Your well-being was work-related. And for your wellbeing, you didn’t want to walk home alone tonight.

The last encounter you’d had with him had not ended in good terms. But, then again, things with him always ended either with doors slammed shut or with his hands unzipping your skirt.

You had argued over—you guessed it—work stuff. Representative Barnes had voted “Present” when you had introduced your motion. You had a deal; you were going to work together. But at the last minute, Bucky had changed his mind.

When you confronted him about it, he responded vaguely. Something about “having to think the implications through” and needing to “talk to some of his associates first.”

What bullshit!

...

You weren’t angry, though. Your motion had gone through even without his help, proving yet again how capable you were. You didn’t need a man, at least not in that sense.

Not even if the man in question was standing a few feet away from you, clad in the most unfair suit you had ever seen.

Valentina had set up a golden Avengers logo in the middle of the venue, and Bucky had been the first thing that had crossed your mind when you stepped through. He hadn’t opened up much about those days, but he had told you just enough.

You brought up the champagne flute to your lips and resisted the urge to bite into the glass. Bucky looked entirely comfortable chatting up Valentina’s assistant, Mel, over by the railing of the upper floor.

Did he think you couldn’t see him? Did he think you wouldn’t care?

You swallowed the liquid in one go and set the glass down. You would get another one soon, and then another, and another—until you had almost enough to feel bad about having drunk that much.

You could play that game, too, if you wanted to. You would find yourself some pretty boy freshly out of college who made eyes at you.

You were in all your right. Bucky be damned. His pretty eyes be damned. His smooth voice be damned.

Thirty minutes later you were talking to some guy—Adam? Aaron?—He was hot enough. New to the waltz of politics but not naive.

You talked for twenty minutes before he was slowly pushing you into the corner next to the restrooms. His hand was on your waist, thumb digging into your skin through the fabric of the dress as he went on about how he had ‘climbed his way up top with sheer intelligence and charm’.

You were quite ready to leave; see, Congresswoman Barnes was too busy to even say hello to you, and the company you had found in his stead was not better.

Or so you thought.

Somebody behind you cleared his voice. “Senator L/N.”

Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Ah, Congressman Barnes—” You clasped your hands together over your lap to feign casualness.

“Can I steal a moment of your time? I need to discuss something with you. Motions and... all that.”

“Motions,” you repeated as if trying to make sense of the word.

Bucky’s jaw was screwed tight, and his blue eyes were cold. Detached in a way they never were when he was with you. His right foot tapped incessantly on the floor.

Wait—was he jealous?

If he was, then that was only helping your earlier case. You bit your lip subtly enough under your standards. He wanted you. God, had he been thinking the same as you?

Bucky took a step forward and offered you his arm. You accepted it, curling your fingers around the neck of his elbow. That was your man right there.

“I don’t think you should talk to him,” Bucky said once you were far away enough.

“Hm? And why not?”

“I don’t trust him. I’ve got sources that tell me he might be involved with the OXE group.”

“I can handle myself just fine, Bucky. I’ve been doing politics for longer than you think. I know when someone is trying to butter me up for their benefit.”

“I’m just saying you should be careful.”

You nearly laughed. His jealously was adorable. Had he ever looked at himself in the mirror? Clearly not well enough, otherwise he would realise that your preferences were clear. You liked the brooding hundred-year-old super soldier better.

“Are you jealous, Congressman?” you taunted. “Now, now, why would you be jealous? I’m right here with you. Besides, as far as I remember, you were chatting up ladies of your own.”

He frowned and gave you a sideways glance. “Ladies of my own?”

“Mel, is it? De Fontaine’s assistant. You looked quite cosy with her on the balcony.”

Slowly, Bucky started to lead you further away from the centre of the party, to one of those corners where cameras could not see. He always seemed to notice those.

“It was strictly professional.”

You hummed and decided you would have your fun and tease him. “How about you and I, then? Tell me, Congressman, are we ‘strictly professional’, too? Do you come over to my house and sleep with me as strategy?”

In that moment, you would have thought that he was turning red in the face. “You’re shameless.”

Even behind his embarrassment, you could see a small grin growing.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m a woman with her needs, and we make a great team. In more ways than one.”

Bucky nodded and moved his free hand to your waist. His back rested against the wall, and he pulled you closer until your chest was almost touching his.

“Who’s the shameless one now?” you teased.

“You’ve made your point. And we do make a great team.”

Then, not caring about who was to look, he kissed you. Gentle, unlike most of the kisses he gave you behind closed doors, with one hand on your waist and the other cupping your face.

Right now, he was yours. Tomorrow was uncertain. Maybe you would go back to hating his guts when he disagreed with you in Congress. In the end, you would always makeup after every breakup.

Snow was starting to build up around his auburn locks, a few spots already being wet and frozen. Robb didn't mind the cold and never had done so. He was a northerner, as true as one could find.

As much as it could pain him to have to strip himself of you, he was a Stark first and foremost. The name carried the responsibility for the entire North. You had never complained about it, and Robb often wondered how much you were not telling him.

You were with child, and quite a few moons had passed since you had found out. His worries had only heightened since. He wrote every other afternoon, enquiring about your health and your mood, whether you were in pain and whether you had eaten properly. Winterfell's maesters were more than capable in their crafts; he knew that quite well. But what could a man who was away do if not worry incessantly?

Nearly every conversation with the other Lords turned into thoughts of you. Some he verbalised, some—the ones he cherished the most—he kept to himself.

The morning he returned was a particularly cold one. The sun had risen three hours before, meaning that Robb had expected you to still be in your bedchambers. He had advised you to rest, but the sight he caught upon entering through the gates told him you had not listened once.

You were standing right there, with Sansa on your arm. Both of you are whispering and laughing. Sansa pointed at one of the guards, and you gasped. Amused, Robb dismounted from his horse and cautiously made his way towards the pair of you.

Only when he had decided that he was close enough, he cleared his throat. Whatever sentence you were about to speak died before you could utter a single word. Your eyes shot in his direction, as though triggered by a natural instinct.

The cheeky, teasing smile you had shared with Sansa turned into a beautifully amazed one. "You are back."

"I am," he confirmed as he closed the gap between you. His gloved hands landed on your arms, pulling you into an embrace. You hugged him back, breathing him in like you had not done in a long time.

"I see you didn't miss me at all." Robb teased once you pulled away, nodding his head towards his sister.

"Nonsense. I missed you quite a lot. Sansa just kept me company."

He laughed. "I shall thank her for that." He moved one of his hands and rested it on the curve of your stomach. "Our child grows."

"It will be a very healthy baby, I'm certain." Robb's eyes glistened at your conviction. You had a trust in him and in your family that never ceased to amaze you. He was one lucky man; of that he was certain.

"Don't take her away now that you've returned," Sansa protested. "We were having a conversation."

"Oh, I apologise, my ladies," Robb waved his hand in a pretended reverence. "What matters must you discuss?"

"You mustn't know, because you would not understand. They are womanly matters, my love." You took Sansa's arm again, pulling her close. Over the time you had known Robb, she had slowly turned into a younger sister for you. And you were the role model of the woman she had always desired to be.

Over Robb's time away, you would meet over lemon cake and tea. Hours would go by with conversation and gossip about which lord had been making eyes at which lady. You taught her how to do her hair in the way that you did, and you gifted her two of your old dresses.

"I see how it is." Robb crossed his arms. "I come back, and my wife and sister want to see nothing of me. It will be just Grey Wind and I."

"You know we do not mean that. At least I certainly do not." You coaxed his arms away from their position, taking his hands into yours. He did just as you had asked.

"Now, if you will excuse us, Sansa dearest, I think your brother could do with some sleep."

The girl nodded and smiled as Robb and you walked away. The path to your bedchambers had lasted longer than you had expected. You could hardly walk four steps without being approached by someone, greeting both of you and asking your husband about his travels. He replied politely and kept your hand laced through his arm as he so often did—grounding himself in the one person he trusted more than anything else.

When you reached the chambers, you lay down on the large bed. He followed, resting his head on your upper chest while being careful to avoid your stomach. Robb closed his eyes and felt warmth engulf him as you placed the bed covers on top of your tangled bodies.

"You kept me waiting for a long time." You murmured, brushing his hair away from his forehead.

"You don't mean that. Did you truly wait for my return out in the cold? You shouldn't have done that." There was worry in his weary voice.

"Oh, I am much stronger than a gust of cold air."

"I never said you weren't. But you can't risk getting ill right now..."

Robb meant it all. The worry came from a place of love, and for that, you would never be angry. "I know, but I feel just fine. And besides, I would have waited for as long as I had to if it meant seeing you when you returned."

At the sound of those words, Robb opened his eyes. Without any warning, he raised his head and brought his lips to yours. Your hands, which still were in his hair, only tightened their grip, pulling him closer. He pulled away, only to quickly kiss you again. The hand that he wasn't using to support his weight came to rest on your waist.

That precisely was how you spent the rest of your day. Together, at last, in your bedchambers. With nothing else but your love and the thrilling thought of the baby that would soon arrive.

----

"You and Rocky alliance. Good. Grace still stupid."

For hours, the lab had been filled with intense work and loud arguments. The experiment they’d been so sure about had failed immediately. Neither of them gave up, of course—just pivoted, recalculated, argued, and tried again.

If not for you, Grace and Rocky would’ve forgotten to eat entirely. And when they ignored you, you had to physically herd them away like stubborn children, promising they could come back once they’d finished their food.

You checked your watch. Nearly sixteen hours. No wonder Grace was getting sloppy. No wonder Rocky was irritated.

"You need to lie down," you said, stepping toward Ryland. "You need sleep."

"I don’t need—"

You took the tools from his hands and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead.

"Don’t argue with me," you said firmly. "Rocky’s right. When you’re tired, you get irritable and act… stupid."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight you. "I just want this to work. We’re close. I can feel it. Another hour or two and—"

"And then Armando gets to hook you up to life support? No. You’re done."

Rocky shifted slightly in his enclosure, pretending not to listen, but he failed. "Grace must sleep. You correct. You smarter than Grace."

You bit back a laugh and rested a hand on Ryland’s shoulder before he could respond. The last thing you needed was another argument on the Hail Mary.

"You take Grace to sleep, question? You watch Grace, question?"

That got you thinking. Rocky rarely asked to be replaced while watching Grace—not like this. He must have been in a really bad mood right now.

"I promise," you said gently, tapping the transparent wall. "Everything okay, Rocky?"

"Will be good after Grace sleeps.” But he tapped lightly in return.

You took Ryland’s arm and led him toward the dorm.

"He likes you more than me," Grace muttered, glancing back.

"Don’t be jealous," you said quietly. You knew Rocky could hear every word anyway. And you also knew he’d still be listening.

The dorm lights were dim. Grace kicked off his Converse and set his glasses aside with zero precision. At some point, the two of you had pushed your mattresses together. One was too narrow. Two were better. Safer, and somehow - less lonely.

He collapsed onto the bed with a long sigh. You sat against the wall, picking up a jumpsuit and examining the tear in the sleeve. Quiet work felt right while he rested. Maybe you’d put on an audiobook—there were still so many left in the archive.

"What are you doing?" His voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"I’ve got a suit to repair," you said, holding it up.

"Don’t be ridiculous. Come here."

"You need sleep."

"Yeah, and how am I supposed to sleep if you’re sitting over there?" He propped himself up, frowning. "It’s bad enough Rocky’s probably still listening, maybe watching too."

You sighed. You weren’t winning this one. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. It’s science. Probably. I mean, there are studies—okay, I don’t remember them exactly, but it sounds like something science would support."

You raised an eyebrow. "That sounds made up."

"It is. But it’s also true."

"...Wow. Okay."

You slipped off your shoes and lay down beside him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the distant hum of the ship, the faint sounds of the lab far away.

Then—

"I’m really glad you’re here. I mean—not glad you’re on a suicide mission. That part is objectively terrible. But… you being here is not terrible." he said. "I mean—this whole situation sucks, obviously. But… yeah. I’m glad it’s you."

You smiled softly. "I’m glad too. Though I would’ve preferred meeting you under better circumstances. Dinner or something like this, maybe."

Ryland swallowed. "Wait—really? You mean, like… a date?"

"Yes. A date. If you wanted."

"Yes—" he said immediately. Too immediately. Then he froze. "I mean—yes. Hypothetically. In a purely theoretical, post-not-dying scenario—yes." 

You laughed. "Good. Then when this is over, that’s the first thing we’re doing."

He smiled, softer now. "Deal," he said, and paused. "That sounded too intense. I didn’t mean it like—okay, I’m going to stop talking now."

Your hand found his, your fingers threading together naturally. "You should be asleep," you murmured.

"Working on it." Grace yawned, his eyes already slipping shut. "My brain is currently running three parallel processes," he muttered. "One is exhausted, one is trying to solve the experiment, and one is… this." He gestured vaguely between you. "This one is the least efficient."

You smiled softly. "And which one is winning?"

"None," he mumbled. "Total system failure imminent."

You let out a quiet breath, your thumb brushing lightly against his hand.

"Dr. Grace," you said softly, "I once read a study that said hugging reduces stress. Don’t you think that, combined with your current research, we might—"

"I think that’s an excellent idea," he murmured, cutting in before you could finish. "Groundbreaking. Nobel Prize. Minimum."

His voice faded at the edges, words blurring as sleep caught up with him. You shifted closer, careful, resting lightly against him. For a second, he went still—just for a second— then relaxed. His breathing slowed, evening out, steady and warm beneath your cheek. You stayed like that, listening. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t what you would have chosen. But it was good. Somehow. 

Rocky was already waiting when you stepped back into the lab. "Grace sleep efficiency improved, question."

You blinked. “Yes?"

"Good. Rocky observations confirm."

Ryland groaned behind you. "Oh no. What did you observe?"

"Heart rate lower. Breathing stable. Grace not stupid during sleep."

You pressed your lips together. "Rocky—"

"Also," he added, "proximity to you increases Grace survival probability."

Ryland froze. "I—what?"

"Conclusion: you stay close to Grace. For science." A pause. "Rocky approve."

Ryland buried his face in his hands. "I’m never going to recover from this."

++++++

"How are you doing?"

Ryland’s voice came through the intercom in your helmet.

"She fine. Question."  Rocky said from somewhere in the background.

"It’s fine, Rocky. One more spot and I’m done," you replied.

You clipped yourself to the railing and moved along the Hail Mary’s hull. The damage wasn’t severe, but it needed fixing. The welder Rocky had modified worked perfectly, sealing the hull faster than expected. 

Even before you left the airlock, you had to deal with Grace. He didn’t like you going out alone — it made him anxious.

"I’ll be fine," you had told him, pulling on your suit. "Eat something. Get some rest. I know what I’m doing."

"I know," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I just— I worry, okay? You’re— I mean, you matter. To the mission. And— just— don’t die, okay?" 

"Okay," you smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "Two hours. I’ll be back."

He nodded, but it didn’t really reassure him.

"How are you doing?" he asked again now, over the intercom. "Not trying to be pushy. Rocky’s worried."

"Rocky is not worried. She knows what she is doing. Smarter than Grace."

You smiled. "A few more minutes. What if—"

The ship jolted. The welder slipped from your grip, but you caught it just in time. Another jolt.

"Something’s wrong with the engine— I think it’s a short— I’m fixing it— just— hold on— are you there? Can you hear me?" 

"I am, just—"

The next pull yanked you off the railing. The tether snapped tight, then recoiled like a whip, slamming you into the hull. Your head slammed into the helmet. A dull crack echoed in your ears. The air punched out of your lungs — nothing left, just panic and silence. 

"Grace! She needs help. Grace! Focus. Fix engine. Now." 

You couldn’t answer. Everything spun.

"Are you there? Can you hear me? Say something— please." 

"Quick, quick, quick."

Warmth spread across your lips. Metallic. Blood. Your fingers tightened around the welder pressed to your chest as another violent tug shook you. You grabbed the railing again, pain shooting through your arm.

"She there. Time critical. Grace, take her." 

The buzzing in your head grew louder. Nausea rolled through you. You clung to the railing, your only anchor. Your vision dimmed.

You were lying on something soft.

"Eye movement detected."

You tried to move, but a hand caught yours.  His thumb brushed over your knuckles before he let go — like he wasn’t sure he should. He pulled back a little too quickly. 

"Hey. Easy."

Ryland.

You opened your eyes briefly — too bright — then shut them again.

"You had a minor concussion," he said, voice quieter now. "Some bruising. You’re okay. Medical system patched you up. You scared us."

"You came for me?" you whispered.

"Of course I did," he said immediately. "Statistically, you’re my favorite person."

"There are no other people here, Grace," Rocky pointed out.

Your lips twitched. You touched your head and felt the bandage under your fingers.

"You should lie down," Ryland said.

"You’re not that kind of doctor."

"Still counts. You’re concussed. You don’t get opinions."

You let out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. "You look tired."

"I’m not," he said quickly. "I’ll stay."

And he did.

When you woke again, hours had passed. Grace didn’t mean to fall asleep, his hand was still loosely wrapped around yours. Rocky watched over both of you.

Later, you managed to sit up. Then stand.

"I didn’t thank you," you said quietly as Ryland steadied you. "You saved me."

"You’d have done the same," he replied, watching you carefully. You scared us." He paused „You scared me." 

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t be. Just— next time, you’re staying inside."

Two days later, you were moving on your own again — though neither of them let you do any real work. After you failed to complete your work outside the ship, someone had to do it. The choice wasn't difficult, or rather, you no longer had a say.

"Grace worried. Very, very, very," Rocky said.

"I know," you replied, watching Ryland on the screen outside. "He’s nice, isn’t he?"

"Grace heart rate changes when you speak." 

You smiled faintly. "I like him too. And I like you too, Rocky."

"Grace observes you. Often. When you not looking."

"Rocky— stop." You felt yourself blushing and a strange shiver ran down your neck.

"Why stop? This is data."

You blinked. You looked up from the screen and looked at your friend. "What? No — we’re just friends."

"Grace looks at you differently. You look at him that way also. Grace very worried."

You glanced back at the screen, Grace still working. You knew you would have followed him without hesitation, whether his life was in danger or he suddenly decided to fly to the other side of the universe.

"It’s complicated," you said softly. "Humans are complicated."

A click.

"I’m done," Ryland’s voice came through the radio. "Heading back."

"I’m waiting for you. Be careful."

You saw the thumbs-up and smiled. You didn’t see it — the way he smiled, just for a second. 

The airlock hissed open. You were already there waiting for him to help him with the suit. Ryland stepped inside, pulling off his helmet too fast, eyes finding you immediately.

"Hey," he said, a little breathless.

"Hey."

He crossed the distance without thinking. He ignored your hands that were waiting to take the helmet from him and threw it to the ground. "Don't do that again, don't go out there alone." he said quietly. "Please."

"I’ll try."

"That’s not—" he stopped, exhaled. "Okay. Fine."

His hand found yours, like it had before — but this time he didn’t hesitate.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “When I came back for you… I’ll never forget it. And being there now, I kept thinking about it.”

“You didn’t lose me, Grace.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I didn’t.”

But he didn’t move away, not even a little. You were standing too close now. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slower, more deliberate. The look in his eyes was different than usual. 

Your lips. Your eyes. Back again. Something shifted.

"Grace. Heart rate elevated."

Neither of you reacted.

"Significant. Cause: you."

You let out a soft breath, but neither of you pulled away. Ryland leaned in, closer. Close enough that you could feel his breath, uneven and warm. He hesitated— just for a fraction of a second— like he was giving himself one last chance to stop.

"Data indicates—"

Ryland closed the distance. The kiss was soft and careful. A little unsure at first — like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real. Then his hand tightened slightly around yours, and something in him settled, and it was real. You touched his cheek gently, feeling his soft stubble under your fingers.

"—contact established," Rocky finished.

Ryland pulled back enough to look at you. His blue eyes were wide, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.

"…Okay," he breathed.

A beat of your heart.

"Statistically," he added quietly, "that was a good decision."

You laughed softly, and then he smiled – gently, a little crooked, but completely sincere. And this time, when he leaned in again, he didn't hesitate.

When everything around you was so crazy and dangerous, when you lived with the feeling that the end might soon come – this closeness was what you craved. What you deserved. What you wanted to wrest from fate together.

And it felt good.

You knew you were up for a long night the minute you crossed the first street and felt that ache in your fingers.

Now, three hours and one too many drinks later, you were left dealing with the consequences.

You grab your head as your elbows rest on the table of the bar. “My head hurts. That’s probably the drinks, or the heels. I can’t tell anymore.”

“Probably both,” Ava said, placing an arm on your shoulder. “I think it’s about time we go.”

“No—no, guys. Let’s have some fun. We promised we would do karaoke when we went out.”

“Let’s leave the karaoke for another time, hm? Maybe for a day when you can actually remember the lyrics of a song,” Yelena argues.

“Whatever,” you sigh in disappointment. “Party poopers, both of you.” You want to stand up, and use your arms to prop yourself up. “I need to use the bathroom.”

“Easy.” Ava leans closer, just in case. “I’ll go with you. Lena, you know what to do.”

That sentence and the look they exchanged were enough for you to understand their plan. “Don’t call Bucky. I’m fine. He’ll take me home and then the night will be over.”

“Y/N, we’ll go out next weekend. We promise. Two minutes ago, you couldn’t stop trying to fix your heels. You’ve drank enough, and it’s been a long week.” Ava’s voice was final.

“Fine.” You huff out and allow her to walk with you to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, you can barely keep your eyes open. You aren’t that drunk, not really. Or so you tell both yourself and Bucky when you see him walk right through the door of the bar. Eyes fall on him instantly, because when do they not? He’s a handsome man, your husband. If it’s not the looks, it’s his past or his present. Either way, you don’t like it.

“How are you feelin’?” Bucky asks once he finally reaches your table. His hand is rested atop of the booth’s seat, and his body is angled towards you.

“I’m fine. My feet hurt, though.”

“Good thing I brought your slippers.” His face is serious, but you know he was worried the minute Yelena called him. It makes you feel almost guilty.

“You did?” A smile breaks through your face, your gaze lifting to meet his instantly. “Gosh, you’re the best.”

Despite himself—and despite the fact that he was called at almost one in the morning, right after he had fallen asleep—he smiles, too. There is little Bucky wouldn’t do for you, and you know it.

He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple, and kneels down. Gently, he takes hold of your ankle. The touch of his fingertips—metal and flesh together—almost makes you shiver. He frees your aching foot from the tight heel and slides the slipper on. This, he repeats with the other foot.

Yelena and Ava gather your things back into your purse, which Bucky takes without second thought. “I had fun, guys, I really did.”

“So did we. But I think it’s time you go home. See you tomorrow when the headache hits you.” Replies Yelena, both teasing and worried.

Bucky leans down, allowing you to slide an arm across his broad shoulders and lean on him as he walks you outside. Fortunately, the path to the car is short.

“How did you find somewhere to park? It took us ages.” You spurt out.

“Congressman perks, I think. Either that, or I’m paying a fee for rescuing you tonight.”

“Sorry,” you mumble as you get in the car, eyes dropping.

“Don’t say that. Ever. I’ll do this as many times as I have to.”

The only sound that follows is when Bucky starts the engine of the car and turns left to find the right street.

“Guess you were right, after all,” you said, head against the window.

“What about, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, amused. His eyes leave the road momentarily to try and get a sense of your words.

“The heels. They did, in fact, not stretch. Not enough, anyway. Now I’m going to have blisters for weeks. Woe is me.”

“Well, maybe next time, don’t immediately shoot daggers at me when I make a suggestion. Believe me, I’m no stranger to the world of girls and shoes.”

You gasp, “What’s that supposed to mean?! Is it you and your endless 1940s charmer days again?”

He shrugs. “Just saying. Don’t dance too much in shoes that are too tight. For my sake, at least.”

You look at him, and that’s when you know he means it. Jokes and appearances aside, he means it. Because he doesn’t like seeing you hurt, even if it’s just a few stupid blisters.

“Alright, deal.”

Sharp lines, blue eyes that could cut you like a diamond. Shoulders that could probably body you to the ground — and you’d thank him for it. “Are you alright, ma’am?” Oh, and that goes straight between your legs. 

You’ve never really been in love before. You’ve never even really dated. Your college life was spent with tearstains on your textbooks and essay papers until each piece of work contained a fat, red ‘A’ and added up to your perfect GPA. Countless hours networking with people to wriggle yourself into your dream job and now those hours are wasted behind a desk with a career that gives you carpal tunnel. 

Point is — when you set your mind on something, you obsess over it until you achieve it.

Your current target? One Sergeant Bucky Barnes from FDNY Engine 205. 

From the moment he stepped in and delivered that question, to the second he looked into your eyes and grinned, those sapphire eyes twinkling as he said — “That dinner looks delicious, what I’d kill for a homecooked meal,” you knew you were done for.

Ask and you shall receive. 

Now, on your work breaks, you find yourself stopping by with a platter of something new you’ve whipped up. Whether it’s a hearty protein-topped salad or a smoked barbecue selection or an array of sweet treats, you bring it as an offering to the local station.

Every. Single. Day. 

The first day, one guy looks at you reluctantly at your foil-covered container and you had to stand there in shame as he told you that they couldn’t accept it due to health and safety concerns. 

Your cheeks were hot as you held the tray closer to your chest, ready to hightail out of there before you can embarrass yourself further, when that familiar voice came.

“Steak alarm.” 

Your gaze lifted to find Bucky standing there. He’s wiping his hands on a dirty dishrag, tight shirt clinging onto his body with the sweat and… general fit of the fabric, as he made his way towards you. 

He lifted the foil and his gaze widened. It felt like you were taking a nosedive straight off a cliff into the Pacific — and you enjoyed every second of it. 

“Now that’s a meal.” 

Then he was summoning the rest of the station to take a gander at what you’ve prepared and suddenly they’re all picking away at it and thanking you for the first proper meal they’ve had in days. 

And when Bucky once again flashed you that charming smile, one that would probably set off all the alarms in this station, it was over for you. 

You should be embarrassed with being so obvious — some of the other firefighters have caught on to your teensy crush. Natasha, who’s probably the most badass person you’ve ever met, shoots you lopsided smiles every time you stare at Bucky. Sam and Steve are a little less subtle as they make comments like “your wife’s here, Barnes!” and you have to flail and panic until Bucky damns them with warning glares.

It’s not as if you talk to him. They’re much too busy for that. One of those days, you walk in and they’re actually gearing up to leave. Bucky had apologized profusely before he hopped in the truck and was on his way. 

Instead, you yearn silently. You tell yourself it’s enough that you can see Bucky smile every day, that you can watch him devour whatever new thing you’ve made. 

But the more you see him, the greedier you get. 

When he does have time, he talks you through the mechanics of his job or describes the truck in great detail — until Sam yells at him, “Nobody wants to hear about your damn truck, Buck!” Then he’s flushing and saying sorry for boring you. You tell him in honesty that he could never bore you. 

Suddenly, your days seem a little brighter. Instead of the humdrum life you’ve crafted for yourself, your pulse skips every time you think of something new to make for the station. You think of them as new friends. All of them know you by name and welcome you in with no hesitation. 

It feels as if you’re making strides in getting to know Bucky, in getting him to actually like you. Not necessarily in a romantic way, just as two people becoming friends. 

However, as you’re approaching the station late one day (your oven was being difficult), you find that the team is already on the upper level of the base having lunch. You reach for the stairway when you hear it. 

“Come on, Buck, you know she’s got a crush on you,” Sam teases. The others titter in agreement. 

Heat floods your cheeks. 

“Quit it, Wilson,” Bucky growls.

“What? She too much for you?” Sam presses with a chuckle. 

“She’s a handful, that’s for sure,” you hear Bucky mutter.

You hear your heart hit the ground. Laughter ripples through the space but there’s a ringing in your ears and your feet are moving before you can think twice. 

Handful. A handful.

All this time, you thought you were doing something nice, but you didn’t realize you were actually bothering them. The street before you blurs as tears prick your eyes. Your breaths come out shallow as you trudge all the way home, the baked goods in your hands suddenly feeling like deadweight. 

It’s only when you’re in the safety of your apartment that you allow yourself to breathe. At least as much as you can. You end up clearing out that tray on your own that evening with a depressing movie on screen.

From that point, you can’t imagine coming in to face them. You can’t bear the thought of pitying looks from the team or how Bucky is probably forced to smile to welcome you. Public servants and all. The last thing you want to do is inconvenience them when they’ve got a lot on their plates.

So you stop coming. You instead bury yourself in work, taking on more responsibility to keep your mind distracted — far away from the thought of being a handful. There are some nights when that melancholy morphs into irritation, how you wish you could spite him for not telling you the truth sooner. And then you realize that it’s not on him; you chose to do this. He was simply being kind.

You had mistaken that kindness for something more. 

It’s been a few days since you last came and none of them have said a thing. It’s not as if you ever traded phone numbers. At least this will be a clean slate. You can forget this fluke ever happened.

You’re trying a new chicken recipe, frowning at your box of butter, when a knock sounds on your door. Your instinct is to sniff the air, wondering if the scent has permeated through the halls and your neighbor Mr. Tilman is here to complain again. 

Wiping your hands on your kitchen towel, you swing the door open to find… not Mr. Tilman.

Instead, Bucky stands at your door. 

He’s still in his fire station t-shirt. 

He still looks delicious.

Those eyes that you’ve grown to adore light up when they see you. He smiles softly, “Hey.”

Your throat is dry. “Uh, hi.”

He looks you up and down and you realize now your disheveled state. Hair a mess, your oversized shirt is ratty and ends at your thighs. You reach up instinctively to try and fix yourself. 

“You open your door to everyone like that?” His gaze flicks to your bare legs before going back up, cheeks a little pinker.

“Um, I thought you were Mr. Tilman. He doesn’t like it when I use too many spices.”

“You open your door to Mr. Tilman like that?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth quirked up in amusement.

You fight back a smile and shake your head. “No, not usually. I was still distracted with my cooking when you knocked. Can I help you with something?”

Bucky shifts a little nervously then and you finally notice the crinkling plastic bag in his hands. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I thought you were sick so I brought over some chicken soup. I can’t cook for the life of me so I bought it. I can promise it’s safe.” 

Dammit. How are you supposed to get over this man when he does things like this?

“Oh, thank you,” you swallow thickly.

“You don’t look sick though.”

“I’m… not,” you say slowly, unsure of how to approach this situation.

“No, you’re not,” Bucky responds softly, “we missed seeing you around.” 

Your feet shuffle closer together as you look down at them instead of him. “Yeah, it’s been busy.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

You look up and laugh awkwardly. The lie goes straight past your teeth. “No, no. Just work.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow, lips tightening. He knows. You should’ve spent the past few days learning how to fib instead of moping. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No. Why would something be wrong?”

Real smooth. 

Saved by the bell, your fire alarm begins beeping aggressively. You’ve forgotten your chicken. A curse slips past your lips as you hurry back in but Bucky beats you to it. He’s switching off your stove, telling you not to touch the pan, and reaching over to toggle with the alarm. 

And now the two of you are in your kitchen, standing side by side watching as the oil pops in your pan and your chicken is completely burnt to a crisp. 

“Well, guess that recipe didn’t work,” you joke to break the tension. 

Bucky is silent for a moment before he asks quietly, “Did I do something?”

“What?” You whip up to face him. 

“Is work really the reason why you haven’t been coming around?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Yeah,” you choke out a laugh again, “of course.”

The smile he gives you is almost sorrowful. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Flinching, you shift your gaze away this time. 

“If I did something, I want to apologize. I’d appreciate it if you told me so I can properly say sorry and so I don’t do it again.” 

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shake your head, “believe me. It’s fine.”

“Then why?” 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, teeth sinking into your bottom one. Bucky’s gaze falls briefly again to your mouth before it returns to you. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”

His eyes flicker in surprise. “Why would you be a bother?”

“You guys are obviously busy and I don’t want to intrude—”

“You don’t— you could never intrude,” Bucky interjects softly, “what would give you that idea?”

You clear your throat and shrug.

“I lo—” he stops, flushing lightly, “We love having you there. All of us. We look forward to your visits, you know. Sam won’t shut up about everything you make. We might’ve taken you for granted and I am sorry for that, but I want you to know that you could never be a bother.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur softly. “I’ll, um, come by tomorrow maybe.”

“And you don’t have to bring anything all the time. You must be busy with work too. Could just swing by to chat with us. Steve also hosts weekly game nights with Nat and you’re more than welcome to join us.”

Now it’s your turn to be flustered as you wave him off. “No, no, that’s for your team.”

“People bring their plus ones too, it’s very casual.”

“Yeah, but I’m not really anyone’s plus one,” you laugh lightly.

Bucky digs his fingers into his pockets and you see that his neck and ears are stained red. His gaze shifts around the room before they fly back to you. Honest blue eyes. “You could be mine.”

Your heart skips. 

“I mean, you don’t have to— I just, you know, it would be nice. Of course, you don’t have to be my plus one. You could be someone else’s — scratch that, you could be the team’s overall plus one, but I think it would be nice if you were mine…” Bucky trails off and his usually tanned skin flushes a deeper and deeper shade of scarlet. 

You’re not sure how to respond to this. Just days ago, you heard him call you a handful. You thought you were too much. You don’t know what to make of this.

Is he just being kind? Maybe he feels bad that you’ve spent weeks coming around and now he wants to repay the favor.

“You know you don’t have to feel bad and invite me,” you gently say. 

“I don’t—” he looks taken aback, “I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m, shit, I’m inviting you because I want you there.” 

“Why?”

Bucky rubs his face aggressively, groaning silently to himself. “I feel like I’m going about this the wrong way. I… really like you.” Your heart stutters again, your breath hitching in your throat. “I wanted to ask you out properly, but I wasn’t sure if that would cross any professional boundaries, given how we met. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. If I’ve misinterpreted anything you’ve done, please let me know. I just— you were coming around and the team was saying that you came around to see me — and I guess I got my hopes up.”

You’re silent, and your nonresponse makes him squirm. 

Why would he— this doesn’t make any sense. You heard him loud and clear at the station, right? 

“But I thought you thought I was a handful,” you whisper. 

“What?” He blanches, “What would make you think that?”

“I heard you,” you admit shamefully, “last time I came around the station. I thought— I figured I was being a nuisance so I didn’t want to overstep anymore.”

The gears are turning in his mind as he seemingly retraces his steps. You see the moment he remembers. His face pales. “Oh, fuck, oh god. No, shit. No, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s okay! Look, it’s totally fine. I get it. I can be intense and I don’t want to put that pressure on you.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, his eyes are kind and stern at the same time as he delivers his explanation. “I only said you’re a handful because you do so much and I don’t know if I could ever do enough to return the favor. I’ve been thinking about asking you out and I haven’t really… dated in a while — or ever for that matter — and I wanted to do it right. I wanted to do right by you. Fuck, I didn’t mean handful in that way, I swear.” 

“Oh.”

“God, I’m an idiot,” Bucky moans, “I’m so sorry. Shit, you must’ve thought— I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re a bother. You’re not. You’re the best part of my day. Every day, I look forward to coming into work knowing I was going to see you in the afternoon. I prayed so that we wouldn’t get called out during those hours.”

Your lips part.

He takes a deep breath, “That first day you didn’t come, I was worried that something happened, but the others thought I would be too much if I stopped by. Not to mention, incredibly inappropriate since I know your address from that first time. But shit, I missed you that day. I didn’t realize how much I loved seeing you every day until that first day. Then you stopped coming and I couldn’t stop worrying so Nat finally unofficially greenlit me to check on you and I came straight here. But then I thought that you were sick so I stopped by to get soup and— now I’m rambling. You didn’t ask for all that. I just need you to know that you could never be a bother to me. Never. Even if you were a handful, I can’t imagine anyone else taking care of you— I don’t want to imagine that.”

“Bucky—”

“And that makes me really selfish right? But I want to be the first person you call if anything happens. If something good or bad happens, I want you to tell me first. Because I like you so, so much. I should’ve made that clear earlier. But, again, if all this makes you uncomfortable, then tell me. I’ll leave. No hard feelings.”

“Bucky!”

“Yes,” he shuts up.

“I—” you realize now that you should’ve prepared what to say, but how are you expected to respond to that? “Thank you, um, for clarifying. I don’t even know what to say. I can confirm that I was coming around mainly to see you,” you say, embarrassment written all over your face at your confession, “you’re the best part of my day too. I should’ve just talked to you instead of jumping to conclusions.” 

His face is marred by a wince as he offers you an apologetic look. “No, I understand why you did. I should’ve phrased it better.”

“Well, at least that’s cleared up,” you smile, “but I do… like you too, that is. Professional code be damned, I would’ve said yes if you asked me on a date.”

The smile he gives you is blinding and you vow then and there that you would spend the rest of your life making sure he keeps that expression on his face. 

“Well, since your dinner is… unsalvagable,” Bucky begins, glancing briefly at the mess on your stove, “how about I take you out for dinner? As a date.”

You smile. “I’d love that.”

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