved it just as fiercely.

Tonight was no exception.

You’d barely made it through the door after a long day before Bucky had you pinned against the hallway wall, his mouth crashing into yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His hands roamed greedily, squeezing the soft rolls at your sides, kneading your hips before sliding beneath your shirt.

“Missed you,” he growled against your lips.

“Missed this.”

He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, tugging your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. Your thighs jiggled with the movement, and Bucky groaned like a man starved.

“Can’t help it,” he muttered later, eyes dark and wild as they traveled over you. “You’re so fucking soft.”

By the time he carried you to the bedroom, your skin was already decorated with the evidence of his affection.

The mattress bounced beneath your weight when he set you down, stripping quickly before crawling over you.

He didn't rush.

Not really.

Because as much as Bucky loved having you beneath him, he loved worshipping you even more.

Every inch.

Every curve.

Every soft place he could touch.

Every place he could leave his mark.

“Bucky, please,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist.

His answering smile was dark.

“Gonna take care of you, doll.”

The rest of the night blurred into tangled sheets, breathless laughter, desperate kisses, and the familiar ache of being wanted so completely.

Not tolerated.

Not settled for.

Wanted.

Consumed.

Adored.

Bucky always looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and somehow that feeling never got old.

If anything, it only made you love him more.

---

Afterward, you both collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap beneath the blankets.

Bucky pulled you against his chest, his hands gentle now as they traced the constellation of marks scattered across your skin. Some were already darkening into bruises. Others were barely visible.