PrincessMisery666 Library (18+)

“Oh, c’mon! You compared alloy rims to a hate crime.”

“They should be.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Does someone want to explain?”

“She suggested racing stripes!” Dean spits, lightly running a hand over Baby's hood.

"Did not! Gary did." You don't care that you sound like a petulant child.

Pitch louder and more aggravated, he throws his hands in the air, "W-well then the purple mica velvet whatever!"

"Hey, Velvet Purple is sleek and dark. It also looks awesome with that bit of shimmer added." Your level of snark rises to match his overblown outrage. "Would you prefer Envy Lime or Alta Orange?"

Before either of you can say more, Sam intervenes.

“Okay. I’m sorry I asked."

You hadn't realized it, but you and Dean have been shifting closer to each other with each heated exchange.

Moving to be a buffer between the two of you, Sam questions, "Who is Gary?"

"The mechanic!" Dean and you shout, each aggressively pointing toward the shop next door.

"She agreed," a finger jabbed in your direction again, "when he said I could make improvements to Baby!"

Sam raises an eyebrow, looking in your direction. Crossing your arms, your response is an eye roll and a huff.

Dean continues undeterred. "Said I should lower her suspension!" The icy glare is the last straw.

Angrily dropping your arms, you take a step forward, lean around Sam, and shout, "IT WAS A JOKE!" as Dean puffs his chest and sets his stance.

"SLANDER!" His fingers flex, and his jaw clenches tight enough to snap teeth. You have a fleeting thought that it's probably good that Gary isn't within striking distance right now.

"OK. Whoa!" Sam raises his hands to keep you separated while quickly looking around. "Let's, uh, let's go to the rooms before one of you commits a felony.”

Placing a hand on your back and one on Dean's shoulder, Sam practically shoves the two of you away from the entrance and down the covered walkway, apologizing as you pass an elderly couple staring from the doorway of their room.

When he stops at a door further down and pulls out a key, you spit. "I'm not sharing a room with him."

"Yeah, well, right back at ya!"

"Fine." Sam's pinched face and clipped tone leave no space for discussion. "But we're all three going in this room before someone calls the cops on us."

Neither you nor Dean moves, and Sam snaps. "NOW!"

Feeling slightly chastised, you stomp into the room, immediately taking up occupation on the bed closest to the door because you know that it's always the one Dean prefers, and watch through the doorway as they have one of their stupid silent conversations.

With an exaggerated eye roll, Dean finally trudges inside. Neither of you has time to react as Sam tosses the room key onto the table and orders, "Figure it out," slamming the door closed as he leaves.

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With an admiring gaze and a slight lisp, the man offers, “She’s beautiful.”

Dean turns, puffing his chest as he straightens, “Damn right she is.”

The mechanic—'Gary' according to the name tag stitched to his shirt—slowly circles the Impala, nodding and humming approval while, thankfully, keeping his hands to himself.

Gary mentions his appreciation for the classics, and you sigh as Dean gets looped into the fanboying, discussing craftsmanship, performance, and the dedication and devotion it takes to keep them running. It's easy to see the moment Dean decides he likes the guy.

“Original wheels too."

Dean nods, "Yep," grinning widely as if he’d made them himself.

“That’s rare. Most people modernize them.”

“Not this one.” He lovingly pats the Impala's roof.

Sighing, you look over your shoulder. Sam is now leaning on the counter, face turned enough that you see his smile. Not interested in being involved in either conversation, you decide you're going to take an extended walk around the hotel, when Gary pipes up.

“Well, sure, but you could make a few improvements.”

Oh, shit.

You know exactly how this is going to turn out. A quick glance at Dean finds him open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and momentarily speechless. Deciding this will be much more entertaining than a walk, you take a couple of steps closer to the front of the car.

Dean blinks, finally muttering, “Improvements?”

Gary gestures toward the tires, “Yeah, you could swap those for some nice alloys.”

Dean stares, body stiff. The mechanic smiles, looking to you when you mumble, “Oh no.”

Gary's smile fades seeing you shake your head. “What?”

“Did you say alloy?”

“Yeah,” he stretches the syllable out with uncertainty, looking between you and Dean. "What's wrong with that?

“You want me,” Dean slowly utters, “to replace her rims?”

“Well ...”

“Factory rims.”

“Sure. Why not?” Gary laughs, but with nervous hesitation.

Dean looks personally wounded. “On purpose?”

“Dean,” you caution.

“No." He shakes his head and wags a finger at you. "No. I wanna make sure I understand.”

Gary shrugs as he looks to you and daringly pushes on. “You know, better performance, less weight.”

“You think she needs to lose weight?!” Dean shrieks, horrified.

Okay, now it's getting funny, and you have to bite your lip to hide your grin.

“What? It’s just a car. All I'm saying is, you'd get better handling, and if you made some additional modifications …” Gary lifts a hand as if to run it along the hood, and you quickly clear your throat to get his attention and vehemently shake your head. Finally realizing that he may have stepped into a minefield, he weakly finishes, "You could turn her into a show car."

“Just a car!” Dean gestures wildly toward Baby. “She’s perfect!”

You snort, quickly putting a hand over your mouth to hold back the laugh that wants to follow.

“I’m just saying alloys have advantages.” The smile that tugs at his lips hints that Gary knows that he's riling Dean up, and he's getting a kick out of it now.

“Her rims are awesome!" Dean looks like he's ready to throw fists as he huffs, "And …and they have the advantage of character!”

You lose the battle and laugh out loud.

“Actually, Dean,” unable to stop yourself, you tease, “Dude has a point. Chrome alloys might look nice.”

His head whips around so fast, you're afraid he might have given himself whiplash. “SERIOUSLY?”

“I’m just saying.”

“NO!”

“Maybe lower the suspension a little.”

“Stop. Talking.”

Voice deadly calm, he wears the same demeanor as when he's plotting something's demise. You hesitate for a second, thinking that you pushed him a bit too far. After all, you'd stopped early because you had all reached your limit of exhaustion and polite, confined coexistence.

Then Gary, who looks delighted that you agree with him, tosses another log on the fire. “Exactly. Maybe some racing stripes.”

Screw it. This is the most fun you've had in weeks. “Or …” holding out your hands like you're framing Baby for a photo shoot, "a Velvet Purple Pearl Mica paint job.”

Dean clutches his chest and croaks out, "You people are sick."

You're about ready to toss out another one, but see Dean's chest heaving. He looks like he's about to hyperventilate or have a stroke. You've definitely gone too far now, but Gary hasn't caught up yet.

“We’re just…what do you kids call it…" he looks to you questioningly, then snaps his fingers, "brainstorming.”

“You’re committing crimes! People have been killed for less,” Dean spits.

Lightly touching Gary's forearm, you grab his attention and shake your head with a conspiratorial smile. He gives another glance to Dean and then turns back to you with a knowing wink. "Well, I'll let you folks get back to your evening.

You walk over to Dean as Gary walks back into his garage. "Hey."

He jerks away when you reach for him. "Leave me alone."

"Dean, come on," you plead. "We were just joking."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't funny."

Turning his back on you, he runs a hand over the Impala's roof, murmuring reassurances that she's perfect, and no one is going to change anything about her.

Putting on your best pout, you whine his name, "Deeeeeeean," but he ignores you.

Sam steps out of the lobby a moment later, two keys dangling from his fingers, "Hey, is it okay if you two share a room tonight?" His grin is hopeful, but quickly fades as he assesses the situation. Dean is bent over the hood, arms spread wide, cheek resting on the now-cooled metal. You stand a couple of feet away, hands on your hips, and a sad frown on your lips.

"What'd I miss?"

You and Dean simultaneously huff…

"Ask her!"

"Ask him!"

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“You look disappointed.”

Steve leans against the railing beside you, casually, as if meeting a friend. “I was hoping for a more private space.”

“For any particular reason?” you tease.

He grins and doesn’t hesitate to answer, “The company and conversation.”

You'd find that kind of confidence insufferable from anyone else, presumption bordering on arrogance. Instead, his sincerity makes him dangerously charming.

You remind yourself to tread carefully. Emotions beget recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes ensure downfall. Before the conversation can wander into precarious territory, you pull a set of keys from your pocket and toss them to him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

He straightens, stepping closer…much closer than necessary. “No instructions?”

“The gray Honda in the parking lot. The location address is programmed into the GPS. Memorize it, then destroy the GPS before you leave.”

“And the car?”

“Yours.”

The wind whips a lock of hair across your face, and seemingly without thinking, Steve tucks it behind your ear. His finger slowly traces the shell of your ear and along your jaw. It's intentional, but you don't flinch away. The contact lasts a heartbeat too long.

The slight widening of his eyes notes the realization of what he's doing. Clearing his throat, he quickly drops his hand, as well as his gaze.

You remain silent. Mercy seems appropriate—at least this time.

“What’s the catch?”

“None.”

“For now,” he adds for you.

You gift him a small smile. “The house is off-grid. Only one other person knows of its existence.”

His brow lifts. “A house?”

“One of my private residences. If it were only you, I’d have given you something smaller. However, the women in your party deserve a little luxury.”

“The other person?"

"Someone I trust with my life."

Brows pulled together, he asks, "Luxury?"

"Crime empire."

“Crime empire," he repeats with a chuckle.

The joviality between you is comfortable and unexpected. It will become a problem if you don't stop it now.

“What do I owe you?” His eyes flick to your mouth, there and gone, but not fast enough.

“You’ll know when I decide to collect.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It was supposed to.”

“You practice these lines?”

“Comes standard with the crime boss starter kit.”

This time, his laugh is warm and unrestrained. It catches you off guard. You know that Captain America is a persona he wears for the public, and this isn't the public figure. This is Steve Rogers. This is the man behind the superhero. A man out of time, carrying too much weight on his shoulders and trying to help his friends.

His laughter fades, but neither of you moves to end this clandestine rendezvous. The harbor stretches endlessly before you, and for a moment, you contemplate how easy it would be to slip into the shadowy depths and let the weight you carry be swept away by the fog.

“I should go,” Steve mutters, breaking through your thoughts.

He seems reluctant to actually take action, so you encourage his exit. “You should.”

The broad smile and perfect teeth are infuriatingly stunning. Attraction is dangerous. Personal involvement with a client is deadly.

“Minimal contact is best,” you state, tone back to stern professionalism. "You have my direct line should something arise that needs my attention."

"What if I just want to talk?" His face is unreadable, his tone matching yours.

"Unadvisable."

"Will you visit?"

The hint of hope is fleeting in his eyes, and you bite back a cheeky remark. Instead, asserting, "My time is money, Mr. Rogers. If needed, I will be there, but there will be a cost."

The nonchalant shrug is exasperating. “I’m starting to enjoy being in your debt.” He doesn't turn to leave, but slowly walks backward, eyes hidden beneath the hat's brim.

“Then clearly I’m doing something wrong,” you scoff.

He steps into the dim halo of an overhead post lamp, which highlights that infuriating yet endearing smile. “Not from where I’m standing.” Another step, and the fog engulfs him, leaving you, once again, alone on the wharf.

The purpose of the meeting was to finalize the deal. A place for him and his team to lay low for a yet-to-be-decided favor. Somehow, it feels as if something far more invaluable took place.

His acceptance when you handed him the keys was also an exchange of trust.

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Fingers tracing the stem of your wine glass, softly you accuse, “You kept me waiting.”

“Traffic.”

Interesting. The corner of your lips curls upward, but you keep the smile in check. Without hesitation or waiting for permission, he pulls out the chair opposite yours and sits.

Your father would have hated him immediately. You find yourself admiring his confidence.

“You’re staring,” you say.

“I’m observing.”

“That’s a polite way to put it.”

His lip twitches, but as you did, he restrains the gesture. “So is ‘business woman.’”

You softly laugh, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The judgment of my character …my reputation.”

Steve leans back in his chair, seemingly relaxed, as if he's meeting an old friend, but the tension he carries is palpable. “You're the head of the biggest Mafia organization in modern history. I’d assume you’d want a reputation.”

“My father built the empire.” You pause and shrug. “I run it. Reputation follows.”

Steve’s expression shifts, not fear or surprise, more like acceptance. “I heard rumors.”

Now you smile. “So you came to see for yourself.”

Rich amber liquid lightly swirls as you push a glass toward him. He doesn’t immediately reach for it.

“Expecting poison?”

“No.” Eyes briefly flicking between you and the glass, he smoothly replies. “You wouldn't waste good whiskey.”

“True.” You take a sip of your own drink to hide your growing admiration. “So, Mr. Rogers-"

"Steve."

The slight arch of your brow is the only indication of your surprise. "Steve. Why are you here?”

If you were anyone else, his steady gaze would be disconcerting. Instead, you hold that contact as you lean back in your chair.

“Needed to see for myself if the stories were true.”

“What stories?”

He takes his time to respond, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. The action makes the room feel smaller, more intimate.

“About your intelligence.”

"Exaggerated, I'm sure,” you deadpan, knowing full well they are not.

“Your ruthlessness.”

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Your beauty.”

The word lands softly, effortlessly, as if he isn't currently sitting in the lion's den while complimenting the lioness.

Rain patters against the window, refracting light from the city below into a glittery haze. The gentle sound fills the momentary weighted silence.

Crossing your arms, you lean forward to rest them on the table. “You flirt with all the crime bosses?”

Steve flashes a devastatingly handsome smile. “Just the beautiful ones.”

It appears to please him when you laugh at his reply. “Careful, Rogers…Steve,” you correct when he raises a brow, “my father used to feed men to the sharks for less.”

“Good thing you’re not your father.”

You will never admit it aloud, but you are entertained by the man. No one seems to understand, except, apparently, the super soldier who's quietly challenging you. Your father ruled through fear. You rule through loyalty. Your father demanded respect. You earn it. Steve neither fears you nor is loyal to you, yet despite going against all he believes in, he respects you.

Standing, you take another sip of wine before moving toward the window. The city, your city, sprawls below your feet. A kingdom built on secrets—a throne made of whispered threats, owed favors, and corrupt deals.

Steve joins you. Not close enough to touch, but near enough to matter.

“You know,” you quietly say, “most people prefer to actively avoid being in debt to me.”

Steve’s gaze drops briefly to your mouth. The movement is quick, barely noticeable yet impossible to miss. “I think I’ll survive,” he states, “besides, I know you're intrigued.”

“Having the infamous Steve Rogers owe me a favor would be good for business.”

Though he outwardly remains stoic, you know he's smart enough to know the consequences of what his request means for him and his teammates. Still, he doesn't hesitate. “We just need a place to lay low.”

“Half the planet is out looking for you. It won’t be easy…or cheap.”

“You seem like you can handle the challenge.”

You give him a calculated, flirty smile. “Alright, Steve, let’s discuss details over dinner.”

The charming smile you receive is slow but certain, making you wonder whether you're dealing with a future ally or a formidable opponent.

For the first time in a very long time, you're uncertain if the most powerful person in the room is actually you.

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Which is how you find yourself standing in the gardening section of a hardware store with multiple packets of seeds, three large bags of soil, and a tiny watering can decorated with cartoon bees in the shopping cart.

“You don’t even know what half of those are,” you point out.

“I read the labels.”

“You read one label.”

“I read enough.”

He shrugs like it doesn't matter. You know him well enough now to know that he will be researching for hours when you're not around, and inwardly smile. It makes you happy that the brooding man from a few months ago in the apartment next to yours seems to be happier these days.

“You don't have room for this many pots.”

His mouth curves into a smile. That smile. The one that somehow still catches you off guard when it happens. Warm and charming and just cocky enough to be dangerous.

“No,” he agrees, “but if you’d be so kind as to loan me some of your balcony space, I’ll make you dinner with whatever grows.” The wink is the final blow. He somehow knows you won't refuse him.

“Deal,” you sigh and look away before you do or say something you shouldn’t.

Three weeks later, your balcony looks surprisingly good. There are colorful pots of all sizes scattered about, way more than the original batch that was purchased. Between your space and Bucky's, it looks like a mini botanical garden, filled with vegetables, herbs, and a few flowers for a splash of color. Everything is thriving.

It wasn't as big a jump as you thought it would be to go from house plants to cultivating actual food. Still, you half expected Bucky to lose interest at some point.

Instead, he’s become alarmingly invested. Not only does he bring home stacks of books from the library about urban gardening, but he's also joined online gardening communities. Every morning before breakfast, he diligently checks each plant.

“You need more sunlight.”

The comment drifts through your open balcony door one morning.

You pause halfway through making coffee and call out, “Are you giving advice to a plant?”

“No.”

“You absolutely are.”

“I was just talking to myself.”

You softly laugh at the total lie. It's hard to deny the contentment you feel knowing the hobby brings joy to Bucky, or that you revel in the serenity of sitting on your balcony in the evening, watching the sunset among the lush foliage and heavenly scent of the garden he's created.

It's beautiful and peaceful until the White-furred Assassin Disaster.

You return from the grocery store, arms full of shopping bags, and immediately notice two things. One: the balcony door you'd left closed is now open. Two: dirt everywhere. Not the normal type of dust tracked in from your daily routine, but clumps of dark soil litter your floor and furniture.

“Bucky?”

Silence.

Setting the bags down, you follow the trail outside and find the culprit. Alpine. The now tan-streaked menace is sitting proudly atop a turned-over pot that, up until recently, held flowers.

“Oh no.”

A muffled voice comes from Bucky's balcony. “Don’t laugh.”

Making your way over to where the two spaces nearly meet, you ignore his request and immediately start laughing. Bucky is kneeling, carefully placing an uprooted plant back into its home. He looks as if the empty bag of soil next to him was poured over his head—hair nearly matching the color of the dirt sprinkled in it, streaks of brown litter his jeans, and a tiny leaf is plastered to his cheek. His once white shirt is covered in tiny dark paw prints as if she’d been using him as a climbing frame.

“What happened?”

“I was re-potting the basil,” he sighs, “A butterfly caught her attention, and when she jumped, she landed in the bag of soil.”

“Mm-hhhmmm.” You press your lips together, trying your best to keep the laughter contained while he finishes his explanation.

“She panicked.”

“Reasonable.”

“When she launched herself directly at my face, I tripped, and we both fell. She climbed the railing and then hopped onto your balcony. I came over to get her, and then the butterfly returned,” he sighs heavily, “and honestly, I lost track after that.”

You lose the battle, but still try to maintain control, and end up snorting.

“It wasn’t funny,” he groans, but is fighting his own grin. He points at the tiny terror, “There were claws,” who blinks innocently.

Your shoulders shake.

“I may have screamed.”

You double over.

“She’s a criminal.”

“No jury in the world would convict her.”

“I’m wearing the evidence.”

With a final chuckle, you unnecessarily state, “You both need a bath.”

Alpine, clearly having understood, leaps from the pot and scurries into the apartment, trailing a new line of dirt.

“I want it stated for the record that she’s doing this on purpose.”

From somewhere inside, a crash sounds.

“I’ll take clean-up duty. You get bath duty.”

He stands, and dirt falls from his clothing like raindrops, pattering on the metal flooring.

With a resigned expression, he dramatically huffs, “Take care of my plants when I’m gone.”

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“In here.”

You assume he's in the kitchen as the clang of metal follows his response. Setting the vase upright as you pass, your eyes widen upon seeing the destruction in the living room. The sofa cushions are askew, and the lamp and books that normally sit on the side table are now strewn across the floor.

Bucky is no longer in the kitchen when you peek in, but a pot lid is still wobbling on the counter, and a decorative pattern of cat food from Alpine's overturned bowl dots the floor. Righting a dining chair, you follow the path of fur, plant soil, and what appears to be pillow feathers, to find Bucky sitting on his bed, head in his hands. A cat carrier and tattered pillow frame his feet. A fresh set of scratches runs from his elbow to wrist, trickling blood.

"Hey."

Exhausted eyes look up at you. "Hey." The single syllable carries irritation and defeat. “Tried a practice run for the vets tomorrow."

The explanation is unnecessary, but you give him a sympathetic smile. “Let me guess, she doesn’t want to go in?”

As if to answer you herself, Alpine bawls from somewhere in the room.

Bucky shakes his head. “She’s being very vocal. Violent about it, too.”

“I heard." Trying to lighten his mood, you tease, "I thought you were murdering her.”

“More like the other way around.” Clearly offended, he twists in place and tilts his head to show you the scratches on his neck.

“Ouch.” You wince. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”

Bucky sits on the edge of the tub as you swab his injuries with alcohol. They'll heal quickly enough, but after the chaos of the last half hour, it feels nice to have you fussing over him.

You're putting away the first aid kit when the little demon slinks into the room. Of course, Alpine ignores him and winds herself between your feet. Laughing, you scoop her up and turn to face Bucky. Scratching between her ears, you whisper, "You're so adorable."

"More like a traitor," Bucky scoffs as she nuzzles beneath your chin.

With a wink, you head back into the bedroom. "Come on. I have an idea."

Bucky sighs. "I'm not letting you try. I don't want you getting hurt." Though he doubts Alpine would ever attack you.

"Wasn't going to."

Now he's curious, but it turns to confusion when you pull one of his t-shirts from the laundry basket and toss it to him. Purring loudly, Alpine hasn't moved from her position of resting on your shoulder.

"Drape it over your hands. Kind of like a hammock."

The gears click. He knows what you're going to do. With slow, steady steps, you come closer as he follows your instructions. Alpine only wriggles a little when you place her on top of the makeshift sling and then wrap her into a cocoon. Bucky holds her against his chest, and within seconds, she's sound asleep.

"Now what? She has to be in the actual carrier when we go."

Reaching for the tiny pink caddy, you open the small door and hold it up. "Put her in."

"Really?"

"Just take your time."

Bucky feels that his hesitation is warranted considering recent events. All he can picture is his favorite shirt being torn to shreds. Yet your encouraging smile gives him hope. Trying not to pass his nervous tension to the sleeping kitten, he gently places her inside the cage. She doesn't even flinch when you flip the tiny latch to hold the door closed.

"See." Setting the carrier back on the floor, you give him a triumphant smile. "Just wrap her up in something that has your scent. It's comforting and familiar.”

Bucky's so grateful that he doesn't even think before leaning in to kiss your cheek. "Thank you."

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“You wanna tell me what the hell that was back there?”

Not looking up, you expel a breath. “I had to try.”

“Yeah?” He barks a laugh with no humor in it. “You almost got yourself killed.”

It was supposed to be a simple case. A milk run. Then you heard crying from somewhere below and charged in before there was a plan.

His hands fist with your shrug.

“You went in alone.”

“I knew you'd follow.”

“Seriously?” his voice cracks like a gunshot.

Giving up on the bandage, you finally raise your head to take him in. Tired eyes, flannel shredded to the point he'll have to throw it out. Drying blood, your blood, stains his neck and collar from when he half-dragged, half-carried you out. Beneath the anger, there's fear. Visible only in the slight twitch of his lip.

“Hunting things, saving people, the family business,” he bitterly mutters. “What if I couldn't save you?”

Your jaw tightens. “That’s your family creed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pain flashes white-hot through your ribs as you quickly stand, but you ignore it. “It means I’m not leaving people behind!”

“Nobody said that.”

“You did when you pulled me away.”

“Because the damn building was collapsing.”

“There were still people down there!”

“And there would’ve been one more if I hadn’t dragged you out!”

He looks sick at the thought. Silence breathes, furious and contemplative.

Swallowing your own anger, you take a moment to compose your thoughts. “My m …before every hunt, my mom would say, 'Save everyone you can, avenge the ones you can’t'.” Briefly closing your eyes, you heavily sigh. “She believed if somebody died while you stood by doing nothing, their blood stained your hands forever.”

“And what?” Dean shot back. “Yours gets clean if you die trying?”

Ready to fire back, your mind fails to provide the words, and he rages on.

“You run into every hunt like you’ve got something to prove.”

He's right. You've been ignoring the fact that somewhere along the line, you stopped caring if you made it out. “I’m trying to save people," you weakly reply.

He steps closer, voice deceptively calm, but still tight. “You’re trying to punish yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

“I know what it looks like when somebody’s got one foot off the cliff already.”

Feeling too seen under his scrutiny, you drop your gaze.

“You think I don’t get it? You think I don't have the same thoughts?” Voice cracking slightly, features hard, watery eyes seemingly stare into your soul, as he breathes, "If I just bleed enough, hurt enough, maybe it balances the scales.”

“It never balances. It’s never enough," you softly reply.

“No, it’s not, but we fight like hell to save the ones we can."

“It’s not fair.”

“I know.” Rough fingers tentatively caress your uninjured arm. “My entire life has been one long horror movie, watching people die. I can’t... I can’t lose you, too.”

It feels like a gut punch. The words hit too deep. Your chest tightens, squeezing your heart.

The anger is gone. Pain and uncertainty remain, filling the space between you. Dean's hand falls as he turns, but you quickly grab it, moving forward to hold it against your heart.

"What if we promise to save each other?"

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The roads are empty at this hour, and with no destination in mind, he rolls the windows down, letting the cool breeze soothe his heated skin, as he meanders around the town. Not sure how long he's been driving and barely paying attention to traffic signals, he's startled at the next turn to find he's on your street.

Parking across the street from your apartment complex, he lets out a humorless laugh. “You're pathetic, Seresin."

This is ridiculous. He wonders if he's crossed into stalking territory. Yet, instead of leaving, he sits there, staring at the warm glow of lamp light through a tiny crack in the partially drawn curtains.

Most of the other windows are dark. Their occupants are likely asleep, like most normal people would be at this hour. You might be too. He lost track of how many times he would find you asleep with a book draped over your lap, or lying open on the floor where it fell.

He remembers a time when you couldn’t sleep unless he was home. Nestled on the couch, you'd be half asleep, fighting your exhaustion, waiting for him. He'd carefully scoop you up, and you'd curl into his chest with a sigh. It was always the same conversation on the way to the bedroom.

"Why didn't you go to bed?"

"It's too quiet without you. I need to hear your heartbeat."

Maybe that's why he can no longer sleep. He no longer has the comfort of not only your warmth, but the slow, steady rhythm of your heart under his ear when he needs it.

Jake white-knuckles the steering wheel and beats his head against the headrest, trying to dislodge the memory. His next thought only increases his frustration. You might be sleeping better without him and the disappointment he brings.

With a disgruntled huff, he grips the gear shift, but the buzzing of his phone makes him freeze. He dumbfoundedly stares at the notification when he pulls it from his pocket. There's a text message …from you. It's short enough that he doesn't have to unlock his phone.

Can’t sleep?

Heart hammering in his chest, he looks up at the building. Even if he didn't know which apartment you lived in, he would know the familiar silhouette watching him, haloed by light.

He continues staring until another message appears.

You used to have a problem with showing up.

He did, and apparently, now he has a problem with leaving. This isn’t helping either of you, and the last thing he wants is to cause you any more pain. He unlocks his phone, trying to formulate a response, but those three tiny dots appear before he has a chance. So he waits.

You’re a stealth pilot. Sitting with your headlights on is a rookie move, Lieutenant.

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

Come upstairs, Jake.

He can practically hear the sigh in the words as the next text drops.

Doors unlocked.

This time, there's no hesitation in responding.

On my way.

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Standing in the bedroom, he looks around. The apartment is clean, but it's empty …dreary. No colorful blanket is draped over the end of the bed, the single plant on the kitchen windowsill you left behind is beyond saving, and the bookshelves in the living room are nearly empty. He smiles, thinking about your meticulous organization process for them, but it makes his chest tighten. The traces of your life here may have been erased from the apartment, but his mind recalls them in vivid detail.

He's not ready to deal with it.

Yanking open the closet door to grab his gym bag, a box crashes against his shoulder, contents spilling onto the hardwood as it lands at his feet.

"Shit!" Rubbing his shoulder, he stares down at the mess and shakes his head, choking back a laugh. In his attempt to escape the memory of you, the box he’d packed with the things you'd forgotten physically assaults him.

He had scribbled “STUFF” on it in sloppy, angry writing, shoved it into the closet, and blocked it from his mind.

Crouching, he picks up a bottle of lotion with hair ties in various colors stretched around the bottle, then a paperback with dog-eared corners, a magnet he found while sweeping the kitchen, and several small trinkets. All get shoved back in the cardboard container. Your favorite purple hoodie taunts him from a few inches away, but a glint distracts him as he reaches for it. Resting against the floorboard is a tiny gold hoop.

He stares for a moment, then picks it up and stands. The memory hits him before he has a chance to toss it in with the other items. Flipping it between his fingers, he sinks onto the edge of his bed.

He'd found it tangled in the sheets and had torn apart the room when you realized its match was missing as well. You’d laughed at him the entire time.

“Babe, it’s just an earring, not a search and rescue operation.”

These aren’t forgotten items. These are the proof of the life you tried to live with him.

His eyes land on the hoodie, and before he fully thinks it through, it’s in his hands—a terrible idea because it smells like you.

Jake closes his eyes, “Damn it,” and lies back on the bed with the garment covering his face.

Though you don't feel quite ready, you agree to meet him. Neutral ground of a coffee shop halfway between your new place and base. Ironically, you moved closer but are so much further apart.

He's almost unrecognizable, not different, but tired …defeated. Jake Seresin is always put together, hair perfect, shirt pressed, cocky grin loaded and ready to fire. Today, he looks rough, as if someone had pulled a string to fray the edges.

Forever the gentleman, despite his normally smug armor—or whatever this is—he stands when you approach and waits for you to sit before sitting back down.

“Hey.”

You hate that your heart still squeezes at the sound of his voice. “Hey.”

Silence follows the greeting, like an awkward third party.

Jake eventually clears his throat and gestures to a chair nearby. “I have some of your stuff.”

“Oh, thanks.” You stare at the box, unsure of what else to say.

“The place is pretty empty." He tries to laugh, but it turns to a sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. "I didn’t realize how much of you was there, and how little of me.”

Not able to meet his gaze, you fumble in your pocket for a moment. “I have something for you, too.” Pulling out the engagement ring, you slide it across the table.

“No.” Jake stares at it and looks like he might be ill.

Suddenly, breathing feels weird, and you want to take it back.

“Jake.”

“No.” When his eyes finally meet yours, panic seems to bloom in their depths. “It's yours. I don't want it back.”

You spent months twisting the ring around your finger while you ate dinner alone. While you slept alone in an empty bed. While you waited for calls. Your throat tightens, deep down, you didn't really want to give it back, but it's the right thing to do.

“You know what kills me?” He's averted his gaze back to the ring. “I kept thinking you left because you stopped loving me.” His jaw tightens. “You didn’t, though, did you.”

It's not a question, and even if it was, you aren't prepared to answer. “Jake.” You don't want to do this anymore. It feels like a jet is sitting on your chest. It hurts.

Jake continues as if you hadn't spoken. “You were building a life for us, a home, and I was too damn busy acting as if we’d always have time.”

It takes a conscious effort not to reach for him. It's exactly what you’d been begging him to understand. You didn't need flowers or promises. You just wanted him to be present. To give input on the small, mundane decisions that help create and sustain a partnership, like what color to paint the walls, choosing a fabric for the curtains, or picking a couch that you both like.

Tears blur your vision. “I wore it because I loved you, Jake. I took it off because I needed to love me too.”

His shoulders sag further, his features shifting into a numbness that's almost tangible, and you blink back tears. Jake cautiously picks up the ring, like he's afraid it might cut him.

Sliding his hand across the table, he stops short midway, fingers curling back. “I don’t know if I missed my shot,” he hoarsely whispers, “but if I did, I need you to know I finally see it. I see you.”

The words cut deep because six months ago, they would have prevented this exact scenario.

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“I didn’t say anything,” you said through clenched teeth.

“Didn’t need to. Your face is saying it for you.”

“How would you know what my face is saying?”

“I pay attention.”

Waller continued, “If any of you deviate from the mission parameters...” She trailed off as she held up her phone.

You felt your blood pressure rise. The threat, the show of power, was ever-present.

“One day somebody’s gonna chuck a chair at her,” you hissed under your breath.

Silence. Then Rick made a strange, almost inaudible choking sound, and his shoulders shook with the effort of restraint. He had mastered the art of not overtly laughing, which somehow made it worse.

It wasn’t funny. Okay, it was. As threats go, a chair was not all that scary.

“You good there, Colonel?” Bloodsport asked.

Rick coughed, “Fine,” sitting up straighter.

Harley’s voice came from directly behind you, “Hypothetically,” closer than she had been a second ago. She’d moved three rows without anyone noticing.

She was leaning between your seats, eyes wide with interest, as if someone had just whispered ‘crime’ three times into a mirror. “Hypothetically,” she repeated, staring way too intently at Amanda. “Are we talkin’ folding chair? Office chair? One of those little metal WWE-lookin’ ones?”

Rick's eyes widened. “No. No Chairs.”

“Hypothetically, though?”

“No hypotheticals.” Rick spat in a whisper.

Harley looked offended. “You’re no fun,” she pouted.

“Yeah, Colonel,” you agreed. “Way to crush creativity.”

“Are we throwing for distance or accuracy?” Bloodsport asked.

“Spin matters,” Peacemaker added.

“You want good aerodynamics.” Harley nodded.

“Why do you know chair aerodynamics?” you asked.

“Why don’t you?”

You bit down on your lip, looking at your desk. Do not look at Rick. Do not make eye contact. If you made eye contact, you were done for.

“Is there a question?” Waller asked.

Nobody moved or breathed.

The world's longest ten seconds passed. Waller made pointed eye contact with each of you in turn, then returned to the irrelevant slideshow.

Rick leaned toward you. “If I die today, I’m haunting you.”

You looked at him, feigning innocence. “You laughed.”

“I hid it.”

You scoffed quietly. “Shoulders don’t lie, Colonel.”

Harley tutted, “Ugh, just kiss already.”

Rick closed his eyes and shook his head. “I hate every single person in this room right now.”

“Aww,” King Shark said, “group bonding.”

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

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“In here.”

You assume he's in the kitchen as the clang of metal follows his response. Setting the vase upright as you pass, your eyes widen upon seeing the destruction in the living room. The sofa cushions are askew, and the lamp and books that normally sit on the side table are now strewn across the floor.

Bucky is no longer in the kitchen when you peek in, but a pot lid is still wobbling on the counter, and a decorative pattern of cat food from Alpine's overturned bowl dots the floor. Righting a dining chair, you follow the path of fur, plant soil, and what appears to be pillow feathers, to find Bucky sitting on his bed, head in his hands. A cat carrier and tattered pillow frame his feet. A fresh set of scratches runs from his elbow to wrist, trickling blood.

"Hey."

Exhausted eyes look up at you. "Hey." The single syllable carries irritation and defeat. “Tried a practice run for the vets tomorrow."

The explanation is unnecessary, but you give him a sympathetic smile. “Let me guess, she doesn’t want to go in?”

As if to answer you herself, Alpine bawls from somewhere in the room.

Bucky shakes his head. “She’s being very vocal. Violent about it, too.”

“I heard." Trying to lighten his mood, you tease, "I thought you were murdering her.”

“More like the other way around.” Clearly offended, he twists in place and tilts his head to show you the scratches on his neck.

“Ouch.” You wince. “Come on, let’s get you patched up.”

Bucky sits on the edge of the tub as you swab his injuries with alcohol. They'll heal quickly enough, but after the chaos of the last half hour, it feels nice to have you fussing over him.

You're putting away the first aid kit when the little demon slinks into the room. Of course, Alpine ignores him and winds herself between your feet. Laughing, you scoop her up and turn to face Bucky. Scratching between her ears, you whisper, "You're so adorable."

"More like a traitor," Bucky scoffs as she nuzzles beneath your chin.

With a wink, you head back into the bedroom. "Come on. I have an idea."

Bucky sighs. "I'm not letting you try. I don't want you getting hurt." Though he doubts Alpine would ever attack you.

"Wasn't going to."

Now he's curious, but it turns to confusion when you pull one of his t-shirts from the laundry basket and toss it to him. Purring loudly, Alpine hasn't moved from her position of resting on your shoulder.

"Drape it over your hands. Kind of like a hammock."

The gears click. He knows what you're going to do. With slow, steady steps, you come closer as he follows your instructions. Alpine only wriggles a little when you place her on top of the makeshift sling and then wrap her into a cocoon. Bucky holds her against his chest, and within seconds, she's sound asleep.

"Now what? She has to be in the actual carrier when we go."

Reaching for the tiny pink caddy, you open the small door and hold it up. "Put her in."

"Really?"

"Just take your time."

Bucky feels that his hesitation is warranted considering recent events. All he can picture is his favorite shirt being torn to shreds. Yet your encouraging smile gives him hope. Trying not to pass his nervous tension to the sleeping kitten, he gently places her inside the cage. She doesn't even flinch when you flip the tiny latch to hold the door closed.

"See." Setting the carrier back on the floor, you give him a triumphant smile. "Just wrap her up in something that has your scent. It's comforting and familiar.”

Bucky's so grateful that he doesn't even think before leaning in to kiss your cheek. "Thank you."

I don't have a MCU tag list, so adding a few peeps that I know like Bucky.

May 19, 2026 - Dusty

Top Gun Maverick - Chaos In The Clouds - A joke-filled training session takes an unforeseen turn.

Bradley x reader. W/C: 777. Warnings: angst, fluff.

May 20, 2026 - Wreck

Top Gun Maverick - Points For Style - The danger has passed but emotions are still running high. Follow on from Chaos In The Clouds.

Bradley x Reader. W/C: 845. Warnings: angst, fluff.

May 21, 2026 - Agree

DCU - I Did Not Agree - Nothing is ever easy with Task Force X, you should have known better.

No pairing. W/C: 538. Warnings: peril, canon typical situation.

May 22, 2026 -

May 23, 2026 -

May 24, 2026 -

May 25, 2026 -

May 26, 2026 -

May 27, 2026 -

May 28, 2026 -

May 29, 2026 -

May 30, 2026 -

“Mm.”

“And you wanted more field experience.”

Narrowing your eyes, you chastise, “That sounds suspiciously like you’re using my own words against me.”

His mouth twitches. “I would never.”

He loses the battle with the smile as you continue to stare him down. The audacity is breathtaking. You’ve known Rick long enough to recognize the signs. The way his features subtly shift—the almost smile, eyes creasing slightly at the corners, the lower pitch of his voice— when he knows he's winning an argument.

“Don’t look smug.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Your face is doing a thing.”

“My face is not doing anything.”

His face is absolutely doing a thing, but before you can continue your very reasonable argument, Harley’s voice comes through the comms.

“Soooo.” She pauses. “Tiny issue.”

Rick's sigh is immediate, chin hitting his chest, as his head drops with a shake. “Here we go.” This man, who has lived through several wars, dealt with loss and destruction, and suffers through countless battles with Waller, finds Harley Quinn more stressful and exhausting than anything he's ever been put through. “What did you do?”

“I may have pushed a button.”

A brief moment of dead silence, and then Rick tilts his head back with a groan. “Harley...”

“In my defense, it was a very pushable button.”

Seconds later, a cacophony of dissonance fills the night, like an orchestra without a conductor. Sirens scream, metal doors screech, voices shout commands, truck engines roar to life, all against the backdrop of flashing red lights and bright white search beams.

Rick taps your arm and tilts his head to indicate direction.

“No!" you growl.

“No?” he huffs back.

Rick's expression morphs to the same one he uses when dealing with Harley, and it stings a bit. “I didn’t agree to this.”

He's done talking. "You did," he gruffly states, as he secures his gun, preparing to stand.

“I agreed to recon.” Gunfire erupts on your left. “I agreed to observe. To binoculars and note-taking!"

Rick grabs your arm and pulls you up with him, commanding, “MOVE!”

Covering his back, you angrily shout, “I DID NOT AGREE TO THIS!”

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Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

Catching Bradley's eye and seeing the firm set of his brow despite the smile, emotions begin to surge. Apparently sensing the rising tension in you, he broadens his smile and proudly quips, "I deserve extra points for style.”

“Negative, Rooster,” Hangman says, pocketing a ball on the table. “I think you lose points for almost becoming a cautionary tale.”

Of course, the teasing doesn’t stop. The worry they all carried released in their taunting jabs. Silently, you agree with Hangman, though you’d never say it aloud.

Rooster rolls his eyes, then focuses back on you, still getting one last taunt in. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Hangman.” He gives you a subtle nod toward the back door.

“Someone’s still high on surviving,” you tease, trying to sound amused.

Hangman smirks. “He’s been insufferable for three hours.”

“Three?” you ask, moving toward the back door.

Fanboy snorts into his drink. “Three hours, twelve minutes,”

“And seventeen seconds,” Phoenix adds as if they’d rehearsed it.

Holding the door open for you, Rooster points at her. “Nobody asked you.”

The evening air outside is cool, and you welcome the crisp ocean breeze and the soft sounds of waves rolling onto shore—a backdrop to the now muffled laughter spilling from inside. It's a little surreal. Life would have carried on even if today had turned out differently.

Bradley is here, flesh and blood. You could reach out and touch him, gaze into those soulful eyes, but you don't. Those terrifying moments are playing on a loop in your mind, churning up all the 'what ifs'.

Sliding up next to you, he shoves his hands in his pockets. “So,” he says carefully.

“So.”

A beat passes.

“You mad?” The incredulous look you give him makes him bob his head. “Right. Stupid question.”

“Affirmative,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Oh crap," he stands up straighter, "you’re using the voice.”

“What voice?”

“That voice.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Except you do. It’s not his fault, but seeing him drinking and laughing with the team after struggling through the rest of the day with the weight of what could have been is overwhelming. He’s had hours to process it, move past the fear, and get to the point of being able to joke about it. While you've had the same amount of time, you've had to hold it in, stay disciplined, and stoic.

Walking to the rail, you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze until it hurts.

“Babe?”

“Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

He’s at your side immediately. “Lieutenant Bradshaw?” he repeats.

You nod, completely serious. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to do because you decided to audition for Survivor: Naval Edition?”

“I didn’t...”

You poke a finger into his chest. “I’m not done!” Pressing his mouth closed, he stands nearly at attention. “You disappeared. You went quiet. Hangman could see you, and then...” You jab him again. “You said I love you, and then you were gone. I thought...” Your throat closes around the rest because you can’t say it.

You feel the tears well, and take a deep breath to try to find some control.

“You gave me a heart attack.”

“I know.”

Bradley holds out his arms, and you finally surrender, falling into his chest, letting him hold you until the tears stop.

Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

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“I’m sorry,” Rooster fires back, “didn’t Phoenix just leave your ass in the dust?”

“Okay,” You interrupt before it turns into the predictable back-and-forth bickering. “Let's lock in pilots.”

They descend into kindergarten warfare, but they listen to the instructions they are given. Phoenix beats her own record, and then it all goes south.

“Control to all aircraft. Weather pattern change.” Petty Officer Parker’s voice suddenly cuts through.

What? It was clear seconds ago.

You stand up, looking for the issue. Your stomach drops. On the horizon, closer than it should be, moving with terrifying speed, is a dust cloud that temporarily blots out the sun.

One by one, the pilots report in, Phoenix and Bob, Fanboy and Paycheck are directed to return and land. Hangman reports he’s behind the cloud, following it in.

Shit.

“Control,” Hangman says. “You have approximately three minutes before you’ll be blind.”

“Rooster.” You whisper-shout into your mic. He’s the only one who has not checked in. “Rooster.”

Nothing. In the stillness, it feels as if everyone is collectively holding their breath.

Inhaling sharply, you shake your hands out to dispel some of the anxiety as you watch Phoenix land. “Does anyone have a visual on Lieutenant Bradshaw?”

“I got him," Hangman calmly relays. "I can see his tail. He's …” The pause feels like a lifetime in a situation where seconds count. “It's gone.” This time, there's a bit of reticence in his tone.

A lump clogs your throat. It’s not your job to keep an eye on the weather, but it’s something you find yourself doing regardless, because Rooster's a pilot. Because somewhere along the line, weather patterns, wind shifts, and cloud formations stopped being data on a screen and became something that could take him away from you.

Except today.

Today you’d been distracted, mind up in the clouds with him. This morning, Bradley stood in your kitchen, sunlight spilling over him while he stole your coffee and smiled at you over the rim of your mug. He’d looked at you with soft eyes and sleep-rustled hair and said the three words you didn't expect to hear.

I love you.

The universe feels cruel enough to make it the first and last time.

NO!

Slamming your finger onto the microphone button, you try again. “Control to Lieutenant Bradshaw. Report.”

The sand-filled gust hits the tower, and the sunlight vanishes. Glass rattles as dusty debris scrapes against the windows.

It’s over as quickly as it started, and as he said, Hangman has followed it in. From your position, it looks as if the nose of his jet is nudging it forward. It wouldn’t surprise you, he likes to flirt with danger.

Silence fills the room as the storm moves beyond the field. Seconds tick by—a minute passes. When your legs refuse to hold upright, you collapse into your chair.

Then comes a triumphant, “Woohoo.”

He made it!

His laugh, loud and breathless, has everyone cheering. Still, beneath it, you hear the tiny tremor in his voice. “Holy shit, that was close.”

There's still no visible sign of him, though. “Rooster. Location.” You need to see him to believe your brain isn’t playing tricks.

“I’m righhhhhhhhht here!” he shouts, a split second before buzzing the tower.

A deafening roar, and everyone ducks as the building shakes. Someone yells, someone else curses. Laughter erupts.

Opening the comms, you smile as Rooster's jet circles back to land. “Phoenix, he just beat your record.”

Master Lists: Word Of The Day // Main

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Apparently, having been there a while, the kitten smells like a landfill, so Bucky bathes her. The scratches on his arm from her distaste for the process are worth it to see the fluffy white furball she becomes.

After setting her on his bed, he finally changes out of his wet clothes. She yowls the entire time. He keeps his voice low as he speaks, trying to calm her, but she persists until he picks her up again.

"I’m not keeping her," he mutters for the hundredth time. Still, he wraps her in a kitchen towel and carries the tiny cat burrito to the living room.

“Okay, that’s better,” Bucky says, dropping to sit on the couch. As he lightly strokes between her ears, the little fluff ball begins to purr. The bath time betrayal apparently forgiven. “Now we’re both dry and warm.”

Her eyes begin to droop as if she’s fighting sleep.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, “You can sleep, you’re safe now.”

Almost immediately, her eyes completely close, as if all she needed was his reassurance.

“Oh crap,” he sighs. “I’m keeping you, aren’t I?”

A knock at the front door startles him, and he freezes, making sure he hasn’t disturbed the tiny creature. But she’s too warm and content to notice.

Gently placing her in the corner, behind a cushion so that she won’t roll off.

A groan escapes as he looks through the peephole and sees Denise Livingston, the president of the HOA, and his downstairs neighbor.

“Miss Livingston,” he says, pulling the door open.

Forgoing a greeting, Denise snaps, “Do you have a cat in there?”

“No,” he answers immediately.

“I heard something screeching.”

“Television.”

“Where did you get those scratches?”

“Uhm, not that it's any of your business, but I was helping a friend with landscaping.”

Eyes narrowed, she tiptoes to look over his shoulder. “The bylaws prohibit pets, Mr. Barnes.”

“I know,” he says.

“Breaking the bylaws is cause for eviction.”

“I know,” he smiles, wide, too wide. “Good night, Miss Livingston.”

He slowly closes the door, giving a little wave.

Leaning against the closed door, he whispers, “Shit.”

Bucky has been smuggling cat supplies into his apartment like contraband for almost a week.

The former assassin who fought aliens and survived Hydra is now being psychologically outmaneuvered by something the size of a sock and Denise Livingston, first of her name, protector of the Bylaws!

Alpine is six pounds of mischief, chaos, and affection.

It’s the first time, in a long time, Bucky has found himself laughing out loud at anything. The fiesty attacks on his shoelaces, the dramatic sideways hop before pouncing, the way she insists on supervising every single thing he does like a tiny, furry chaperone, elicit warm, comforting emotions he thought he'd never feel again.

Until the one time it isn’t funny anymore.

Two minutes. Maximum.

Two minutes while he was in the bathroom, and now she’s gone.

Silence. No purring, no patter of tiny feet. No suspicious rustling. No tiny white butt sticking out from beneath furniture before she launches herself at his ankles.

The kitchen is empty. He checks the fridge, just in case, because panic apparently destroys his critical thinking. Under his bed. The closet. In his boots by the front door.

She’s gone.

“Okay, Alpine,” he tries for stern but lands somewhere closer to desperate. “Not funny.”

He throws the cushions off the sofa, more frantic with each one.

“Alpine.”

The only answer he gets is a quick succession of three knocks on his door. It almost sounds conspiratorial.

Bucky freezes.

Denise.

Fuck. Denise finally found the cat, and now he’s going to be evicted because of a wet-nosed Houdini.

He opens the door cautiously, already preparing a lie, only to find you standing there in sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.

“Hey,” he says warily.

You reach into the front pocket of your hoodie and pull out Alpine like a magician revealing the world's fluffiest rabbit. “I think this belongs to you,” you whisper.

Relief floods through him a second before the panic replaces it. “I can explain.”

“It’s a cat, not a body,” you chuckle.

Alpine chirps happily at the sound of his voice and immediately stretches toward him.

“She came through the vents, heard her cry because she couldn’t get out my side.”

“Right, yeah, sorry.” He takes Alpine carefully, like she’s made of glass. “She’s apparently committed to ruining my life.”

You grin. “If all the laughter I’ve been hearing is you, I don’t believe that for a second.” You reach out and scratch under the cat's chin.

You hear it at the same time, the ping of the elevator arriving. You exchange the same look of immediate horror.

Bucky shoves Alpine toward you on instinct. You shove the cat back. Alpine mewls.

“Help me hide her,” he panics.

“In my hood, quick.”

You spin around, and Bucky carefully settles Alpine against the back of your neck, pulling your hood up over your head, as he tucks in her tail.

“What if she moves?” he whispers.

“She won’t, she’s already snuggled up.”

“She likes you.”

Denise turns the corner, and without thinking, Bucky grabs your wrist and pulls you into his apartment, positioning himself between you and the doorway as Denise marches over.

“I heard it again,” Denise complains.

Neither of you responds.

Denise elaborates. “I heard crying through the vents.”

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “That was me.”

Denise squints. “You were crying through the vents?”

“We were playing a game,” Bucky adds.

Denise’s eyes narrow further, features full of disbelief. So you fully commit. “A sex game.”

Denise goes scarlet.

Bucky cough-laughs into his fist so hard his whole body shakes.

You smile brightly. “Very immersive.”

Denise looks moments away from passing out. “Well,” she splutters, clutching her necklace. “Keep it down.”

“Let me guess,” you mock, “there are Bylaws about that?”

She nods once, “Indeed,” before turning and speed-walking back toward the elevators.

Bucky slowly closes the door. The second the latch clicks, you both burst out laughing.

Alpine pokes her tiny head out of your hood at the commotion.

Bucky points accusingly at her. “You are a menace.”

The kitten blinks at him innocently.

“Okay,” you say, reaching up and stroking the kitten. “We need to find a way around this stupid bylaw.”

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