✩aspiring bimbo✩

"You don't want to try something different for a change?" she asks, blowing on her steaming mug of coffee. "Maybe a nice dinner? Or miniature golf? Bowling, maybe?"

Nick puts down his spoon, and your stomach turns with the tone of the room.

"Dad always took me to Pizza Hut on my birthday," Nick says calmly. "It's my birthday. That's where I want to go."

"He's been gone for almost ten years, honey."

You wish you'd slept in.

"It's called tradition."

"Remember when you turned 8, and we had that joint party for you and Bradley at McDonald's?" she smiles, ignoring his clenched jaw and reddening face. "That was so cute, I love those pictures."

"Yeah, that was fun," Nick nods. "Until the pimply-faced teenager made me stand next to the Hamburglar sign and told me I was too big to play at my own birthday party."

"You played for hours before that," she argues. "It was time to go, anyway."

It wasn't. It was one of the most memorable injustices of your childhood. You refused to go back in without him, and sat on the sidelines together and fumed for nearly an hour while his scrawny rat-faced cousin and his friends kept playing, and their moms kept talking. The next year, Nick's dad decided he was too old for kid stuff, so the Pizza Hut tradition began.

No more themed or joint parties with cousins he didn't like. No more inviting the whole class or too many relatives. No more pin the tail on the donkey or party favors. Just Nick and you and his parents and a buffet full of endless pizza-adjacent options.

What was so wrong with that?

"I'm going to Pizza Hut," Nick reiterates. "Are you coming with me or not?"

Nick's mom looks to you, and you wish you were anywhere else.

"Honey, I know you think you have to uphold your father's traditions, but you really don't." There's a sort of begging in her tone. "He's gone. You can do whatever you want."

"I want to go to Pizza Hut."

She asked for it. Literally.

"Fine," she says, getting up from the table and putting her coffee cup in the sink with a clunk. "If you never want to stray outside of your comfort zone, that's on you."

Carol-Ann leaves the room. Her bedroom door slams, and Nick flinches. And then he unclenches his jaw, and his eyes meet yours.

"You still with me?" he asks quietly.

"Always," you smile.

Nick smiles back and reaches for your hand. You give it a supportive squeeze, and when he's recharged, you both go back to your cereal.

"Oh my God!" He spits a mushy mouthful back into his bowl. "It's like baby food!"

You laugh and take both bowls of soggy cereal to the sink to dump them... in Carol-Anne's nearly-full coffee cup.

For the first time in Nick's life, his mother didn't celebrate his birthday with him. She baked him a cake, just like she always did, and left it on the table when she left for work. She was going on a date tonight. He pretended like he didn't care, but you know it hurt him. His mom chose a date over her son. On his birthday. With a dentist.

So you got cleaned up after work and went without her to the Pizza Hut where Nick's dad brought him on his 9th, 10th, and 11th birthdays. His dad passed away before the 12th… but you came back here anyway.

When he pulled into the parking lot, you spotted a large group of kids heading inside, and wanted to give them time to get settled. So you could sit somewhere far away and not have to listen to them all night.

"Do you think she was right?" Nick asks while you wait it out.

"I think it's your damn birthday, and you can do whatever you want."

Nick leans forward, crossing his arms and resting his chin on the steering wheel.

"Am I boring?"

"If you are, then I am too," you offer.

"I just…" he sighs. "I like it here. I feel like if Dad ever came back, this is the day and the place he'd come find me. Is that stupid?"

"No," you smile, scooting across the bench seat to rub his back. A person shouldn't be this tense on his birthday. "I think that's beautiful."

"I'm a sap."

"You're my sap," you counter. Nick turns his head toward you and gives you a half-hearted smile. "Wanna know what I think?"

"Obviously."

"I think that if you were even a little bit interested in bowling or mini golf, you wouldn't have to be tricked into them."

Nick snorts. "I do hate sports."

He does, and yet... his mother has a history of tricking him into doing things he hates. Nick cannot bowl to save his life, and the last time she dragged him to miniature golf, he nearly killed someone when he accidentally let the club go. She wants so desperately for him to be more outgoing. More adventurous. But he's a guy who lies awake at night and replays every awkward move he's ever made and rehearses conversations he'll never have. He likes puzzles and critical thinking and having a schedule. He actually reads the manuals that come with appliances and has never met a box of furniture pieces he couldn't assemble. Nick will never be wild and spontaneous, and you love that about him. You always have.

His dad understood that. Why can't his mom?

"I love this tradition," you admit, feeling a surge of pride at Nick's refusal to back down from his birthday plans. "As a kid who had very few traditions, especially in the birthday department, I kinda looked forward to your birthday more than mine."

"Really?"

He's on the hook. With just a little more effort, you can reel him in and pull him out of this sad clown spiral.

"Really," you confirm. "You'd agree that I consume a respectable amount of pizza for the average American youth, yes?"

"Yes," Nick laughs.

"Well, pizza tastes best on your birthday," you insist. "I don't know what it is. Is it the lighting from those chandeliers that I'm totally gonna steal one day? The red lights that keep it hot on the buffet? The fact that the pizza bypasses the cardboard box we usually end up eating it from? The crispness of the sodas in those delightful red cups? The free refills? Is it because we always top it all off with a brownie sundae? I don't know, Nick. Maybe it's just the company. But I look forward to this day all year."

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For loving pizza?" you wonder.

"For psyching me up."

"Can't believe I have to psych you up for pizza, but hey: A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," you joke. He cracks a grin that reminds you of that first ray of sunshine after a rainy day. "You ready for an all-new experience, Nicholas A?"

"All-new?"

"You've never taken a girlfriend to Pizza Hut for your birthday, y'know," you wink.

"You're right," he laughs, sitting back in his seat, finally looking relaxed.

"We're unsupervised," you grin. "We could be gross about it. We could sit too close on the same side of a booth. We could eat off each other's plates. We could share a drink. We could each bite the end of a mozzarella stick and pull back and see how far the cheese will stretch."

"Will you feed me a brownie?" he asks.

"Of course I will."

"Then what are we waiting for?" he laughs, getting out of the car. You grin and follow, happy to help your favorite person in the world celebrate his birthday the way he wants to.

Nick doesn't like rides. Doesn't trust them. Every time another carnival appears on the news because of an injured rider or a malfunctioning piece of equipment caught on camera, he'll point and say, "SEE?" as if you've ever questioned him on the subject. You go where he goes. If he's not going on a ride, you're not either.

So what you do is mostly walk around. Maybe split something fried. Every once in a while, he'll get suckered into a game and lose a pocketful of quarters, just like at the arcade.

This year, it's gonna be a little different.

Because you're together.

Every year, when you were in school, the carnival served as a kind of announcement. That's how you knew who was dating who. Who'd hooked up in the few weeks since school let out. Who totally had something going on with his girlfriend's best friend all along. Who's definitely going all the way this summer. Who's older out-of-town boyfriend was actually real, and who was lying for sure.

You've never held hands with anyone at the carnival before.

Until now.

"It feels different this year," he muses, face alight with pride.

Pride at not just being there with his best friend. You've always been together, but now you're together together and it does indeed feel different.

"Think we'd be the talk of the school if we were going back?" you tease.

"Like anybody knew who we were," he scoffs, but he's grinning.

Yeah, you flew under the radar. But you did it together.

You make a loop through the fairgrounds, scoping out the food options and the games and the teenagers walking around with hands shoved into their significant others' back pockets. You're glad you're not those kinds of people.

"Can I confess something?" Nick asks quietly.

"Is it that you want to walk around with your hand in my back pocket like the cool kids?" you tease.

Nick nudges your shoulder with his, and you grin.

"I don't remember what year it was, but I wanna say we were twelve or thirteen," he begins, "and we were standing in a long line for corn dogs and I was looking around… and there was a couple on the ferris wheel. They stopped on top and they kissed and it was like… probably the most romantic thing I've ever seen. I thought about it a lot."

"Yeah?" you ask, heart bursting with affection.

Nick nods, and things go quiet for a minute. You keep walking, and when the ferris wheel's line comes into view, he takes a deep breath.

"So uh…" he finally says, "you wanna?"

"You wanna go on a carnival ride?" you ask.

Nick nods.

"Nick, you don't like heights or--"

"Look, I've been thinking about this for years, okay?" he interrupts. "And now, I have a chance. With you."

He's really been thinking about kissing you on top of a ferris wheel for years?

"Okay," you whisper, squeezing his hand. You pull him in for a quick kiss, then get in line. And then he realizes you need tickets for this, so you hold the place in line while he runs to the nearest ticket booth. He comes back with enough for exactly one ride for the two of you. You'll make sure it's a good one.

Nick shifts nervously from foot to foot while you wait. He watches the wheel, and you can see him counting how many times it goes around and how long each chair sits on top. This is going to be interesting.

"Next," the grizzled carnie eventually calls, and you and Nick walk up the slanted metal ramp and sit in a lightly padded seat. A bar that will definitely keep you from falling out is swung across in front of you, and clinks as it's put into place. Nick grabs it immediately, giving it a shake to make sure it's really latched. "No rocking, no standing, no spitting," the guy barks, pulling a lever and sending you forward.

Nick's body goes rigid. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, and it's not from the heat. His hands grasp the "safety" bar in a white-knuckle grip.

"It's okay," you whisper, scooting closer as slowly as you can, to minimize the shake. With your thigh pressed firmly against his, you put a hand on his knee. "It's okay," you repeat. "Deep breaths."

Nick breathes in deep at your instruction.

And then the fucking thing moves again, sending you upward with a jolt. Nick holds his breath, scrunching his face and clenching his fists around the bar.

"It's okay," you say again, slipping an arm across the back of the metal chair. "He's just loading and unloading people. It'll stop being so jerky once everyone's on."

As soon as Nick opens his eyes, the wheel jerks again, sending you even higher.

"Look," you whisper, closing the distance and wrapping your arm around him. You lean your chin on Nick's shoulder. "We can see so much from up here. Is that the weird guy from down the street?"

You point, and Nick follows your finger.

"I don't think so," he breathes. You know it's not, but you need him to focus on something other than the thought of plummeting to the ground.

Another jolt, and another rise.

"Hey, there's two cotton candy vendors," you notice, pointing to both. Nick's head leans against yours, and you feel him relaxing just a little bit.

"Wonder if they're selling competing colors," he jokes.

"We'll have to go investigate when we get off of this," you smile.

"If we live that long," he grumbles.

"You're alright," you assure him, putting a hand on top of one of his, which is clenching the safety bar like it owes him money.

One more jolt, and you're sitting at the top.

"We made it to the top," you whisper, lifting your head to look at him. He's still stiff, but looks slightly less terrified than he did at takeoff.

"I can't kiss you, though," he says quietly, staring straight ahead.

"Why?"

"I'm scared I might puke on you instead."

You laugh in surprise, and a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take," you tell him. "Since we came all the way up here and all."

"You sure?"

You give him a pleading look, and he leans in slightly. You meet him in the middle, hoping desperately that the movement doesn't make the chair rock, and give Nick his romantic kiss at the top of the ferris wheel that he's always wanted. When you pull apart, he has a dazed look on his face.

"Well?" you ask. "Was it everything you hoped for?"

"Yeah," he grins, cheeks pink and forehead still sweaty. "Alright, mission accomplished, we gotta flag down this guy and tell him to let us off now."

You laugh and lean your head on his shoulder, holding the hand that's no longer clenched around the safety bar.

You’re running late, of fucking course you are. Your alarm hadn’t been loud enough, there was traffic you weren’t used to, your maps had cut out halfway to the convention center, and your iced coffee had exploded in the cupholder when you hit a pothole too hard. Now you’re practically sprinting down the hall with your tattoo gear in tow, muttering curses too low for anyone to hear and dodging attendees in full cosplay. Your phone buzzes again in your back pocket, but you couldn’t be bothered to pull it out in a moment like this. It was probably Harper, anyway. She was your booth mate, a fellow artist in the shop back home. And she had definitely been blowing up your phone since you missed your original check-in time that morning. Then comes another buzz, and another. So you sigh, clutching what was left of your coffee between your body and arm, reaching your now free hand back to fish it out. You tap the screen with your thumb, scanning the messages as you push through the crowd.

Harper had messaged. Four times. 

where are you??

girl the event coordinator is asking questions

you’re lucky ur hot

but also HURRY UP

You bite your lip, trying to hide your growing smile. Harper always sounds mildly murderous over text, but you know she’s just flustered with the situation. She hates doing the admin part of the job and you, unfortunately, had promised you’d handle everything about setup today and had slept right through your meeting time.

“Fuck me,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head as you press the elevator call button like it’ll go just a bit faster if you touch it enough. You bounce on the balls of your feet. Your shoulders are tight, your backpack awkward and hard against your back. You tug one of the straps a bit closer, glancing at your phone again, before you begin thumbing out a reply to Harper.

30 sec. if i don’t die waiting for the elevator first

The elevator dings and the doors open. You lunge forward, your body nearly colliding with the tall, broad-shouldered guy stepping in from the other side. He’s as equally distracted as you are, his own phone the center of his attention. And his eyebrows are drawn down into an annoyed scowl. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you mumble, side stepping back from him and squeezing yourself into the corner of the elevator with a breathless little laugh.

“No worries,” he replies absently, so focused he barely glanced away from the screen in front of him.

You immediately clock his haircut— short, but not too short— he was wearing a casual dark tee stretched over full arms, and worn jeans in a dark wash denim. You let your eyes linger for a moment, he wasn’t paying any attention to you anyway. He smelled faintly of sandalwood and downy fabric softener— the april fresh scent. Which you only knew as it was the fabric softener you used for your own laundry. The scent combination shouldn’t be as sexy as it somehow is, but here he was— smelling like your fresh laundry and it made your head spin just a little. He leans his back against the wall opposite you and sighs heavily, scrolling through his messages with the same frustration you’re feeling. The doors slide shut slower than you expect and the elevator jerks once, starts its ascent— and then promptly stops not even five seconds later with a loud and drawn out mechanical groan, metal scraping against metal, and an aggressively long ding.

You both freeze. You let out a sigh, deep from your chest. 

“…Was that supposed to happen?” you ask softly, more to yourself as your head thumps back against the wall for just a moment. Your gaze drifts over to him. 

Downy guy lifts his head, finally looking at you. His eyes are hazel, they’re a little bloodshot, there’s dark circles under his eyes. By the looks of it, he’s had a long morning too. 

“Suppose we’re in a movie now,” he chuckles softly, his lips pulling together in a smile. He’d had just a bit of facial hair, like he’d shaved a few days before— not the mustache though. That was trimmed up nice and neat. “One where we’re about to get murdered in a malfunctioning elevator.”

You blink at him and then let out a laugh yourself. “Oh fucking great. I hope you brought snacks. I didn’t even eat breakfast on my way out.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he slides his phone into his back pocket. “Afraid not. Guess we’ll have to fight for survival. First one to cannibalism wins.”

“I’ll go for the calves. They look tender.” You tease, looking down at his denim clad legs for just a moment before meeting his eyes again. 

He throws his head back, and the laugh that your joke brings out is loud, deep, and a little rough around the edges. You love it. The sound curled around your ribs like he was wrapping you in a tight hug. He offers you a hand to shake. “Derrick. Most people call me Mac.”

You raise an eyebrow and shake his hand. His grip is firm, the palm of his hand warm, and definitely not as clammy as yours had been. “Nice to meet you, Mac. I’m the poor soul you’ll have to live with in here when you start hallucinating from dehydration.”

He grins, giving that hand in his a squeeze before he retreats. “Lucky me.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you both push away from the walls you’re standing against. When you move, you both start pushing buttons like if you try hard enough, the elevator will start moving again. But, nothing happens. You try the emergency call button next. There’s a faint buzz that echoes throughout the small space, and then a voice crackles through the speaker, “Uhm… Hi, yes. We know. Maintenance is working on it. Might be a bit but we’re trying.”

“A bit?” you repeat, eyes wide.

The voice says nothing else but the speaker clicks off.

Mac pinches the bridge of his nose, letting his eyes flutter closed. “I swear to God. This is what I get for letting Tommy talk me into this.”

“You here for the convention?” you ask softly, letting your bag slide off your back and setting it carefully on the floor, so you don’t spill any of the contents. You place a hand on the wall, moving to sit down cross legged and you lean back against the wall. The ugly blueish grey carpet expansive beneath you and scratchy against the skin of your calves as you relax. There’s no point in standing when you’re about to be here indefinitely.

He nods in response, sliding down the wall to sit across from you. “Yeah. Some buddies of mine wanted to meet up. Get some dumb matching ink, drink cheap beer, flirt with the pretty artists who are way out of all of our leagues.” 

You raise a brow and laugh, cringing at how casually he says matching ink, and you shake your head picking at one of the rips in your jeans. “Bold of them to assume we flirt back.” Your voice is quieter than before, but just as teasing. 

“Oh, they’re truly delusional. One of ‘em tried to flirt with a barista once by saying, ‘Are you made of Stardust? Because every time you smile, the universe makes a wish.’”

“That’s… deeply troubling.”

“You have no idea.” He chuckles softly and leans his head back against the wall. His arms rest against his knees, locking his hands together.

Your phone buzzes again, so you shift and pull your phone from your pocket. You sigh, there’s another text from Harper. 

I’m going to kill you and it won’t be pretty

You snort and hold up your phone, turning it around so Mac can see the screen, “My booth mate. She’s handling my absence very maturely it seems.” Once he reads it, you turn your phone back to face you, trying to send a response. But each message fails. 

He grins, reading over the message and putting your earlier comment together. “You’re working the convention then?”

“Yeah. Tattoo artist. Harper and I have a booth together. We’re doing small flash all weekend. Wanted to enter a piece in the show, but all of my canvases backed out pretty last minute.” You explain and shrug, letting out a soft smile as you look Mac over. 

He whistles low and then chuckles. “Now I’m really lucky. Trapped in a metal box with one of the real artists.”

You raise your eyebrows again, clearly amused. “Are you flirting with me, Mac?”

He moves his arms behind him, placing his hands on the floor and then he leans back on his palms, a smirk blooming across his face. “That depends. Is it working?”

You pretend to consider. “Mm. Ask me again in an hour, if we’re still stuck in here and I haven’t eaten you yet, you might be in with a shot.” You send a wink his way, casually flirting right back. And Mac just grins. 

The next hour drags so slowly and then flies by so quickly at the same time. Mac is very easy to talk to— he’s laid back, funny, in a way that is so dry and understated. His stories make you laugh until your stomach hurts. He tells you about his team; his brothers it seems, about what he does for work, and all about the dumb bets they make with each other to pass the time on their deployments. 

So in return, you tell him about clients who want the most ridiculous tattoos. You told him about the time you had the chance to create a pretty lady with an astronaut helmet for a head, and about how Harper had once accidentally hit on a client’s dad during that client’s first tattoo.

“Okay, that’s worse than the stardust line,” Mac chuckles softly, grinning to himself.

“Right!? And she still insists it wasn’t weird. The kid looked absolutely mortified.”

He shakes his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. He can’t imagine a better way to have spent this fucked up day. He hadn’t been excited for this, but now here he is— enjoying every single second, hoping it wouldn’t have to end. “I just gotta say, if we never get out of here, this might be the best version of hell that I could imagine.”

That catches you off guard, “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, dropping his eyes. He can’t look at you as he says it. “Think about it. We’re trapped in a suspended box with no service and no food. But you’re here. So, y’know… It’s not so bad.”

You feel warmth begin to creep up your neck and settle in every extremity you have. “Careful, Mac. That almost sounded smooth.”

“Almost?”

“Almost.”

By the time that same voice from earlier finally crackles back through the speaker saying the fire department is on its way, you’re sitting shoulder to shoulder with him. You’re sharing space like you’ve known each other longer than two hours. You’ve learned he has two dogs— one saluki named, Pippa, and an elderly Brittany spaniel named, Jazz (his family had gotten her when he was 15 and she had somehow weaseled her way into Coronado with him)— a house in California, a little scar on his chin from a bar fight when he was twenty that’s barely visible now, and a deep fear of lightning.

You’ve told him about your love for horror movies, your habit of stress-buying funky socks, and how you’re living your childhood dream. That makes him smile, which in turn makes your cheeks feel hot. 

When the doors finally drag open. There’s a crowd of a few men dressed in black fire department t-shirts and a sweaty-looking maintenance man who waves you forward with an exhausted “You’re good now,” but neither of you moves right away.

Mac brings it in himself to stand first. He reaches down and offers his hand to you again. “Y’know, since we didn’t die in there or have to eat each other,” he smiles, “how about I buy you a drink later? For surviving that with me.”

You hesitate just long enough to watch his expression twitch with nerves, then you take his hand and nod. You pull yourself up until you’re standing, speaking softly as you reach down and tug your bag back up onto your shoulders. “Yeah. Alright. I’m down. But only if you swing by my booth first. Harper will kill me if I don’t bring you as proof.”

“Proof for what?”

“That I didn’t just ghost her messages and get lost in a stairwell.”

He chuckles, following you out into the fresh air of the hallway. Suddenly, in the bigger, more open space, you start to feel the nerves a bit more. “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he says. “Booth number?”

“Oh, uhm… Seventeen. Right near the guy selling those anime airbrushed shirts.”

“Oh God,” Mac groans. “I can already feel my serotonin levels dropping by the second.”

You’re halfway down the hall, Mac in tow, when you hear your name being called. Harper is speed-walking toward you, anger painted her features— her face redder than you had ever seen her before.

“Don’t say anything, I have a good reason,” you warn her quickly, tossing your hands up in mock surrender. “I was trapped in an elevator with a very nice man.” You drop your voice so only she can hear, “who might even be my soulmate. It’s been a day.”

Harper stops in her tracks, her eyes jumping to Mac. Who gives her a sheepish wave when he notices her attention is on him. Her mouth drops open and then she closes it promptly, clearing her throat. “Okay. You’re forgiven. For now.”

Mac mock salutes. “Hi. I’m the excuse.”

Harper stares at him for a beat longer, then turns on her heel to head back to the booth. “Yeah. Fair enough. Carry on.”

You flash Mac a grin and nudge his arm. “See you tonight for that drink then?”

He leans in toward you just a little. “I’ll be the guy hovering near those airbrush shirts. Trying to recover from this disgusting case of elevator Stockholm syndrome.”

You wink at him and then start to hurry after your friend. “Bring your wallet, sailor.”

He watches you go, his head tilted slightly, that crooked smile still plastered on his face like he can’t quite believe his luck as he watches you laugh with Harper. And then he’s whispering so quiet he knows you can’t hear him. “I’m a pilot.” 

Neither can you.

You push through the heavy glass doors at ten minutes to nine and the air conditioning hits your bare arms like you’ve stepped into the freezer aisle at the grocery store. It prickles your skin almost instantly— letting little goosebumps raise along your exposed forearms. The floor tiles in the food court are freshly mopped and slick beneath your sneakers. The industrial cleaner the janitor uses is fighting a losing battle against old grease and the cinnamon sugar that’s lived here probably longer than you have been alive. 

Your footsteps echo and carry further down the corridor than they will in the coming hour. The skylights above are letting in thin strips of pale morning light, landing in soft triangles against the floor. You can hear one of the security guards cough as you pass their station. It’s so early the fountains aren’t even on yet. But the escalators are moving, signaling that the day is about to begin. 

The security gate for Roli Poli is stuck halfway up when you walk up, so you duck under it. The metal rattles faintly over your head as you move. Inside, the ovens haven’t even fully heated up yet— but you can feel the building warmth radiating from the back all the way into the lobby. Dough is proofing in silver trays along the counters, rising with a faint yeasty sweetness clinging to the air. It’s a scent you’ve come to be quite familiar with over the last year. You see that someone left a bag of shredded mozzarella open on the back shelf overnight, and toss it into garbage while you tuck your backpack away on the hook. After leaving a note on the desk in the back about the mozzarella, you move on to your opening duties.

By eleven, the whole restaurant will smell like tomato sauce and hot cheese. By noon, you’ll feel it in your bones and the smell will never leave your hair. When you brush it later tonight, you’ll catch the scent of oregano and grease permeating from the strands. 

Across the corridor, Circuit Shack’s lights start to flicker on one by one. 

You can see it from the prep table if you angle your head just right, pretending to be doing anything but watching. The store starts to glow in slow stages— first it’s the harsh white above the register and then the softer strip lighting inside the display cases. 

You can see him there inside the glass, already clocked in for the day. 

Nicholas. 

Nick. 

His yellow polo is tucked into his jeans neatly, the red circuit shack logo stitched over his chest. His hair is combed back neatly, maybe weighed down with a little bit of water from the rain this morning. 

You tell yourself you’re only looking because there’s nothing else to look at yet. That he’s the only interesting thing to fill your time with this morning. But even telling yourself that? You can’t help the heat that creeps up the back of your neck. 

He steps over to a display case, the fluorescent lights lighting his beautiful face and the rest of the room up fully now. A row of portable CD players glints from the case in front of him, the silver and black plastic catches the light. Headphones hang in stiff packaging, and there’s a cardboard cutout of some musician with a guitar near the register. If only you could be that close to him all day. 

You turn back to the dough in front of you before anyone— primarily Maria, a coworker who can not for the life of her, stay out of your business— can catch you staring. And by the time the lunch rush starts? Everything around you starts to feel and sound more like itself. 

Sneakers of those who roam the mall to stay out of their homes squeak against tile. The arcade next door starts up its chorus of beeps and teenage cheers. You can imagine the amount of daily ticket explosions over there, and the sound of that stupid repetitive coin drop chime that has burrowed its way into your skull. The blender at Orange Julius grinds down ice in violent bursts. And the pretzel stand sprinkles salt over finished pretzels. Somewhere, you swear you can hear a toddler scream too. 

The air is starting to grow thick with overlapping— and overwhelming— smells now that the mall is springing to life. You can make out the garlic knots mostly and the old frying oil from the mozzarella sticks. Even the pretzel stand smells start wafting in. You almost choke on the sugary perfume drifting off the girls in line in platform sandals, short skirts, and glossy lips. You could never look like them. And maybe that’s why Nick had yet to give you the time of day. 

You’re wiping down the front counter when the bell over the door starts to jingle. You don’t have to look up right away to know it’s him. You’d checked the time right before you had picked up a rag and knew he’d be standing inside the pizzeria any minute now. 

It’s gotta be 12:17. 

He always comes in at 12:17. 

You let your eyes flick up to the clock above the soda fountain to confirm what you’re thinking, before you see him find a place in line. He tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks slightly back on his heels while he waits. His shoulders are broad and his eyes look almost golden when the light from the lamp hits them just right. He keeps them geared toward the menu though, even if you’re certain he could recite the entire thing by memory by now— right down to the misspelled items that should have been taken off decades ago. 

You direct your attention to aligning the napkin dispensers on the counter, hoping anyone would take this shift at the front instead. Tough luck. 

“Just go talk to him.” Maria mumbles from behind you, shoving a tray into the oven. 

“I am talking to him.” You whisper back to her, looking over your shoulder. “Every day. 12:20, when he orders.”

“That’s not talking.” She rolls her eyes. 

You shoot her a look, but your heart is starting to pick up speed when you realize it’s his turn to order. 

Up close, he looks warmer under the lights. You think you can smell the metal and cheap plastic from working at Circuit Shack on his skin— desperately trying to be concealed by whatever cologne he’d splashed on that morning. 

“Hey.” He smiles at you, just like he does every single work day. You two must have the same days off, as you see him for 20 minutes, five whole days a week. 

“Hi.” You answer, it comes out softer than you intend it to. You don’t recognize the way you’re speaking. It doesn’t feel quite like your voice belongs to you. Get a hold of yourself. Don’t let a boy reduce you to a puddle on the floor. 

“Uh… Two slices please. Pepperoni and sausage.” He glances at the soda fountain for a moment and hums. “and a cup.” Although you know he never grabs a soda, it’s always the sweet tea off to the side. Every. Single. Day. 

“You got it.” Your voice cracks and you close your eyes in embarrassment as soon as your back is turned. Your hands feel so much clumsier than usual when you grab his plate. What is wrong with you today? The slices slide forward under the heat lamp, cheese bubbling faintly at the edges. There’s little beads of grease forming towards the crust that makes you want to gag. The smell starts intensifying, hot tomato, browned mozzarella, sausage spiced with fennel. 

You can feel him watching you and you turn around too fast when he speaks up. 

“You work everyday?” He asks. 

You just nod, “most days,”

He nods himself. Has he noticed you in the same way you’ve noticed him? He must realize a day never passes without seeing you in the building and for some reason, knowing that he knows feels more stressful than thinking he doesn’t. You can feel something warm settle behind your ribs, but as the feeling makes its way higher through your body, you start to feel a little dizzy. 

He pays in cash, like he always does. His fingers briefly brushing against yours as he hands over the folded bills. You give him his plate and cup and try your hardest not to actually faint. 

“Thanks.” He smiles. God, is that smile the most lovely you’ve ever seen?

“Yeah.” is all you can manage. 

He goes to his usual table by the door. One of the legs is a bit shorter than the others, so it wobbles if someone bumps it. But it’s the closest to the exit. And he does not want to get stuck in here when the second wave of the lunch rush starts. He eats slowly, his gaze drifting out into the corridor. Every now and again he’ll glance over at the mall traffic a few feet away. You can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking. Does he still want to be spending his time with Tierney? Or was that burnt out? Or does he just like to watch the way people lean over the second floor railing with the neon lights from the arcade flickering off the glass. From his spot, you can even get a good look at a mother with an arm full of shopping bags, dragging her toddler down the hall. 

You watch him through the reflection in the soda machine as you wipe it down. So your ogling isn’t as obvious. His shape warps slightly in the chrome surface, but you know the curve of his shoulders by now. 

You think about walking over there. 

Just this once. 

You could sit down across from him, that plastic chair would scrape against the tile, and you could say something normal. Something simple. Something that wouldn’t catch either of you off guard. Like, what do you listen to while you work?

But you don’t. You just keep wiping the machine down instead. Coward. 

The rest of the afternoon passes by slowly. By the time you leave the store, you’re covered in grease, have a new aching burn that you’re sure will scar, and cannot get the shrill laughter of a group of middle school girls who shared one slice of pizza between them all out of your head. You’re absolutely sure that when you step through the threshold of your house, you’ll smell it lingering on your clothes. 

And on the walk back home, your Discman skips. The sound— or lack thereof— is brief, just a quick hiccup in the song, then it fights itself. You don’t think much of it. You’ve dropped the thing before, it’s been jostled around much worse than that. 

Until the next morning when it refuses to turn on at all. 

You sit on the edge of your bed in your half-buttoned uniform. The early morning light slipping in between the slats of your blinds. You rest the Discman in your lap and press play.

Nothing happens. 

So you open it. You close it. You press the button again. Still nothing happens. You go ahead and pop the batteries out, rolling them between your palms like that will somehow magically bring this thing back to life. Your walk will feel so much longer without music and you won’t be able to distract yourself from him as easily. You fall back against your bed, sighing heavily. You can hear the hum of the box fan in the window, a car starting in the driveway, even your neighbor's dog barking. But that does little to stop your wandering mind.

Circuit Shack opens at ten. You start work at nine. You could go after?

You stare at the ceiling, the idea already making your stomach drop. You couldn’t do that. You’d have to actually talk to him if you did that. You groan and pull your pillow over your face. 

Oh no. 

And all day, the broken Discman sits in your locker while you try to work up the courage to walk through those stupid glass doors across the hall. 

And at 12:17, he walks in. Just as you expect him to. 

You’re sweeping this time when he does, pushing crumbs towards a dustpan behind the counter. You glance up and your eyes meet his for a moment. He hesitates for just a second, his lips parting like he might say something to you. But he doesn’t. He steps into line instead. 

When he reaches the counter, he gives you a small, awkward smile. You prop up your broom on a wall behind the counter, moving over to the register. The corners of his mouth tug up and he asks quietly, “you okay?”

“Yeah.” You say a little too quickly and then clear your throat, “Why?”

He shrugs one shoulder, “You look… distracted. I dunno.”

You think your pulse jumps so hard you might pass out. He’s noticed you enough to know that things felt off? You clear your throat again, trying to buy a minute to get your head to stop spinning before you sigh, “My CD player broke. It was… a very quiet walk this morning.”

He perks up a little, his hands sliding into his front pockets. “Yeah?”

You nod, “yeah. It just died on me.”

He nods himself, rocking back on his heels, “that sucks.”

“Yeah… it does.”

There’s a quiet moment where you could say something else. But then the moment stretches longer and longer and it feels too awkward to say anything. He orders his usual and takes the tray. “You could bring it by… If you want.”

You may as well have short circuited at that. 

“To Circuit Shack.” he adds quickly, his cheeks starting to pinken. “I mean… I can look at it. For you.”

You swallow, nodding, the words leaving your mouth before you even have much of a chance to process them. “Oh… Okay.”

He smiles and then retreats over to his table. He looks a bit more tense. Maybe he’s repeating the interaction over in his head as well. 

The rest of your shift feels like you’re straddling a live wire to avoid the shocks. Every single noise seems sharper, the ovens seem hotter, even the blender seems louder. You keep imagining walking into his store, setting the Discman down on the counter, and standing there in front of him under those stupid humming lights, not knowing what to say or do. 

And at 4:30, you finally push open the doors to Circuit Shack. His Circuit Shack. You may as well be opening the doors to Nick himself. Your hands are sweating so bad you think the Discman is going to slip from your fingers. Maybe if it clatters to the ground it’ll fix itself and it’ll save you from making a complete fool of yourself in front of him. The air inside the store is cooler than the air in the corridor. He’s got something playing low from the ceiling speakers— some radio station you aren’t very familiar with. The entire place smells like old plastic. That’s where he gets the smell. The carpet muffles the first few footsteps you take. 

The bell above the door had chimed when you had opened it and he had looked up. He’s behind the counter, fiddling with a display of tapes. His face shifts and you think you see genuine surprise settle in on his features. Was he not expecting you? He told you to stop by. Should you leave? And then his face starts to soften, a look of relief washing over him. 

“Hey, you made it.” He says. 

“Hi.” You smile. Okay. He wanted you to still come, so you step closer. You pull your back pack from your back, digging through it for the CD player. The glass counter is cool beneath your fingertips. You set the Discman down gently onto it. “Uhm… It just won’t turn on.” You explain to him quietly. 

He nods, taking it in his hands. He turns it over between his palms a few times as he inspects it. There’s a faint crease between his eyebrows now. “Mind if I open it?” He asks. 

“You can?”

He laughs, “Not really supposed to. But… yeah.”

So you just nod. 

He disappears into the back room for a moment. You can see him through the open door. His hands are steady and careful as he unscrews a panel. You can hear soft clicking sounds and a quiet swear. You lean against the counter, trying not to make your staring obvious. He keeps working slowly. You can hear the hum of the overhead lights and the shift of the radio into yet another one of the top 40 hits. The way the lights hit his face just right makes your heart thump a little harder in your chest. You swear you can even hear a child squeal just a bit too loudly and be shushed by their mother somewhere beyond the glass. 

He has his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he works and you know the loud exhale of frustration when he’s putting the thing back together comes from him. “Okay.” He says as he walks back out to meet you and you just stand up straighter. He slides the batteries in and snaps the back back on. He presses play. There’s a long pause, one that feels like you’re just going to be buying a new CD player and that this whole thing has been for naught. And then the thing whirs to life. Music starts to spill faintly from the headphones that remain plugged into it. 

You let out a breath. 

He smiles at you. It’s small, shy, but also proud. It spreads across his face slowly until you’re grinning as well. His smile is infectious. “Yeah?” He chuckles. 

You nod, “You fixed it!”

He shrugs his shoulders under that yellow polo, then they settle back down. “It wasn’t too hard.”

You smile and just nod, tapping your fingers against the counter as you notice he’s still holding your Discman in his hands. You have to talk to him. “You come into the pizzeria every day.”

His ears go a little red, but he nods. 

You smile at him, noting how the red spreads slowly across his cheeks as well, “at 12:17.”

He looks at you, surprised that you’d noticed something that small. “You’re always cleaning.” He adds quickly when the silence stretches too long.

Now it’s your turn to feel the heat creep up the back of your neck all the way to your ears. “I… Yeah. Things need it.”

He nods again, trying his best to keep himself composed, “You do a good job.”

A silence follows. It isn’t uncomfortable, but neither of you are sure what to say. And after about a minute and at the same time, you both let out a laugh to fill it. He hands the Discman back over to you, your fingers brushing against his for the second time this week as you take it in your hands. You just slide it into your bag and shift it to your back again. 

“Thanks, Nick.” 

His eyes flick up at his name. He doesn’t remember introducing himself to you. But his expression starts to soften as soon as the sound hits his ears. He hesitates for a moment before shaking his head, a grin spreading, “Yeah, anytime.”

You hover there at the counter, your pulse thudding in your own ears. It’s now or never. “Do you ever…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “Do you ever go to the movies?”

You have to be joking. You want to hide yourself away. Do you ever go to the movies? It’s the only thing to do in this Godforsaken town. Of course he goes to the movies. 

He blinks, raising an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your question. “Uhm… Sometimes.”

“There’s one playing Friday.” You say as you tug your backpack up further on your back, hand tightening around the strap. You can hear yourself breathing and feel your heart working overtime. You can do it. You tap your fingers against the strap, not daring to make eye contact with him. “It’s uhm… Do you wanna go?” You finish the proposal, trying to get it out before you lose what little nerve you have. 

There’s a moment that slips by where he looks like he’s deciding on something more important than spending a meager afternoon with you. Was he just as nervous as you were? Does he like you too? No. You shouldn’t have done this. 

Then he just nods. 

“Yeah.” He grins, “Yeah, I’d like that.”

You swear you can feel your stomach actually flip inside of your body. You have to suppress a shocked laugh. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He echoes you, but his comes out less like a question, smiling. He almost looks relieved. Like he’d been hoping for this encounter just as much as you have. “Seven okay?”

“Seven’s good.” 

And you both stand there smiling at each other like you don’t quite know what to do next. The radio keeps playing some crummy Top 40. The fluorescents seem to hum louder now. Maybe even as loud as your heart feels. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” He says after a few moments. 

“At 12:17?” You tease. 

Another smile crosses his face, somehow this one just a bit shyer. “Yeah… At 12:17.”

When you step back out into the corridor, the air feels warmer than it did when you had gotten there this morning. You can’t pick out whether it’s the interaction you just had, raising your body temperature by a few degrees, or if all the warm bodies shopping all day had caused this. The pretzel stand smells sweeter as you pass. The lights don’t feel as harsh on your eyes. You feel as if you are floating just above the carpet. 

And now, when he walks through the doors of the pizzeria tomorrow, he won’t just be the boy you watch from across the hall. He’ll be the boy you’ll be sitting next to Friday evening. 

You feel his warmth everywhere, along your back, your ribs, your stomach. Eddie's wrapped around you so tightly, somebody looking in wouldn't be able to tell where he ends and you begin. He's got one leg hooked over yours, his arm is tucked tight around your middle, his hand resting against your breast. He's so comfy you don’t want to move. Your face is half-buried in your pillow and his breath is warm against the back of your neck. 

You lie there, listening to him breathe. Then his thumb shifts, rubbing a slow stroke over your chest. It's a sleepy little drag against the fabric. He kisses the back of your neck and yawns. "You awake?" He mumbles softly. 

"Mm," you hum, nodding. 

"Don't wanna get up." He mumbles, his voice rough. 

You smile against your pillow, "We have to eventually."

He presses his face further against your neck and groans quietly, shifting himself just a little closer. "Just five more minutes." You roll your eyes and let your fingers run up and down his forearm until your stomach betrays you with a low, obnoxious growl. He chuckles against your neck. "That wasn't me." 

You huff out a laugh and push at his arm. "I'm starving. Come on." 

He rolls over onto his back, yawning. "Swear to God," he mumbles as he pulls the duvet back to climb out of bed. "If your brother's down there, I'm coming back to bed." 

"He lives here, Ed." 

"And? Doesn't mean I gotta see him before noon." 

You toss him a look as you slide out of bed, grabbing your crumpled pajama pants from the floor to cover the underwear you had slept in. You pull them on, tying the pull string after adjusting them on your hips. Eddie drags himself up too, stretching. His shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of manflesh before he yanks it back down. His hair's a mess, but you're sure that won't be tamed before noon either. 

And wouldn't you know it, your brother is sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal, wide awake, when you step into the kitchen. He glances up when he hears your footsteps, his eyes landing on you. He suddenly laughs, "Oh, that is disgusting." He's got a grin on his face that has you rolling your eyes.

"What?" You ask, sighing as you move towards the cabinet to get to the Eddie & Bats Breakfast Stash basket. 

"Your shirt." He points.

You glance down and your stomach drops. That random powdery blue t-shirt you had thrown on from the floor of your closet hangs from your frame, but a very white shadow of an arm spreads across your middle and curves up with a handprint unmistakeably settled over your chest. "Oh my God." You whisper.

Your brother lets out a full laugh now. "No way! No way you walked down here like that—"

"Shut up." You snap at him, glaring.

Eddie scratches at his forehead, yawning. One hand rests on your lower back and the other reaches into the cabinet to grab your snack basket and pull it down. "Relax." He says softly, "it's just a shirt, not a crime scene.”

"It sure looks like one." Your brother shoots back, bringing a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. 

Eddie snorts, "Yeah? Then just stop staring at it like you're the one solving the crime, man. It’s kinda weird." He mumbles and tears open a granola bar wrapper. 

That remark knocks your brother off his rhythm for a moment, "I'm not—"

"You are." He shrugs, leaning against you, which pushes you into the island counter. "You've been looking at her chest for like, thirty seconds straight. It's weird and I'm starting to feel like I should charge you."

You choke on a laugh. 

Your brother's face twists in a way you've never seen it before. "Oh my God, that's not what I'm doing—"

"Mm." Eddie nods, humming. He sounds as unconvinced as ever. "Sure you're not." 

You elbow him lightly, the embarrassment starting to ease just as much as the white coloring on the shirt. You sigh as your brother's eyes flick back down to his cereal bowl, grumbling, "I'm never eating in here again." 

"Something funny?"

"No, no," he shakes his head. "Coming right up." You watch him mix your drink, wondering what you'd be doing right now if tonight had gone according to plan, but you think you prefer being here with with cute bartender. Even though this is a side of town you don't usually end up on, you don't feel like your in danger here. In fact, this place feels cozy, much like being wrapped up in a warm blanket.

The music playing over the speakers isn't typically something you'd listen to, but you don't mind it. All of the other metal music you've heard has been very harsh on your ears, but this-this is nice. You just know that the bartender controls the music by the way he's singing along as he mixes your drink.

He's not the kind of guy you'd normally be into, but there's something about him that's reeled you in. It's the mysterious air about him that's intrigued you. You can't read his mind and you like that. Too many men have been far too forward with you and if this guy's interested, you have no idea.

"Here you are, one Bahama Mama." He sets the drink in front of you and it's just as blue as the picture, like someone has poured Windex into the glass. He watches you take a sip, smiling when he sees you nod in approval. It's strong but you prefer it. It's been a long night and you deserve a fucking drink.

"Thank you," you pause, waiting to him to give his name.

"Eddie." The name fits him, you think, then immediately wonder if it's short for something or just Eddie. Part of you wants to call him "Edward" just to see his reaction

You give him your name in return and you love the way it sounds when he says it. It sounds so pretty coming from his lips. You have to keep yourself from imagining how it would sound during climax, trying to keep your mind from straying into dirty thoughts territory.

You make small talk as he continues to clean and you sip on your drink. A few of the regulars are still in their usual spots as others have left. It's getting closer and closer to closing time and Eddie really doesn't want to say goodbye to you. You're the most interesting part of his night.

"So, who is this?" You ask, pointing upwards to signify that you're asking about the music. His eyes bug out at the question so you're assuming that you asked the wrong one.

"You're joking," he sputters out a laugh as his hands slam down onto the bar, looking you directly in the eyes. "You've never heard of Black Sabbath?" You shake your head in response. "Ozzy Osbourne?"

"Well, I've heard of them, just never listened to them. At least, not on my own time." He's so used people hating on him for the music he listens to but he appreciates how polite you're being.

"Voluntarily? I can't believe what I'm hearing. You have to be pulling my leg now." He knows you're not and wonders who turned you off of metal. An ex most likely.

"Sorry, metal just hasn't been my thing, but I'd definitely listen to more of this." He can't seem to keep the smile off of his face for the first time tonight. He's not used to talking to customers like this but you're just so easy to have a conversation with. The playful side of him just comes out so easily and he can actually see himself talking to you more after tonight."

"Tell you what, after I close up, we can go upstairs and listening to their greatest hits." You don't usually go home with people you've just met, but you promised yourself you'd get out of your comfort zone. And even though you've just met Eddie, you feel like you can trust him. You fully believe that you're just going to listen to music and that this isn't some ploy to take something from you.

"I'd actually really like that," you nod. It's already 11:30 according to the clock on the wall behind Eddie so you don't have much longer until the bar closes up. You talk about everything and nothing as you help him finish cleaning despite him telling you not to. You don't seem to understand the concept of sitting there and looking pretty which is a damn shame because you're so good at it.

He reluctantly agreed to let you mop the floor, unable to deny that pretty smile you flashed him when you offered. He's pretty sure he'd let you do anything just by seeing the way your lips curl up, showing off your nice teeth. God, he's so easy. You came in here in that fucking dress and charmed him despite your dislike of metal, (he's really going to have to change that) he really wants to get to know you better.

Once the bar is all cleaned up, Eddie takes you by the hand like the gentleman he is and leads you down the hall where the restrooms are located to the door at the very end that's locked. Eddie unlocks it to reveals a staircase that you assume leads up to his apartment. The stairs are very narrow so Eddie makes you go first, so he can catch you if you fall. He truly has no idea how you're wearing those heels, deciding that you have to be a warrior of some type to do it.

You get to the top with no issue and he unlocks the door, opening it for you and letting you in. He's trying to remember if he left it a complete mess before he left but he can't be sure. When he peeks inside, he doesn't see anything wrong until he fully gets through the door and sees the singular bowl in his sink from breakfast. How embarrassing.

You take in the place before you as Eddie turns on the overhead light, the kitchen coming into view as you step inside. It's a small studio apartment, but he's done what he can with the space. You move out of the small kitchen and head into the living/bedroom, his unmade bed taking up most of it. There's a small TV on top of a short bookcase across from the bed. Next to the bookcase is a large stack of books that clearly wouldn't fit and you admire that he likes a read since you know a lot of men don't. And if they do, they're those bullshit shelf help books.

You make yourself at home by sitting on his bed, moving to take off your shoes as he does something in the kitchen. Just when you wonder what he's doing, he comes into the room with two glasses of water.

"Just wanted to make sure you were hydrated after that drink," he says as he passes you one of the glasses which you take gratefully.

"Thank you." You take a few sips then set it on the bed side table to your left before collapsing onto the bed. It's been a long night and the comfort and sheets are so soft that you could just-

"Nice place you've got here," you compliment before you can fully fall asleep. You turn to your right to see Eddie putting on a record and adjusting the volume on the record player that you haven't noticed until now.

"Thanks. The commute to work is really long, though," he jokes and you can't help but laugh. He's got a Black Sabbath album playing just like he promised and when he's got the volume to where he wants it, he makes his way over to the bed and sits next to you but keeps his space.

He wants you to feel comfortable here and really doesn't want to ruin whatever is going between the two of you by not reading the room. You surprise him by scooting closer until your thighs are touching.

"This is a nice dress." He's starting to sweat at his embarrassing attempt at flirting but you seem to be into it with the way that you lean into him, a smirk playing on your pretty lips. He admires the way it flows out, stopping at your thighs, the shade of red popping against your skin.

"Thanks. I actually wore it on a date."

"Did it not go well?"

"Nope. He stood me up." You don't know why you expected anything else since was like pulling teeth to get him to pick a restaurant. It was clear from the beginning that he didn't want to go out with you in the first place so you don't know why you even went through it. Maybe it's just because you're tired of being alone.

"What a dick." Eddie already has a hard time getting dates in the past so he can't imagine just not showing up. He'd consider himself the luckiest guy in the world to be with you. In fact he already does because you'd rather be in his apartment right now than anywhere else.

"Yeah, he was, but all worked out because I'm here with you." Eddie cheeks heat at your words and they're practically on fire when your hand lands on his thigh. It's an innocent touch in this context but it's still burning through his jeans. You lean closer and he closes his eyes in anticipation, only opening them when you lean your head on his shoulder. His arm wraps around your waist awkwardly as you scoot even closer.

You've been quiet for a while and when he turns his head, he sees that you've fallen asleep. He can't help but let out a laugh before slowly moving to lay you down on the bed, draping the comforter over you. You look so pretty like this and he turns off the record player and puts the record back in its sleeve to prevent dust from collecting on it.

And as he places a pillow on top of the rug that's going to be his bed for the night, he wonders what you'll think when you wake up. Like when you realize that this was all a mistake like they all do, will you be mean about it, or will you be the sweetheart he knows you are? He guesses that only time will tell.

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it was one of those days, a friday afternoon and the diner was booming with a lunch rush. you hadn't even noticed the few officers come in, too busy taking orders from your other tables to see them get seated in their usual booth in the corner. it wasn't until you were pouring a cup of coffee that you took a moment to look around the diner, eyes finally landing on sammy who was already looking over at you. he tried to play it off like he wasn't eyes moving immediately away from you to look around. it made you giggle, the way he was shy at times and bold at others.

"hello officers," you spoke as you finally approached their table, leaning against the side of the booth where sammy sat. "good afternoon, officer bryant," you said just to him, smiling down as you poured them each some coffee. they few men snickered a little at sammy as he smiled right back up, eyes watching every move you made. "not going to say hi to each of us directly? seems like unfair treatment," nate chimed in, raising an eyebrow up at you. you only rolled your eyes, finger tips reaching to drag lightly on sammy's shoulder. "officer bryant tips better than you guys, he deserves special treatment," you giggled, the men all laughing which only caused sammy's blush to worsen. it was one of his shy days. "he'd give you an even better tip if you gave him the chance," nate winked at you, your blush now matching his.

them teasing you was normal and didn't bother you one bit. it would be one thing if sammy was a weirdo. but he wasn't. he always told you you looked nice, always smiled so kindly, always left their table clean, and always left a generous tip. "i'll be back with your guys' usuals," you finally spoke out, scrambling to grab their menus and hurry back to the kitchen with a blush. "he's watching," kate, one of your fellow waitresses spoke as you worked to arrange food on one of the trays. your eyes flicked up quickly, landing on sammy who sure was looking right at you. "he is just being nice," you mumbled back, finally looking over at her with a raised eyebrow. "he totally wants you! come on. whenever you aren't here and i have to wait on them, he acts like a kicked puppy. always asks where you are. ask him out," she pushed, both of you giggling loudly as you looked over at the group.

"so are you going to continue to stare like a freak every time we are here? or are you going to nut up and make a move," nate spoke to sammy, pulling his focus away from you and to his partner. all he could do was laugh a little, staring down at his coffee. "i don't know man. i don't think she's into it. too pretty, she's just being nice," he muttered, occasionally stealing glances of you. you moved so swiftly through the diner, carrying trays that were probably 5 times heavier than you with ease, always putting a smile on customers faces. you were an angel. "if you don't, i'll do it for you," his partner warned, speaking quietly amongst the two of them. all sammy could do was roll his eyes and shake his head, sitting back.

you were quick to make your way back to the men's table with their food, handing it all out. "what do you do when you leave here?" nate asked, causing you to raise an eyebrow at him and cross your arms over your chest. "why? you trying to make a move?" you teased, noticing the way sammy's shoulders tensed up at the joke that he didn't find too funny. the other smiled and shook his head, glancing at his partner. "just seeing if you are ever free yknow, since officer bryant here won't ask," he shot back quick, sammy staring daggers at the other. you glanced down at sammy, another giggle leaving your lips at his red cheeks. "well if officer bryant wants to know so bad, then maybe he should ask," you spoke sweetly, shooting a wink back at sammy before making your way back to the kitchen.

"you're an idiot," you could hear sammy say to nate as you walked away, a satisfied smile on your lips. the rest of their meal was spent with nate warning sammy to do something or he would do it for him, the two immediately going quiet whenever you'd make your way back to the table to check on them. you always hoped they would eat slow, giving you a little longer time to look at sammy or just come and 'check on them' which was just an excuse for you to get to talk to him. the part that always put a damper on your day was having to bring them their checks, saying a quiet goodbye and wishing them all a good shift. you watching from the window of the kitchen as they all were pulling their cash out, getting up to leave. sammy was quick to find you watching, giving a small wave and a sweet smile. you couldn't help but notice how red his cheeks were, how he almost hesitated to wave before they made their way back out to the car.

He’s not really a self-conscious person. He doesn’t think lowly of himself, or even that he doesn’t deserve you. It’s just that…well, you’re you. You’re too perfect to be fucking real, and he can’t help the niggling anxiety that something might go wrong and take you away from him. It isn’t insecurity as much as it is an overwhelming, burning possessiveness. He got you. You’re his. The idea of anything separating you from his life makes him want to be sick and kill someone at the same time.

“Dude, I still don’t know how you did it.” Chris is beside him at the bar, drink in hand, and Adrian’s eyes are on you. Where you’re playing darts with Economos in the corner, the thirty or so feet between you and him feeling like a thousand miles. You laugh at something the other man says, and Adrian just wants the bartender to bring over the next round of drinks so he can get back to you and drown in the sound of it.

“Huh?” He doesn’t stop looking at you. Tries to listen to Chris.

“I mean, she’s a fuckin’ ten, man. No offense, but I’m still pretty sure you must have found a genie or some shit to get her to go for you.”

That…gets to him, a little. He’s never been too bothered by Chris’s bluntness. And he knows that you’re beautiful. That you’re amazing in every way. But…he’s right. Why did you go for Adrian, of all people? Was it really some cosmic miracle? Some kind of mistake in the universe that might be righted at any moment?

He’s about to open his mouth to respond, eyes still locked on you so intensely that it might look creepy to anyone watching, when a stranger saunters up to you and his entire brain short-circuits.

It’s not the first time. It’s actually probably the millionth time, especially now that he’s so much more aware of it. The guy is in a button-down shirt, hair slicked back, and he looks a lot more put-together than Adrian does in his jeans and sneakers. He has a good jawline. Adrian should really work on his face exercises.

You smile politely at him, turn back to Economos, and the guy touches your shoulder and tries to talk to you again.

He’s pretty sure this guy must have committed some kind of crime in the past, right? Killed a guy or hit someone’s car or jaywalked or-

You brush the man off, gesture in Adrian’s direction, and he feels something flutter in his chest when he sees you mouth the word ‘boyfriend’.

The guy turns around. Looks at Adrian, who just looks at you and waves. You smile and wave back at him.

Slicked Back Hair Guy raises his eyebrows, and whatever he says when he turns to you has your smile sharpening like a knife, eyes going hard. You say something else, something that seems biting, and dismissively turn back to Economos.

And shit, this guy is totally in love with you already, isn’t he? How could anyone not be when they see you smile? Especially when it’s that dangerous one you gave him a second ago? The one with the promise of violence glinting in your eyes?

Adrian makes his way back over to you, sets both of your drinks down on a nearby table, and leans in to speak casually in your ear over the music and chatter in the bar.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?”

And that’s how he gets you in the bathroom, on the counter by the sink, panting against your neck between sharp bites to your skin that he hopes leave marks for people like Slicked Back Hair Guy to see.

“Mine.” He doesn’t think he’s ever heard his own voice like this before. So low and hungry and demanding.

People have knocked. They’re complaining outside. He doesn’t care, and he’s busy making it his mission to ensure that you don’t care, either.

“Mine.” He says again, and your fingers are curled against the back of his jacket and your thighs are wrapped so tightly around his waist and this is what Nirvana must be like, isn’t it? You moaning his name in this tiny bar bathroom with his mouth on your skin and his hands on whatever part of your body he can reach and-

You try to cover your mouth with your hand, and his own whips out to catch it and press it against the mirror behind you, tangling his fingers with yours and swallowing the noises you make with his mouth instead. He wants to hear it. He wants everyone to hear you. To know that he’s the one making you feel like this.

When he finally gets you to scream his name, voice muffled as you bury your face in his shoulder and entire body trembling in that way he absolutely fucking loves, he grins against your throat, biting down one last time and whispering that word over and over like a prayer.

“Mine. Mine. Mine.”

-

“Oh, come on guys! You’re gonna get us banned from the bar.” Leota groans, as you try to fix your hair and Adrian smiles behind you like he just won a gold medal, arms around your waist as he shamelessly presses kisses to the side of your now-bruised neck.

“Sorry.” You don’t sound like you mean it, and he wonders if he might get away with taking you back to the bathroom for round two. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate, but when has he ever cared about anything like that? You’re still flushed. Your body is melting back against his. He thinks your legs might be shaking. He’ll make them shake more when he gets you back to your apartment, but he’s fighting the urge to do it now. He’s not exactly a patient man, especially when it comes to you. He doesn’t think he has it in him to wait.

He nuzzles into your neck. He can feel you smile as you press a kiss to the side of his head. That one word echoes through his mind again, nestling into his heart and solidifying itself as the absolute truth.

Mine.

-

It becomes a bit of a routine, after that.

You all go out to the bar again. Some guy in a very tight t-shirt tries to buy you a drink. Five minutes later, Adrian has you pressed up against the brick wall of the alley, your hands in his hair as he digs his nails and teeth into you like he can tattoo his name onto your skin if he just presses hard enough. Like he can get you to forget every other name you’ve ever heard if he can just make you scream his loud enough.

You go mini golfing. The employee offers to show you how to hit the ball with a flirtatious smile, and Adrian manages to get you beneath the windmill. This time, he does cover your mouth. Public sex is a crime, after all, even if his moral code when it comes to that particular law has become a little more loosey goosey over these past few months. Besides, if no one but him hears you, it’s not illegal. He’s pretty sure he read that somewhere. 

He stops for gas, the guy behind the counter smiles at you for a few seconds too long, and Adrian pulls over in an abandoned parking lot and nearly drags you over the center console, lips crashing against yours hard and desperate enough for your teeth to knock together.

He’s never really been into sex, so to speak. He never sought out hookups, never really felt the overwhelming need for that kind of release. Sure, he’s been in threesomes with Chris, and he’s slept with a handful of people, but he’s never really been into it.

But with you, it’s different. He wants you all the fucking time. Even when he isn’t feeling insecure or nervous about other people trying to take you away from him. There have been days where he’ll barely let you leave the bed. Nights when you come home and he can’t even make it to the bedroom before he’s pressing you against the wall and ripping your clothes off with reckless abandon. To him, sex is a connection, and he craves that connection with you like it’s the only way to keep himself breathing.

So his libido, with you, is high. Yours is too. There’s no problem there.

But you do catch on to this new pattern pretty quickly.

You call him out on a Saturday night, when the team is out at a bar again and one too many other guys ignored Adrian’s existence to shoot their shot with you. You dismissed them all, sure, but each attempt made that possessive fire in his stomach burn a little hotter until he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. He pulled you into the hall leading to the kitchen, and he wasted no time lifting you off of your feet and kissing you hard enough to pull a noise of surprise from your throat, blunt nails digging into the backs of your thighs as he tried to press as close to you as humanly possible.

“Okay, okay.” You say, breaking the kiss, but your voice is breathless and he made it that way and maybe if he just bites at that part of your neck that makes you-

“Adrian. Stop.”

He pulls back immediately, glasses askew on his face, and you reach up to fix them like it’s instinct.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Is he holding you too hard? Should he put you down? Did he accidentally stab you with the knife in his pocket? Or his boner? Is that possible? He doesn’t-

“I’m okay. Breathe.” You kiss his cheek, and he leans helplessly back towards you, planning to kiss you again and finish what he started, but you raise your hand and cover his mouth with your palm.

“Dude, keep it in your pants.”

“Mmph.” He grunts against your hand, licking your palm until you remove it with a startled laugh.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, wiping your hand on his jacket sleeve with an affectionate, if not somewhat concerned, smile.

He frowns, genuinely confused by the question. “I wanna have sex, and you stopped me?”

You laugh again, shaking your head and wiggling a little until he sets you down. “Adrian, you’re trying to fuck me in a hallway. I can see people walking by like twenty feet away.”

“Do you wanna fuck in the bathroom?” He ducks his head back to your neck, kissing the spot below your ear that always makes you shiver. He would fuck you on the bar if you’d let him, but he’s pretty sure that would get you kicked out. Plus, it’s definitely illegal. He can’t exactly maneuver that law into a gray area.

“Adrian.”

“Mhm?”

“Is this because that guy hit on me a minute ago?”

That stops him. He finally pulls back, frowning. “No.”

“You suck at lying.”

“I’m not lying. I didn’t even notice that guy. If I had noticed him, I would say his shirt was stupid. But I didn’t notice him.”

“Adrian.”

“I mean, it’s not like you’d ever wanna be with anyone like that, right? Not someone with a shirt that dumb. Even though he had a better jawline than me and he definitely didn’t skip arm day. I think that’s why his shirt was so stupid. Cause the sleeves were too short. He doesn’t need to show off his muscles like that.”

“Babe.”

“I mean, I have muscles too. I just can’t show them off because if I did people might realize my secret identity. But-“

“Adrian.”

“Yeah?” He blinks at you, distracted.

“I don’t want that guy. Or any of the other guys. I want you.”

“Yeah, because we had sex right after they hit on you. I rewired your brain with my dick.”

You laugh. God, he loves that sound. But if he’s gonna keep you, he’s gotta get you to make the other sounds he loves. He leans down to kiss you again, and you lean back. “Have you been taking advice from Chris again?”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Do you think those guys would still want me if they knew I killed a guy with a broom handle last week?”

Oh man, why would you say that? Now he’s twice as turned on and three times as nervous about losing you. “Yes.”

“Okay, they wouldn’t.” You’re smiling. Why are you smiling? He can’t possibly be being ridiculous, here. In his mind, his fear is completely fucking rational. “And even if they did, I want you.”

He knows that. Of course he knows that. You’re with him. You chose him. You don’t lie to him. You never have. Still, he feels that knot of possessive need curl in his gut again, making his grip tighten a little on your waist like he can hold you there forever. “Promise?”

“I promise.” You lean up, kiss his nose. “And by the way, you’re way hotter than those guys. By a mile.”

“Even the-“

“Yeah. Even him.”

“You didn’t even let me say which one.”

“Don’t need to.”

He smiles, and this time you don’t stop him when he kisses you. This time, you melt into it until his hands are wandering again and his tongue is sweeping into your mouth.

“You wanna go home?” He asks after a moment, unable to take his gaze off the way your lips are swollen from his kiss and your eyes are clouded over with want.

You nod, and he grins from ear to ear as he reaches down to hoist you up over his shoulder, delighting in the noise of surprise that melts into laughter as you wiggle against his back.

He doesn’t even say goodbye to the rest of the group, but he thinks he might feel you offer an embarrassed wave in their direction as he makes his way through the bar and out the door. They’re all staring. Lots of people are staring. He couldn’t give less of a shit. In fact, he wants them to stare more. To know without a doubt that you’re leaving with him.

“You’re fucking crazy.” You laugh as he steps out onto the street, voice no longer drowned out by the noise of the bar.

“Crazy for you.”

“Nope, pretty sure you’re just crazy.”

His smile widens, and he jostles you a little as he adjusts his grip, squeezing the backs of your thighs and making you laugh again.

And when he takes you home, he repeats that word into your skin over and over and over again.

-

He sits as close to you as possible in every briefing. He laughs way too hard at your jokes, and even at some of your comments that aren’t meant to be funny. He stares at you with his ‘cartoon heart eyes’ every time you enter the room, and looks like a sad puppy every time you leave it.

It gets annoying fast. And you’re the only one who doesn’t seem to notice.

You don’t get irritated with him, like everyone else does. For a while, each and every member of the team wonders what your breaking point is going to be. If one day you’ll snap when he rambles to you about anything and everything under the sun, and he’ll end up with a bullet between his eyes before he can finish telling you a new random fact about owls.

And yet, you don’t break. In fact, you don’t even seem like you’re humoring him. You listen when he talks like you’re actually interested in what he has to say. Laugh with him when no one else does. You smile when he enters the room, and you even have inside jokes with him that make him laugh like an absolute lunatic.

And yet, despite how painfully obvious it is to everyone else, you still don’t seem to notice his crush.

-

Chris hits his breaking point when he borrows Adrian’s phone, trying to look up directions to the new meeting spot after his own gets smashed in a fight.

“Okay, dude. We gotta talk about this shit.”

“What?” Adrian looks genuinely confused, turning to him with a completely innocent expression.

“First of all, your phone passcode is her birthday.”

Adrian is immediately on the defensive, pink tinging his cheeks as he grips the steering wheel and looks directly out the front window.

“I-what? No, it’s not! It’s a random combination of numbers. If it’s her birthday that’s a total coincidence. Who even is the she in question, anyway? Like I said, I have no idea what mysterious birthday you’re talking about.”

“Your screensaver is her face.”

“My screensaver is a picture of the whole team, because we’re all friends! If my phone maybe zoomed in on a particular person’s face, I have no control over that! I’m a crime fighter, not a master of technology.”

Chris does not let up, and Adrian looks like he’d be less tortured if his pinky toe was cut off again.

“Okay, then why did you Google her name like, twenty times?”

“For research. She’s part of the team! Who says I don’t Google all of you, in case someone - other than you, of course. You’re my best friend and so I know you’re not - is compromised somehow?”

“Dude, just admit you’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything bad!”

“It’s fine, man. She’s like, a solid ten. If you want some advice, bro to bro, I can give it to you.”

Chris is Adrian’s best friend - well, outside of you now, of course - and he does hook up with lots of people.

So, against anyone’s better judgement, Adrian takes his first bit of seduction advice.

-

The briefing the next day is weird.

Very weird.

When Adrian sits down, he doesn’t sit next to you. In fact, he sits across from you, eyes boring into the side of your head when you aren’t looking and darting away immediately when you seem to feel the weight of his gaze on you. When the meeting breaks, and everyone begins to grab their various weapons and get their shit together to load up the van, he sidles up to you in a way that’s so purposefully casual it draws the attention of the rest of the team.

He leans against the counter on one elbow, looking at you through his glasses from the side.

“Sup.” And that word does not sound right coming from Adrian Chase. It especially sounds off with how much deeper he seems to be trying to make his voice.

Your brows furrow, and you continue to load your gun as you glance over at him. “Sup.” You mimic, just as purposefully low, and offer him a familiar little smile.

That seems to disarm him, just a little. Just enough to make him seem impossibly more awkward as he collects himself and continues. 

“I was uh…I was just thinking about how I went out last night. There was a girl with an awesome ass at the bar. Totally top-tier. She was super hot.”

Your confusion is palpable. Some of the team cringes behind your back. Neither you nor Adrian notice. “…Okay.”

“I mean, you could be hot too. If you did your…hair different.”

“Thank you?”

“I mean, not that your hair isn’t great. And your shampoo smells nice. Not that I’ve like, smelled it or anything. It’s- you wear a lot of shampoo.”

“I wear a lot of shampoo?” You repeat, finally cocking your head to the side and looking him fully up and down, taking in everything from his stance to the odd way he’s trying to speak to you. “Are you okay? Did you drink weird milk again?”

“Huh? No! I just…you know, I was just saying you… smell, you know?” he trails off, looking a little lost, and you nod slowly like you think he might be on drugs.

“Okay, thanks… I’m gonna start loading up the van.” You offer him an awkward smile, pick up a gun, and make your way out the door.

He deflates so much, so quickly, that he looks like a popped balloon.

“Dude.” Chris says, sympathy and horror coating his tone. “What the fuck was that?”

“You said to neg her!”

“First of all, if you took Smith’s advice this whole situation is gonna get ten fucking times more annoying.” Harcourt snaps, rolling her eyes and holstering her own gun. “Second of all, who the fuck thinks negging works?”

“Hey, I’ve hooked up with a shit ton of people. If you do it right and not like whatever the fuck that was-“ Chris starts, only for Harcourt to hold up her hand and cut off the end of his sentence.

“She’s not some dumbass at the dive bar, you fucking frat boy.”

Adrian doesn’t seem to be very invested in the argument that follows. He looks two seconds away from bursting out the door and trying the ‘negging’ thing again, like he might be able to get it right with practice. Peacemaker himself gave him the advice, after all. It should work if he just does it right, right?

“Just be yourself.” Adebayo chimes in, a softer voice cutting against the sharp tones in the room. “She seems to like you plenty as yourself. Not…whatever that was.”

“It was negging. It’s when you insult someone to make them-“

“I know what negging is.” She stops him with a helpless shake of her head. “I mean don’t do that.”

He frowns. Looks toward the door again like his eyes might be able to find you through it. “What should I do instead?”

“Be yourself.” She repeats, emphatic. “If she likes you, she’s gonna like you a lot less if you keep insulting her. Or…trying to. I couldn’t really follow what you were doing there.”

And so, now with better judgement, Adrian takes his second bit of seduction advice.

-

You fall asleep on him in the van. It happens slowly, beginning with your eyes drifting shut to the rocking and bumping of the vehicle and ending with your head thunking onto his shoulder.

He freezes. Completely, totally freezes. He tries to catch the attention of the rest of the team, but they’re all too distracted either drifting off themselves or taking stock of their own wounds.

And then, slowly, like you might vanish if he jostles you too much, he leans his body back against the wall. You go with him, still peacefully asleep with your bloody cheek resting against his shoulder and your body so, so close to his.

Okay, step two.

Though patience has never really been his forte, he manages to move his arm with the slow precision that only stems from the years of training and practice that made him such a skilled killer. In what feels like an eternity, that arm is finally wrapped around you, and he positions you to lie more comfortably against his side, pulling your body closer to his and trying not to vibrate from the feeling of your warmth seeping into his skin.

You don’t wake. You mumble something in your sleep, your own mask off and resting beside you, and turn your head into him with a sigh.

You’re so warm. Still covered in blood and dirt and grime but still so, so unbelievably pretty. Actually, you’re always prettier than usual after a fight. Exhausted and full of adrenaline just like how he gets. Your smile is always brighter. Your eyes hold the same excitement as his own. Shit, he almost wants to wake you up just so he can look at your eyes, though he wouldn’t dream of risking losing this moment.

His hand comes up, and his fingers glide through your hair like he’s mesmerized by the feeling of it - which he is. You hum in response to the feeling, still sleeping as your body melts a little bit more into his, and he feels like every nerve inside of him is on fire.

And then, like a bit of a creep, he turns his head into your hair and inhales. You smell so nice. Like sweetness and spice and blood and dirt. He wants to touch you all over. He wants to pull you all the way into his lap and wake you up by kissing you. Like, everywhere. He wants to study you in more ways than just all of the endless staring he’s been doing over the last few weeks. Like the way you might feel against him, with more than just your head and side pressed against his body. Or the noises you might make when he-

A throat clears.

When Adrian looks up, everyone is looking at him.

“Are you…sniffing her?” Leota asks, nose scrunched up in an expression he doesn’t understand. Whatever. He doesn’t understand a lot of expressions. But he understands yours. And when he doesn’t, you usually explain it to him. It’s one of the many, many things he likes about you.

“Do you have a boner right now?” Chris asks, and that expression might be disgust, though he doesn’t really understand why. Chris has seen you, right? You’re probably the hottest person Adrian’s ever seen. How is he not supposed to get a boner when you’re pressed up against him and he can feel your soft breath against his neck? And now you’re moving, snuggling a little more into his side, and he couldn’t help his grin if he wanted to as he turns to press his nose into your hair again.

“Fucking weirdo.” Harcourt mumbles, and Adrian couldn’t care less.

-

He decides to - finally - ask you out. He comes up with at least ten different plans, and keeps asking for advice about every single detail until the rest of the team is minutes away from punching him if he says another word about it.

And, in the end, he doesn’t follow a single one of those carefully detailed plans. He doesn’t even come close.

This battle was rough. Chaotic and violent and seeming to last for hours until everyone is drenched in blood and covered in bruises and limping their way back to each other to regroup.

You just blew a group of butterflies up with a grenade. You didn’t move back far enough to keep the blood and guts off of you. In fact, you’re still wiping it from your face, grinning like a fucking maniac as you pull your nearly-ruined mask from your face and take in the scene before you.

Adrian is already making his way towards you like a man hypnotized. His own mask is off. His hair is damp with sweat. His face is almost as bloody as yours.

“Holy shit! Did you see that?” You ask, eyes wild as you turn to him. “That was awesome! I mean, I didn’t expect that to-“

He grabs you. One bloody hand fists in your hair, the other wraps around your waist, and he yanks you into him and kisses you so hard the force of it would knock you backward if he weren’t crushing you to him so tightly.

The 11th Street Kids watch, awed. You make a muffled noise of surprise, eyes going wide as his mouth moves against yours.

And then you wrap your arms around his neck, and you kiss him right back.

For a while, no one speaks. Your hands tangle in Adrian’s hair, and his other hand drops to join the first around your waist. He lifts you off of your feet. You wrap your legs around his waist. He groans shamelessly, and presses you up against the nearest tree so hard it almost looks like it hurts. You don’t seem to notice, stabilizing yourself with one hand gripping at his back while you pull at his hair and draw a noise from him that echoes through the forest.

“This is getting gross.” Economos says, and cringes as Adrian’s hands start to rip at your tactical gear.

“They are covered in blood.”

“Does anyone wanna stop them before they fuck in the middle of the woods?”

“I’m not going anywhere near that.”

Armor is beginning to come off, crashing to the ground as cloth rips and Adrian starts to mumble incoherent - and probably wildly inappropriate - nonsense into your mouth and against your skin, kissing and biting his way down your throat.

“Okay, you know what? They can figure out how to get home. My eyes are starting to burn.”

Hours later, you do find your way home, breathless and grinning and covered in new marks from a very different type of battle.

You ignore them. Bucky ignores them.

“You were supposed to wait for my signal.” Bucky says, again, and you meet his words with an exaggerated groan.

“For the last time, I saw the shot and I took it. You would have done the same fucking thing if you-“

“If John hadn’t blocked you, you would have died.”

John’s voice cuts through the fight, and he sounds just as exhausted as Ava as he makes his own way to the couch. “If I hadn’t blocked her, the plane ride back would have at least been a whole lot quieter.”

“Shut up.” You and Bucky snap in unison, both fixing him with your own glares. He throws his hands up in mock surrender.

Bucky keeps going. “You never listen. That’s the problem, doll. You need to-“

“Don’t doll me right now. You’re not the only capable member of this team, Sarge. I can take care of myself if you would just-“

“You almost got shot! Again!”

“But I didn’t!”

“Oh great!” Bucky’s own hands fly up, rage still sparking in his eyes. “That makes all of it go away. Everything’s fine now.”

Yelena’s voice cuts through now. “How long have they been doing this?”

“Hours.” John and Ava respond, sounding more worn out from listening to the two of you than they do from the battle.

The fight continues. Right in the middle of the common room.

It’s one of those arguments that just doesn’t stop. Anger and adrenaline and the horror of nearly losing each other keep the fire fueled to the point that you lose the original point of why you’re fighting. You’re just matching each other’s energy now, both refusing to back down.

“They’ll never stop. We will never sleep again.” Yelena says at one point, though none of them have left the couch. In fact, they’ve all watched and commented to each other through the entire argument, all feigning annoyance but clearly too entertained to want to leave the room.

“And you’re always kicking the blankets off of the bed in your sleep!” He shouts at one point. You feel multiple pairs of eyes move to him, and then back to you when you respond like your little audience is watching a movie. There might be popcorn out by this point. You’re too angry to care.

“Because you run like a furnace and you’re always attached to me like a fucking octopus when we sleep!”

“Oh, so you want me to sleep on the other side of the bed now?”

“No! I love it! But it’s fucking hot and we don’t need ten pounds of comforter on top of us!”

“Maybe I want ten pounds of comforter on top of us!”

“Do you?!”

“No!”

The argument moves all around the room. In front of the couch. Near the hall. In the kitchen. The energy remains the same.

“And you know what? You go down on me too much!” You shout, poking your finger into his chest.

“What?!”

“No, you - don’t look at me like I’m crazy. You do! And you act like it’s for me but I think it’s really for you because you’re such a good person whose always trying to help people and-“

“So you want me to go down on you less?”

“Don’t twist this into me not wanting you to go down on me as much! That’s ridiculous. Of course I want you to go down on me that much.”

“I want to go down on you that much. Are you telling me to take it down a notch?”

“No! Of course not! I- okay, just forget this whole part of the argument. Keep doing that.”

“Fine!”

“Good!”

“This is starting to get gross.” John says, and you both turn to him again to shout at him to shut up in perfect unison before you continue.

Ten minutes later, you’re still going. No one has moved.

“And maybe if you woke up later than dawn every day, you would be less grumpy all the time!”

“Why are we fighting?!” He shouts back, and his words finally seem to crack through the spell.

You still refuse to back down. “Because you’re so annoyingly protective all the time. We’ve covered this. You’re just-“

“Because I love you.” He snaps, energy still furious despite his words. “And the idea of anything happening to you makes me lose my mind. Why can’t you see that? Why are you always arguing with me about it?!”

“Because I love you too! I took the shot because they were aiming at you, jackass!”

He surges forward, crashing his mouth to yours with so much force that it knocks you backwards into the wall. Your hands fly up to tangle in his hair. His fly down to the backs of your thighs, lifting your legs to wrap around his waist as he all but snarls into your mouth.

If you weren’t so distracted by Bucky, you might see money exchange hands on the other side of the room.

“You see this? Passion.” Alexei says, and everyone groans. “Is good thing. They fight with love. Like warriors.”

“They’re basically eating each other.” Ava says, tone laced with disgust.

Bucky’s mouth moves to your neck, biting down hard enough to make you groan, and the sound immediately draws his mouth back to yours.

“Okay, I’m done. I have a feeling they’re not going to make it to their room, and I definitely don’t need to see that.” John says, standing from his spot on the couch. The others stand, too, all grumbling with annoyance. The moment the couch is free, before they’ve even left the room, Bucky throws you down on it and crawls on top of you.

“Drive me fucking crazy.” He’s murmuring against your neck, calloused hands sliding up beneath your shirt as his hips press against yours. You make a noise that makes him grip you harder, his teeth scraping against your skin. “Gonna make you-“

His words are cut off by a cup of water splashing over the two of you, cold and shocking, and you both shout with surprise. You look up, only for another cup of water to splash on you.

“Take it to your room! It’s like two floors below us!”

You almost laugh, despite the heat still surging through you, and sputter as a third splash of water lands on you. Did they all get cups of water? Seriously?

“Okay, we get it! Stop with the-“ You start to say, only to squeak in surprise as Bucky stands and pulls you with him, wrapping your legs around his waist once more as he starts moving towards the elevator. He’s soaked, hair sticking to his face as he presses you up against the wall and slams his mouth back against yours, hand flying out to slam against one of the buttons - you don’t even know if it’s the right one - before it comes back up to start ripping at your tactical gear.

“Oh God, not in the elevator. It’s easier to disinfect the couch!”

And it felt natural. Right, even. There was something there, something between you that had been strengthening over your time in that freezing safehouse. That night, it had solidified into something harder than steel. Something that connected your hearts together like it couldn’t be broken.

It’s a scary feeling, this intense connection, but it’s also…nice. Really nice. You’re nervous, a little thrown off by it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s there. Whoever he was before, whoever he’s still slowly growing back into, you like him. You really like him. In a way you can feel in your bones. In your veins.

He doesn’t seem to regret anything, either. You still bicker. He’s still too-still and a little grumpy, but he remains close. Clingy, even. Especially in public, surrounded by people and cameras and potential threats, he’s still pulling you to him every chance he gets. His fingers still brush yours any time you get close enough. His eyes never seem to leave you, like he needs to constantly assure himself that you’re alright.

“You know, I think you might be a fedora guy.” You change the subject, plopping another hat on top of his head. He rolls his eyes, removes the hat, and places it back on the cart beside you.

“What’s the plan?” He asks again.

You put a new hat on his head, this one cartoon and felt and shaped like a squid, and his frown deepens. The sight is so ridiculous it almost makes you snort with laughter.

“Okay, cranky. Try this one.” You remove the squid hat, and replace it with a plain baseball cap. The squid was definitely funnier, but you’re pretty sure it will draw attention. Another time, then.

You pay for the hat, and pull him along with you once again.

“Why don’t you have a hat?”

“Don’t need one. Not for this.”

“We’re in public. In the open.”

“Mhm.” As if to prove your point, you look up and wave brightly to a security camera. He tenses, arm tightening around you. When he tries to look up, you reach up to pull his cap down a little lower.

“Not you. Just trust me.”

He tenses even more as time goes on, as you look at other carts and stores and keep making eye contact with cameras. After about thirty minutes, you can feel so much tension radiating off of him that you wonder if he might have a heart attack.

When the hour is up, you lead him down an alley, grinning and tugging on his arm like a lover pulling him away for a hidden rendezvous.

“Get ready to run if this doesn’t work.” You murmur to him, heart constricting in your chest with hope. The risk you just took is high. You’ll be found, yes, but your timing was planned so you’d be found by the right people. If they’re even still alive.

He frowns again, but allows you to lead him into the alley, pressing you back against the wall the moment you’re alone. He’s keeping up with the image, hiding you from anyone who might be walking by, but the proximity still makes your skin tingle.

“What are you planni-“

You hear a whirring near your head, and his metal arm shoots out to catch something.

A shield.

“Wait, shit.” You say, reaching up to try to pull on his shoulder and dislodge him from you. “Get behind me and just-“

You’re too late. He throws the shield back, and you watch it ricochet around the alley until it flies back into the arm of its owner.

A kick connects with his shoulder, knocking him off of you and onto the ground. He’s back up in an instant, but doesn’t fight back yet. Instead, he’s on you again, caging you against the wall like he’s blocking you from a threat as his hand grabs towards the gun hidden beneath your clothing.

You grab his arm. Stop him from aiming it.

“Wait, get off, hang on-“

One of Natasha’s tasers knocks him back to the ground, and suddenly Steve is the one dragging you away.

The soldier is on his feet faster than you would have thought humanly possible, and your own feet fall out from under you as Steve is thrown against the wall of the alley. Natasha is running forward, prepared to punch or kick or-

You scramble up as Bucky is knocked down, and you roll atop him and block him from any oncoming blows with your body. Finally, finally, the two Avengers in the alley freeze like they got the message.

You take the moment of silence to stand, pull the soldier up with you and push him behind you. His arm wraps around your waist, like he’s preparing to spin you back around and use his own body to block you from another oncoming blow.

“Okay, hi.” You say, arms outstretched defensively in both directions. You know the gesture must look a little ridiculous with a six-foot-something brick wall of a man attached to your back, but you don’t exactly have another option right now. “Everyone calm the fuck down.”

Natasha and Steve remain tense. The Winter Soldier doesn’t let you go. You can feel him glaring over your shoulder.

You turn to Natasha. “I was really hoping you’d be the one to find us.”

“It was a really stupid move.” She counters, her gun still aimed at the man holding you.

“I know, but it was kind of our only shot.” You offer with sheepish shrug. “What with everyone dead, evil or in hiding these days.”

Finally, you turn to Steve, who is staring directly at Bucky. At the metal arm wrapped securely around your waist. At whatever face he must be making right now.

“I found Bucky.” You say, a little more quietly than you intended. “…kinda.”

-

“Now, this is a safehouse. See? Not a hole in the wall to be found.”

“We need to talk.” Steve says, the moment the door closes behind you.

“And look, there’s even heating.”

Steve says your name, in that mildly irritating Captain America way he has, and you’re forced to drop your act of nonchalance.

“I know.” You say, shoulders dropping. The relief of seeing Steve and Nat, of not being swept back up by HYDRA, is finally creeping its way into your bones, making you feel absolutely exhausted. You don’t have the energy to argue. To put off this conversation.

Steve’s eyes are on Bucky as he speaks. The other soldier stands right behind you. Close. Protective. “What happened?”

You try to answer, feeling suddenly awkward about the whole thing.

“You know, kidnapping, bullet wounds, sketchy HYDRA medicine. Seriously, these guys need to update their healing techniques because that shot felt like-“

“Don’t.” Steve says, genuine and pained, and turns his eyes to you. “Please don’t do that. Just tell me. Is he…”

You look back to Bucky, who is staring right at Steve. “I…yeah. Yeah, I think so. He doesn’t remember, but I got him out before they could really…” you trail off, make a gesture at your head like you’re scrambling your brain. Bucky remains silent.

Your voice is quiet when you speak again, and yet it sounds very loud in the quiet room. “It was bad, Steve.”

He nods, jaw clenching with pain as he looks over to his friend.

“Do you know me?”

The soldier hesitates. His fingers twitch, like he’s about to reach for you. Like he’s seeking comfort.

He nods.

Steve’s relief is almost palpable. Finally, he smiles. It’s filled with pain and relief and hope, and it makes your very soul ache.

“Okay.” His shoulders drop, and he nods like he’s confirming it to himself. “Okay, we can work with that.”

-

“Huh.” You break the silence, eyes still locked on the picture in front of you. Bucky is at your side, jaw clenched as he reads the description for what must be the fifteenth time. He’s concentrating. Hard. Like he’s trying to force the memories back into his mind. “You were hot.”

He blinks, turning to you with an incredulous expression.

“What?” You ask, tilting your head and blinking innocently up at him.

“Were?”

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes, lightly bumping his shoulder. “You still are. I’m just saying, that uniform and haircut looks good on you. Really good.”

He glares at the picture, and you watch him for a moment before it’s your turn to look incredulous.

“Are you…jealous?”

“No.”

“Then why do you look like you want to punch the picture?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps glaring at it.

“Oh my God, Bucky. That’s you. You can’t be jealous of yourself.”

“I don’t remember being him. Not well.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “I can’t believe you. You’ll get the memories back. You’re already starting to- dude, stop glaring.”

You laugh harder, and he pulls you to him and silences you with a kiss, paying no mind to the crowded museum around you. He likes doing that, lately. If he weren’t so damn good at it, you might complain.

As always, it works. You relax, eyes falling closed, and pull back right before you know he’ll try to deepen the kiss right there in the middle of the room.

His gloved fingers come up to brush over your cheek, the rims of your baseball caps bumping against each other’s foreheads, and you can’t help but smile again.

“I’m not good at this.” He says, and he sounds almost apologetic.

“I’d say you’re very good at it.”

“You know what I mean.” His hand flexes against your waist, and your cap is pushed up a little more as he leans closer to rest his forehead against yours.

“Well,” you reach up, brush your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, “you do get jealous a little easily. But I can promise I’m not going to jump through time and leave you for yourself.”

His arm tightens around you, and there’s a glimmer of hope in his blue eyes that makes your heart clench.

“Does that mean you’re…” he hesitates. Seems to look for the right words.

You’ve never had a ‘what are we’ conversation quite like this, but you do think about it for a moment.

“I mean, yeah.” You shrug, as nonchalant as you can be despite the hammering of your heart, and smile at him. You haven’t really thought about it, but you are. Whatever this connection between the two of you is makes it feel less like a decision and more like a fact. Plain and simple. “If you want me to be.”

“I want you to be.” He doesn’t hesitate. Nearly cuts you off with how quickly he confirms it. Still, he frowns. Just a bit. “I’m not him. Not all the way. Not yet.” He tilts his head toward the picture beside you, toward the description of James Buchanan Barnes.

“I think you are. You’re getting there.”

“I might be different when I get my memories back.”

“You haven’t changed yet, and you have been getting them back.” He’s been working with Steve. Poring over old information about himself, and you’ve watched him become more and more of whoever he used to be with each passing day. “I think, whoever you were, I like all the parts about you that are still him.” You lean up, press a gentle kiss to his lips. The gesture seems to relax him a little. “Brainwashing can only change you so much, you know.”

“I’m not gonna cut my hair like that again.”

You snort, and you see the corners of his lips twitch up in a smile. “First of all, you suck at making jokes.” His smile grows, turning from a twitch to an actual expression, and you can’t help but match it. “Second of all, I like it long, too.”

He kisses you again, and this time you forget about the other people in the room. This time, it takes a lot longer for you to pull away.

-

“Do you see this? We really need to keep our safe houses better stocked. Or get moving and do something soon. I feel like we’ve been planning and waiting around for weeks.” You lay on the side of the bed, wiggling your toes, one of which is sticking out of a hole in your sock.

Bucky reaches out for you, dragging you across the bed in one smooth movement and enveloping you in his arms. You try to protest, still emphatically wiggling your toes as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

He huffs what feels like a soft laugh into your hair. “Go to sleep, doll. We’ll find something for you in the morning.”

“It’s an injustice, and I don’t need- wait, what?”

He’s too busy burying his face in your hair to even hear your question at first, calloused fingers finding warmth against the skin beneath your t-shirt. The man cuddles like a cartoon bear. “Hm?”

“Did you just call me ‘doll’?”

You can feel his brow furrow at the realization against the side of your head, fingers stilling on your skin.

“Yes.”

“That’s so…old fashioned.”

“Do you not like it?”

“No, I do. I definitely do. It’s cute. You’ve just never called me anything like that before.”

His hand comes up, smooths over your hair. “I don’t know. It felt right.”

“Are you gonna start handing out hard candies, too?”

You feel him roll his eyes, and he pulls you a little closer to his broad chest like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Keep pushing.” He warns, and the playful growl in his voice makes it impossible not to.

“Feeding the pigeons in the park? Should I buy you a cane?”

He rolls on top of you, pulling back just far enough to look down at you with a very unconvincing frown. You grin back up at him, and he leans down to kiss you. Hard, slow, and with a possessive sort of purpose that makes your toes curl.

“Still wanna call me an old man?” He asks when you’re good and breathless, low and hungry as his lips brush the shell of your ear.

It’s difficult to string a thought together, let alone form a sentence, but you still manage a mischievous grin. “Might wanna slow down soldier, you could break a hip.”

The comment earns you a growl, and he bites hard at the sensitive skin of your throat, making you arch into him as he presses closer to you and slides his hand down to hook beneath your thigh, guiding it over his waist. The new angle, paired with a roll of his hips, pulls an almost embarrassingly high pitched noise from your throat, and he chases the sound with his lips like he’s trying to taste it.

You don’t manage to make a single comment after that.

-

That night, he has a nightmare.

His arms tighten around you with enough force to pull you from sleep, eyes fluttering open to see the cool light of dawn peeking in through the window. You try to wiggle, still half-awake, and you’re pulled to him even more tightly. You feel super-soldier strength force the air from your lungs, and alarm begins to seep into your tired mind.

“Bucky.” You try, and you hear him make a noise of protest against your shoulder. You force yourself to stay calm, try to lift your arms to push against him. “Hey, wake up.”

He doesn’t wake. He’s shaking. You push a little harder, needing him to release you before he cracks a rib. It’s hard to draw breath in. You can’t move.

“Bucky, wake up.” You say, a little louder, fighting down panic and pushing again.

His eyes fly open, and he moves fast. Too fast.

You’re shifted before you even realize it, pressed onto your back with his weight atop you and his metal hand wrapped around your throat.

He’s not there. His eyes are panicked, terrified, looking down at you without recognition.

His hand doesn’t squeeze, but it holds you firm. Fear, not of him but for him, despite your position, rushes through you like a wave of ice cold water.

Despite the instincts screaming at you to grab at the wrist around your throat, you reach up to brush your fingers over his cheek.

“Hey. Look at me. I’m here. You’re okay.”

You watch, frozen, as he blinks the dream away. As he looks down and finally sees you.

He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned, horror flooding his expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t let him pull back. You sit up with him, and you wrap your arms around his neck before he has the chance to flee.

“I’m okay.” You soothe, quietly now, and he hesitates for just a moment before he returns the embrace and pulls you to him like he’s drowning. He’s still shaking. His flesh hand flies up to the back of your head, cradling you against him as the tension slowly leaks from his body.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s murmuring the words, holding you like you’re the air he needs to breathe and like you’re made of glass all at once. “M’sorry, sweetheart. Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to-“

You shush him. Press a gentle kiss to his shoulder. You feel him exhale, still shaky.

You just sit there for a while, fingers tracing over his back in soothing circles, letting him breathe you in and calm himself until he finally stops trembling.

Finally, when you’re able to guide him back down onto the bed and he’s pressing another gentle, apologetic kiss to your forehead, you ask what his dream was about.

He tells you. Soft and quiet. About falling off of a train. About being dragged somewhere. About HYDRA and losing himself for the very first time.

Your heart aches. You listen to every word, and try not to cling to him more tightly as a surge of protectiveness runs through you like fire.

Instead, you lean up to kiss his cheek. Pull back to look him in his lovely blue eyes.

“You have an accent, you know.” You say, offering a little smile.

He looks startled, blinking at you in surprise.

You continue, tracing your thumb over the curve of his jaw. “I noticed it a little last night. Definitely heard it just now. You didn’t have it before, but now you’ve got a Brooklyn accent.”

His eyes soften. So quickly and so deeply that it makes you melt.

“Do I?” He asks, fingers brushing over your back.

You hum in confirmation, pressing another soft kiss to his nose.

“I remember.” He confesses, leaning forward to touch his forehead to yours as his hands continue to trail over your body like every touch is a form of worship. “I remember some things.”

“Mm?” Your eyes fall closed as he guides you onto your back and slides his knee between yours, as his lips begin to trace over your collarbone like he’s painting a picture into your skin.

He hums in confirmation, the nightmare slowly drifting away as the energy in the small room begins to glow with something else. Something soft and warm and lovely. Something laced with desire and an intimacy you’ve never felt before.

“You would have liked me.” His nose skims over your shoulder, warm breath igniting a spark deep within you.

“I like you now.”

His fingers tighten against you, just a little, just enough to let you know he heard the words, before he continues. “I would have taken you out.” His hand slides over your waist, body pressing against yours. “Dancing, maybe.”

You almost laugh, but the feeling of his lips trailing lower is a little too distracting. “As charmingly old fashioned as that sounds, I definitely don’t know how to dance.”

“I would have taught you.”

“You would have broken a few toes, but-“

He moves back up, just to cut you off with a kiss. Deep and slow and with just a little too much hunger to be entirely gentle.

“Shh, doll. M’talking.” He murmurs against your lips, the words honey-sweet, though his voice is a low, craving growl. Whatever comment you were about to make dies on your tongue, and he kisses you again like he’s chasing it with his own. His fingers tangle with yours, warm and grounding, and he pulls back once again to trail his lips back down to your collarbone.

“Would have brought you flowers. Picked you up at the door.” He continues, voice a low rumble against you. “Would have thought about kissing you all night. About other things too, but I would have waited.” He nips at your skin, smiles against it when you gasp. “Or tried to.”

Your free hand tangles in his hair, and you feel his smile widen, eyes dark as he looks up at you from where he has your shirt pushed up to your ribs. His metal hand slides over your thigh, and the movement is so soft you would think it nothing more than an afterthought, until his fingers tighten and he tugs you closer to him.

A part of you is thrilled that he seems to be getting memories back, and not just the terrible ones. The rest of you, however, is unbelievably distracted by the feeling of his stubble scraping against your hip.

This isn’t like before. The other times had felt like chasing instincts, nearly primal with need and a hunger so deep it felt like it was fighting to escape from your very bones. That hunger is still there, you can see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, but it’s held back by something calculated. Focused and almost playful in a way that makes it impossible to keep your breathing steady.

“What other things?” You manage, fingers tightening in his hair as his smile turns mischievous. He nips lightly at your hipbone.

“I’ll show you.”

And he does.

-

“No.” Bucky’s hand wraps around yours, and the considerable weight of the weapon is quickly removed from your arms.

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

You roll your eyes, irritation and a little bit of petulance seeping into your tone. “I just think I’m the only person in this room who hasn’t used a grenade launcher yet.”

“This is a stealth mission.” Steve says, and you frown at him.

“Big explosion means no evidence. Technically, that’s stealth.”

You reach out, eyes as big and pleading as you can make them, and you watch Bucky actually begin to cave at your expression.

“Don’t give it to her.” Steve says, exasperated.

You groan as the man pulls it back, looking sheepishly at his friend like he hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

“Fine.” You grumble, reaching for another gun and holstering it at your hip. “No grenade launcher.”

“No grenade launcher.” Steve echoes, firmly confirming.

“But we should bring it just in case we-“

“We’re not going to need a grenade launcher.”

“You guys are so boring. I swear, this whole thing could be over and done so fast if you just let me bring a grenade launcher.”

When you look up, Bucky is smiling. Open and affectionate.

It’s been weeks. Weeks of planning. Weeks of being cooped up in this damn safehouse. Still, you haven’t minded as much as you thought you would. Sure, the space gets a little crowded. Sure, Steve and Nat have come close to soundproofing the walls once or twice, but there’s been something comfortable about it.

And now, though the transition took some time and a lot of help from Steve, a lot of encouragement from you, and a lot of patience all around, Bucky is almost entirely Bucky again.

You liked him before, and you were right when you told him that the parts you like are all Bucky, but something about him being completely himself again has a tendency to make your heart melt.

Bucky Barnes calls you old-fashioned nicknames. Laughs at your jokes in a way that makes you ache with joy. Slides his hand into yours as you talk and lifts it to his mouth to kiss the back of it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Bucky Barnes reminisces with Steve with a smile on his face. Stays up into the early hours with you to talk about everything and nothing. Holds you close and wakes you in the mornings with peppered kisses to your cheeks and nose that make you laugh and swat at him in your attempts to try to sink back into sleep.

The connection you felt with the version of him before, as confusing and strange as it was, makes so much more sense now. Who he is, who he has always been, was always beneath the surface. You don’t necessarily believe in fate, but it’s difficult to find another explanation for this.

He checks over your weapons, hands skimming gently over your body as he tightens the straps on your holsters and buckles weapons into place.

“You gonna be okay?” You ask, and he frowns a bit as he pulls back to look down at you.

“I’ll be fine.” He says, but he doesn’t sound entirely sure. His gloved hand moves up to brush over your cheek, and you try to offer him a smile.

“In and out.” You say, reassuring, and the crease between his brow only deepens. You turn your head and kiss his palm in the way you know always makes him melt. “We’ll be fine.”

-

At first, everything goes well.

Very well, in fact. It’s too easy. Too quick. You take down the guards at the door, cover Nat as she moves to extract the information needed from their computers, stick by Bucky and Steve as you move through the warehouse.

Something feels wrong. You feel it deep down, low in your gut. You think the others do as well, but no one vocalizes it. You all stay locked into the mission, guns ready and muscles tense.

You turn a corner, just out of sight, moving ahead just far enough to clear a hallway.

You hear chaos erupt behind you. The whir and clang of Steve’s shield, guns going off, metal connecting with skin.

You spin, ready to spring forward and jump into the fray.

Something sharp pricks at your neck, and your shout of surprise and fury is cut off by a gloved hand on your mouth.

Your gun is caught before it clatters to the floor, and your boots kick at the concrete below you as you’re dragged away, weakening with every passing moment.

Everything goes black.

-

The lights are too bright. Your head spins.

It takes a few moments for your vision to come back into focus, and you reach up to rub at your eyes only to realize that your hands are tied behind your back. Not cuffed this time. Not something you can pick or wiggle out of. Tied. Tight.

You guess they learned their lesson. Not great news for your current situation, but at least it’s a small boost to your ego.

Your eyes don’t even have the chance to open all the way. You’re dazed, foggy, trying to decipher the words being spoken and the people around you as the ringing in your ears finally begins to fade.

“You’ve caused a lot of problems.” Pierce. Awesome. “You should consider yourself very lucky that you’ve also proven to be the solution to them.”

You blink, gaze finally steadying as you peer up at him through squinted eyes. “My hands are tied,” you start, voice hoarse and broken. Geez, what kind of tranquilizer did they hit you with? “but it’s important to me that you know that I’m flipping you off behind my back.”

He doesn’t flinch. His expression doesn’t even change. “Hit her.” He says, simply. A command given by someone who is confident in his position. His authority. Like you’re nothing more than a bug to be scraped from the bottom of his freshly shined shoes.

The blow knocks you to the ground. Splits your lip. Makes you spit blood onto the floor.

“Do we move her, sir?” The man who hit you says. Not even bothering to pull you back to your knees. The floor is cool beneath your cheek, and-

Oh.

Oh, you know this room. You’ve been in this room.  

“No,” Pierce waves the question off even as your chest constricts. “He’ll be here soon. It won’t be convenient, but we have the leverage now.”

“Steve and Natasha are with him, jackass.” You say, hope fluttering in your chest. The three of them will-

“Rogers and Romanoff are incapacitated, for the time being.” Pierce explains, not even bothering to look at you. “A small distraction. A few potential civilian casualties. Unfortunate, yes, but worth it for the greater purpose.”

The implication sits in the air like a heavy weight. Bucky is coming, and he’s coming alone.

You open your mouth to say something biting, but you’re interrupted by the sound of a heavy metal door flying off it’s hinges.

No. No, no no. You need more time. More time to plan. You can get out of this, and even if you can’t it would be better if they just killed you. He can’t-

Two HYDRA soldiers fly across the room, slamming into the back wall.

“Get her up. Hit her again.” Pierce says, like he’s commanding the controls in a fucking video game. “Make it loud, before I have to replace anyone else.”

You’re yanked up by your hair. Quickly and seamlessly, and you see a fist pull back.

You can’t help it. You want to be brave. You want fight and kick your way out of this one, but the promise of pain blinds you for a moment and you gasp out a quick “wait, wait wait-“

You feel one of your ribs snap. You can’t hold back a scream.

The gunfire. The violence around you. It stops.

The silence is heavy in the room. The click of a gun’s safety echoes through the chamber. You blink up through tears of pain to see Bucky, eyes filled with ice cold fury as he holds a gun aimed perfectly between Pierce’s eyes.

The other man doesn’t cower. Doesn’t try to hide. He doesn’t even make another command before you feel cool metal press against your own temple. Another click.

Bucky doesn’t speak, but his eyes move to you.

The desperation. The apology. The terror. All of the emotions mingling in his gaze hurt you more deeply than any blow they could ever hit you with.

“In the chair, Soldat.” Pierce says, gesturing to that same horrible machine you pulled him from weeks ago.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his gaze from you.

“Don’t.” You say, and the barrel of the gun digs deeper into your temple, making you grit your teeth.

Pierce continues, eyes empty of emotion or empathy or anything that looks even remotely human. You’ve never hated anyone more. “I don’t want to have to discard our leverage too quickly, but you know that I will. So I’ll let you decide.” He gestures to you, and you fantasize briefly about bashing his smug face into the floor. Stomping on it with your boot. “Something to live for,” the gun presses closer. Deep enough into your temple to make you see stars, “or nothing to live for.”

Bucky lowers the gun. Places it on the floor. You feel sick.

They can shoot you. You don’t care. You would rather they kill you right now than do this to him again.

“Don’t.” You say again, but he’s already moving back to the chair. Already allowing the agents nearby to strap him in.

Desperation claws at your lungs. Sucks the air from them and makes tears prickle in the corners of your eyes. “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you fucking dare let them do this. Don’t you dare-“

They shove a gag in your mouth, cutting off anything you can say. Any plea you might use to get through to them. You can fight. You both can. And if they kill you, who fucking cares? He’ll get out of this, at least. You shout in frustration, and watch as hesitation makes his fingers curl against the armrest. Like he might break out and come to you. Like he might fight for just another moment.

You twist, every ounce of training you’ve ever had making you move as quickly as you possibly can to dislodge the man holding you. The gun fires. Misses you by an inch. You hear a snap nearby. See another body thrown back across the room in your peripheral, and you kick the man holding you with both feet hard enough to send him sprawling as you begin to rise to your feet.

A shoe connects with your stomach. Hard. Sends you back to the floor and makes you wheeze.

That same shoe slams down on your left arm and breaks it.

Pain, white hot and blinding, rips a noise from your throat that doesn’t sound entirely human.

Pierce looks annoyed, like the effort to deal the blow was something beneath him, even as he aims another gun between your eyes.

“There are a lot of bones in the human body. I guarantee you, I can break a lot more before she dies.”

Bucky sits back in the chair. His eyes lock onto yours. There are tears in them.

You can’t think through the pain. Your vision tunnels to focus on him. Only on him. You shake your head, one last time.

He mouths something to you. I’m sorry.

Tears obscure your vision. The machine starts. Locks him into it. And just like that, like it’s nothing at all, they rip away everything. All of him. They erase his mind and his memory and his autonomy as you watch.

For a moment, as pain pulls you into darkness to the sound of his screams, you think you might be screaming too.

-

They heal you. You’re not sure where, or how, or when. You recognize the pain of the shot, like the one Bucky gave you back in that safehouse so long ago.

This time, there are no arms around you. No whispered words into your hair. No soothing lips against your temple and no warm body against yours. It’s you alone in a darkened cell, hands tied behind your back to keep yourself from trying to claw the pain from your bones.

You don’t care. Because this time, whether it be a dream or an echo through the cavernous halls of this horrible place, you can still hear him screaming.

-

You don’t know what drugs they keep you on, or even how long you’re in the cell. All you know is that time blends together. It’s difficult to keep your eyes open. To think.

Eventually, your foggy thoughts are interrupted by metal fingers against your cheek. By a familiar figure crouching in front of you. You hear the soft click of a knife, feel the ropes behind your back come undone in one quick movement.

“Bucky.” You feel like you’re underwater, but you grab at his arm like it might save you from drowning. Look into his eyes with your own hazy ones.

They’re not Bucky’s eyes.

“No, no. You have to come back.” Your voice is hoarse, quieter than you want, but you can still hear the desperation in it. “You can’t leave now. You can’t be this right now, Bucky.”

He just stares at you, brushes that metal thumb over your cheek to catch your falling tears.

They took everything away from him again, but they left you. And the most sickening part is that you know why.

Leverage.

Something to keep the Winter Soldier in check. A prisoner to threaten, to hurt, to ensure that he won’t go rogue again.

You’re going to kill them all. Every last one of them.

The rage, the panic, is muffled by whatever they’ve put in you to keep you too docile to fight back. As he leans closer, that same familiar devotion in his eyes but nothing else, your weak hands fly up to shove him away from you.

“Get off me.” You stand. Your legs feel like they’re made of jelly. Your thoughts are dragging. Still, you shove him again because this is wrong. He’s not Bucky. He’s not even the version of himself he was in that safehouse, confused and lacking memories but still clinging to a part of who he was before. This man before you is an empty shell of the one who cares for you. Who loves you.

He reaches for you. You shove him back. “Get off of me.”

You stumble. He catches you. Familiar arms that are Bucky’s but not Bucky’s wrap around you and pull you close. Possessive. Adoring. Wrong.

He holds you up effortlessly, presses his nose into your hair and murmurs something in a language you don’t understand. Russian, Romanian, doesn’t matter. It’s not him.

“I don’t speak that.” You nearly sob. It’s one of the first things you ever said to him, and even then he was more human than this.

He shushes you. Soothes his hand over your back. Presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“Come back, asshole. Come back now or I swear to God-“

A sharp command from the guards outside makes him go rigid against you. His hand brushes over the back of your head, and he nuzzles his nose into your hair once more like he’s saying goodbye.

“No. No, stop. Stop. Come back, Bucky.” You can’t think enough to be eloquent. To say whatever you could say to drag him out of this. He lifts you, lowers you back to the cot like you’re made of glass, and you struggle to form a fully coherent thought. Your hands don’t push him away anymore. They cling his tactical gear, refusing to release him despite the shakiness of your fingers.

“Don’t.” You say, desperate and angry and so, so tired.

He kisses your forehead. Your nose. Your lips.

You know what they’re sending him out to do. You know that it’s wrong. That when you get him back - and you will, even if it kills you - that he’ll be ripped apart by his own actions.

Another sharp command. Another bout of tension in his shoulders, like he’s being physically pulled away from you by the words.

And then he’s gone. The door shuts behind him, and you’re alone.

You fight, then.

When you rip yourself off of the cot, you stumble and fall, but you still drag yourself back to the door of the cell. You slam your hands against the metal surface until you draw blood. Until it opens.

You kick and struggle, as weak as you are, against the agents that hold you.

A needle plunges into your neck, and you reach up like you’ll rip it out of you.

“I’m going to kill you.” You say, and you’ve never sounded angrier in your life. More sure of a threat. “Every single…”

The world goes dark again.

-

The next time you wake, it’s to a familiar voice.

“Hey, wake up. We’ve got to move.”

Your bleary eyes open. See blue eyes and blond hair. Slide too-slowly down to the corner of the cell. Dropped guards. Open door.

“Steve?” Your voice is hoarse. A large hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, helping you into a sitting position as the world spins.

“I’ve got you.” He says, soothing and kind as always as he looks into your eyes with the firm, calm command of a captain. “Try to focus.”

You do. Your weak fingers grip his arm, curling in the sleeve of his suit.

“I can’t…” you grit your teeth, frustrated.

“I know.” His voice is even, but understanding. “Just stay still. Try not to panic.”

You barely have time to let out a weak “what?” before you feel the prick of another fucking needle in your arm.

Adrenaline shocks your system like a bucket of icy water.

You bolt upright, nearly leaping off the bed and only held back by Steve’s arm. Clarity comes to you fast. Too fast, even. The previously blurry room is suddenly in complete focus. The memories of what happened before this are sharp enough to cut.

“Holy shit.” Your entire body hums. You leap off of the bed, suddenly needing to move. “Holy shit, what is that?!”

“Natasha gave it to me. It’s counteracting-“

“Where’s Bucky?” Your voice is loud. Maybe too loud. You start moving towards the door.

Steve catches you. Holds you back. You squirm.

“Bucky. Where’s-“

“You need to breathe.” His voice is solid and sure. Your heart is hammering so hard in your chest you feel like it might bust out of you. “You just took three hits of adrenaline.”

You shake. You try to wiggle out of his grip.

“I’m sorry.” He’s still holding you firm.

“Nope. Don’t say that. Take me to Bucky. Now.” You’re talking too fast, but at least you can form words.

“I will. Just hang on.”

It takes a minute, though it feels like an hour. You twitch, try to control your breathing, and fight off the urge to attempt to rip out of his grasp and run. Finally, an eternity later, he releases you.

Everything is still very clear. Very focused. But now you don’t want to jump out of your skin. Now you can at least draw breath.

Hands fall on your shoulders, and your friend’s blue eyes look into yours like a captain assessing a fellow soldier. Still, there’s an almost brotherly concern behind his eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Throat dry and body humming. “No more needles. Ever. I mean ever. I’m not even getting a tetanus shot after this.” You breathe, still feeling the tremble in your hands. “Let’s go.”

He nods, and you run.

-

The fight that ensues, the explosion of battle bursting out between agents of HYDRA and agents of SHIELD, separates you from Steve.

It separates you long enough to miss the aircraft taking off. To earn yourself new bruises and potential battle scars as you do your best to take down anyone that comes near you. The adrenaline from the shot is wearing off too quickly, but it’s replaced with the natural surge that comes with battle. With fighting for your life.

You make it to Sam right before he takes off.

“Get me up there.” You’re breathless, blood on your face and bullets empty from your gun. You toss it to the side like the useless, empty brick of a thing it’s become, eyes wild as you look up at the craft a hundred feet above you.

He tries to protest, and in your desperation you might even have aimed your gun at him if it wasn’t already skating off the side of the building.

“Sam.” You snap his name harshly enough that he doesn’t protest, just grabs you to him and takes off. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling wind whip through your hair at the rapid ascent, and wonder how the fuck he does this without passing out.

You shout your plan to him over the wind, distracting yourself with logistics and doing everything you can to keep from looking down. He leaves you at a door near the bottom of the craft before he moves to the fight at the top, and you nearly rip the door off of its hinges as you jolt inside.

You don’t have comms. You don’t have anything but instinct and panic guiding you.

You’ll get Bucky back, but you need to keep him from killing people first.

So you run. Your lungs burn. Your body aches. But you make it to the center of the craft just as you hear the commotion behind you.

You grab the key. Disable the weapon before it can be fired and wait until it can be rerouted. The little rectangle can’t weigh more than an ounce, but it feels like it’s dragging you to the floor.

You have a second to catch your breath. Just a second.

And then you’re crushed back against a solid chest hard enough to knock the wind from you.

You can’t see the Winter Soldier’s face, but you can feel his surprise at your sudden appearance in the way his arms lock around you. Tight.

“Let go.” You demand, uselessly, as he begins to pull you back. He doesn’t hit you, doesn’t even come close to hurting you, but he holds you firm as his hand begins to reach into your pocket. To grab the device hidden there.

You twist to face him, look him right in those empty eyes, and yank him down to crush your lips to his in a desperate movement. A distraction. If, by some miracle, it works, you decide that you’ll feel guilty about it later.

And it does work. For just a second. He freezes, hand pausing it’s descent into your pocket just long enough to return the kiss like he can’t help it. Like he needs to.

You grab the little rectangle in your pocket, and throw it at Steve.

His lips stop moving against yours. He turns, and you expect him to start moving again. To run to the device and grab it from the other man’s hands.

Instead, you’re pulled to him again, and you’re moving.

“What are you doing?” You ask, pushing at him and trying in vain to break his hold. “Bucky, what the fuck are you- no. Oh my God, no.”

He grabs your arm and cuffs it to a pole at the main panel.

“You son of a bitch.” You tug against the cuff, trying to kick at him. Trying to grab him back to you. He stands, turns back to Steve like he’s confident that you’re locked down and not going anywhere until he can come back for you.

“Get the fuck back here you brainwashed King Kong motherfucker!”

Your furious words fall on deaf ears, and you kick uselessly at nothing in pure frustration as the fight continues. You twist, reach into your pocket to find something to pick the stupid lock with, and hear the clash of metal on metal explode through the ship.

“When I get you out of this,” you growl, knowing he’s too far away by now to even hear you, already working at the lock as the ship rocks with the force of supersoldiers throwing each other into the walls. “I am going to make you sleep on the couch for a fucking month.”

-

He’s killing him.

Steve is on the ground. The weapons are disabled and the ship is about to crash into the water, and The Winter Soldier is killing Steve Rogers.

You try to pull him off, and you’re pushed back. Surprisingly, not hard enough to hurt. But hard enough that all of your efforts are for nothing.

Steve won’t fight back.

And, for one moment, between the last punch and watching Steve fall into to the water, you see it.

You see Bucky.

He watches him fall. Steve hits the river and doesn’t resurface.

The Winter Soldier turns to you. Begins moving towards you with what you can only imagine is an intent to grab and protect. To find some way to escape the craft that allows Captain America to drown and ends with both of you back in HYDRA’s clutches.

But you saw Bucky. For a moment, he was back. For a moment, the spell broke.

“Fuck.” You say, voice drowned out by the sound of metal scraping against metal. Of explosions. Of inevitable doom. You know what you’re about to do, and it is going to suck.

He seems to sense your thought before you even have it. He moves faster, sprinting towards you now, and you don’t let yourself think.

You jump.

You hear his shout over the chaos above you, and the moment you fall feels like a fucking eternity. This had better work. The impact better not break your legs or shatter your spine. Steve better be alive down there.

The silence when you hit the water feels more like whiplash than anything else you’ve experienced today.

You don’t let yourself think. You didn’t make sure to inhale before you plunged past the surface. You search for a moment, and thank everything above and below and in between when you spot a body floating down into the depths of the river. Far, but not too far.

You kick with the last of your strength, manage to grab the front of his uniform and begin to drag him to the surface just as your lungs begin to burn. You come to the surface gasping for air, throwing Steve’s weight - is he even heavier in water? What the fuck is in that serum?- onto the nearest floating piece of debris and begin to grab for it yourself before some impossibly large part of the craft lands beside you and sends you spiralling back under.

You lose track of where you are. Of what direction is up. Your vision begins to blacken.

And, as it finally goes dark, you see a glint of metal fingers above you.

-

The ground is firm against your back. Something pushes rhythmically against your chest. Hard. Uncomfortable. Forcing the water out of your lungs and making you seize.

A mouth covers your own. Air blows into your lungs. The pushing continues. Someone is speaking, a low voice you recognize, but you’re still just a little too far gone to register it completely.

And then, with one last push, you shoot back into your own body. Roll to your side and hack up what feels like half of the fucking river.

When your vision clears, you see Steve beside you. Unconscious and bloody, but breathing.

You have less than a moment of relief before you’re pulled into someone’s arms, and when you look up this time, it’s Bucky. Panicked and horrified, but Bucky all the same.

“Look at me, doll. C’mon. Look at me. You’re okay. M’sorry. I’m so fucking sorry-“

“Hi.” You say, exhaustion running bone deep through you, and his relief is a palpable and beautiful thing. He kisses your wet hair. Your forehead. Your cheeks. He rocks you against him and pulls you impossibly closer like he’s still trying to rip you back from the dead.

You let your eyes close for a moment, lean against his chest and reach out with numb fingers to take one of his hands in yours. “Knew you’d come back.” You say, lungs still burning and body still aching. “Wish there had been an easier way to do it, though. Ow.”

He laughs, but it’s a broken and pained noise.

For a while, you sit there together, exhausted and hurting in more ways than physical. Eventually, he helps to guide you to your feet, still holding you close as he presses his lips to your forehead.

“We have to go.” He murmurs, and you nod.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

You’ll go anywhere with him. And you have to. Steve will be okay, but HYDRA is going to want both of you back, and there’s no way to protect yourselves unless you go off the grid. At least for a while.

You rest your forehead against his shoulder. He trails his fingers through your wet hair. You ground each other, matching your breathing and confirming to yourselves that you’re both alive. Both here. Both as safe as you can be, for now.

“Why is she here?” Pierce asks, like you’re nothing more than an afterthought. Something to be dealt with later.

“Information.” The man behind you says, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not getting it. Have I told you you’re a dick, yet? Because this whole ‘I’ve been secretly evil the whole time’ thing is really-“

Something digs into your back, and the electrocution knocks you to your knees.

You decide, in what is likely a clever move, to keep your mouth shut, gritting your teeth until the pain subsides.

So you watch, instead. As the man in the chair, the unstable and erratic one, you guess, mentions ‘the man on the bridge’.

There’s humanity in his eyes. Confusion.

You’re not gonna save him. You’re not going to think about how Steve froze up. How the captain looked at you and Natasha after the encounter with him. This person is beyond saving. He’s a weapon. He tried to kill you. Chased you through the streets of DC and tried to shoot you with what must have been a hundred different types of guns.

“I knew him.” He says, brow furrowing. And then, he looks at you.

You, who he attacked on that same bridge. You, who ducked behind Steve’s shield just in time to dodge a barrage of his bullets.

His eyes ask you a thousand questions, and you can’t answer a single one of them. He looks so pained and defeated and just fucking hopeful enough that a part of your heart cracks in your chest.

They lock him into the chair, and you’re dragged out of the room. His eyes stay on you for as long as possible, before they squeeze shut and he begins to scream with more agony in his voice than you’ve ever heard in your life.

Fuck, you’re going to come back for him.

-

The room is quiet, but it won’t be for long. You thank your lucky stars that they left him alone here, clearly convinced that the machine he’s attached to would do its job. Still, they’re coming for you. You probably bought yourself no more than an extra minute and a half by darting into the one room they never would have expected you to enter.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here. Shut up.” Your voice is a harsh whisper. Your fingers fumble at the restraints on his metal arm. You have to force them to stay steady. They’re coming. Any minute, they’ll all file back into this room - this torture chamber - and catch you and probably do a whole lot worse than kill you.

“Should have just run. Fuck. This is so- ha! There it is.” The restraint comes undone, and you barely get a second to grin proudly before the hand you just freed is wrapped around your wrist. Hard enough to bruise. Hard enough that any more pressure might shatter bone.

He’s silent. Eyes narrowed. Looking right at you.

You fight off your grimace of pain. Glare back at him with everything you have.

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Why?”

“Because Steve knows you.” And you looked at me like that. Like you were scared. And I saw the pain and defeat in your eyes when they- The fingers tighten at the name, and you do wince now. “Unlatch, asshole.”

To your surprise, he does. You shake your arm off, grumbling something about needing your hands to help him, and move to the other arm.

You hear commotion in the hall the moment you get him free. He shoots to his feet with a catlike swiftness and grace that doesn’t look human. For a moment, you freeze. Take a breath to keep yourself from panicking at the sheer size of him. At the curiosity that twitches in his eyes as he looks down at you.

“Let’s go.” You say, and he doesn’t waste a second before he’s moving.

You got out of your restraints. Out of the little cell they threw you in. But that struggle didn’t come without a fight. That, on top of the injuries you acquired while fighting the man you’re currently trying to save, for some fucking reason, makes you frustratingly slow.

You half-limp as you run alongside him. He notices. Catches you before you fall as his silent feet move through the hallway, righting you but not running ahead. Not leaving you behind to escape on his own.

Interesting.

The voices behind you get louder, and the crack of a gun firing sounds through the air before white hot pain ignites in your shoulder. You go down with a yelp, and he immediately tugs you around a corner. You lean against the wall a little too hard. Gasp for breath and grab at the wound. It hurts. So badly that you feel light headed. You can already feel warm blood spilling from between your fingers.

He says something to you in Russian, low and urgent. It sounds like an order.

“I don’t speak that.” You grit out. But he’s already moving.

Three guards come down the hall behind you. You don’t even get a chance to turn back around the corner and look before the gunfire ceases, bodies drop to the floor, and he returns to press something into your hand.

A gun.

“Thank y-“

Hands are on you, grabbing your shoulder, and you wince in pain. Instinct has you raising your weapon to him, ready to shoot if he tries to use your injury to take you down.

He doesn’t. He’s inspecting your wound.

He says something else in Russian. You grit your teeth in pain and frustration. “Still don’t speak that.”

He doesn’t elaborate, but more noises sound down the hall and you’re moving again.

-

You make it out the door. You spot the plane. Your head spins.

You trip again, blood loss and exhaustion finally catching up to you at the worst possible time, and the Winter Soldier stops to look at you as your knees hit the ground.

You hear voices. Distant, but coming. You have less than a minute.

“Go.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s still looking at you.

“Fucking- go.” You insist, adamant and dizzy. You think, with the gun he gave you, you might be able to hold them off for a few minutes. Just enough time for him to-

He moves fast. Before you can even form a hazy thought, he picks you up, throws you over his shoulder, and runs.

The movement jostles your injuries, and you know there’s no time for gentleness, that he couldn’t possibly care if it hurts, but you can’t help the broken scream of pain that rips its way from your throat. To your surprise, you feel a hand tighten against the backs of your thighs, but he doesn’t stop.

You hear the door of the plane open, feel yourself being set down in the seat, and everything goes dark.

-

“Ow.”

Your eyes creak open. Pain shoots through your body. Sharp and deep and everywhere.

“Don’t move.” The voice beside you sounds hoarse. Unused. You try to sit up, to assess your surroundings, and a metal arm pushes you back down.

“Ow.” You repeat, and the arm stills, the sudden gentleness almost feeling like a silent apology.

You look up at a creaky old fan. Feel a worn mattress against your back. Turn your head to see bare wooden walls that look like they’re about to cave in at any moment.

“Where am I?” Your mouth is dry. Your body hurts.

“Safehouse.”

“Where?”

No answer.

You sit in silence, just for a moment, before you speak again.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No.” The answer is immediate. Firm. Sure. That’s a start, you guess.

You reach a hand up to touch your aching shoulder, and feel the fabric of a sweatshirt covering a layer of bandages. You weren’t wearing a sweatshirt before. Your bullet wound certainly wasn’t bandaged.

“Did you…undress me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you put these bandages on?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever say more than one word at a time?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to let me sit up?”

“No.”

You sigh, turn your head to face him. He’s sitting in a chair beside the bed, and his eyes are the color of the midday sky. It’s an odd thought to have, but you can’t help but realize that they’re beautiful. Even as they stare at you like he’s assessing every movement in every muscle in your body.

Wherever you are, it’s freezing. He’s wearing a t-shirt. You’re in a sweatshirt. He was shirtless when you saved him. You’re not sure what’s stocked in this safehouse, but his lack of clothing and the goosebumps on his flesh arm tell you that you just might be wearing the only warm article of clothing here.

“You’re cold.” You say, narrowing your eyes.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Do you know me?”

The question comes so quickly, so bluntly, that you blink in surprise. His eyes don’t leave yours. There are questions there. You don’t know how to answer them.

“I…no. I don’t. I know who you are, but I don’t know you.”

He stares at you. Silent.

“You’re… Bucky Barnes. James Barnes, I think.” He keeps staring, but his eyebrows twitch like he recognizes the name, so you keep going. “You’re Steve’s best friend. You fought with him in the war and-“

“Why did you save me?”

The interruption makes you blink again, but something about the look in his eyes makes you answer him just as bluntly.

“You looked at me, and you looked…” Confused. Exhausted. Worn out by obvious years of torture and begging for an answer to why this was happening to you. “…human.”

He looks away, towards a fireplace that you now realize is lit. It doesn’t offer enough warmth in the room.

“You’re still cold.” Your voice is quiet when you break the silence again. His eyes whip back to yours.

“I’m fine.”

“Can I give you the sweatshirt?”

“No.”

You blow out a frustrated breath through your nose, shifting over a bit on the mattress with a wince. His eyes follow your movements. Calculated.

“You can…” you don’t finish the sentence, just pat the empty part of the bed with your non-injured arm. His brow furrows again, and he doesn’t speak.

“Stop with the staring thing. I’m cold too. Just…” you don’t want to say it out loud, embarrassed and confused as to why you’re even offering this to the man who tried to kill you yesterday and saved your life today.

He keeps staring. You stare back. It feels like hours before he finally moves off of the chair and climbs into the bed, pulling the threadbare blanket up to cover the both of you.

And then you lay there, listening to the crackle of the fire, sitting in a silence that feels like it’s elongating time itself.

You barely even realize that you’re shivering until he grunts, quiet and low, and pulls you into his arms. Surprisingly, the movement doesn’t bring any pain, like he’s assessed every one of your injuries and decided the best way to move you to keep from jostling them.

His body heat seeps into you almost immediately, and when you sigh in relief, you feel his arms tighten around you a little more. Almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t kill me in my sleep.” You mumble against his chest, eyes drifting closed.

“Sleep.” He says back, and you feel the plates of his metal arm shift as he pulls you a little closer.

As you feel him relax, as you begin to drift off, you think you hear him mumble something into your hair. A short phrase in Russian. Something soft. Delicate.

You decide to ask what it means in the morning, and allow the darkness to pull you under.

-

When you wake, it’s to more pain. Fuck, bullet wounds hurt. The ache is overwhelming, and you nearly groan before you notice something else.

Warmth. The scent of gunpowder and leather and something softer. Pine trees and snow.

The steady rise and fall of a chest against your forehead.

Slowly, with as much stealth as you can manage, you pull back.

He’s sleeping. He looks…different when he’s sleeping. His features are soft, lit by the low light of the fire.

He looks more human now than you’ve ever seen him before.

At your movements, his eyebrows twitch. His eyes squeeze shut just a little tighter. Large arms pull you back to him, tucking you into his chest as a soft breath warms the top of your head.

Against your better judgement, you let him pull you closer. Close your eyes again. And when sleep pulls you back under, you feel safe.

-

You wake again in the morning to the feeling of something featherlight against your cheek. The movement is so soft, so careful, you don’t dare open your eyes. It feels like fingers, barely touching you and tracing the outline of your face.

He must hear your breathing change. Sense your consciousness. The touch disappears so quickly that it makes your eyes flutter open, and the way he’s sitting and flipping a knife absentmindedly by the side of the bed makes you wonder if it was even real.

“Ow.” You say again, discomfort lighting in your nerves as you try to stretch the sleep out of your limbs. His hand flies out to hold you down again, and you groan with a mix of irritation and pain.

“You’ve gotta let me sit up eventually.”

He’s silent, but he gives in. His arm wraps around your back. And he helps to pull you up until you’re sitting against the wall.

“Thanks.” You say, leaning your head back against the wooden surface, and look over at him. At the t-shirt. At his face.

“You look weird like this.”

“Like what?”

“It’s just weird to see you in a regular shirt. You just look like you sleep in tactical gear.”

“I do.”

You frown. Remembering the bits and pieces you know about him. “Right. The cryofreeze shit. Sorry.”

He grunts, stands to move over to poke at the fire again. You try to move your arm again and wince.

“We have to go.”

“Not yet.”

“What?” You sit up a little straighter. Wince again. “No, we have to go.”

“No.”

Your teeth clench. The one word answers are getting a little frustrating. “Why?”

“You’re not healed.”

“So what?”

He doesn’t answer you. You reach behind you with your good arm, grab the pillow behind you, and throw it at him. “Answer me, you broody motherfucker.”

He catches it without even turning around, tosses it back to the bed so it lands gently beside you, and doesn’t answer.

You seethe. He turns back around. Looks you over. “I have to change your bandages.”

“I’m fine. Tell me how to call Steve.”

“No.”

“You’re gonna need to stop saying that.”

“No.”

You growl, fury ripping through your veins and making you try to wiggle off of the bed. You barely make it to your feet before he’s sitting you back down.

“You’re not healed yet.”

“And?!”

“We’re not leaving until you are.”

“People are going to die. They’re looking for me. HYDRA is definitely looking for you.”

“You could die.”

“Why do you care?!”

He looks at you. Stares. His brow twitches again.

“Two days.” He says.

“We don’t have time to-“

“Two days.” He says again. His eyes dart to your shoulder. Back to your face. And it’s the last word that makes you cave. “Please.”

You grit your teeth. Bite your lip in frustration. His eyes fall to your mouth for just a second before he rips his gaze back to your own.

“Twelve hours.” You try.

“No.”

“Fine. But it’s still up for negotiation.”

His shoulders relax, just a little. “Okay.”

-

Hours later, you end up sitting on the floor before the fireplace, criss-cross-applesauce and throwing peanuts from a can left in storage into his mouth.

“Okay, favorite…color?” You ask, tossing another peanut and watching him catch it effortlessly. It’s a strange thing to see, a man who could snap your neck in half a thought playing a game with you that’s almost childlike. Even so, he seems to enjoy it. Especially when you hand the can to him and miss his perfect throw by twisting your head too far, causing the peanut to bounce off of your nose.

“I don’t know.”

“New rule,” you say, accepting the can from him and tossing another peanut, “no more ‘I don’t know’. Make a decision or make something up.”

He hums, and catches another peanut. “Green.”

You smile, toss another. He reaches for the can again, and you think he might be fighting his own smile.

“Favorite food.” He never asks his questions like they’re questions. They come out like demands. Like he’s not used to having a normal conversation.

You think. Tell him. A peanut bounces off of your nose again.

“Favorite…hm.” You frown, out of questions. You can’t exactly ask anything personal, because he doesn’t remember those things. “Huh. I don’t know. You’re too enigmatic to play this game with. What do you like?”

“I like you.” He says it bluntly. Simply. You pause.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not allowed to do that.” You throw another peanut. Try to hit him in the face. He still catches it effortlessly. Hesitates in his answer. You think, even in the firelight, that you might see him blush.

“You’re…” he doesn’t look at you. You wonder if you broke his staring problem. “You’re pretty.”

You can’t help the snort of laughter. He’s definitely blushing now, and you almost feel bad.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He sounds frustrated, shoulders hunching. “And you’re…I like the way you talk to me.”

You offer him the can of peanuts, and he doesn’t look at you as he takes it. The gesture seems to give him the courage to continue.

“You make me feel…human.” There is so much behind that sentence, but he throws another peanut.

You catch it in your mouth, throw your hands up in victory, and forget about your shoulder.

The movement makes you choke on a scream of pain. On the peanut. 

The Winter Soldier is on you in a second, large body atop yours as he pushes you down to assess your injury.

Your back hits the floor. His hand cradles your head to stop the collision of your skull with the wooden surface. As you catch your breath, still wheezing a bit from the sharp bolt of agony that’s still running through your body, you feel deft fingers pushing the sweatshirt up to check your bandages.

“Hey, calm- dude, stop.” Your free hand comes up, catching his arm, and he looks down at you.

You look back at him. He’s close. Really close. He’s still on top of you. There’s an intimacy crackling in the air, and it’s not just because of his proximity. It’s the way his hand has paused on your ribs, the near-brush of his nose against yours. The look in his eyes. The concern in his expression.

His eyes are so blue.

“You ripped your stitches.” He says, and the feeling of his breath brushing against your lips shouldn’t make you shiver, but it does. His fingers curl, ever so slightly, against your skin like he feels it.

“I’ve been shot before. I’m fine.” Your voice is too quiet for your own liking. You can’t tell if you’re out of breath from pain or something else.

“Let me check.”

“I…” you should argue. Tell him no. Bite back the pain and refuse help like you usually do. “Okay.”

His hand moves to your back, and he guides you upright. You’re nearly in his lap as his hands move up under the sweatshirt, and the way his calloused fingers slide over your skin feels a little too reverent to be entirely medical.

You swallow as he pulls it off, guiding it over your head and over your arm in a way that doesn’t force you to lift the appendage at all. You’re still in his arms. Frozen. This is too intimate. Too weird.

His fingers brush against a blooming flower of red against your shoulders. Your stitches ripped. The pain feels distant.

He’s silent as he begins to unwrap your bandages. You can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s new for you.

You wince as they come off, and you feel the fingers of his free hand tighten against your back in that barely-there way that he has. Right now, with the silence and firelight, it feels like restraint.

“You ripped your stitches.” His voice is low. Quiet.

“Oh.” You swear you were eloquent once. You should have said something quippier. You’re having trouble stringing a thought together.

“I have to redo them.” He looks at you. Right into your eyes. He’s not exactly asking permission, but he is asking if you’re okay.

You nod.

He lays you back onto the floor like a lover might, cradling the back of your head and placing the sweatshirt beneath it like a makeshift pillow. You stare at the ceiling as he rises to grab the first aid-kit, trying to pull your mind back together.

He’s on top of you again, and you try to tell yourself that your unsteady breathing is only from the pain as you feel a warm towel wiping the blood away from your wound. You keep your eyes fixed on the creaky fan.

“I don’t have anything to numb the pain.” He says, and you don’t look at him. Can’t. “I have a shot. HYDRA made. It speeds up the healing, but it…hurts.”

You blow out a shaky breath, weighing the pros and cons of letting him inject anything made by HYDRA into your veins. When you look up into his eyes, however, you realize that you trust him. Unquestioningly. When the fuck did that happen?

“Okay.” You whisper, offering a nod. He nods back, and moves down to focus on your arm.

He stitches you back up quickly, fingers deft and practiced like that of a soldier. Only once, when he pulls the last stitch tight and ties it off, do you let out a quiet whimper of pain.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound like he’s apologizing for just the stitches.

“S’fine.” You watch him ready the shot, and the tenseness in his muscles makes yours lock up in anticipation. “How long will it take to work?”

“Twelve to fourteen hours. It’s the injection that will-”

“Hurt. Yeah, you mentioned.”

“I don’t have to-“

“Just do it. I’ll be fine.” You try to offer him a smile. “Can’t hurt worse than actually getting shot, right?”

The look in his eyes makes you realize why he hasn’t offered this before. Why he’s still so hesitant to offer it to you now.

“It will.”

You swallow, nod again. “Okay. Do it.” You can’t sit around with a wounded shoulder. Not if you have another option. While the soldier may be content to hide away in this safehouse for as long as possible, for reasons you can’t pretend like you don’t understand, you have people to get back to. A mission to complete.

He hesitates again, and there’s an emotion in his eyes that you can’t place. “I’m going to have to hold you down.” He warns. “You might hurt yourself.”

“You are really not selling this thing.”

He stares. You groan. “Okay. Just do it. Please. Let’s get it over with.”

He stares again. Seems to hesitate. You grit your teeth, squeeze your eyes shut, and feel the sting of the needle entering your arm.

For a moment, there’s just silence.

And then the pain hits.

The scream that rips its way out of your throat doesn’t sound human. The blood in your veins is replaced by molten hot lava, burning you from the inside out and making your vision go white.

You try to claw it out of you, desperate for some kind of release. You’ll rip your own skin open to get the fire out of your body before it completely consumes you.

You’re pulled backwards into a broad chest. Arms wrap firmly around you, holding you in place and stopping your hands from trying to tear the fire out of you.

You writhe. Scream again. You feel tears sliding down your cheeks. Vaguely, you register the feeling of lips pressing against your temple. Of soft, comforting words being whispered into your hair as those arms hold you still. You can’t focus on them. Can barely hear them over the agony ripping through you.

It feels like hours before it subsides, finally offering you relief. Even as you calm, relax back against the soldier’s large chest like you just finished running a marathon, he doesn’t stop murmuring to you, rocking you gently, soothingly.

Your voice sounds hoarse when you speak again. Raw from screaming. “What language is that?”

“Romanian.” His voice is still low. Still soft. There’s a hint of apology in it. Of pain, like it hurt him to watch you suffer.

“What does it mean?”

He doesn’t answer you.

-

“You picked a shitty safehouse.”

You grumble the words against his shoulder. His arms are wrapped around you again, the threadbare blanket covering your bodies. The room is still freezing, and the small window in the corner gives you a glimpse of snowflakes fluttering against it.

“It’s not made for comfort.” His words are quiet against your hair. His flesh hand warms the skin of your back beneath the sweatshirt. With every hour that passes, he becomes a little more talkative. A little less reserved. You realized, at some point today between the talking and stupid games to fill the time, that you like him. Not just because of this strange, unspoken bond that seems to connect the two of you, but because you really genuinely just…like him. He’s good company. “I can make the fire-“

“If you move, I will kill you.”

You think, for a second, that you might feel him smile.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable anymore. There’s a softness to it, now. Still, you can’t keep yourself quiet for very long.

“Cats or dogs?” You ask, deciding that now would be the perfect time to start up the question game again. It’s better than iSpy. He keeps choosing unbelievably small and specific things - a single tree on the horizon. A barely-noticeable hole in the wall. He might have turned you into the first living person to rage-quit fucking iSpy.

“Cats.”

“Huh. Would have pegged you for a dog guy.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I see it now though. All those giant muscles and quiet broodiness is perfect for a cat.” Picturing him holding a kitten should not be as cute as it is, but the mental image makes you smile a little against his chest. He feels it. His hold tightens a little, and he snuggles closer like the expression gave him the courage to do so.

“What about you?” He asks, voice a little softer now.

“I like cats, too.” You admit, still smiling a bit. “I mean, dogs are cute and all but cats are so much softer.”

“Makes sense. You’re soft.” He says, and then stills like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You grin, a little evilly, and sacrifice the warmth of his hold just enough to pull your head back and look at him. “Oh, yeah?”

“Don’t.” His face is red. The assassin. The killing machine. The Fist of HYDRA. He’s blushing like a schoolgirl and refusing to look at you.

“And pretty?” You echo his words from before. He could kill you in two seconds, in a hundred different ways, but you’re teasing him mercilessly to see how red you can make his face as his expression becomes more and more tortured with each passing second.

“Aw, you’re blushing.” You say, smile widening. “It’s okay. You’re pretty too.”

He curses in Russian, and his hand flies up to cover your mouth. The gesture is almost as childish as your teasing, and you can’t help the giggle that erupts from your throat.

And then something shifts in the air. Not abruptly. Not even on purpose. It’s a slow, natural thing, the way your laughter dies down and his hand softens against your mouth. The way his eyes find yours, firelight reflecting in the blue of his irises, and you feel your heartbeat quicken as the room goes silent. Anticipation tingles in your fingertips, mixing with something else. Something more powerful than want or even desire. Something you haven’t felt before, that feels life-changing enough to frighten you.

His palm leaves your mouth, fingers twisting just-so until his knuckles drag gently over your lips. His eyes follow the movement, lashes lowering and breath coming a little more slowly like he’s forcing himself to steady it.

Your breath catches. He leans closer in response. His hand moves from your lips, slides over your cheek and into your hair.

Something curls in your gut, low and hot enough to make your heart pound a little faster. You can tell he hears it, with how his fingers tighten on your scalp and his nose brushes against yours.

He’s asking a question. Holding himself back. The air feels like it’s been sucked out of the room. You’ve never heard a louder silence.

His breath ghosts over your lips. His thumb traces almost shakily over your jaw, like he’s forcing himself not to crush you to him and take.

This cannot possibly be a good idea.

You close the distance between you.

The first kiss is gentle. Hesitant, even, like he’s trying to remember exactly how to do this after so many decades of nothing but violence. His lips are so soft. So much warmer than you would have expected. Your eyes drift closed, and you move your mouth against his slowly, gently.

And then he growls, fingers tightening in your hair, and he stops holding back.

He deepens the kiss, and you gasp as you feel his tongue slide against yours. He chases the sound, slotting his leg between yours and rolling so he’s got you pinned beneath him. Miraculously, the movement doesn’t hurt your shoulder in the slightest, like he accounted for your injury without even thinking about it.

The kiss is rough. Deep. Possessive and hungry and so, so good that you can’t form a coherent thought. You kiss him back with a fire you didn’t know you had in you, your own free hand pushing his shirt up to run your nails over the warm skin of his back. You catch his lip between your teeth as you do, and he groans so low and rough that you can feel it vibrate through your blood.

His mouth glides over your jaw, down to the sensitive skin of your neck, and you gasp for breath. His hand glides up under your sweatshirt, making you whimper as his thumb traces over the skin of your ribs and you feel his tongue brush over your throat like it’s the finest thing he’s ever tasted.

Your hands move to unbuckle his belt, nerves burning with need and desperation as you arch against him. He groans, presses closer like he’ll die if he has to feel any sort of distance between your bodies.

Your frantic movements and the angle you twist your body into suddenly shoots a bolt of agony through your shoulder, and you hiss in pain.

He stops.

“M’fine.” You insist, still breathless, and kiss him again. He acquiesces immediately, like he can’t help it.

“You’re still hurt.” The words are a low, craving rumble against your lips. You bite his lip in response, and he growls, pressing closer for a moment before he forces himself back.

“Please?” You try not to sound as out of breath and nearly desperate as you feel. You fail. His eyes darken, and he blows out a hiss of breath between his teeth like stopping is more painful than any bullet wound could ever be.

“You’ll get hurt.” His hand moves up to your face. He brushes the hair out of your eyes in a motion that’s so tender it makes your thoughts stutter.

“The shot-“

“The shot isn’t working yet. You’ll still get hurt.”

You look at him, and you see it in his eyes. He won’t be able to hold back. He won’t know how. That look alone shoots a bolt of desire through you.

But that lack of restraint will hurt you. And he looks so afraid of that possibility that you give in.

“Fine.” You finally sigh, but turn to press a kiss to his palm. You like the way he seems to melt at the gesture, lying back down and pulling you into his arms again.

-

He was right. When you wake the next morning, you can move your arm. Hell, you can even roll your shoulder. It aches, but it doesn’t feel like the limb is going to detach from your body. Ironic as it might be.

Totally not worth the agony of that HYDRA shot, but definitely convenient.

After a mild celebration at your newfound movement, you find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed, the soldier on the floor as your socked feet rest against his ribs and you sit behind him and braid his hair.

With every hour, he’s become more human. More talkative. More himself, whoever that may have been before. Clearly, whatever they were doing to him to keep him that unfeeling assassin was happening on a more regular basis than you thought. The idea of it makes you feel sick.

You haven’t talked about last night, but it isn’t awkward. Just something that doesn’t need to be mentioned. That strange, unspoken bond you both felt when you first saved him has simply been drawn a little tighter. Neither of you are avoiding it. Hiding from it. You’re just both…here. Knowing the strange, strong connection exists but not worrying about where it’s going to lead.

Still, there’s an intimacy in how he’s letting you play with his hair. The way he silently wraps a hand around your leg and presses a kiss to your knee as you tighten the braid.

“We have to go.” You say, voice soft in the silence of the room. You run your fingers through his hair, let the braid loosen and the strands fall back to his shoulders, and lean forward to rest your chin on the top of his head.

“We don’t.” He tries, but it’s not really convincing. He knows that you’re going to argue. That you’re nearly healed now, and there’s no argument to be had.

“We do.” You kiss the top of his head, and he melts. When you move to pull away, he allows it, but his fingers reach up to skate over your leg as you pull it off of his shoulder.

“Plan?”

“I don’t know.” You pull yourself off of the bed, looking out the window with a sigh. “There are two people I can trust, and I have no idea where they are right now.”

“So we can stay.”

“This safehouse is HYDRA. And they’re looking for us.”

He frowns. Looks like he’s about to argue.

“And, if I- If we don’t do something, they’ll kill people. Innocent people. A lot of them.”

His jaw clenches. You pause. You see the memories flicker in his eyes. The guilt.

“You didn’t do that.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t…” you stop, try to find the words. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I’m a weapon.”

“For a weapon, you haven’t hurt me.”

“You’re different.”

“No, I’m not. You tried to kill me before.” He frowns again at that, looks away. You can’t help but add. “Do you… do you remember that?”

“Yes.”

“What do you remember?”

He’s silent. Still.

You reach for him, then, turn him gently to look at you. When he does, he relaxes a little.

“I remember shooting at you.” He says, and then his lips press against your forehead. His hand slides over your back. “I remember you throwing a bomb at me.”

You smile, but it’s guilty. You tuck your face into his shoulder.

“And I remember it blew me back,” he continues, still not letting you go, “and when I stood up, I thought you were dead. But you held your middle fingers up and-“

“Oh, right.” You mumble, suddenly embarrassed, but he continues.

“You looked at me and yelled ‘fuck you, metal man’.”

You cringe. “In my defense, adrenaline is a hell of a drug.”

“I liked you.” He says, tugging you a little closer. “You were interfering with my mission. I shouldn’t have liked it. But I did.”

You snort, still embarrassed. “It wasn’t really my best line, I just-“

He pulls back, grabs your chin. Forces you to look at him. “I liked you.” He repeats, like it’s important. Like he’s telling you a secret. “You were covered in bruises. You were exhausted. I thought you would be easy to take down. But you fought me like you weren’t fighting for yourself.” He leans down. His nose brushes yours. His eyes are burning. “You fought like you were fighting for everyone else.”

His lips move down to your cheek. To your jaw.

“And then, in that room. When they brought you in. You were still fighting them.” You blink, trying to shake off the distracting feeling of his body against yours. He backs you towards the bed. “I looked at you because you jumped in front of the man on the bridge. I know him.” His mouth is by your ear now. His hands are moving down your back.

“That’s Steve.” You say, a little breathless. A part of you wonders if he’s remembering. Like he was before, back in that room. “He’s Captain America. You fought with him in-“

“I remembered you.” He repeats, voice lower now. “I know I was someone else before. I know he’s important.” The backs of your thighs hit the edge of the bed, and he’s quick to replace the sensation with his hands, lifting you up effortlessly as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. “I saw it in your eyes, when you decided you would come back for me. You were still fighting. You were so angry about it.” His teeth catch against the shell of your ear, making you gasp, and still he continues. “They’ve broken me a thousand times, but I saw you. I knew you’d come back.”

Your back hits the mattress, and suddenly he’s on top of you, one hand bracing himself against the threadbare blanket by your head and the other tracing your cheek with a reverence that makes you shiver.

“You saved my life.” He murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself, as his lips brush against yours. “Before you broke me out. When you looked at me like that, you saved me.”

You kiss him, then, unable to hold back the fire burning through you at his words. At his touch. He meets you with the same ferocity as before, kissing you back like he’s starved as he drags you closer to him.

This time, he doesn’t stop you when you unbuckle his belt.

This time, his hands slide up under your sweatshirt and pull it off of you, ripping off his own t-shirt as his lips trail down over your newly exposed skin, kissing and biting like every touch is a claim. Making you feel like you’re burning from the inside out in the most wonderful of ways.

He stops, just long enough to check your newly healed shoulder, and his concern makes you smile. You lean down to press gentle kisses to the scarred skin at the base of his metal arm, and you hear him let out a shaky breath before his barely-there control breaks again and he drags you back to him, pressing you into the mattress as his lips find yours once more.

The safehouse is still freezing, the burning fire still doesn't heat the room quite enough, but neither of you notice.

-

When you wake this morning, one sleepy blink shows that the sun is just high enough in the sky that your alarm will be going off any minute. The idea of pulling yourself back to consciousness makes you groan, and you tuck yourself further into your husband’s embrace, chasing comfort and sleep.

Arms tighten around you, holding you closer. More tightly than usual, but not tight enough to cause any discomfort or alarm. Your sleep-addled brain takes this as an invitation to cuddle, and maybe even earn yourself a chance of him hitting the snooze button once or twice.

You wrap your arms around him with a sleepy sigh, sliding your leg between his and rolling on top of him in the way you know always makes him melt. He goes still, which is a little strange, but immediately relaxes and slides his flesh hand up your back in a soothing gesture that has you nearly drifting back to sleep. You hum in approval, pressing a kiss to the smooth skin of his chest and closing your eyes.

You feel more tired than usual this morning. You must have gone to bed late. Stayed up working on some sort of experiment-

Experiment.

Memories flood back to you like a dam breaking. Your eyes shoot open.

He feels you tense, and his hand stills on your back.

For a moment, one brief and horrible moment, you hope. You move to sit atop him, leg still between his and hands bracing against the pillow on either side of his head as you rip yourself back into consciousness and look into his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll look down and see Bucky.

You don’t.

The Winter Soldier gazes up at you. You gaze back down at him.

Fuck. You think.

“Hi.” You say instead, voice coming out awkward and hoarse with sleep.

“Hi.” He echoes, and you feel his fingers curl against you like he’s fighting the urge to pull you back to him. You almost let him, something about the look in his eyes making it difficult to think straight, but you shake it off.

You dislodge from him, rolling out of bed fast enough that he grunts with surprise, and try to smooth down your bedhead as you do your best to hide your disappointment.

“Breakfast?” Your voice is too high. Too light to be fully convincing.

He watches you in that incredibly observant way you still aren’t fully accustomed to, eyes never leaving yours but still seeming to account for every movement of your muscles, every twitch in your expression.

“Okay.”

-

“What are you doing?”

“Checking your vitals. The comparison might help me find something.” You explain absentmindedly, holding a little flashlight in front of his eyes and moving your finger back and forth. He follows the movement obediently, and so smoothly that it’s almost inhuman. You suppose it is, with his enhanced reflexes. You owe those reflexes quite a bit of gratitude, in fact. While Bucky moves with a practiced grace, he also tends to account for your own clumsiness, catching you before you even realize you’re about to trip or snatching an item out of the air a millisecond after you drop it. Such actions are often met with your surprise, and often followed by a cocky smile.

The Winter Soldier sits unnaturally still, leaning back against the couch cushions like a statue. You can’t even see the rise and fall of his chest. 

You pull the flashlight away to scribble in your notes, and his eyes remain fixed on you.

You try to ignore the featherlight touch of his gaze, fixed on you so intensely it feels like physical contact, as you press two fingers against his neck to check his pulse.

“It’s fast.” You observe, distracted.

“You’re close.” He answers, blunt, and you finally meet his gaze.

Something familiar and electric crackles in the air. You’ve been trying to ignore it. You really have. But as his cerulean eyes bore into your own, so much desire swimming in them that it makes your knees feel weak, you find that task to be increasingly more difficult.

Slowly, like you might bolt at any moment, his large hands come up to ghost over the backs of your thighs. Your breath catches in your throat at the feeling, but you don’t run.

Gently, but with a palpable restraint, he tugs you down into his lap, positioning your knees on either side of his hips without once breaking eye contact. You feel like you’ve been placed under some sort of spell. Like you couldn’t speak even if you wanted to.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a warm hand trails up over your side, his eyes following the movement like he’s hypnotized by the goosebumps he leaves behind. By the shiver that falls down your spine. His body tenses beneath yours, restraint fraying ever so slightly as his metal hand tightens on your leg. He presses two calloused fingers to your own pulse point, though you’re sure he can already hear how your heart is jackhammering in your chest.

“It’s fast.” He says, and his voice is low. His eyes are dark.

You nod, and, like he’s testing the waters, he moves his fingers away from your pulse, sliding them into your hair, and leans in to replace them with his lips.

The contact makes your breath stop. Makes your entire body freeze. When you feel his teeth scrape gently against the sensitive skin of your jaw, that breath comes back to you in the form of a sharp gasp.

His metal hand moves, sliding underneath your shirt to feel the skin of your lower back, and he tugs you closer to him until your chest is flush with his. Until you can feel his heartbeat against your own.

His lips move lower, trailing slow, hungry kisses over your neck like he’s chasing any noise he can pull from your throat. Your hands come up to his shoulders, and you tell yourself that it’s to push him away, but your fingers curl in the front of his shirt as if of their own accord.

“Bucky.” You whisper, the name leaving you like a sigh and a plea all at once.

“Yes.” He says, voice a craving growl against your throat. “I can be Bucky. Let me be Bucky for you.”

The words make you pause, and he feels it. His arms lock around you like he’s planning to keep you in place forever.

“Don’t make me stop.” He says, voice a low rasp that you can feel vibrating in your very bones. You can’t tell if it’s a command or a plea. Can’t bring yourself to care. Without warning, he flips you so your back hits the cushions of the couch, crawling atop you with predatory intent as his hand slides down to the back of your knee, hiking your leg up around his waist.

The look in his eyes is fucking feral.

“I remember you.” The words are low, his tone an almost guttural whisper as his mouth moves down to your ear. His breath tickles the delicate skin in a way that makes you arch against him, and he presses his body more firmly against yours with a noise so hungry it nearly makes you choke. “I remember your smile. The foods you like, the things you don’t.” You can’t breathe. Can’t think. He continues, hand skating down your side to pull you closer to him as his teeth scrape along the shell of your ear and make you gasp. “I know what you sound like. What noises you can make.” That same hand slides over your leg once more, thumb tracing over a spot on your inner thigh and making your breath come even faster. “There’s a freckle here. I know that when I bite it, you make a sound that makes me lose my mind.”

Everything in you has short circuited. Every ounce of logic has drained from your mind. Your fingers scrape against his back, clawing at him through the fabric of his shirt.

“That’s the most you’ve said in twenty four hours.” You breathe, “Do you remember-“ he cuts you off with a sharp bite to your collarbone, and it feels almost impossible to force your mind to form the words. “A-Anything else?”

“No. Just you.”

“Promising.” You try to joke, but his hips move against yours and anything else you might have to say is cut off by the embarrassing noise that rips its way out of your throat.

“No matter who I am,” he murmurs, dark and possessive as he moves up to face you, to grip your chin and force you to look him in his eyes, “you’re still mine.”

And then he kisses you, and every thought you’ve ever had flies out the proverbial window.

It’s just as rough and demanding as before, all teeth and tongues and desperation. His hands are everywhere, from tangling in your hair to cradling your face to pulling at the button of your jeans. His metal fingers wrap around your wrists, pressing them to the arm of the couch above your head, holding you firmly in place, and he trails open-mouthed kisses down to your throat once again, this time with an intention that has you feeling like you’re going to explode. His free hand pushes your shirt up so he can move down to your stomach, eyes catching yours and looking almost black in the low light of the living room. Every press of his lips is a claim. Every jolt of your body is met with a starved noise, a grip so tight you think you might bruise - not that you could possibly care less - a nip to your flushed skin.

The knock at the door cuts through the air like a fucking bomb going off.

You shoot up, ripped back into reality so quickly it feels like whiplash.

The Winter Soldier’s hand, still wrapped around your wrists, pushes you back down, firmly enough that your head bounces against the cushions of the couch. “Leave it.” He growls, hooking your leg over his shoulder as he tries to continue his mission. His teeth scrape against your hip as his free hand begins to pull your pants down to expose more of your skin.

It’s too late. You’ve been pulled out of the moment and back to yourself. Back to reality.

“Stop.” You say, too quietly, too out of breath and not nearly convincingly enough. Another knock on the door. You bump your knee lightly against his head, dislodging him as you pull yourself back upright. “Stop.”

He hesitates, but he releases you, expression tortured as he does so. You scramble to button your pants, to pull your shirt down. He watches your movements like he’s two seconds away from halting them. From yanking you back to him and holding you down until he can finish what he started.

“Stay here.” You say as you rise to your feet, and, because you’re still so paranoid about accidentally ordering him, you turn back and add a quick “please.”

You duck around the hallway and move towards the door, trying to shake off the feeling of lust that still clings to you like a heady perfume. You can feel the flush in your cheeks. The memory of Bucky’s body weight pressed against yours. No, not Bucky. Though he certainly felt like Bucky. Remembered you in ways only Bucky can know you. If you were thinking straight, you would file that away as a variable to be figured out later. Mark in your mind that maybe The Winter Soldier is even more Bucky than you previously thought.

You knew it was Steve from the first knock. The guy has his own key, has since you moved in and could enter any time he wants, but you’re pretty sure he would still knock politely if the building was on fire.

When you tug the door open, still flushed and trying to dislodge the feeling of need still humming in your veins, you’re met with a different set of blue eyes. Steve, thankfully, doesn’t seem to understand the expression on your face. He already looks concerned, but that concern seems heightened by the look in your eyes. Your uneven breathing. Shit, you don’t even remember what you texted him. Something vague, you’re sure. Something along the lines of emergency. get here fast.

“Woah, hey.” He steps forward, eyes scanning the empty little hallway like something might be chasing you. He doesn’t look like a soldier. A captain. Not right now. Now, he looks like a worried friend.

To your horror, that look makes the guilt surge back through your body like a tidal wave. The helplessness of it all. The fear that you really might never be able to fully get Bucky back. And now, looking up at his best friend, it’s all amplified by the fact that you didn’t even take Bucky away from yourself, from himself, but from Steve, too.

“Oh my God.” You say the words out loud as they echo in your mind. When it was just you and the Winter Soldier, you could think about it like a problem to solve. Like something that might not be permanent. Like a mistake that could be fixed. With another person in the picture, the weight of it all is finally hitting you like a fucking truck. The tears come back, and you are sick and tired of crying, but they still sting as you try to back up and wipe them away. “Oh my God, Steve. I fucked up.”

His arms are suddenly around you. Warm and familiar and comforting because it’s Steve. Kind, understanding Steve who walked you down the aisle at your wedding and reminisces with your husband about Coney Island on your couch until you’re all laughing and teasing one another into the early hours of the morning.

“We’ll fix it.” He says, firm and confident even before he knows what the problem is. His arms wrap more tightly around you, and you crush your face into his shoulder and try to pull yourself together. “It’s okay. Where’s Bucky? We can-“

And then, faster than a bolt of lightning, he’s being ripped off of you and thrown against the wall.

The impact is hard enough to leave a pretty significant dent, and you realize very quickly that the sight of Steve holding you to him while you cried was probably not the best thing for the overly possessive and paranoid Winter Soldier to see.

“Shit!” The word leaves you in a choked shout, and you make it less than a foot into the living room before time seems to slow.

Recognition flashes through Steve’s eyes, and you’re helpless to do anything, to even open your mouth to try to explain, as he switches from comforting friend into Captain America.

You try. You really do. As he stands and begins to move towards you, you manage a panicked “Wait, Steve don’t-!” Before you’re being tackled to the ground, covered from the obvious threat of the Winter Soldier in your apartment.

It takes no time at all for him to be flung off of you and across the room again. This time, he crashes into the TV, his weight snapping the appliance in half and knocking the table it sits on back into the wall with an Earth-shattering noise before he’s bouncing back to his feet just in time to block an oncoming punch.

“Get down!” He shouts to you as you scramble to your feet.

You don’t think. You just move. It might be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had, but you don’t have a ton of time to weigh the pros and cons.

You sprint, throw yourself forward, and jump onto the Winter Soldier’s back like some kind of feral spider monkey.

The next movements knock the breath out of you. He tenses up, backs away and spins around. You’re dislodged from him in one smooth and practiced movement, and he catches you before you can fall to the ground, caging you against the nearest wall like he’s going to block a blow coming your way. At no point are you even close to injured, but the swiftness of it all makes your head spin.

Steve shouts something, moving forward once again to presumably get you to safety before your neck is snapped. You ignore him, focusing entirely on Buck- the Winter Soldier.

“Stop!” You shout, to both of them. Something in your voice makes Steve pause, less than a foot away and still prepared to rip the other man off of you. The Winter Soldier is as still as ice, breath heavy but focused as his metal fist crushes into the wall behind your head.

Your hands move up to his face, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are dark. Angry.

“Look at me. Please, look at me.” He does. He meets your gaze with all of the fire in his own. It doesn’t burn out. If anything, it burns brighter. You keep pleading. “Stop, okay? Stop.”

He doesn’t calm, doesn’t relax, but he stops.

The silence settles over the apartment like a heavy blanket, tension crackling through the air. Your hands don’t leave your husband’s face, thumb brushing over the stubble on his cheek even as you try to collect your thoughts.

“Shit,” you say, looking over the Winter Soldier’s shoulder to the man behind him. “Did I just command him?” Panic begins to rise in your throat at the idea, and Bucky - not Bucky - shifts to crowd you into the wall a little more, like he’s trying to block Steve’s view of you.

“No.” He says, answering you simply in that low, rough voice, and you relax a little.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, observant eyes scanning the apartment. He takes in the state of Bucky, the scribbled notes littering the counter, and you sense understanding dawn on him like a wave.

You meet his gaze over the other soldier’s shoulder. See the emotions in his eyes. There’s no anger, but there is sadness. Worry. The silent conversation lasts for only a moment before you feel the body against yours move a little closer, protective and possessive.

“Let me go, please.” You say, returning your eyes to his and brushing your thumb over his cheek once more. A soft and reassuring touch.

He hesitates, like he’s planning to keep you locked against the wall until Steve leaves the apartment, but he steps back. Even then, he stands between you, body tense and eyes scanning over you like he’s prepared to bring the entire building down around him to keep you safe.

Your own gaze moves to the dent in the wall, the smashed TV on the opposite end of the room. “Fucking supersoldiers.” You growl, running a frustrated hand through your hair. “I knew we’d never get our security deposit back the day we moved in. It was either gonna be you two or another alien attack or something equally-“

“What’s going on?” Steve asks again, concern and impatience seeping into his tone.

You look from the damage to your friend, and finally back to your husband, a heavy breath finally leaving your lungs, and you explain.

-

“And Bucky agreed to it, because he loves and trusts me and completely believed me when I said I thought it would work. Which, clearly,” you gesture to the Winter Soldier, still leaning against the wall behind you and watching every one of your movements, “makes him an idiot.” You turn at that, offering an apologetic look, and add a quick, “no offense.”

He frowns. Furrows his brow, and mumbles something that sounds a lot like “offense.”

“Okay, well-“ Steve starts to say from his spot against the opposite wall.

“But-“ you interrupt him, still pacing, still wired with the millions of thoughts flying through your mind. “You’ve gotten him out of this before. You know how.” You turn, and from the look on his face there must be some sort of unhinged hope in your eyes. “So, do it. Break him out of this.”

“I don’t-“

You interrupt him again, holding up a hand. “And don’t give me any of that ‘I can’t make any promises, we’ll find a way with the power of friendship and muscles’ crap, okay?” Your voice is starting to shake. You’re looking into Steve’s eyes with a desperation you haven’t felt before. He’s your last hope. You failed. You lost Bucky. But Steve has brought him back twice and you aren’t prepared to take no for an answer.

“Hey, stop. Breathe.” Steve says, firm hands catching you by the shoulders and stopping your pacing. You meet his eyes, take in the brotherly comfort on his face, and begin to relax. That is, until a sound from behind you makes you turn.

“Oh my God, calm down.” You groan. The Winter Soldier is staring directly at Steve. At his hands on you. “It’s Steve. It’s not like he’s about to take me on the kitchen counter.”

The captain’s face turns very red, eyes filling with horror at your words. Sometimes you forget how much of a goody-two-shoes he is.

The other soldier in the room, however, hardens his gaze even more, looking about a second away from punching a hole through the wall. Or Steve.

“Okay, poor choice of words.” You admit, fighting back a cringe and stepping away. You look between the two men again, shoulders deflating, and offer one last pleading look to Steve.

“Bring him back.” You say, once last time, and you watch him steel himself. Watch him prepare to try.

He clears his throat, looking over to Bucky. “What do you remember?”

The other soldier’s eyes drift to you, and you nearly choke on air as memories of his words earlier echo through your mind.

“You uh… you might not want to ask him that.” If your comment a moment ago embarrassed him, you’re pretty sure whatever is about to come out of the other man’s mouth will make him faint like a little old lady.

Steve looks confused, brow furrowing as he looks back to you. It’s when he turns to the Winter Soldier, whose darkened gaze is still fixed on you, that he seems to understand your meaning.

“Well, that’s uh… at least something.” He says awkwardly, clearing his throat and seemingly deciding to move on from that particular line of questioning.

“I’ll see what I can do.” He finally says, clear and sure, and even the comfort in his tone can’t make you relax all the way. “We’ll figure this out. We just need time.”

Time. You don’t want time. You want results. You want this fixed, now. You want to go back in time and undo everything you’ve done. You want to apologize to Bucky, to feel him hold you and tell you that everything is going to be okay.

When Steve leaves the apartment, he stops you at the door. Reaches out like he’s going to comfort you again, glances over your shoulder at your newly-appointed guard dog, and stops himself.

“He’s still Bucky.” He says, and you go still.

“I-“

“He’s still Bucky.” He repeats, firmly, and this time you need to lock your knees to keep your legs from wobbling. You didn’t know how badly you needed to hear that. To have it confirmed. “He’s not someone else. He’s just Bucky. A different version of him, but not a different person.”

You’ve known. You’ve felt it. You can see it in his eyes. In the way he touches you. In the way he’s trying.

And you love him. You love him because he’s still Bucky. Because, despite spending so long thinking of The Winter Soldier as an entirely different person, the last twenty four hours have shown you that he’s still the man you fell in love with. Different, yes. He doesn’t remember a lot about who he is. He doesn’t hold you with the same restraint. But he’s still Bucky. His mannerisms are the same. His eyes are the same. The raw, unapologetic way he loves you is still the same.

“Thank you.” You say, like an exhale. Like a sigh of relief. And Steve just nods, dares to give you a comforting, brotherly squeeze, and leaves, closing the door behind him like he didn’t just lift a crushing weight from your shoulders.

-

Despite your talk, despite the confirmation that your husband is still there, you find yourself gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to turn your knuckles white.

They’re one in the same, sure. The man standing beside you like a statue is still Bucky, but he doesn’t have his memories. At least, not all of them. He’s still the Winter Soldier. There is still a problem here, one that you created and have to fix.

A metal hand brushes your arm. A silent question.

You rip yourself away, moving over to your scattered notes and trying to anchor yourself back to the present. Trying to look over your own scribbled handwriting and find out what you could possibly have gotten wrong in your original calculations. How to fix it.

“You’re upset.”

A startled, humorless laugh breaks free, and you finally turn to him. He’s standing there, still and observant and quiet and you want to fucking scream.

He speaks again, voice too level when all you want to do is give in to the tension tightening every muscle in your body. You need to do something. Hit something or grab something or rip something apart with your bare hands just to make all of this-

“Stop that.”

You don’t know what he means. If he wants you to stop scanning through your notes. If he wants you to stop gritting your teeth and refusing to speak to him. If he wants you to stop trembling with emotions you can’t seem to contain.

“Don’t.” You finally manage, and you’re not reading the page anymore. You’re just holding it. Too tightly. Crinkling the edges with your fingers.

“Tell me what you want.” It’s the words beneath the sentence, the silent promise of ‘I’ll do it, I’ll do anything’, that break you.

“Give me Bucky back.” Just be you again. Help me fix this before the guilt swallows me whole.

“I don’t know how.”

And oh, there it is. There it all is. The pain. The fear. The heartbreak. It explodes out of you like a fucking supernova.

“Then figure it out.” You snap, and the page you’re holding connects with the counter with a smack that rings through the apartment. You face him, unable to contain your frustration with your own mistake as you shove at his chest. “What do you want? Do you want me to command it?”

He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t fight. He’s still just looking at you with that familiar sort of devotion in his eyes, and it hurts so badly that it just makes you angrier.

“It won’t work.” He says, and you know that. You know, but you don’t want to hear it.

“Stop fucking looking at me like that!” You shove him again. He lets you. Even with the force behind the shove, he still doesn’t move. “I took your freedom away, Buck! You trusted me, and I broke it. You don’t even remember-“

“I remember you.” He interrupts, like that fact is the only thing that’s ever been important, and you want to scream.

“That doesn’t matter!” You try to shove him again, and this time he catches your wrists. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that there is no way you’ll be able to break his hold.

“It’s all that matters.”

Those words stop you. Freeze you. He doesn’t say them like a comfort. Like a promise. It’s not even meant to be romantic. It’s just a fact.

You can see it in his eyes. Feel it in his skin where it touches yours. He’s not the same. He doesn’t remember. But he knows you. Every part of him that is still Bucky, and even the parts that aren’t, know you.

You stare at him. He stares back at you. And, for some reason, you can feel every beat of your racing heart repeating two words that haven’t felt entirely true until now.

Still Bucky. Still Bucky. Still Bucky.

And suddenly you’re surging forward, slamming your lips against his so hard your teeth knock together.

His hands immediately release yours, arms wrapping around your waist and yanking you close enough that there’s no room left to breathe. You don’t care. Couldn’t care if you tried.

He isn’t gentle. He doesn’t hold himself back. His hands move down to grip the backs of your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll bruise, lifting you against him and guiding your legs around his waist as he backs you into the wall without removing his lips from your own for a second. You tug hard on his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as you try to pull him impossibly closer to you, and his metal arm dents the wall behind your head as his tongue slides into your mouth like he’s trying to devour you. The noise he makes is guttural and craving, and it shoots down your spine like a bolt of lightning.

You nearly tear his shirt in your desperation to get it off of him, to feel his skin against yours, and he doesn’t loosen his grip on you as he reaches behind him to tug it over his head, throwing it mindlessly somewhere nearby and diving back in to kiss you again like even the brief loss of contact caused him physical pain.

You’re too caught up in your own need, in the sounds he makes as your nails drag over the skin of his back and the fire that burns through your veins as his mouth moves over your neck, to even register where you are, that you’ve even moved, before you feel yourself being lowered onto the mattress in your room with a surprising amount of gentleness.

There’s a moment, when he crawls over you and looks down with those darkened eyes, that you finally feel a hint of restraint beneath his heated skin. His flesh hand comes up to your face, thumb dragging over your kiss-swollen lips as he looks down at you in a silent question. He’s nearly shaking. You can feel the tension in every muscle of his large body, and the fact that he stopped himself to check on you, despite how it seems to be nearly ripping him apart, makes your heart stutter in your chest.

Still Bucky.

You don’t speak. Can’t find the words. You just nod, a silent answer, reaching up and pulling him back down to you.

His mouth crushes against yours, stealing any remaining breath from your lungs. His hands move down to slide up your body with a reverence that makes you melt and burn at the same time, and he lowers his body down onto yours like the contact is the only thing in the world that has ever mattered. He tangles his fingers in your hair, and the heat and strange familiarity of it all consumes you like a living flame.

“Still mine.” You hear him say, almost to himself, so quiet that the words are nearly swallowed by the kiss.

And you are.

-

Hours later, as the dying light of day paints the room in hues of deep orange and yellow, you break the peaceful silence with a sleepy noise.

“We need a new TV.” You murmur, fighting against the bone-deep exhaustion weighing every one of your limbs down, and you feel him hum against the skin of your shoulder, still pressing gentle kisses over the marks he’s left.

“And a new headboard.” You add, and this time you swear you can feel a proud little smile, his hands tightening on you ever-so-slightly as he nips gently, almost playfully, at your collarbone.

He hums again, the sound vibrating through you, and rolls on top of you in a tangle of sheets and limbs. You’re still frowning at the splintered wood above your head, at the new tilt to the bed, when his hand moves up to catch your chin and turn your head so he can kiss you again.

“You need to sleep.” He says, lips barely leaving yours as he speaks, though the way his flesh hand slides up your body and settles into your hair suggests other ideas.

“Then let me.”

“Later.” He presses closer, and you don’t hold back your smile as he angles your head to deepen the kiss.

-

Eventually, tucked into his chest and feeling his warm hand slide soothingly over your back, you do finally drift off. There is still a part of you that’s terrified you’ll never fully and truly get Bucky back, but now things feel a little more…hopeful. It doesn’t feel like a distant goal anymore. It’s more of an inevitability than a possibility.

Before you fall asleep, you murmur into his shoulder. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes…” and then, like last night, you tell him facts about himself. Who he is. Where he came from.

You feel him tense against you, just slightly, like he’s trying to focus on what you’re saying. Like he’s trying as hard as he can to force your words to unlock whatever gate is keeping all of those memories hidden away in his mind.

When you finish, you pull back, look into his eyes.

“Anything?”

He shakes his head, presses his lips to yours in a silent apology.

“That’s okay.” You say, trying to keep the disappointment from showing on your face. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

And you do.

And the next night.

And the next.

As it becomes routine, the hope you felt begins to sour into something dangerously close to terror. You push it down. Shove it away and refuse to let it cripple you.

And you keep trying. You both do.

-

When it happens, it happens out of nowhere. There’s no fanfare. No magical, Disney-like transition where he comes back to himself in a ball of fairy lights. Steve doesn’t even show up with a syringe to plunge into his neck.

You’re doing your best to chop vegetables in the kitchen, eyes focused on the recipe in front of you. Bucky usually does the cooking - you have a tendency to burn things - but you’ve ordered so much takeout this past week that you insisted on making dinner tonight.

The sting of the knife slicing your finger makes you jump.

You curse, a hiss of pain escaping from between your teeth as blood wells around the small cut. You grab a dish towel, wrap it around your finger, and-

“Shit, doll. You okay?”

Hands are wrapping gently around your wrists, pulling the towel off of your hand so he can get a better look at the injury.

You let him, relaxing against the firm grip of a soldier inspecting your wound with a familiar, careful precision. It’s not deep. Not bad at all. The bleeding should stop at any moment.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I just-“

You stop. You freeze.

“What did you just call me?” You look up, but his eyes are still fixed on your finger, dark brows drawn together as he dabs at the remaining blood with the towel and starts to mumble something about stitches that you already know you won’t need. At any other time, you would call him overprotective. Now, you can’t think straight with the dangerous hope that’s beginning to swell in your heart to the point of overflowing.

You can see the change in his movement. Hear it in the Brooklyn accent that always comes out when he’s concerned or annoyed or even turned on. You know this man like the back of your hand, and yet you still have trouble believing that he’s actually back. It’s all happened so quickly. After so much time, so much helplessness There’s no way it can be true.

You speak again, chest constricting in a way that makes it difficult to draw breath. 

“Bucky?”

Something about the volume of your voice, the desperation in it, makes him look up to meet your eyes.

“Yeah? What’s - woah, what’s that look for?” His metal hand comes up to cradle your cheek, blue eyes worried and soft and so agonizingly familiar. You can’t imagine what your face must look like, but you know your expression is definitely freaking him out. “You’re scarin’ me, sweetheart. Talk to me.”

You don’t. Your hands fly to his face, smearing a drop of blood on his cheek as you look into his eyes. Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky’s eyes.

“Bucky. Oh my God, Bucky.”

You don’t know where to touch. What to hold. How to cling to him hard enough to keep him from leaving you again. Enough to convince yourself that this is real.

He’s so focused on comforting you that it takes him a few moments to even realize why he’s doing it. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close to anchor you to him. He speaks into your hair, soft and loving and achingly familiar.

“Hey, hey.” A metal hand smooths over the back of your head as his flesh one slides over your back. Comforting. Familiar. “I’m here, doll. You’re okay. Tell me what’s…”

And then, he realizes.

He stops breathing.

He suddenly crushes you to him like you might vanish at any moment. Like he might.

Bucky is never anything but gentle with you, but he pulls back to look at your face so quickly that it makes the small of your back bump hard against the counter. You can feel restraint in every tense muscle of his body as his hands begin to move over you almost frantically, checking you for any potential hidden injuries.

“Are you okay?” He asks, panic lacing his voice as his hands come up to your cheeks. “Baby, look at me. Are you okay? Did I-“

You stop him, grab his wrists, shake your head. “No. No, you didn’t hurt me. Not at all. I’m okay.”

“I don’t remember.” He sounds so apologetic and terrified that you start crying, a mixture of guilt and relief spilling from your eyes as his hands move to pull you back to him like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. “I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces.”

“I’ll tell you. You’ll remember.” He always has before. And if he doesn’t, you’ll make sure he does. You’ll move heaven and earth with gratitude that he’s completely himself once again. “Fuck, Bucky I’m so sorry I was so stupid I should have-“

He interrupts you with a kiss, hand cradling the back of your head and smoothing lovingly over your hair. It’s not the feral, desperate collision of mouths and bodies like the Winter Soldier kissed you. It’s firm, grounding, while still so gentle that it makes your knees weak. So wonderfully and perfectly Bucky.

You try to speak again, try to apologize against his lips, but he pulls back just enough to shake his head.

“It’s okay.” He says, pressing his forehead against yours. Kissing your nose. Kissing your cheeks. “It’s okay. I’m here. We’re okay.”

It takes a minute. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe many more. You lose track of time as his hands move over you like he’s reacquainting himself with the feeling of your body against his own. As your own hands grip him like he might vanish from your grasp.

You’re still smiling with relief, and he’s still pressing loving kisses to your tear-stained cheeks when you finally speak again. “What do you remember?”

“Need to apologize to Steve.” He says, nose skating over your jawline as he lifts you onto the kitchen counter, like the new position will help him find even more contact between your bodies. “Need to buy a new TV.” His lips find yours again, and you feel him grin against your mouth as he tugs you closer to him, cocky and seeming a little too proud of himself as he adds “and a new headboard.”

Despite everything, you feel a blush rise to your cheeks. You swat at his chest, and his smile grows, but he doesn’t break the kiss.

You melt into it, and soon you’re both laughing and holding each other and there is so much love and relief and joy in the room that you feel light-headed.

And then the smoke alarm goes off.

Your eyes fly open, focusing on the overflowing, smoking pot on the stove. Bucky laughs - really, completely laughs - and releases you to move across the kitchen and turn the stove off. The smoke alarm continues to blare, but he’s too busy pulling you back to him and kissing you again to seem in any way concerned by your now-ruined dinner.

“Can’t believe I let you cook.” He mumbles, but he’s still smiling.

You are too. You can’t help it. “Shut up, Barnes.”

“Make me.” The playful challenge has you wrapping your arms around his neck. Your legs around his waist.

And you do.

-

Previous

-

Now, you pace your lab, feeling blue eyes follow every one of your movements like a hawk. He watches you. Waiting. Observing. Not Bucky, but the Winter Soldier. The living breathing weapon. The deadly assassin.

You keep pacing.

“I was so sure.” You say, running a frustrated hand through your hair. “I was so sure. I thought it would work. I…I can’t even go back to find what we did wrong-“

“какие у меня заказы?” The Winter Soldier asks, what are my orders, and you nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice.

“You don’t have any.” You snap the words, anger and frustration and just a little bit of heartbreak making you prickle.

He stops. Looks confused. Still quiet, still not Bucky, but confused. 

That look makes you deflate.

“Sorry, sorry. I just…” you sigh, closing your eyes and exhaling through your nose. “I’m sorry.” For everything. For failing this experiment. For not wiping this programming from his mind like you thought you could. For not knowing how to get him back.

The sharp sting of frustrated tears prickles behind your eyes. You press the heels of your palms to them, trying to push the surge of emotion away. You don’t have time to cry. You have to think and figure out a way to- 

Hands wrap around your wrists. Not deadly. Not incapacitating you or knocking you to the ground. The grip is firm, but gentle. Your hands are pulled down to your sides, away from your face.

You go still. Very still.

The Winter Soldier is looking down at you, like he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, either. Like he couldn’t look away if he tried.

Your tears haven’t fallen, but they’re still pooling in your eyes. A metal thumb slides over your cheek, catching one as it escapes and wiping it away.

He murmurs something in Russian. You don’t understand it. He speaks again, in Romanian this time, and you still don’t know what he’s saying.

Finally, he speaks English, his thumb brushing your cheek once more in a way that’s so intimate that you have to search his eyes to see if Bucky hasn’t really come back.

“Don’t…do that.”  His voice is surprisingly soft, and his thumb trails from beneath your eyes, tracing over your cheek and down to your lips. His eyes follow the movement like he’s mesmerized by the sight, and you’re frozen in place as he leans a little closer.

“Who are you?” He asks, and there’s no accusation in his tone. No anger. Just curiosity, and something like reverence.

“I…” the answer catches in your throat. Not with fear, but with surprise. “I’m your…”

He leans closer, and you pull back.

“Shit.” You mumble to yourself, and he looks confused again. It’s strange, really, that the expression can look so sweet. So genuine.

He reaches for you. Tugs you to him again. It’s not forceful, but it’s firm. Like you yourself are an answer to an important question, and he isn’t going to let you walk away until he finds the answer.

“Who are you?” He repeats, deadly hands cradling you in a way that makes it difficult to focus. Still, you frown. You pull back again, defeated and tired and too close to crying for your own comfort.

You’ll get Bucky back, and you’ll try again. But for now…

“I’m your wife.” You say, reaching down to pull his arms from where they’ve wrapped around you. To your relief, he allows it. “And it’s time I take you home now.”

-

He doesn’t leave your side. Not for a moment.

You’re too wrapped up in your own thoughts, your own guilt and fear and frustration, to even speak to him. He’s not Bucky. He’s not in his right mind. And you put him there. You said the code words, so sure that they wouldn’t work, and they did. 

And now, it seems that your hubris has earned you a guard dog. One who glares at anyone who looks at you as you pass by. Who reaches for a knife that isn’t there when someone nearly bumps into you on the way to your apartment. Whose arm remains wrapped around you so firmly you think he might try to carry you up the stairs.

The moment you walk through the door, you break his hold and move towards the kitchen. Your notes are still lying on the counter, the ones you worked through with Bucky this morning over coffee. The ones you pored over for hours and hours as you convinced yourself that this time you had finally figured it out. You had finally worked through the problem and found the solution.

You lean over that counter now, watching through your peripheral as the Winter Soldier scans the apartment. It had been perfect. Your math, your calculations, had been drawn up to a fucking T and now-

Well, now an arm is wrapping around you, pulling you away from the counter so quickly that you drop a page of your own scribbled handwriting with a startled noise.

He spins you, presses you against the opposite counter. The granite digs into your back, not hard enough to be uncomfortable but enough that you register that you are being held very firmly in place.

You look up. He looks down. Familiar blue eyes lock onto your own.

You don’t know why you say it, but you do. The apartment suddenly feels so quiet that the question seems to echo through the air.

“Can I have Bucky back?”

Bucky will help you work through this. At the very least, he’ll help calm you as you stay awake all night trying to pore through your notes. He would probably make you go to sleep. Kiss your forehead and tell you that you’ll figure it out, that it will all be okay.

The Winter Soldier, still pressing you against the counter, furrows his brow at the question.

“Who’s Bucky?”

And that, those two simple words, make the tears break free.

He reaches up to wipe them away like he did in your lab, and your vision is blurry as you try to swat his hands away. His response is to pull you closer, and you push at his chest.

“Let me go.” You say, voice breaking. He doesn’t. 

You could command him to. You know you could. You said the code words. You brought the Winter Soldier out. But despite your frustration there is no part of you that could ever make yourself do it.

“Please, just give me Bucky back.” You say instead, voice muffled by his shirt. His metal hand is cradling the back of your head, too gentle for a living weapon. Too familiar, but not the same.

His voice is low, and it sounds almost pained as he speaks into your hair. “I don’t know how.”

You try to push at him again, but he holds you tight. You know, somewhere deep down, that if you were really fighting to get him off of you that he would let you go. Maybe even walk away. You don’t want him to. You should, but you don’t.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you. To look at the tears in your eyes and the way your fingers are curling against his chest like you don’t know whether to shove him again or pull him closer.

He cradles your face, so strangely gentle.

“Stop that.”

You look up at him, and it takes you a moment to realize what he means. He’s still wiping your tears away. He wants you to stop crying.

“I don’t know how.” You say, finally, defeated. A pathetic mimicry of his own words.

He looks at you, and you can’t decipher what’s lying beneath his gaze. What it means. What he wants. But, despite it all, you do see something.

He’s not Bucky, but Bucky is there. You’ve been trying to get the Winter Soldier out of him for so long, trying to make him himself again. You never really thought of this side of him as…well, human.

But the way he’s looking at you now, confusion and concern and a strange sort of devotion in his eyes, makes you realize that, even brainwashed like he was, he was still a person. Still a version of Bucky, as fucked up as it may be. Now that he’s here, with no orders and very little knowledge of why, you see it.

“I’m sorry.” You say, tears still falling. And you don’t know what those two words mean, exactly. For making him into this again, even with his consent. For failing the experiment. For everything that’s happened to him over the decades.

He wipes your tears away again, like it’s instinct.

“Tell me how to make this stop.” His voice is a murmur. He’s so close that his nose brushes against yours. Something crackles in the air, an electric tension that you can feel beneath your skin. His hands tighten on you, just slightly. His voice is still pleading, but it’s not gentle anymore. There’s something there, now. Something new and barely restrained and you’re too upset by the events of tonight to notice that it’s about to break free.

You shake your head. “I don’t think you ca-“

His lips crash against yours with so much force it knocks you back against the counter.

His arms wrap more tightly around you, pulling you so close you swear you can feel his rapid heartbeat against your chest.

Bucky Barnes kisses you with devotion. With love and thinly veiled hunger. Bucky is gentle, and even when he isn’t you can always tell that he’s still being careful with you. Always trying to hold back. Always trying to keep himself from hurting you, somehow.

The Winter Soldier kisses you like he’s starving.

It’s almost clumsy in its urgency, like the kiss is something he would die before he ever pulled away from. Like he needs it so badly he doesn’t know what to do with himself. With you.

His hand moves from your cheek to tangle in your hair, and he lifts you effortlessly onto the counter as he uses his grip to angle your head and deepen the kiss. Your noise of surprise is swallowed by his mouth, firm and almost desperate against yours as he anchors you to him like he’s drowning.

It takes a moment for the shock to wear off, but you kiss him back. The second he feels your reciprocation, he makes a noise in the back of his throat that sends an electric jolt down your spine. His free hand moves to your thigh, yanking you closer and guiding your legs around his waist as his tongue slides between your lips like he’s tasting something more addicting than any drug ever created.

Your own hands fly up to his hair, unable to stop yourself or even think clearly as your nails scrape against his scalp. The sound he makes is so low, so hungry that it sounds almost feral, and you’re barely able to register that you’re moving again before he’s pulling you off the counter and you’re crashing down onto the kitchen floor. You think, vaguely, that the force of him catching you before your head bangs against the ground might leave a dent in the linoleum.

Despite the near-violence of the movement, he doesn’t stop kissing you, teeth dragging against your lips as his knee slides between yours and he presses you into the floor like he can’t get enough of the feeling of you against him. You feel his flesh hand slide up beneath your shirt, gripping your waist and tugging you impossibly closer. You gasp, and he growls as he chases the sound with another tug at your hair, forcing your head back as his lips break from yours to move down to your neck.

You can’t think. You can barely breathe. And it takes a moment for you to realize that he’s speaking in a language you don’t know. You’re pretty sure it’s Russian. You don’t understand it, can barely register anything other than his body atop yours and his calloused hands sliding over the skin beneath your shirt, but with the way he’s saying the words, between open-mouthed kisses and bites to your skin like he’s trying to tattoo them onto you with his lips and teeth, you think they might be words of devotion. Of claiming.

You reach up, unsure what your hand is seeking, whether it be his face or his hair or anything. His metal hand leaves the back of your head and catches yours, pressing it back down onto the floor as his fingers tangle in your own in a gesture so intimate that it snaps you back into reality.

“I-wait.” You blink, trying to drag yourself out of the haze of lust and back to the present. He doesn’t seem to hear you, pressing his body impossibly closer and biting down at the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder hard enough to make you gasp and nearly forget where you even are. 

Your voice is shaky when you manage to speak again. “Wait, stop.”

He hears you this time, and he does. Not because it was an order. You can feel in the hesitation to release you, to pull his lips from your skin and look into your eyes, that he stopped because you asked.

Holy shit, his eyes are on fire. The blue is nearly blown out by his pupils, and they’re burning with so much intense want that it makes your head spin. Those eyes meet yours for only a second before they fall back to your lips, and he begins to lean down like a man hypnotized. Your free hand flies up, covering his mouth before it reaches your own and knocks all logic out of your mind again.

His eyes return to yours, confused and absolutely fucking starved.

“I…” words. Find words. “You’re not Bucky.”

You feel him frown beneath your palm, and he reaches up to move it away from his mouth. “So?”

You don’t…really have an answer. Your mind is still too fogged over and the weight of his body on top of yours is too distracting. You wiggle out from under him, and he makes a noise that sounds almost like loss as he releases you. You push yourself back against the cabinets, and he looks seconds away from crawling over to you and pulling you to him again. His eyes drop to your mouth once more, like he’s contemplating it.

“Stop looking at me like that.” You say, and he doesn’t. He seems to try, though, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you catch your breath like he’s watching something holy.

“You said you’re my wife.” His voice sounds rough. Low.

“I’m Bucky’s wife.” You clarify, leaning your head back against the cabinet behind you. “And I don’t know how much…you, is him. Or how much him is you. I don’t know how ethical this is.”

He looks confused again. You suppose that’s fair. It’s not like he’s used to being around people with stellar moral codes.

Frustration and pain pool in your stomach, and you exhale. Slowly. Trying to calm yourself.

“I don’t know how to get him back, and it scares me.” You let the statement hang there. An admission. Honest and raw.

He frowns again, and you swear you can see his eyes soften. It’s an odd sight, but then again, this entire night has been strange.

“I’ll try.” He says, and you can’t help the feeling of relief, the odd sense of something like gratitude, that washes through you.

“Thank you.” You whisper, the words spilling out on an exhale. You sigh, thunking your head lightly against the cupboard again. “I have to call Steve.”

His frown is back, but you sense a glimmer of recognition at the name. Also maybe a bit of something else. Something like jealousy that makes him prickle. “Whose Steve?”

“Your best friend. And kind of mine, too, I guess. He’s broken you out of this before.”

“Is he going to hurt you?”

The question surprises you, and you raise your head to look at him. He looks concerned. Protective. You shake your head quickly. “No. Never. He’s actually going to be super understanding and nice about this, which is probably going to piss me off.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t deserve it. I fucked up. I got the math wrong, and I lost Bucky.”

He just looks at you for a minute. You look back at him.

“You do the same staring thing he does.” You observe.

“I want you.” He says back, and the simpleness of the sentence nearly makes you laugh, even as lust curls in your stomach once again, the feeling of his lips against your skin still tingling.

“Yeah, I kind of got that.” You say, unable to keep the small smile from curling at the corner of your mouth. His eyes fall to the movement of your lips like he’s entranced. You pretend to ignore it.

“I want you like Bucky has you.”

“You’re blunt like him, too.”

He just stares at you again, and you furrow your brow. “Are you…jealous? Of your own alter-ego?”

“Yes.”

“You know you’re still Bucky, right?”

“You said I’m not.”

“I…” you sigh, dragging a tired hand through your hair. “You’re right, I did. I don’t know. I don’t…I didn’t account for all of this. Like I said, I got too cocky. I’m a scientist. The philosophical questions surrounding someone’s brainwashed assassin alter-ego aren’t exactly my specialty.”

More staring.

You give up, dragging yourself to your feet, and he stands with you like you’re a magnet guiding his movements.

“Look, can we just go to bed?”

His eyebrows raise, and you roll your eyes. “Not like that. To sleep.”

He looks disappointed, but he nods and follows you into the bedroom on almost disturbingly silent feet.

You grab pajamas for yourself, wordlessly gesture to the dresser where all of his clothes are held, and make your way to the bathroom to wash up.

When you return, he’s staring at you again, standing by your bed in a pair of his sweatpants. No shirt. Like that helps your recently established ‘no sex’ rule.

He looks down at your shirt - oversized and clearly his - and back up to your face.

God help you, he looks like he’s about to pounce again.

“Relax,” you grumble, trying to ignore the feeling of his gaze igniting your skin like a firework, “it’s not like it’s lingerie.”

“It’s mine.” There’s a weight behind the words that makes you nearly pause. He catches it, because of course he does, and his gaze darkens. You just move over to the bed, crawl beneath the covers like you have a thousand times, and try to throw your walls back up.

“It’s Bucky’s.” You grumble, dropping your head against the pillow.

“I’m Bucky.” He says it simply. Almost like he’s craving for it to be the truth. It makes your heart hurt. Desperation for that to be completely, entirely true nearly makes you curl in on yourself and cry.

But he’s trying, and that’s enough. You turn to him, eyes softening as you pat his side of the bed in silent invitation.

He moves like he was waiting for permission, climbing in beside you.

You don’t touch him. Just turn on your side, face him with your hand resting beneath your pillow, and try to observe.

He turns, faces you too. For a while, you just stare into each other’s eyes. Silent and studying. Like the weirdest, most oddly intimate staring contest that’s ever been held.

And then you break it. Try one last tactic. You reach your hand up, brush your fingers over his cheek.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.” You say, quietly. He leans into your touch, but doesn’t break your gaze. Like he’s listening. Like he’s trying. You tell him his age. His sister’s name. His mother’s. You even repeat facts about his time in the war. About the day you met him. About the day he proposed.

When you finish, his eyes are soft, but he’s still not Bucky.

You offer a humorless, heartbroken little smile. “Kind of thought that would work.” You admit, defeat lacing your voice. “Guess I’m oh for two tonight, huh?”

He doesn’t smile back, but he does seem to give in to something. His arm slides around you, and he pulls you into his chest.

You let him.

You sigh, letting your eyes drift shut, and inhale his familiar scent. He doesn’t hold you delicately. He holds you like he’s protecting you. Like he’s prepared to fight anyone and anything that might try to take you away from him.

And when you fall asleep, emotionally exhausted and still hurting in ways you can't even put a name to, he’s still holding you just as tightly.

-