°i ain't doin it°

He is obsessed.

It starts small, the first time he rests his head against your stomach. You’re both on the couch after a long mission, exhausted and half-limp with it. You’re sitting upright, back pressed into the armrest, scrolling through something on your phone while he stretches out along the length of the couch. He shifts closer without asking, metal hand warm and steady as it hooks around your thigh and tugs you in.

“Buck,” you murmur, distracted.

“Shh.”

And then he just… folds.

He slides down until his head is resting squarely in your lap, cheek pressed to the softness of your belly. Not flat against bone. Not sharp edges. Just warmth and give and comfort. He exhales like he’s found something sacred.

You freeze. “What are you doing?”

“Using my pillow,” he answers simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach flips. “You have like six actual pillows.”

“None of them are this good.”

His flesh hand splays wide over your side, thumb brushing the slight dip where your waist curves inward before swelling out again. He gives a little squeeze—absentminded, affectionate—and settles his full weight there.

You’re hyperaware of it. The weight of his head. The scratch of his stubble through your shirt. The way his nose presses just slightly into you when he breathes.

“I’m squishy,” you mutter.

“Exactly.”

He sounds downright pleased about it.

You expect him to move after a minute. To tease you and then roll away. But he doesn’t. He stays. His shoulders loosen. His fingers trace lazy shapes along the underside of your belly, reverent and slow.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, rougher. “Don’t know how you walk around like this without me glued to you all the time.”

Heat floods your face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

He turns his head slightly and presses a slow kiss right through your shirt, just below your navel. The sensation makes you jolt.

“Buck.”

“What?” he asks innocently, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Can’t appreciate my girl?”

It’s the way he says it—my girl. Like he’s claiming treasure.

You shift, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t… wish I was smaller?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You hate that it does. You hate that it’s even in your head.

He goes very still.

Slowly, he pushes himself up onto his elbows until he’s looking at you directly. His eyes are blue and sharp and entirely serious.

“Smaller?” he repeats, almost offended. “Why would I want less of you?”

Your breath catches.

He sits up properly then, hands coming to frame your waist. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften his grip. He squeezes—firm, grounding.

“I love this,” he says, sliding his palm over your belly openly now. “Love how you feel. Love how you fit in my hands. Love how I can lay my head here and hear you laugh and feel it.” He presses his ear back against you demonstratively. “It’s my favorite sound system.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you.

“There it is,” he says smugly. “See? Worth it.”

You swat at him lightly, but he catches your wrist and brings your hand to his hair instead. Encouraging. Guiding. Like he wants you to get used to this.

“I like that you’re soft,” he continues, quieter now. “I spent decades surrounded by hard things. Cold things. I don’t want that anymore.”

His cheek presses back into your belly, slower this time. Intentional. He rubs his face there shamelessly, like a cat claiming its spot.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs. “You’re comfortable. You’re real.”

Your fingers slide through his hair without thinking, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He melts instantly, breath shuddering out of him.

“And I like that I can do this,” he adds.

He wraps both arms around you and tugs until you’re practically folded over him, his face buried fully against your stomach now. He nuzzles, exaggerated and greedy, and then presses a series of soft kisses along the curve.

You can’t stop smiling.

“You’re obsessed,” you accuse softly.

“Yeah.”

No denial. Not even a pause.

“I am.”

His hand slides under your shirt this time, skin to skin. His palm spreads wide over the softness there, thumb tracing lazy circles. He watches your face carefully as he does it, gauging every reaction, like he wants to memorize the way you respond.

“I like that you’re soft enough for me to sink into,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “Like that when I grab you, I actually get to hold something.”

Your breath goes shallow.

His touch shifts from playful to deliberate. Fingers pressing deeper. Appreciative. His lips follow the path of his hand, kissing along your belly slowly, like he’s mapping it.

“You know what my favorite part is?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark now, but still tender.

“That you don’t hide from me.”

Your chest tightens.

“You let me love you like this,” he continues. “You let me touch you. Lay on you. Hold you. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

He slides up your body then, kissing a path from your stomach to your sternum, to your collarbone, until he’s hovering over you on the couch. Big and solid and entirely devoted.

“And if you ever start thinking you need to be smaller,” he adds softly, brushing his nose against yours, “I’m gonna remind you that I need exactly this.”

His hand drifts back down, settling possessively over your belly again. Like it belongs there.

Like you belong there.

You pull him down into a kiss before you can overthink it, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He smiles against your mouth, satisfied, and then deliberately shifts so he can rest his head back where he started.

Pillow reclaimed.

You roll your eyes, but your hands find his hair automatically.

“Comfortable?” you tease.

He sighs like a man who has found heaven.

“‘Red’ to stop completely.” You tap his wrist; the plates whir soft as he lets you. “Yellow means I need you to slow down or change something, not stop.”

“Good.” The metal fingers turn just enough to cradle your touch without catching. “What if I ask you for numbers?”

“Zero is nothing. Ten is too much. Keep it between… six and eight while we build?”

He nods again. “No surprises. First contact will be here.” He brushes two knuckles under your collarbone. “Then here.” He skims down the centerline of your chest, not touching your breast, just letting the promise of proximity sit there. “We can go lower if you want it. And we’re avoiding…” He waits.

“Neck and face,” you say. “And I want to keep my inner thighs for your hands.” Your cheeks heat. “Both of them.”

The quickest ghost of a smile. “Copy that.” He glances at the table. “Wax type is paraffin blends with a low melt point; I tested them already.” There’s a flash of old habit, mission brief cadence, fact then contingency. “We’ll build the heat slowly. You tell me if the scent is too strong. If you arch away, I’ll anchor you. If you flinch toward the flame, I’ll move it. I will not let you chase it with your hands. I will not let you come apart without me saying so. Clear?”

You’re already floating, held together by the way he speaks. “Clear.”

His jaw works once. He reaches for your hand, flesh this time, thumb pressing into the soft between your knuckles. “I need to hear you say you can answer me when I ask you how you’re doing.”

“I can answer you.”

“And you want this.”

“I want this.”

“Good girl.” It lands like the first warm spill. Your breath hiccups; his eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes like he promised himself not to push too fast.

He rises, presses a kiss to your temple, and then he’s in motion: strike of a lighter, the candle flames blooming one by one. He warms the oil between his palms, rolls your shoulders with sure strokes, works down the line of your spine with his flesh hand while the metal plates rest cool over your hip to remind your body of north. He moves slowly, deliberately, narrating what he’s doing without breaking the softness of it.

“Okay,” he murmurs as he eases your top over your head, the fabric rasping over your skin. “Lie back for me.” He tucks the folded towel beneath you to catch the wax, the edges crisp against your sides. The apartment light is low enough to make the candle flames brighter; it paints gold along the curve of his jaw. “Hands?” he asks.

You lift them, offering. He gathers your wrists and places them above your head on the pillow, not binding you, just arranging you there, his palm covering your hands for a second so you feel the weight. “If you need them, you take them back,” he says. “Otherwise, keep them where I put them.”

“Okay.”

He kisses the center of your chest like a benediction and then the world narrows to his breathing and the soft sound of wax shifting inside tin as he tips it, testing the temperature against the back of his hand. He’s meticulous: he waits, counts silently, blows once, and then tilts.

The first drop lands just below your collarbone. It’s not a drop so much as a full note, the heat a small sting, the texture laying down like a seal against your skin. Your back arcs. Your mouth opens around a sound that feels like relief and shock braided together.

“There she is,” he says, quiet pride threading through it. The vibranium plates slide in after, cool and sure, gliding over the new mark with a pressure that makes you shiver. The heat turns from sharp to singing. The cold takes the edge and clarifies the rest.

“Color?” he asks.

“Green,” you manage, eyes hot and unfocused.

“Number?”

“Six.”

He hums. “Good.” He tips again.

This time he paints a line from sternum to the point where your ribs divide, measured, steady. He follows it with the cool path of his metal hand, mapping the warmth up with the chill down, like he’s drawing coordinates only he can read. You feel yourself settle into the rhythm his body sets, pour, lift, soothe; inhale, hold, exhale. Your brain stops grabbing at the edges of things and slides into the structure he offers.

“Count with me,” he says softly. “Three breaths. Big ones.”

You do. You fill your lungs with air that smells faintly of the wax, cotton, cream, and him, which smells like old leather, a hint of clean steel, and the ghost of whatever soap he uses. On the second exhale he drags the back of his metal fingers lightly along the underside of your breast, not touching anything he promised to avoid, but flirting with the border so your whole body leans toward him.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, a smile in the sound, and then he pours a small constellation across your left shoulder, peppering you with heat, and answers each star with the kiss of cold.

You lose the room for a while. The apartment recedes to candlelight and Bucky’s voice, to the cadence of “Color?” and the hum of his approval when your answer stays steady. He’s not rushed. He’s not trying to drag you somewhere. He’s building a scaffolding underneath you, rung by rung, and settling you on it like you can climb higher if you want and he’ll be right there if your foot slips.

When he finally asks, “Lower?” your ‘yes’ is so immediate it makes him laugh, low and pleased.

He slides the towel down, exposes your stomach like it’s a revelation. “Look at me,” he says, and you do, and the urge to hide evaporates. He tilts the tin, and the first trail lands along the soft curve beside your navel, a heat that writes you open. The cold of his palm follows, smooth and sure, and then the metal, and then his mouth, warm again, just the faintest press of lips to skin that’s almost dry. You tremble.

“You take marks so pretty,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Like you were made to be touched in lines and layers.” She trusts me, she trusts me, don’t waste it. He hears the thought in his own skull, one of those clean, tinny sets of words that pop and vanish without echo. He’s grateful for the simplicity. His whole nervous system loves the rules. He loves them because they let him love you.

“Number?” he asks when you make a sound that sharpens.

“Seven. Seven and a half.”

He nods, tips less, aims higher. When he pours again, it’s on a breath, not a gasp. You find the difference between flinching and reaching, the small decision to meet it halfway. He sees it happen, that choice, and the pride that moves through him is a physical thing. He palms the metal spoon in the ice water without looking and lays the cool circle down in the center of your chest like a coin, watching the way you exhale around it as if your body was made to respond to a signal.

“Hands still good?” he asks.

“Good.” You swallow. “I like that you tell me what you’re going to do.”

His smile is a crooked flicker, there and gone. “I like the way you listen.” I like the way you come back to me each time like the world makes sense here. He tests the next candle, a shade deeper in color, a fraction hotter. His voice softens. “This one’s warmer. I’ll lay it thinner, more distance. If I see you chase, I’ll ground you. If it pushes past eight, we go back down. Nod for me.”

You nod. He pours.

It does push, the heat is more insistent, a thin ribbon that lands and blooms into ache like a flower opening too fast, beautiful and nearly violent. Your breath hiccups. Your back arches, up, not away, and his metal palm is there, flattening gently just under your sternum, pressing you back into the cushion with a steady, anchoring weight.

“Breathe. With me.”

You do. He watches your ribs expand under his hand. He watches your face, not your body, the way a pilot watches instruments when the horizon blurs. He waits the exact number of seconds it takes for the heat to turn into sing, then glides the cold in to meet it, and you make a sound that is pure relief.

“Color?” he asks.

“Green,” you say, breathless, softer. “Seven. Good seven.”

He eases his weight away but keeps his hand there like a ballast. “That’s my girl.”

The words curl along your spine and settle there. You can feel the wax cooling on your skin, thin plates, smooth edges, the occasional drag where it caught a hair, but it doesn’t feel messy or careless. It feels like a map of decisions the two of you made together. He breaks a small edge near your sternum and peels a strip free, slow enough that the tug registers as a separate sensation. He watches your eyes when he does it, sees the flash of sharp that turns quickly into warm.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” you say. “Do it again.”

He does. He alternates, heat, cold, peel, until the world resolves into rhythm again. Your thighs press together without you thinking about it; he sees it and his mouth tightens just the smallest fraction. He sets the tin down and moves between your knees, one hand, flesh, on the inside of your thigh, the barest pressure, the clearest boundary.

“This area is for my hands,” he reminds you, voice low, like it’s a secret he’s telling you. His thumb draws a slow circle in the tender muscle there, a promise and a warning at once. “And I am very patient.”

You make a noise that would be a complaint if it didn’t sound so much like gratitude.

He laughs once, breathy. I can be patient because you’re here. Because there’s not a rifle in my peripheral, because I chose the candles and the angles and the way the light would hit your skin. The thought moves through him like a train through a station; he watches it pass and doesn’t get on. He is here. He is here and you are here and the only thing he has to do is follow the plan he made to be kind to both of you.

“Roll for me,” he says, gentling you onto your side. He tucks the towel, palms your rib cage with the metal hand, and pours a small, steady line along the outer curve of your breast without crossing what he promised to keep for later. The heat lands, you hiss, he presses the cool in, and your body melts into the couch like the two sensations cancelled gravity.

“Number?”

“Seven. Maybe a good eight if you kiss it.”

He huffs. “Brat.” He kisses the cooling line anyway, his mouth soft and reverent, and your whole body flares like a wire catching current. He holds your gaze when he lifts his head. “Beautiful.”

The word makes you blink, surprised, like you forgot there were adjectives that weren’t just about what you could endure. You swallow. “You’re good at this.”

He shrugs with one shoulder, as if the compliment slides off him easier when he makes a joke of it. “I like hobbies where I can be precise.”

He shifts you again, coaxing rather than repositioning. Your back hits the towel; the ceiling presses low, candlelight flickering in the small draft from the cracked window. He warms more oil between his palms and pours it into the valley between your collarbones, rubbing slowly until your skin shines, his hands a matched set, one warm and human, one cool and whirring, both yours. He keeps the oil light where the wax lies, gliding around the plates he’s made like he respects his own work.

“I want to try something,” he says. “You’ll like it if you listen.”

Your pulse trips. “Yes.”

He takes a pillar candle, brings the flame closer to your skin without pouring, moves it in a slow circle so you feel the heat of proximity before the heat of contact. He watches you learn the difference, tracks the exact moment your breath changes when your body decides the promise is its own kind of sensation. Then he tips, just a few drops, off-center, and follows instantly with the flat of his metal palm, pressing the heat down as if he can fuse sensation to bone.

Your head falls to the side, a gasp pulled from somewhere deep. He does it again, a variation this time, heat to your sternum, cold to your left side, and again, heat in a scatter over your stomach followed by the spoon from the ice jar pressed like a coin to your navel. Your hands grip the pillow above your head just to hang onto something, but you don’t pull away. You’re inside the discipline with him now. You can feel his focus like a harness slipping over your ribs and settling there.

“You’re taking it so good, baby,” he says, awed. “Good. Stay with me. Color?”

“Green,” you breathe, a laugh in it because it’s true. “Eight.”

“Then we hold here.” He sets the candle down, palms your hips with both hands, one warm, one cold. “What do you want?”

You look at him. Your body is a choir of signals: ache, hum, edge, need. He is the conductor. You hand him the baton. “I want you to tell me.”

He exhales, something like gratitude and something like hunger threaded through it. “I’m going to take some of this off you. I’m going to make you feel it. And then, if you ask me nicely, I’ll give you my hand.” He squeezes your hip with the flesh palm, firm enough to tell your body where to put its attention. “Which one?”

“Both,” you say, reckless, sincere.

His smile is small and devastating. “Greedy baby. We’ll see how polite you are.”

He breaks the wax at your sternum again and peels it slow, the tug registering like a new note in the chord you’ve been listening to. He follows the path his own hands laid down earlier, heat then cold then peel, until your breath is a steady climb toward a peak that he will not let you crest without permission. He watches your mouth, your throat, the way your eyes go glazed then snap back sharp when he says your name.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs.

You bring them to him. “Yes.”

“That’s it.” He strips another strip, hums when you shiver. “You take pain like a prayer,” he says, almost wondering. “Like you’re not asking it to save you. Like you’re just talking to it.”

“I’m talking to you,” you say, and his breath starts to come faster, almost imperceptibly, the only giveaway in a man who could hold still under artillery. Talking to me. She’s talking to me. Keep the structure. Keep it clean.

He sets the candles aside, caps the tins one by one, orders the field back into its box. It’s a small ritual and it matters. When he comes back to you, kneeling between your knees again, the room feels nearer. The quiet has weight.

“Ask,” he says.

You swallow. “Please,” you say, already breathless, already gone pliant in the way he makes you. “Please touch me. Please make me come.”

“Hands stay where?”

You tip your chin at the pillow. “Here. Above my head.”

“Good.” He leans forward, mouth at your ear, voice a rough scrape of velvet. “You don’t move them. I’ll do the rest.”

He starts with the cold, because he’s a bastard and because he knows your body loves to be confused. The metal hand cups you through your underwear, he left them there on purpose and now he makes you wait, the fabric a boundary that exists because he says it does. The chill sinks in and you arch. He hums. Then his flesh hand slips beneath the waistband, palm hot, fingers sure, and the contrast makes your eyes flood with stars.

“Open,” he says softly, and you do, thighs falling wider around him as his shoulders press your knees apart. He explores like a map he’s been given but wants to redraw with his own pencil, no rush, no fumbling. He finds slick and heat. He finds the angle that makes your hips lift even when you’re trying to be good. He finds your rhythm and puts a hand on it like a drummer catching a beat someone else started on a table.

“There,” you whisper, and he answers with pressure that makes your spine bow. The metal hand slides lower, the cool plates pressing gently along the crease of your thigh, a second set of instructions.

“Keep breathing,” he says. “Numbers?”

“Eight, eight point five, oh, my god.”

He smiles against your throat, lazy just for a second. “You’re very precise when you’re begging.”

You laugh, helpless, sharp, then bite it off when he tightens his focus. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger in a motion so deliberate it feels like writing; he writes you into a corner and then back you out at the last second, refusing to let the pressure spike into something too steep. He slips two fingers inside you, slow and inexorable, and your body takes him like he belongs there, because at this point it would be stranger if you didn’t. The metal hand brackets the outside of your thigh, grips hard enough to ground you.

“Hands?” he asks.

“Here,” you gasp, wrists pressing into the pillow. “Here, I promise.”

“That’s my girl.”

You shudder. Your nerves are a riot of wax-stung skin cooling, oil-slick warmth, the deep ache of being filled, the relentless tender focus of his attention. He fucks you with a rhythm that dovetails with your breath, slow, building, and patient, and each time your muscles flutter around him, his voice drops half a step lower, like he’s answering a call.

“Color?”

“Green,” you say, on a tattered breath. “Please, Bucky.”

“Say it.”

“Please let me come. Please, I need you. Need to do it. Please.”

“Look at me.” You drag your eyes to his. The city hums faintly behind the walls, a reminder the world is still doing what it does, but in this room there is only him. He holds you there for one beat, two, the way a lifeguard might hold a swimmer’s cautious gaze before submerging together.

“Come for me,” he says, and you do.

It breaks like the clean snap of a branch, like the clean peel of wax off skin, sharp and then warm everywhere, heat rolling outward, your body fusing every line he drew into a single bright plane of sensation. Your hands stay where he put them. Your mouth opens around a sound you don’t recognize as yours. He keeps you there, holds you through it, talks you down with soft vowels and the anchor-weight of his metal palm on your thigh.

“That’s it. That’s it. Breathe, pretty girl. Come back to me. There you go.”

You sag. He slows his fingers, eases them out like he respects the work they did, and then he’s moving deliberately again, cap on the oil, towel up another inch to catch anything else, underwear down and off with the shears (you yelp, he grins, both of you breathless). He pours you a glass of water with the hand that still smells faintly of candle smoke and holds it for you while you drink.

When your vision steadies, he’s looking at you like the ceiling might lower itself to listen in. You reach for him without moving your hands, which is ridiculous and makes him laugh quietly before he leans in to meet your mouth.

The kiss is not a prize. It isn’t something you had to earn. It’s a check-in that turns hungry and then back into a check-in because he makes it be. He pulls back and rests his forehead against yours. “You still with me?”

“Yeah.” Your voice is wrecked in a way that feels like you got exactly what you asked for. “Yes, James.”

The name shakes him a little, like you leaned into a place he forgot was soft. He exhales into your mouth. “Good.” He kisses your nose. “You want another?”

You blink. “Another…?”

He smiles, slow, sinful. “Orgasm. Or I can run you a bath and peel the rest of the wax off in the tub. Or I can lay you on your stomach and just—touch the marks I made until you fall asleep.”

Your body answers before your brain does, a low, unambiguous ache. “Can I…” You swallow. The words feel shy and enormous at once. “Can I have your mouth?”

He goes still. Then he nods, once, like he’s decided not to talk for a minute because his chest is full of a very quiet joy and if he breathes wrong it will get loud and he doesn’t want to scare it. “Hands stay where they are,” he says. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He does. He always does. He arranges you like art, slides down the couch, settles his shoulders beneath your thighs so you feel the breadth of him anchoring you to the world. The metal hand is a bracket on your hip again, the flesh one splayed gentle on your belly, the thumb tracing the edges of wax he hasn’t peeled yet, reminding your nerves of every place they can light up. When he lowers his mouth, he’s reverent and greedy in equal measure. He opens you with his tongue like he’s reading, finds the line he wants to underline, then writes his name in careful cursive until you’re arching off the towel.

He doesn’t rush. He gives you the same structure as before, creases and edges, pattern and breath, and he climbs with you, every muscle in his shoulders working under your legs. When you start to pull your hands down without meaning to, he lifts his head, breathless. “Where do your hands go?”

You whine. He laughs softly. “Up, sweetheart.” When you obey, he gives you what you asked for, the cool of the metal plates pressing to the inside of your thigh just as his mouth seals over you, and the confusion, the wonderful, impossible confusion, throws you again.

You come softer this time, less break and more flood, and he hums against you like he knew it would be that way. He rides you through it and then rests his forehead briefly to the meat of your thigh, breath cooling the damp there, gratitude quiet in his posture.

After, he cleans you gently, wordlessly. He warms a washcloth and drags it along your skin. He breaks and peels the rest of the wax with the attention of someone removing glass from a wound, careful, patient, pausing when you make the small sounds that mean wait. He talks about nothing for a minute so you can feel the world return without having to fetch it: the Knicks lost by two, the neighbor’s new dog barks at the elevator, he tried a new coffee place and the espresso was too bitter but the girl at the counter had a nice laugh.

You smile at him, loose and cockeyed. “You’re good at this part too.”

“I like this part,” he says simply. “I like watching you come back.”

He carries you to the bathroom even though you could walk, sets you on the closed lid while the tub fills. The light in here is softer, blue around the edges. He nudges the fan on to move the steam. He tests the water with his flesh hand, then with his metal one, and adjusts the tap for a temperature that suits both, because he can do that. He spreads a towel on the floor where his knees will go.

“You’re a sap,” you say, affectionate.

“Yeah, yeah.” He tucks a curl behind your ear. “Get in.”

You sink into the heat with a sound that feels like sleep and waking at the same time. He joins you on the outside, kneeling, sleeves shoved up. He dips the washcloth and wrings it out and then runs it slowly over your chest where the wax drew its temporary constellations, tracing the places that are pinkest, pressing kisses in their wake. The tenderness is not a separate act; it’s the other side of the same coin.

“Do you ever…” You trail off. He looks up, patient. “When you’re doing this, does it make the noise quieter?”

He knows what you mean without you explaining. He considers the ceiling for a second, then blows out a breath. “It makes the noise…polite,” he says, surprising himself into a huff of laughter. “Like it knocks before it comes in.”

You laugh, a small bright thing. “That’s very Midwestern of your trauma.”

He grins, head dropping. “Oh my God.” He kisses your knee to hide his smile, then sobers. “It helps that you’re loud in here.” He touches your sternum, the center of you. “That you tell me when it’s good and when it’s too much. That you don’t make me guess.” That you don’t punish me for wanting rules. The thought sits in the room like a friend who doesn’t overshare. It’s easy to be in the same space with it.

“I like your rules,” you say, quiet. “I like the way they hold me.”

He swallows. “Me too.”

When the water cools, he stands and wraps you in a towel, tucks you against his chest while you drip on his floor and he doesn’t care. He gets you into one of his soft shirts and a pair of shorts you can fold the waistband on twice. He steers you back to the couch, still warm, still smelling faintly of wax and oil, and tugs you into his lap like gravity is a suggestion he ignores.

You tuck your face into his neck. He rubs your back with the flat of his metal hand in slow, sure sweeps, the cold plates now just cool, comforting, the whir a lullaby. His flesh hand finds your hair and cards through it until your eyes slide heavy. The candles are out. The room is dim. The quiet is bigger and kinder than when you arrived.

“Thank you,” you murmur, because gratitude feels like part of the ritual too.

He kisses your hairline. “You don’t have to thank me for taking care of you.”

“I know.” Your lips curve. “I like doing it anyway.”

He exhales, a sound that feels like setting something down he’s been carrying a long time. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

You drift. He holds. The radiator ticks once and then falls silent. The city keeps humming but it’s a distant thing. The marks on your skin will fade by morning; the memory of heat and cold and the voice that kept you in the middle will not. Bucky breathes you in like you’re the first fresh air after a long tunnel. He catalogues the small aches in his knees and the damp at the collar of his shirt where your hair soaked through and the quiet in his head.

She trusts me, he thinks, simple as a fact. I can be careful for her.

His arm tightens once with the force of it, not enough to wake you, just enough to tell his own body: this is the structure now. This is the ground.

It was a lazy Saturday morning, wind whistling through the curtain that could almost be perceived as a melody to an unfamiliar song. The birds chirped, trees swayed, and the sun peeked through the branches as the air swirled. Cars zoomed past a floor below your apartment, and townsfolk strolled down the sidewalks like they had time to spare. The world around you was wide awake. But you? You were curled into Bucky, still softly breathing as if nothing could touch you.

His front was pressed to your back, metal arm under you to keep your head elevated, so your neck didn’t cramp. He thought, How could that possibly be comfortable? But you insisted it was your favorite place to sleep (other than his chest). Where he felt that the metal plates might scratch your soft skin, you assured him it was like a firm pillow that was always cool to the touch. 

Alpine seemed to like it too as she was curved into the opposite side of his bicep, nuzzling against the shiny, black plating. The white cat let out a low purr, head popping up at a sound only she could hear. Her ears twitched, eyes scanning the room as if something might jump out at her. 

She eventually leveled her gaze at Bucky, icy blues locked on steel blue ones. She was seemingly expecting head pats. Not asking, expecting. Like she knew just how much leverage she had over the super soldier.

He rolled his eyes dramatically as if he was actually annoyed. His flesh hand reached up to scratch under her chin, surrendering to Alpine’s entitlement. She trilled, leaning into his touch. He gave a few more pats to her head, then she lowered it back to its original spot, as if to say, That's enough, human.

He focused his attention back on you, his metal fingers toyed with yours until he finally laced them together. He draped his arm over your waist while his mouth moved to your shoulder, placing lingering kisses on your sun-warmed skin. You squirmed slightly, then settled back into his arm like nothing happened. 

These mornings were rare, and Bucky learned to treasure them. Soak them up like a sponge. Replay these tiny moments in his head on repeat, just in case his mind began to slip. 

He was constantly working, always on tiring missions or media training that Val forced the team to attend. He’d much rather have more days like this, snuggled up with his girls in the soft quiet of the morning.

But even now, he knew he couldn’t stay for much longer. He had stupidly agreed to meet up with Sam today. Of all days, why did he choose this one? Not when you looked so peaceful, it was mesmerizing. Like a fluffy cloud, stretching out across a sunset at full vibrancy. Or a lone star twinkling brighter than all the rest.

Fuck, you were something special. Something sweet, caring, kind—kinder than he deserved. Like when you washed his uniform because he forgot to drop it off at the cleaners (your soap always smelled better, anyway), giving him a back massage because he ‘looked tense’ (he had to deal with his teammates, of course, he was), or dropping off his lunch at the Watchtower because he forgot to bring it (he’d do it on purpose just to see you).

And the moments when you gave him a run for his money; he lived for that. Like play-fighting over the last pancake (you always won), stealing the remote to watch some girly show he wasn’t interested in (he totally was), or splashing water on him from the sink as you did dishes (they would usually be forgotten after that).

You were perfect, and he couldn’t believe you were his. He’d be damned if he didn’t prove that he deserved you every day of his life because you were it for him. And maybe he never let himself think of a future, but now? It was there. Slight blurry? Yeah. But the one constant when he lets his brain run wild is you. And naturally, Alpine. The cat would likely kick the two of you to the curb before she’d let anything be planned without her existence.

He snapped out of his thoughts, realizing he would be late if he didn’t get out of his stupidly comfortable bed. He couldn’t let Sam have the upper hand in this. If he showed up late, Wilson would tease him relentlessly, make fun of Bucky’s love life, or tell him that he’s gone soft. What was this, anyway? Breakfast? Again, why did he agree to this?

He let his eyes drift over you once more before he started to wiggle his metal arm under you. “Baby,” he whispered, hot breath fanning across your ear, “I gotta get going.” 

You didn’t budge. As a matter of fact, did he even say anything at all? Because you were a dead weight on his arm, and you weren’t going anywhere. He squeezed your waist with his warm hand, planting kisses on your neck and the shell of your ear—still, nothing.

“There’s a cold pillow with your name on it, just let me move you,” he muttered, lifting your head leisurely, so as not to startle you awake. 

You shifted, curling tighter into his metal arm, if that’s even possible, murmuring a soft, “No.” Your cheek smushed against the plates, and your fingers held tight to his like you weren’t going to let him leave without a fight. Why does he even bother? Stubborn woman, he thought. He was a fucking super soldier, and he couldn’t move you. It wasn’t about his strength anymore; it was about not poking a very sleepy and potentially angry bear.

He decided to press his luck one more time before completely giving up and calling it a day. His flesh hand enveloped you, palm cradling your neck to move his arm out from under you. This time, it wasn’t even you being difficult about him moving; it was Alpine. She raised her head, hissing at her owner as if he were the one causing problems.

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, setting your head back down, and yielding in his attempts to steal his arm back. “You two are going to be the death of me, I swear.” He shot a glare at his cat, who was, one hundred percent, giving him the stink eye. Alpine snuggled back into his arm, knowing she got her way. She always did.

He tried to be irritated, but he just couldn’t. It was a losing battle. His mouth was quicker than his brain, moving on its own accord, as his frown turned to a gentle grin. He shook his head, sighing, “What am I going to do with you?” He leaned down to kiss a spot directly below your ear; he couldn’t help it. You shivered in response, and he caught a small smile spreading across your lips, even with your face buried in his arm.

He reached up with his free hand, gripping his metal shoulder and giving it a sharp yank downward. The metal components clicked and whirred as the arm slid free from its socket. He laid it to rest on the mattress as he shifted to get up one-handed.

Bucky didn’t mind functioning with one arm. He got used to it in Wakanda, so it wasn’t a necessity. Clearly, you and Alpine needed it more than he did. 

After he dressed—black shirt, jeans, and his combat boots—he made his way back to the bed. Alpine had moved, wedged her way between the crook of your neck and the metal’s forearm. You continued to hold the metal hand as if it were still attached to him. He propped his knee on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he hovered over you.

He placed one final kiss on the place between your brows, and one to his cat’s nose. “Be back soon, my pretty girls,” he said softly, drinking in the sight of the pair on his bed.

When he arrived at the small dinner off the highway, he spotted Sam immediately. He was leaning against his truck with his arms crossed, checking the watch on his wrist, his fingers tapping his bicep rhythmically as he waited. Bucky ducked out of the car, giving Wilson a wave that looked more like a half-hearted hand gesture.

“Took you long enough,” he bellyached, “I was starting to think you were standing me up, cyborg.” Bucky rolled his eyes at the nickname, gesturing to get inside and get this over with. Sam’s brow furrowed as he followed after the super soldier. “Forgetting something?”

“Huh?” he replied, barely glancing in his friend's direction.

Wilson waved his arms dramatically, indicating how obvious it was. “Where’s your arm, dude? You lose a bet? Don’t tell me that trash panda robbed you.”

“No, no. I-” Bucky started, but cut himself off, a smirk etching onto his face as he thought of what awaited him at home. “It’s…occupied.”

Sam’s face contorted even further, confusion and disbelief rolled into one. “Are you smiling, Buck?”

He shook his head immediately, biting the inside of his cheek to clear the evidence of his delight. “Of course not.”

Wilson laughed, loud and booming. “No way,” he knocked his shoulder into his buddy’s, “Who the hell got you to start doing that?”

“Shut up,” he mumbled in response. 

Sam knew better than to push it much farther than that, but he added, “Looks good on you, y’know? You look…happy.” 

Bucky didn’t answer, just let the thought of that bounce around in his skull, grow legs even. Yeah, maybe he was happy. And perhaps he secretly liked the jittery, warming feeling that spread in his chest. 

Now his feet were moving faster, b-lining it to the diner's entrance. Not just to get away from Sam’s scrutiny, but because he had to get home to his girls.

(The fan art in question) ❤️❤️❤️

“Come and get a closer look and see for yourself,” you taunt him.

He says nothing. After a second of loaded silence, the sound of his combat boots against the floor echoes through the room as he takes deliberately slow steps toward you. He probably thinks he's intimidating you - and judging by the way your breath catches in your throat as he closes in on you, it’s a safe assumption.

You maintain your position when he comes to a stop just inches behind you. Your index finger hovers above the trigger as you try to ignore the way your heart races as he looms over you from behind.

It isn't a reaction born from fear. It’s excitement. So often you try to draw him in closer, though it’s rare that he actually indulges in your scheming.

He stands close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. You blink rapidly, as if it will somehow make the goosebumps that have suddenly appeared on your skin dissipate.

He raises his metal hand to your arm from his position behind you, placing his fingers against the bend of your elbow and applying just enough pressure so that you relax the position of your arm. Then, using his flesh hand, repeats the action on your opposite arm.

“Now,” he breathes in perfectly clear English, “if you’re finished trying to get my attention, shoot the target.”

You blink. Once, then twice, and then squeeze the trigger. Only after a perfect succession of hits, do you remember to breathe.

“See,” he muses, his voice softening the slightest bit. “You've got great aim, when you aren’t being childish.”

You whip around, turning to face him. Your chest brushes against his, but he doesn’t move an inch. Steel blue eyes bore into yours, unblinking. His jaw is set in a hard line, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs at the sudden close proximity.

It's moments like this that you’d do anything to know his name. You’ve wondered what it could be a thousand times. Henry? William? Daniel?

None of those names seem to suit him. But you know better than to ask. Every time you do, you’re met with a blank expression and loaded silence.

“Am I being childish?” You challenge. “Or do I just find all of these extra lessons a little…unnecessary? I don’t see anyone else getting this level of one-on-one attention. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you might be growing fond of me, Soldat.”

His expression remains stoic. Your eyes begin to sting, but you refuse to be the first to blink.

“If these extra lessons help to keep you alive, then they are not unnecessary to me.”

He suddenly steps back, distancing himself from you a mere second before the double doors on the other side of the room come flying open and two Hydra agents barge inside. They bark commands at him in thick Russian accents, effectively breaking any tension that had been brewing between you. Still, his gaze remains on you.

“Любить — недостаточно сильное слово.”

With his back turned to the guards, he says the words low enough so that only you hear them. He then turns and follows the agents out of the room, leaving you alone to wonder if you’d heard him correctly.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

A fortnight passes before you see him again.

Each night, you fall asleep replaying the last words he said to you on an endless loop. With every day that passes, you’re more and more convinced that you had hallucinated his confession.

It's rare that you go this long without seeing him. Your sessions together had become something of a routine, and you find yourself wandering aimlessly in your limited amount of free time each day, just hoping to run into him around the bleak and depressing facility that you're forced to call home.

You just need a few minutes with him - just long enough to confirm that you aren’t going crazy. That he really did say those words to you before seemingly vanishing like smoke.

You find yourself longing to get him alone. Really alone. Not in the way that you’re alone when he’s making you fight him in hand to hand combat or shoot at the same target for the twentieth time and someone could walk in at any moment. Completely and utterly alone - away from here, away from Hydra, away from the Red Room.

Maybe then he’d open up and at least tell you his name.

But it’s just a fantasy. Merely something for you to maladaptive daydream about in order to get through the day when he's nowhere to be found. The likelihood of ever seeing him outside of these walls is slim to none, but that doesn’t stop you from fantasizing about it far more often than you care to admit.

It's three in the morning and you’re staring up at your ceiling in the pitch black when you hear a sudden commotion of slamming doors and loud, angry voices. You sit up, holding your breath as you listen. There’s only so much that you can make out from down the hallway, behind the closed door of your room, but it’s enough to make your heart thud in your chest.

The soldier. The asset. Soldat. All spat in the same tone of disgust.

You get out of bed, tip-toeing across the room to press an ear against your door in hopes of hearing his voice. You just want confirmation that he’s okay - that he’s alive.

All that you’re able to hear is the voice of the guards, one indistinguishable from the next. Within a minute, the voices dissipate and the night is silent once more.

Your thoughts begin to spiral and your stomach churns with nausea. There’s no use in even trying to sleep now. There’s no way your brain will allow you to relax enough to fall asleep until you know that he’s alright.

You’ve lived in this facility for years. You know it like the back of your hand - even sections that are supposed to be off limits. You’ve never been to his quarters, but you know your way around well enough to get there. You don’t have any intention of actually approaching him; the last thing you want is to do anything that could cause the guards to refer to him with so much venom in their voices again.

Just to hear the shuffling of his covers or low snores from behind his door would be enough to ease your worrying until you see him again.

The compound is eerily silent at night. You don’t bother putting on shoes, as you’re able to walk more quietly without the shuffling of your slippers. The metal flooring of the hallway feels like ice against your feet, making you wish you had at least thrown a hoodie or cardigan over your camisole.

Without any windows or lights on, navigating your way through the endless maze of hallways is borderline impossible. You have to rely on touch more than sight, keeping your hands extended in front of you to feel for anything you might run into. Eventually, you make your way to the basement, where you’re relieved to see that the long hallway is illuminated by dimly lit sconces, each placed a few yards apart.

From the opposite end of the hallway, you hear what you believe to be running water - a faucet or shower. You follow the sound until you come to a closed door with faint yellow light spilling from the crack at the floor. You freeze, waiting to hear some kind of movement or see some kind of shadow appear on the sliver of light.

“I know you’re out there. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

You exhale through your nose at the sound of his voice, releasing the breath you didn't realize you’d been holding in. His voice is as serious as ever, and there’s an unusually strained edge to it, but he’s alive, so you can’t help but feel relieved.

“How’d you know it’s me?” You murmur back.

He’s silent for a few moments. You start to worry that you’re bothering him when the door opens up, startling you - for more reasons than one.

“I can smell you. I recognized your scent.”

Your eyes go wide as your mouth hangs open in shock and horror. He pulls you into the bathroom and closes the door before the first question can leave your lips.

The left side of his face is marred by a reddish-purple bruise that covers his eye and extends down to his cheekbone. His bottom lip is just as swollen, with a split down the middle. There’s dried blood concentrated around his nose, indicating injury there as well.

Only after taking in the jarring discoloration across his face do you realize that he isn't wearing a shirt. Your gaze trails to the raised, jagged scar tissue where the flesh of his shoulder meets the metal that is his left arm. You aren't sure how he lost the limb - you’ve never asked - but the scarring tells you it was brutal and violent.

“Who did this to you?” You whisper, not trusting your voice. The same feeling of nausea that came over you when you’d overheard the guards talking about him washes over you once more.

He swallows thickly, his jaw tensing as he grits his teeth. He doesn’t answer before he turns away from you to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Deep down, you already know the answer.

“Part of my latest assignment didn’t go as intended. It’s my own fault.”

You can tell by his tone of voice that not only does he blame himself, but that he thinks he’s deserving of the punishment. You don’t care what the assignment was, or how it went wrong - you refuse to believe that he could deserve such cruelty.

You don’t know his story. For all you know, maybe he chose this life. But if he’s anything like you - and every fiber of your being is screaming that he is - then you know that he had as little choice as you did when you were thrust into this world of malevolence.

No matter his history and how he found himself to be in the position that he’s in, it hurts you to see him in this state. If you could, you’d take it all away - the scars, the pain, the weight of all of his responsibilities.

You slowly walk towards him, coming to a stop when you’re standing directly behind him. With one hand, you grab the damp washcloth that he’d been using to clean himself up with off of the vanity.

“Turn around,” you instruct him softly. You aren’t sure why you’re surprised when he obeys without hesitation - his entire life is taking orders from others. It stings a little; just how quickly he turns to face you, because you know it isn’t purely out of trust. It’s out of habit of doing what he’s told.

You keep your eyes locked on him as you tentatively raise the cloth to his face. You gauge his reaction to make sure he isn’t going to move away or tell you to stop. When he doesn't flinch, or even blink, you delicately sweep the wet rag along his bottom lip, letting the dried blood melt away.

“You’ve been sending me mixed signals, you know,” you hum, breaking the heavy silence looming over you. “A confession like that followed by two weeks of silence really fucks with a girl’s head.”

He waits until you finish cleaning his lip to speak. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

His answer stings. You don’t know which would hurt worse - your brain playing a cruel joke on you and making up the entire scenario, or it really happening and him regretting it.

“Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” He pauses. You wait with bated breath. “I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it.”

The goosebumps on your skin, originally caused by the chilly night air, are now from his words. His stare. His close proximity to you. You can’t help but wonder when the last time that someone, anyone, stood so close to him without the intention of inflicting pain was.

You’ve been this close to him before. Closer, even. But always for the intents of training. Never quite like this. Never in a way that you can study every individual freckle, wrinkle, and scar on his skin.

Even as bloodied and bruised as he is, you've never seen anyone even a fraction as beautiful as him. You believe there’s a real possibility that he’s an angel; outcast from heaven and damned to hell. Here.

They’re likely the same place. The only possible difference between the two is that here has him.

When you finally finish ridding his skin of all of the dried blood, you reluctantly start to drop your hand from his face, but he stops you. He grabs your hand in his flesh one, keeping it near his cheek. With his metal hand, he takes the bloodied rag from you and tosses it somewhere behind you.

His skin feels like fire against your own and blood pounds in your ears as he slowly brings your hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to the top of your knuckles, all the while never taking his eyes off of yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs as he lowers your hand away from his lips. The words snap you back to harsh reality. You pull your hand out of his grasp, stepping back to put a few inches of space between the two of you.

“Right,” you whisper, not trusting your voice to speak at a normal volume. You clear your throat and reach for the doorknob. “I’m sorry. I’ll go—"

“That’s not what I mean,” he interrupts, stepping forward. You freeze. “I’m not referring to this bathroom. You shouldn’t be in the Red Room. You should be far away from here.”

Without thinking, you close what little distance is left between you. Your hands settle on either side of his waist, his muscles taut under your palms. He tilts his head down, resting his forehead against yours.

“I could say the same about you,” you hum. His fingers trail up the sides of your arms; the warmth of his skin on one and the chill of metal on the other. When he reaches the top of your shoulders, he cups the sides of your face in his hands. “Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, either.”

He shakes his head, his eyes cinched shut. His swollen, pink lips form something akin to a grimace. “No,” he whispers. “No. The things I’ve done… this is where I should be.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Before he can try to convince you otherwise, you lift yourself by the tips of your toes to press your lips to his.

You can count on one hand the number of times that your lips have touched someone else’s. This kind of life doesn’t allow much time for simple pleasures - bubble baths, watching a morning sunrise while drinking coffee, long drives with your favorite music blaring.

Kissing.

Despite your inexperience, you’ve been kissed enough to know how it feels. At least, you thought you did. Now, you’re not so sure. Because this - this feels entirely different. The way he kisses you as if you're the air he needs to breathe and holds you like a fragile lifeline is brand new to you.

Even though you had wiped the blood off of him, he still tastes faintly of iron from the cut on his bottom lip. He’s hesitant at first - like he knows he shouldn’t be doing this yet physically can’t hold himself back. But your tongue sweeps along the swell of his bottom lip and he loses all restraint.

His hands - hands that you have seen snap bones like twigs and pull countless triggers - now tremble as they caress your face. His flesh hand trails down to the side of your neck and he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past your lips. His movements are slow and intentional, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth before the moment can shatter around you.

You release an involuntary whimper into his mouth and something within him snaps. He drops his hands to the curve of your ass and hoists you up around his midsection. The sudden movement startles you and you gasp, but the noise is swallowed by him. He spins around, plopping you against the cold marble countertop.

You secure your legs around him, keeping him flush against you. Your fingers dart to the long locks of his brunet hair when the sudden, loud pounding of a fist against the bathroom door rings like a gunshot through the night.

“Soldat,” a deep, monotone voice calls from the other side. You recognize it from when you’d heard the commotion in the hallway not long ago. “You are needed upstairs for a mission report.”

You both go completely still, too terrified to even breathe. You hadn’t locked the door. If the guard so much as cracks the door open, the two of you would be exposed. He holds a singular metal digit up to his lips, indicating for you to stay silent.

“I’m almost finished cleaning up,” he barks back, his voice robotic and void of emotion. “I will be there soon.”

“Hurry up,” the guard snaps. “Or you’ll have even more to clean up.”

By some miracle, his footsteps begin to retreat down the hallway. You exhale in relief, your heart beating wildly in your chest.

“I should have heard him,” he mutters lowly, shaking his head. He steps back, leaving you sitting on the edge of the counter. You fight against the automatic urge to pull him back to you. “I was distracted.”

“We both were,” you breathe. “I didn’t hear him either. We just…have to be careful.”

He looks down at the floor with a furrowed brow.

“I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you. This can’t happen again. Not here.”

He steps forward, grabbing your face in his hands. You think - hope - he might kiss you again, but he doesn’t. He just looks down at you, a storm of different emotions in his blue eyes. He ghosts his flesh thumb across your cheekbone as if you’re made of glass.

“I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.”

He drops his hold on you and backs away. You shake your head, opening your mouth to tell him to stop being ridiculous, but he turns the doorknob and slips through the opening before you can get a word out. It clicks shut by the time you hop down from the countertop. You stand in stunned silence, your brain reeling as you try to make sense of everything that happened in the last five minutes.

You try to calm down before risking the journey back to your sleeping quarters but with each deep breath in, you think of how his lips felt on yours and with every long exhale, his words echo through your mind.

Fond is not a strong enough word.

I did mean it. But I still shouldn’t have said it. You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be careful enough when it comes to you.

I’m going to get you out of this place. Even if they kill me for it.

You lose track of how long you stay in the bathroom. Though it’s small, it feels infinitely bigger, and colder, without him in it.

When you finally sneak back to your room, the digital alarm clock on your nightstand reads 4:28 am. There’s no use in trying to go back to sleep now, as you and the other widows are expected to be awake and ready to begin your morning routines in only an hour. Still, you lay down, not quite ready to face the day.

When your head hits the pillow, you hear a faint crinkling noise close to your ear. You reach beside you, turning on your lamp. You lift the pillow, revealing a white piece of paper folded into a perfect square.

Before you unfold it, you have a gut feeling who it is from. Or maybe it's just irrational hope.

You don’t recognize the handwriting. The first few words are messy - childlike. Nearly illegible. The last words, however, are a little bit easier to read. As if whoever wrote the message hadn’t written anything in a while and had to remember how to hold a pen.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower. Keep your distance until then. Tell no one. Destroy this after reading.

Friday night - that’s a whole five days away.

He’s plotting something. And you can only hope that it involves both of you getting out of here alive.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The following days feel like a slow dissent into madness.

You don’t see or hear a word from him. Each day, upon returning to your room after nonstop training, you check under your pillow in hopes of finding another note, only to be met with disappointment. You long for more information - what exactly is going to happen on Friday night? How long will it take the handlers to realize that you’re missing? The tracking device located just under the skin of your left thigh will surely alert them of your desertion. What is his plan? Has he thought of everything that could go disastrously wrong?

And the question that lingers in the forefront of your mind - what you desire an answer to more than anything else - wherever you’re going, will he be going with you?

The mere possibility of the answer being no is enough to make you sick to your stomach.

You’ve barely eaten in days. You have no appetite - not that the food served in the mess hall is ever truly appetizing, but you feel the desire to eat even less than usual. On top of that, you’ve been so distracted that you’re covered in tender bruises from having your ass handed to you during sparring sessions. You haven’t been able to focus on anything the entire week, and others are starting to notice your mental absence.

“Where have you been the last few days?” A feminine, Russian accent startles you in the hallway as you walk back to your quarters on Thursday evening. You turn to see a fellow widow - a short, pretty blonde named Yelena whose room borders yours - looking at you with arched brows. “Your body is here but your mind has been miles away.”

You look away, scared that if you stare into her hazel eyes for a second too long, she’ll see right through you.

“I’m here,” you shrug. “I just haven’t felt the best this week. It’s uh - migraines.” The lie comes naturally to you, though you don’t know if she believes it.

“If you say so,” she snorts. “Must be pretty bad if you’re letting Sasha beat you in hand to hand.”

Luckily, she doesn’t press the subject any further.

Behind the closed door of your room, you retrieve the handwritten note from where you had tucked it between your bed frame and your mattress. He had instructed you to destroy it after reading it, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do so.

Maybe you’re sentimental - or perhaps just pathetic - but it’s the only thing you have of him. A singular piece of paper with his messy handwriting. Physical evidence that you aren’t going entirely crazy. You’ve reread the words more times than you care to admit over the last few days, as if they could possibly say something different than the first fifty something times you looked at the paper.

But they don’t change. The words remain the same, in the same black ink that has started to smudge from tracing the letters with the tip of your finger as if they are written in Braille.

Friday night. 2100 hours. South watchtower.

And finally, after the longest five days of your entire life, Friday arrives.

The day drags on and the nervous pit in your stomach cannot be quelled. You go through the motions as if it’s any other day - archery, aerobics, weight lifting, a five mile run - your typical Friday routine, all while trying to keep your composure at the thought of tonight.

An internal battle wages inside you as nine o’clock draws near. There’s fear, of course. Anxiety and uncertainty and apprehension. But beneath all of that, there’s anticipation. Eagerness. Excitement, even. Simply at the prospect of seeing him again.

There’s a small part of you that almost changes your mind. Not because you wish to stay here, but out of fear for what may happen to him if you’re caught. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if he were punished because he tried to help you.

It would be smart to rip the piece of paper into a thousand tiny shreds and flush them down a toilet and then go the fuck to sleep.

But then, you picture him waiting for you at the base of the watchtower, and the choice becomes clear.

To say that you packed lightly would be an understatement. The last thing you want is for someone to notice you carrying a duffel bag and a backpack out of the facility and ask where you're going, so to avoid drawing attention to yourself, you bring only what you can fit on your person. Your widow bites, a few knives, and two small pistols all concealed by a thick, dark purple bathrobe. It’s both windy and rainy tonight, with temperatures falling into the low forties, so you need something to keep you warm, but a large parka would surely raise suspicion if you were caught.

A bathrobe, however, is perfect for your escape plan. You can’t exactly walk out the front door unless you want a guard to demand information about where you’re going, and this place has practically no windows. A facility like this is designed to keep things in, not let them out - so the ventilation system it is.

And the communal bathroom on your level just so happens to have a nice, spacious vent just waiting for you to crawl into.

Widows are required to be in their private quarters no later than half past eight o’clock, so it times out perfectly with when you need to leave to make it to the south watchtower by nine o’clock. You have exactly thirty minutes to disappear. If you’re careful, you’ll be long gone by the time someone inevitably notices that you’re missing the next morning.

Right off the bat, you get lucky. The hallway outside of your bedroom is deserted, with no guard on patrol. If there had been, you would’ve just made some excuse about needing to use the bathroom, but you’re relieved that you don’t run into anyone on your way there.

With all of the other widows already in their beds, you find that the bathroom is empty, too. With the help of a shower chair that one of the girls has been using due to a leg injury, you’re able to reach just high enough to unscrew the vent cover from the wall.

You’re still standing on the chair when you pause for a brief moment before crawling inside the vent. You lean down, double checking that the note he’d left under your pillow is, in fact, tucked inside your sock.

You couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave it behind. A voice in the back of your head kept nagging you to keep it. Once you’ve reassured yourself that the small piece of paper is safely tucked away, you spring into action.

You know you’re leaving behind a scene that paints a very clear picture of precisely what you’ve done - a chair directly beneath the open vent could mean only one thing. The first person who walks into the bathroom will know exactly what happened here.

Once you’ve hoisted yourself through the opening, you can’t bring yourself to care. All you can think about is slithering through the vents as quietly and quickly as you possibly can.

There’s one advantage to having lived in this facility for over a decade - you know the ins and outs of this place like the back of your hand. All you have to do is stay quiet, not have a claustrophobia induced panic attack, and follow the tunnels to freedom - to the man waiting for you in the woods.

Or whatever else might await you at the end.

The air inside the shaft is stagnant yet cold. It smells of metallic rust, almost blood-like. Even the smallest of movements produces a faint echo through the tunnels and all you can do is hope that anyone who hears will chalk the noises up to ghosts.

You freeze every time the metal groans beneath the weight of your body. You breathe in, then out. Count to three, and then cautiously start to move again when you feel confident enough that no one heard you.

The tunnels seemingly get tighter and tighter the farther you crawl. Right, then left, then right, and left again through the never ending maze of metal.

When your muscles start to burn and the shaft starts to feel suffocatingly hot, you picture his face and it gives you the motivation you need to keep going.

There’s no going back now. Not even if you wanted to.

After what feels like hours, when your bones are screaming at you to rest and your skin is covered in a thick layer of sweat beneath your bathrobe and clothing, you breathe a sigh of relief when the slope of a downward facing duct comes into view.

If your calculations are correct, you'll be out of this building in a matter of seconds.

You propel your body forward, mentally and physically bracing yourself for gravity to take hold as you slip down a chute. The smooth fabric of your bathrobe helps you to slide down the incline with ease before you come tumbling out of the vent entirely, plopping onto the cold, wet earth.

You give yourself all of five seconds to both recover from the drop and assess your surroundings, making sure that no one else happens to be lurking around this remote part of the facility at this hour before you begin sprinting in the direction of the woods behind the building.

You glance down at your watch when you cross the threshold of the forest - 8:54 pm.

The south watchtower is roughly half a mile into the woods. Under different circumstances, you'd be able to run half a mile in a few minutes with ease.

But right now? With only the illumination of a waning gibbous moon to guide you through the dense woods while a steady mist of freezing rain gradually soaks through the layers of your clothing? You’ll be lucky to find your way to the watchtower at all.

Still, you force one foot in front of the other, refusing to slow down. You don't want to be even a minute late for fear that he'll think you changed your mind or that something happened on your way there.

For the first minute or so of your trek, the rain and wind feel like a balm to your skin after being trapped in the oven-like vents - but it doesn’t take long for your clothing to become drenched, causing your body to shiver and teeth to chatter despite the fact that you’re running as fast as you can.

You’re thankful he chose the south watchtower. You’re more familiar with it than the other towers that surround the facility, and you know the route well enough. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you don’t have night vision, and you stumble over a large tree root, twisting your right ankle. You curse under your breath but force yourself to keep going, knowing that you’re so close to reaching him.

The tower comes into view, and your heart drops when you don’t see him right away. You slow from a sprint to a jog, looking around the clearing that surrounds the tower when you hear the crackling of twigs and leaves from behind you.

Before you can even lay eyes on him, your wet, shivering frame is enveloped by strong arms from behind you. A metal hand covers your mouth, but you don’t scream. Instead, you relax for the first time in days, practically melting against him.

He breathes your name close to your ear. You turn in his grasp, nuzzling your face against his chest. You inhale his scent - a scent you’d recognize anywhere. It isn’t that of a fancy cologne or strongly scented soap. It’s natural - masculine and musky and uniquely him.

“You came,” he whispers. It isn’t a question, though there is a lilt of surprise in his voice. He grabs you by the shoulders and delicately pushes you back enough to run his eyes up and down your frame. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “I twisted my ankle, but I’m okay.”

His hands move from your shoulders to cup the sides of your face. Even in the limited amount of moonlight, you can see the tension in his jawline seem to melt away. His expression softens for a brief moment before he’s back to business.

“Did anyone see you leave?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. I crawled through an air duct in the bathroom and escaped through an exit in the back of the building.”

“Smart girl,” he praises, your face still clutched in his hands. “We still need to hurry. I don't know how much time we have.”

“What’s the plan?” You ask. Not that it really matters - you think you’d do just about anything he asks of you right now. You’d follow him anywhere, as long as it is far the fuck away from here.

He jerks his head in the direction of the watchtower a few yards away. He guides you to the entrance at the base of the structure, keeping his metal hand on your lower back. Once you’re inside, he closes and locks the door behind you. The only source of light in the room is produced by an antique oil lamp. On a concrete bench, there’s a first aid kit that’s already been opened beside an array of medical supplies.

He doesn’t need to say anything for you to piece together what is about to happen. The small, discreet tracking device located in the flesh of your thigh seemingly pulses at the realization. He notices you staring at the equipment and pauses.

“I have to remove your tracker before we can go any farther. We're still on Hydra grounds, so it likely hasn’t set off an alert yet. But as soon as we go any farther south…”

“I understand,” you murmur. “I trust you. Take it out.”

He nods, motioning for you to take your place on the bench. First, you shed the drenched bathrobe. Then, you shimmy your pants down to your knees, giving him access to the location of the tracker placed mid-thigh.

You shiver when the skin of the back of your thighs comes in contact with the cold concrete bench. He lowers himself to the ground in front of you, looking up at you in the dim, flickering light of the lamp. The sight makes your breath catch in your throat. The way he looks at you - like you aren’t an assassin, a soldier, a killer, but rather someone worth saving - it makes your heart nearly combust in your chest.

“I’ll try to be quick,” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand just above your knee as if to ground you. His skin is warm and soft, and you find comfort in it. With his other hand, he reaches for an isopropyl alcohol pad to sterilize where he will make the incision. You hiss when he swipes the cold alcohol across your bare skin.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, a grimace forming on his face. “It’ll be over soon.” You know he doesn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but it has to be done. He retrieves a small scalpel and looks at you for your consent.

“On the count of three?”

You nod, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“One. Two…”

He doesn’t say three.

Your eyes snap shut and your teeth dig into the meat of your cheek so hard that you taste blood. Somehow, you manage to stay silent. You keep your eyes closed until you feel the tracker ease through the opening he had cut. You glance down, seeing vibrant red leak down the side of your thigh. He places the tracker on the bench beside you - visual confirmation of your newfound freedom.

The small device might weigh less than an ounce, but you suddenly feel a hundred pounds lighter.

He grabs a large gauze pad and presses it to the wound, applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice tense.

“Never been better.” You force a small smile to give him reassurance. Despite the circumstances, there’s a level of truth to your words. “What about you?”

“I’ll be better once I get you away from here.”

You watch in heavy silence as he works to bandage the incision on your thigh. He’s gentle - more gentle than anyone has ever been with you, you think.

Widows are usually stuck tending to their own injuries, but in more severe cases, you'd be sent to the pitiful excuse of an infirmary within the Hydra facility. Doctors - who most likely weren’t even legitimate doctors - would do the bare minimum to keep you from dying without caring if they’re too rough or lack bedside manner.

But not him. No, he touches you like the last thing he wants is to cause you the slightest discomfort. He touches you like you’re precious to him.

Maybe it’s the fact that you haven’t had a decent night of sleep in nearly a week, or maybe it’s the fact that you’re experiencing an adrenaline crash and aren’t thinking clearly, but you can’t help the way your eyes keep flickering to his lips. It’s not the time, and definitely not the place to be having such thoughts, but you think them, anyway - he’s inhumanly beautiful.

“I can rebandage it when we get somewhere safer,” he says when the dressing is secure against your skin. “We need to go. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?”

He stands, pulling you up from the bench in the process. You instantly yank your pajama pants back up around your hips.

Truthfully, you had forgotten all about twisting your ankle while running through the woods. But now, with the sudden pressure of your weight on it again, the pain returns in a dull but persistent throb.

“It hurts a little, but I’ll be okay—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he’s scooping you into his arms. You squeal in surprise as his metal arm swipes your legs out from beneath you. He lifts you with ease, metal arm hooked beneath your knees and flesh arm supporting your back.

You’re sure you could walk. Maybe even run, if you really needed to. But you aren’t about to order him to put you down. Not when the warmth from his arms and chest feels like heaven against the cold night air. Your soaking wet bathrobe still lays discarded on the bench, so you can use all of the warmth you can possibly get.

“This works, too,” you snort. Without thinking, you brush a lock of his hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear for him. He looks down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips for a brief moment before he lifts you up just high enough to press his mouth against your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sensation of his lips against your skin. You’ve craved to feel this again ever since you first kissed him in the bathroom five days ago.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he murmurs.

You nod, pursing your lips. Your heart sinks a bit at his choice of words.

I’ll be better once I get you away from here. Let’s get you out of here.

You. Not us. You.

He says it like a promise, but you can’t help but feel like it’s going to lead to a goodbye.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

You end up being thankful that he took it upon himself to carry you for the duration of the trek through the woods - a half hour walk through thick, dense trees that would have taken twice as long had you attempted to make the journey on your bum ankle.

The rain had come to a stop, but clouds then covered the moon, making it near pitch black. Somehow, his steps never faltered. Despite the darkness, and all of the tree roots and low hanging branches that he had to constantly dodge, he somehow got the two of you out of the woods and to the safety of a getaway car in an impressive amount of time. Both his vision and sense of direction are so impeccable that you suspect he has supernatural senses.

He drives for hours - always going a steady twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. At some point during the night, you fall asleep in the passenger seat. You don’t mean to, but after days of constant anxiety and subsequently very little sleep, plus the adrenaline crash after your escape from the facility, your eyes close of their own accord.

The first thing that you hear when you wake up is the sound of tires crunching over gravel. You open your eyes, noting that it’s still dark outside. The digital clock on the dashboard of the old Buick reads 2:52 am. You have no idea where you’re at, but a small house comes into the view of the headlights.

“What is this place?” You ask, voice raspy from sleep and dehydration.

“It’s an old safe house,” he grunts. He pulls into the driveway and parks the car. “It’s been inactive for years. We’ll be okay here for the night,” he assures you.

Inactive is putting it lightly. The place looks like it is on the verge of caving in on itself. From the creaky wooden boards of the front porch steps to the cobwebs that decorate the bannisters and windows, it’s obvious that you’re the first people here in a very long time. Still, despite the place being run down, you much prefer it to the place you’re running from.

At first glance, the inside looks surprisingly tidy compared to what you could see of the exterior. Then, you notice a large pack of disposable water bottles and some non-perishable goods on the kitchen countertop - canned soup, instant oatmeal, ramen.

He catches the look on your face. “I dropped all of that off a few days ago,” he says. “There’s some toiletries and dry clothes for you in the bedroom, too.” He jerks his head in the direction of the hallway, an indication for you to follow him.

Prior to a few hours ago, you had no idea what to expect tonight. But the careful consideration and thoughtfulness of it all surpasses your every expectation. In addition to a pile of neatly folded clothing - sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie, etc - there’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, shampoo, and even a bottle of lotion.

You don’t know how he did it. You don’t know when he found the time, or the means. But for you, he did.

You sniffle, fighting against the sudden, undeniable burning sensation in your eyes. You do not want to cry. “You did all of this for me?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He shifts uncomfortably, looking down at the floor. “I tried to be as thorough as I could on such short notice.” His gaze flickers back to you. “There’s one more thing.”

He turns, walking in the direction of the bedroom’s small closet. He opens the door, revealing the closet to be empty except for a pile of extra blankets on the floor. He shifts them around, reaching for something that is blocked by his frame. When he turns back around, you see that he is holding a backpack. He must have placed it in the closet when he dropped the non-perishable goods and clothes off earlier this week. Before you can question what the bag holds, he unzips the main compartment and reaches inside.

“This should be everything you need to start a new life.” You recognize the first item as soon as he hands it to you - a dark blue rectangle with the word PASSPORT engraved across the top. You open it, revealing a brand new passport and ID. There’s a picture of your face and a name you don’t recognize. Your new name.

Your hands tremble around the items. He opens the bag further, revealing the majority of the compartment to be filled with cash.

“Holy shit,” you breathe. He really thought of…everything. “Where did you get this? All of this?” You ask, gesturing between the cash in the bag and the documents in your hand.

He smirks, taking the passport back from you and tucking into an interior pocket of the backpack. “That’s not for you to worry about. I have my ways.”

“Clearly,” you mumble. It’s a lot to take in, and you feel overwhelmed by it all, but there’s one thing that has become abundantly clear - you won’t be leaving this safe house together.

One passport. One ID. One getaway bag. This is all for you.

A heavy silence falls over the room. You could hear a pin drop.

“You’re going back. Aren’t you?” You murmur.

His lips are set in a harsh line. His face gives nothing away, but after a thick beat of silence, he nods in confirmation. “Yes. I’m going back.”

You could pry. Part of you wants to. You want to beg him to tell you why - why he stays with them when he’s obviously so different from them. But if his mind is made up, then this could very well be your one and only night together. You aren’t about to tarnish it.

How are you supposed to ask someone for more when they’ve already risked everything for you?

You step towards him, stopping when your chest is no less than an inch away from his. You look up at the most beautiful pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. “Will you at least tell me your name so I can properly thank you?”

He grimaces, shaking his head. “I don’t know my name,” he admits, voice low. “I only know what they call me. Soldier. Asset. If I have any other name, I don’t remember what it is. But I promise, if I did know my name…I would have told you long ago.”

You part your mouth to speak, but no words come out. For some reason, you hadn’t considered the possibility that he may not know his name. Let alone the possibility that he may not have one.

“I’ll leave you to shower. You need to rest,” he says gently as he starts to move past you, towards the bedroom door. You grab his flesh hand in yours and he freezes. You know what you’re about to say is a risk, but considering that he’ll likely be gone come daylight either way, you decide to take it.

“Would you join me?”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes. Surprise, lust - maybe a hint of restraint. “Are you sure you want that?”

“Yes,” you hum, squeezing his hand. “I’m sure.”

That’s all he needs to hear. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and begins guiding you towards the bathroom.

The water pressure is abysmal at best, and the temperature’s barely lukewarm, but none of that matters as soon as he steps into the tub after you. At first, he stands an awkward distance away from you, his hands flexing at his sides like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them. He stands closest to the rusted shower head, the uneven stream spraying the back of his neck.

“You can touch me,” you say softly.

He gulps. He steps closer to you, backing you against the cool shower tiles. His flesh hand rises, brushing against the side of your cheek as his metal hand settles on your hip.

He’s barely touched you yet, and you already can’t stand the thought of never getting to experience it again when the night is over. But you can’t bring yourself to stop. Not when he’s standing bare before you, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize every minute detail.

When he kisses you, he’s hesitant at first. Slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. But you place your hands on his hips, pulling him flush against you, and that restraint slips away. The metal hand resting on your hip trails upwards, ghosting the skin of your stomach until he reaches your breast. He kneads it with a low groan into your mouth.

You lose track of time beneath the stream of water. He kisses you until you’re breathless, only pulling away to move his lips to the pulse point of your throat. He nips at the skin before trailing hot kisses down your neck, past your collarbones and to the peaks of your breasts.

Your own hands begin to wander. You snake one between your bodies, pausing just before you reach the prominent erection that juts against your belly.

“Is this okay?” You ask, the tips of your fingers trailing along his length as you wait for consent to go a step further.

“Yes,” he grunts next to your ear. “Yes, please.”

You wrap a firm hand around him. You’re both fully drenched from the shower by this point, the water acting as a gentle lubricant as you stroke him in your grasp. You start slow, and he exhales a sharp breath as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

It’s clear to you that it’s been a long time since he’s been touched like this. You can tell by the way he shudders against you; almost trembling. Like it’s all brand new to him.

Fingers from your free hand thread through the damp locks of his hair. You guide his mouth back to yours, kissing him deeply as you increase the pace at which you massage him in your hand. He whimpers into your mouth, and a second later you feel him twitch against your palm. He finishes with a deep groan as warm ropes paint the skin of your belly.

His forehead rests against yours for a moment as he comes down from his climax. He takes a few uneven breaths, and then sinks to his knees on the shower floor. You glance down to find him looking up at you as he gently spreads your thighs apart. You nod your head - maybe a bit too enthusiastically - giving him permission to continue.

He starts by kissing the skin of your inner thighs - alternating between each leg until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He’s careful at first, testing what makes you gasp, what makes you dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders. But it doesn’t take long before he finds a rhythm. It’s slow and deliberate, but unrelenting.

Your legs quickly turn to jelly. He reads you like an open book, supporting you from his position beneath you. You think to yourself that you’d do anything to know his name right now, just so you could moan it. Instead, you settle for oh, god - fuck - god, yes while you tug on locks of his hair.

At the sound of your praises, he grows more confident in his ministrations. His lips suck the swollen bud at the apex of your folds and your eyes snap shut as you throw your head back. He eases a singular, metal digit between your legs, teasing your entrance with the tip to coat it in your slick. When he slips it between your walls - slowly to allow you to adjust to the stretch - you feel a hot coil begin to tighten in your lower belly. The sensation isn’t completely new to you, though it’s the first time you’ve experienced it at the hands of another person.

The pressure of his thick, metal finger inside you and his lips around your clit is enough to send you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs squeeze his head and he moans against you as you ride his face through the high of your orgasm. When you go still, he slowly rises from the floor and you all but collapse against him. You stand there for a few long moments, in the now cold stream of water that trickles down from the showerhead. Your head rests against his chest and his arms wrap around your midsection, cradling you against him.

He reaches for the towel hanging over the shower’s curtain rod and then wraps it around you before shutting the water off and seamlessly lifting you into his arms. Neither of you say a word as he steps out of the shower and carries you back to the bedroom.

He pulls the comforter back and then places you on the bed before crawling in beside you. You’re both still damp, but you’re far too exhausted to care. Your escape through the Hydra facility’s ventilation system and subsequent run through the woods feels like a lifetime ago, and every part of your body is screaming for you to go to sleep. The only thing stopping you from closing your eyes is that you know when you open them again, he won’t be beside you anymore.

So you force your eyes to stay open for a little longer. Just so you can try to memorize the way his heartbeat sounds when your cheek rests against his chest.

“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into the dark. He grabs one of your hands in his and brings it to his lips, where he places a soft kiss against your knuckles.

Your breath catches. Before the words can leave his lips, you already know what he is going to say. Words that you’ve been dreading all night.

“You can’t look for me,” he continues when you don’t say anything. His voice is strained, like the words hurt him to say as much as they do for you to hear. “Not ever. You can do whatever you want with your life after tonight, but you can’t look for me.”

You’re silent. You don’t trust your voice to speak. You knew it was coming, but it still stings to hear. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on his chin. You look up at him, though you can only see a faint outline of his profile in the darkness.

“I know,” you whisper. You tilt your head enough to press your lips to his one more time. It’s brief, but you hope it conveys so much of what you can’t find the words to say. “Thank you,” you add when you pull away. “For saving my life. For everything.”

He doesn’t say anything - just kisses your forehead, and pulls the comforter tighter around the two of you. The heavenly combination of his body heat and the feeling of his fingers dancing along your ribcage begins to lull you to sleep despite your best efforts to stay awake and hold onto this moment for as long as possible.

“I’ll find you one day. One day, when it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

When morning comes, you don’t know if you dreamed his promise, or if he really had said those words while you drifted to sleep.

All you know is that the space beside you is cold.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

3 years later. Circa 2016.

“I’m missing a small green piece. Did you steal a small green piece, Maple?”

You glance at the brown cat lying on the windowsill. She seemingly side-eyes you as if to say you’re interrupting my nap, human.

You’re not convinced that she’s innocent, though. The cat, who had shown up on your doorstep almost a year ago and made herself right at home, has a knack for knocking over your Lego sets. It wouldn’t surprise you at all if she was responsible for the missing piece.

She can’t be blamed, you suppose. It’s your own fault for leaving the partially assembled Minecraft village in hundreds of pieces across your coffee table. You should have finished it weeks ago, but you’ve done very little other than work and sleep lately.

Work, sleep, work. Drink too much coffee, pick up extra shifts just so you don’t have to be home alone with your thoughts and are so exhausted when you do get home that you have no issue falling asleep quickly, and then repeat it all.

Maple meows, though it sounds more like an annoyed huff.

“You’re right,” you sigh. “I do need to get a life.”

Your ringtone begins blaring, startling you. You glance down at where your cell phone sits on the coffee table in front of you. One of your coworkers, Hannah, is calling you. You debate on letting it go to voicemail - Hannah likes to yap and you aren’t really in the mood for a phone call right now - but part of you hopes she’s calling to ask if you want to pick up her evening shift at the coffee shop the two of you work at, so you answer.

It’s not like you have any other plans tonight.

“Hey,” you greet her. “What’s—”

“Oh my god,” she exclaims before you can get the rest of the sentence out. “Remember a few months ago when I said that a super hot guy was watching you at work but then he just disappeared before you could see him?”

There’s an instant pit in your stomach. You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. Instead, the memory from a few months ago replays in your mind.

“There’s an insanely hot guy that keeps checking you out by the door,” Hannah giggles as she walks up behind you. You’re in the middle of making an iced macchiato, so you don’t bother to glance at whatever mystery hot guy she’s talking about.

“I highly doubt he’s looking at me,” you snort.

“Oh, he definitely is,” she insists. “If he wasn’t so good looking it would almost be creepy, actually.”

Curiosity gets the best of you. You put the lid on the drink and casually glance over your shoulder, towards the coffee shop’s entrance. You see a small group of teenage girls at a table near the door, and a few college students scattered about the lounge on their laptops. There’s no lone, attractive man to be found.

Hannah follows your gaze. “Huh,” she shrugs. “Guess he left. What a shame.”

You shake your head at her. “What did he look like, anyway?”

“Shoulder length, dark hair. Vibrant blue eyes. Six feet tall, maybe. Give or take an inch. He had on a leather jacket, even though it’s like a million degrees outside today. And he was wearing one glove? Kind of odd, but in a hot way—”

You lose your grip on the freshly made drink and it falls to the floor, coffee and ice both going everywhere - all over yours and Hannah’s shoes.

It feels as if the room is spinning around you. It’s been three years. It can’t be him.

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes darting around the room as if he’s going to magically reappear. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hannah. I’ll clean this up, just give me a moment—”

You practically run towards the direction of the front door, completely ignoring Hannah’s startled stare. You throw the coffee shop door open, exiting the building. You’re downtown, and it’s rush hour. You see dozens of cars and even more people hurrying to get where they need to be, but your eyes search for one person in particular.

You swear that you can hear blood pumping in your ears. You’ve only been outside for a few seconds and you’re already sweating - and you don’t think it has anything to do with today’s high temperature.

He’s nowhere to be seen. You’d recognize him in an instant. No matter how much time has passed since the last time you saw him - he’d stand out in any crowd.

You should have known better than to look. If he wanted you to see him, you would have - but he didn’t. And now he’s a ghost once more.

You have no doubt it was him. Vibrant blue eyes and shoulder length, dark hair. One singular glove. You don’t know why he decided to show up today, after three years of radio silence, but it had to be him —

Hannah’s voice pulls you out of the memory and back to reality.

“Hello? Are you there? Earth to—”

“Uh,” you interject, trying to remember how to string words together. “Uh - yeah. I remember.”

“I swear to God, he’s on the news right now.”

“What?” Your voice rises several octaves, startling Maple from her sleep. You put Hannah on speakerphone. “Are you - are you sure it’s him?”

“Positive. Turn on your TV right now.”

You glance around your small living room, searching for the TV remote and thanking your lucky stars that you didn’t cancel your cable package like you had thought about doing.

“What channel?” You ask when you retrieve the remote from in between two couch cushions.

“Uhm - 3. 5. 9. Literally any of them, probably.”

Your jaw drops the second that you get to a major news station. For the first time in three years, you see his face.

The footage is grainy - obviously from a security camera. But it’s him - unmistakable. His hair is a bit longer and his chest and shoulders are a bit bulkier than the last time you saw him, but you recognize him in an instant. Even with the piss poor video quality, you can see the shining silver of his left hand.

The headline across the bottom of the screen reads: JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES, HYDRA’S WINTER SOLDIER, WANTED FOR TIES TO VIENNA BOMBING.

You’re vaguely aware that Hannah’s voice is coming from the speaker next to your ear, but you aren’t paying attention to a word she’s saying. There’s a high-pitched, intense ringing in your ears that makes it impossible for you to focus on what the news reporter is saying. You only manage to get bits and pieces as you attempt to control your breathing.

“James “Bucky” Barnes, former United States Army Sergeant and childhood friend of Captain America, has been identified as the prime suspect in the bombing that took the life of King T’Chaka and twelve others…”

“… conducting a manhunt all over southeastern Europe…”

“Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has known ties to Hydra that span over half a century…”

You press the end call button on your phone’s screen without even thinking about it, cutting Hannah off in the middle of a sentence. Maple, seemingly noticing the change in your mood, jumps down from her position on the windowsill and trots over to where you sit on the couch.

James. James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky, the reporter had called him. Bucky Barnes. After all this time, you know his name. You thought that finally knowing his name would feel a lot different. You expected to feel relief - maybe even a sense of satisfaction. But right now, all you feel is fear and bewilderment.

Key words echo in your mind: childhood friend of Captain America. Army Sergeant. Hydra. Over half a century. Winter Soldier.

There’s still so much that’s unknown - so many questions that you don’t know if you’ll ever have answers to. But you do know this much - James Bucky Barnes, childhood best friend of Steve Rogers, wouldn’t work for Hydra of his own volition. You don’t know exactly how he found himself to be their pawn, but there’s no doubt in your mind that there’s more to this story than meets the eye.

The man who saved you - James or Bucky - wouldn’t do what they are accusing him of. Not if he had a choice.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

2 years later. May 2018.

You wish you could say that you kept your promise.

For three years, you did exactly what he’d asked of you. You took the fake passport and ID, the ten thousand dollars in cash, and started a new life. You got your own apartment, a normal job that you didn’t completely hate - even a cat. You kept yourself off of Hydra’s radar. You laid low and didn’t search for him. You were doing good, all things considered.

Then you saw him on the fucking news.

All it took was learning his name for you to pack a few bags into the old Buick that he’d left for you. The next morning, you dropped Maple off at Hannah’s - your friend and former coworker who just so happens to love cats and was more than willing to look after Maple on a temporary or permanent basis - and got on a plane to Romania.

Of course, by the time you got to Romania, he was long gone.

From there, you flew to Germany, where news reports showed him fighting beside Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, and someone named Scott Lang against Tony Stark, James Rhodes, Natasha Romanoff, the soon to be king of Wakanda, a robot, and some guy in a spider costume at the Berlin airport.

At the time, you had very little information to go off of, but from what you were able to gather, Bucky had been framed for the bombing in Vienna. Team Cap, as the news reports had referred to the group, had aided in his and Steve’s successful escape from the airport.

After that? Your guess was as good as all of the government officials looking for them. They have been fugitives ever since - Bucky, Steve, Sam, and even Natasha, who had apparently played both sides.

That was two years ago. Since then, you’ve been chasing dead ends all over the world. You don’t even know if he’s alive, but you have to believe that he is.

Currently, you’re in the breathtaking town of Interlaken, Switzerland. The lead you’d been following had turned out to be a bust - no surprise - but Switzerland is otherworldly and peaceful, so you decided to stay for a few days. At least until you catch wind of another supposed Winter Soldier sighting.

You’re finishing up brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the Interlaken countryside. Soft sunlight, a stone patio, and the smell of fresh bread that wafts from the kitchen. You could get used to this. Maybe one day, you’ll come back. When you’ve found him, or he’s found you.

You’re about to signal to a server that you’d like a refill on your coffee when an ear-splitting scream sounds from inside the restaurant. You and all of the other guests on the patio freeze, looking around.

Then, another scream. This time, a young child sitting at a table a few feet behind you.

“Mommy? Mommy, where did you go?”

The child’s mother is nowhere to be seen. Where she sat only a few moments prior is a thick dusting of what appears to be… Soot? Ash?

A tray falls to the ground and glass shatters, tearing your attention away from the panicked child. You glance at a server just in time to see him seemingly turn to dust in front of your very eyes.

Chaos breaks out. Guests are shouting in terror as several others vanish into thin air. You stand up, unsure of what to do. You begin to walk towards the crying little girl a few feet away from you, when you’re overcome with intense dizziness. Your vision goes fuzzy, and your skin feels like pins and needles.

You look down at your hands. The screaming in the background seems to fade.

Not yet, you think. Please, not yet. I need more time. I haven’t found him yet.

Your fingertips crumble before you - carried away by the light spring breeze. The tingling sensation spreads up your arms and you can do nothing but watch yourself disappear.

It’s true what they say. When you’re dying, your life flashes before your eyes.

You think of how he looked in the glow of the oil-lamp in the watchtower. You think of his promises - to get you out of the Hydra facility, and to one day find you. One that he fulfilled, and one that he’ll now never have the chance to. You think of his lips on yours and how safe you felt in his arms the one night you shared together.

Your last thought is that you hope wherever you go when you leave here, it’s the same place as him.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Post blip. Circa 2024.

Ever since you and the other fifty percent of the population that had turned to dust were brought back to life, you’ve been thinking a lot about the butterfly effect.

The idea that if someone misses their train on the way to work, they could avoid a horrible accident. Or that something as small as holding a door open for someone could cause them to pay it forward, then leading to a cascade of simple acts of kindness that could change the course of history.

If your babysitter hadn’t taken you to the community pool that hot July day, you may have never been kidnapped by Red Room operatives.

If you hadn’t been kidnapped by Red Room operatives, you never would have been forced to live in the facility where you eventually met him.

And if you hadn’t met him, your eyes wouldn’t still be scanning every crowd, over a decade later, in hopes of randomly seeing him.

You stopped your search for him. When you were brought back, you had no reason to continue scouring the earth.

Why would you? You no longer have to wonder where he is and if he’s okay. For months following the sudden return of millions of people, you could simply turn on the news or open any social media app. Answers that you’d spent years searching for were suddenly right in front of your eyes.

No, he did not have a choice when it came to working for Hydra. Yes, like Steve Rogers, he was injected with super soldier serum, but unlike Steve, it was against his will. And, fun fact: he is old enough to be your great grandfather.

You also learn that he underwent intensive deprogramming in Wakanda to remove trigger words Hydra had implanted in his mind. No wonder your two-year search for him had gone nowhere.

And yes, he’d received a full pardon for everything he did while under their control. He’s officially a free man. Free from Hydra, and free to do whatever he pleases with his life.

Still, he does not come for you. For several months following the announcement of his pardon, you hold out hope that he’ll show up when you least expect it. But after a while, that hope begins to fade.

You aren’t angry with him. How could you be? He’s the entire reason that you’re free. It’s unfair to hold him to a promise he made over a decade ago, when he was under mind control. The news articles tend to throw around words like brainwashed and memory loss when talking about him - for all you know, he doesn’t even remember who you are.

So, you go through the motions of moving on. Like so many other people, you rebuild your life from the ground up. You relocate to New York and get a small apartment just outside of the city, start going to therapy once a week, explore some new hobbies, and make a few friends. You even run into an old friend - for lack of a better word.

By run into you mean she shows up unannounced at your job on a random Thursday.

It’s a slow, rainy morning at the small bookstore that you work at. You’re in the back, sorting through a new shipment of books, when you hear the front door chime.

“Welcome!” You yell out from the back office. It’s a small store, so you’re sure they’re able to hear you. “I’ll be out in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” a feminine voice calls back. You freeze. You recognize that voice - a distinct Russian accent that you’re able to put a face to right away, even after all these years. “I’ll just entertain myself with this…dark romance smut novel until you come out.”

You almost don’t believe your ears. What could she be doing here, after all this time? How did she find you? You don’t even have the same name as the last time you saw her, thanks to Bucky giving you a new identity.

If your training in the Red Room taught you anything, it’s to question everything and trust no one. You don’t think she’d hurt you. The two of you always got along, and you liked her more than a lot of the other widows. But until you know exactly why she’s here, you aren’t taking any chances. Your bag is just a few feet away from you, and inside it, a small pistol. Quickly and quietly, you tuck it into the waistband of your pants, at the small of your back.

When you exit the back room, she’s turned away from you. Still, you recognize the short stature and blonde hair right away.

“What brings you here, Yelena?”

She snorts, placing the book back on the table before turning around. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me.”

You stand there, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what version of her you’re about to get. You know just how ruthless she can be, but you also know that underneath the person that the Red Room turned her into, there’s good.

She studies you with a faint smirk. But it doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks…tired. Not just physically, though the dark circles under her hazel eyes do indicate that she needs a good night’s sleep.

“You look good,” she chirps. “Different. Domestic.” She waves a hand in a slow circle, gesturing at your outfit. “What are you now? A librarian?”

“Bookstore manager,” you correct softly. “It’s peaceful.”

She hums, amused. “Must be nice.”

You tilt your head, still trying to get a read on her. “Is there something I can help you with, Yelena?”

The pause is brief but loaded. Her expression flattens. “I was sent,” she says finally. “My boss wants to talk to you. She’s looking for more people with…backgrounds similar to ours.”

You already know where this is going. “Valentina.”

Yelena raises a brow, unable to hide her surprise. “You’ve heard of her?”

You nod. “People talk. They don’t say anything nice, but they talk.”

“She has resources. Protection. Mission stability.”

Yelena recites the benefits as if she’s reading a script. But there’s a quiet sort of resentment in her voice. Like she doesn’t fully buy it herself. “And I’m sure it pays better than…this.” She gestures vaguely towards the bookshelves around you.

“Why me?”

“She says you have skills. And a brain. She’s impressed that you were able to escape the Red Room without getting yourself killed.”

You snort. “Too bad I’m retired.”

“No one ever really retires,” she says, shrugging. “We both know that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

You pause, watching her more closely. There’s something off in the way she shifts her weight, the slight shake in her hands. It’s subtle, but not invisible. And when she turns slightly, you catch a faint whiff of something sharp and metallic beneath her perfume. Vodka, maybe.

“Are you okay?” you ask gently.

She gives a soft laugh, one that sounds more bitter than amused. “You’re asking me that?”

You don’t push. Instead, you fold your arms and say, “Tell Valentina thanks, but no thanks.”

Yelena blinks. “Just like that?”

“I was given a second chance. Someone risked a lot to help me get it, and I don’t think they would appreciate me throwing it away by working for someone like Valentina.”

Yelena’s eyes flicker. She studies you for a long moment, something softening around the edges of her mouth. “So it’s true, then.”

You raise a brow. “What’s true?”

She tilts her head. “The Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes. Was it really him who helped you escape?”

Your breath catches slightly. You’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone, but you suppose there’s no point in denying it now that both Hydra and the Red Room have been taken down.

“He did,” you say softly. “He got me out.”

Yelena doesn’t speak for a while. When she finally does, it’s almost a whisper.

“Good.”

You both stand there for a long, awkward moment. You can’t help but see a small part of yourself when you look at her. It could have so easily been you in her shoes - working for someone like Valentina, contract kills and shadow operations - if it hadn’t been for him.

You turn to the register beside you and grab a pen and a piece of receipt paper. You scribble your phone number and then hold it out to her in offering.

“If you ever want to get coffee,” you shrug. “Or if you ever need anything…reach out.”

Yelena takes it, eyes flicking down to the number. She folds the piece of paper without comment and slips it into her pocket. Then she gives you one last look - something unreadable in her expression - and heads toward the door.

The bell above the entrance jingles as she exits, and the sound echoes in the silence she leaves behind.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Present Day.

Funny enough, it’s one of the rare days that he hasn’t even crossed your mind when your phone rings and an unknown number pops up on the screen.

You can’t describe it, but there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach before you even answer. Call it a sixth sense that you somehow knew it wasn’t just another spam call. Normally, you wouldn’t even bother answering a number that isn’t already saved to your contacts, but you hesitate when you start to press decline.

Instead, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

The first thing you hear is a shaky exhale, followed by your name. Then, background noise. A lot of it. Multiple voices - male and female. You manage to catch a few key words here and there.

New York. Valentina. Bob..?

“Yelena?” You ask in disbelief. It’s been three years since you gave her your phone number and this is the first you’ve heard from her. “What’s going on?”

You’re in your apartment, catching up on some chores that you’ve been procrastinating all week. You’re in the middle of unloading your dishwasher, but you pause as soon as you realize it’s her.

“Are you still in New York?” She asks, forgoing all pleasantries.

“Uh - yes,” you answer, growing more confused and concerned by the second.

“We need help,” she says. “I don’t have time to explain everything, so you’re just going to have to trust me. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

“Who is we? And what kind of help, exactly?”

She has to give you a little more information than that. How are you supposed to know what to bring? Do you need firearms? Combat knives? Batons? Smoke bombs? Lockpick? All things that you haven’t had use for in years yet still keep on hand, just in case.

Your thoughts spiral as you wait for her to respond. Someone begins speaking in the background.

“Who are you talking to?” You hear a masculine voice yell. Your heart lurches - you recognize that voice.

As if you could ever truly forget it. As if you don’t hear it in your dreams still to this day.

“Yelena, whose voice is that?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want her to say it - to give you confirmation that you aren’t imagining things. That you aren’t crazy.

Yelena doesn’t answer your question or his. You can’t help but wonder if he heard your voice, too. He always had exceptional hearing.

“Meet us at the old Avenger’s Tower,” she says instead. “Get there as quickly as you can.”

“Yelena—”

“Please. Just hurry.”

The call ends, and your heart feels as if it is going to beat right out of your chest. You stare at the phone, debating on calling her back and demanding to know exactly what the hell is going on before you potentially uproot the peaceful life that you’ve worked so hard to create.

But you don’t. Instead, you run to your bedroom and start throwing whatever you can find into a duffel bag. A few handguns and ammo, knives and gas pellets. From your closet, you retrieve a tactical suit that you haven’t worn in years and pray that it still fits.

The truth is, you don’t need to call her back. Though you’re freaked out by the panic in her voice and would love a heads up for what you’re walking into, it doesn’t really make a difference.

No matter what it is, you’re going. If there’s something big enough for Yelena to call you and beg for help, you’re going to do whatever you can.

Especially if he’s there.

The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, terrifies you far more than whatever it is they could need help with. But not nearly as much as letting the chance of seeing him again slip through your fingers.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Your apartment is only a forty-five minute drive from Midtown Manhattan. An hour, if there’s heavy traffic.

Today, you make it there in thirty minutes. The now twenty-five year old Buick that Bucky had left you in the driveway of the safe house over a decade ago may have over 300,000 miles on it, but you can count on her to get you where you need to go.

You could have bought a new car a long time ago. You have decent credit, job stability, and enough money in savings for a downpayment. You’re just oddly attached to the old thing.

It’s been with you since the very first day of your new life, and it’s one of the only tangible reminders you have of him. That, and the handwritten note he left under your pillow the week you escaped.

You tell yourself that you’re just sentimental, but if the car had come into your possession any other way, you would have junked it years ago.

When the old Avenger’s Tower comes into view, the questions in your head begin to multiply.

“What the fuck have you gotten me into, Yelena?”

Someone has driven a van directly through the building. Where there was once a front entrance, there is now a jagged, gaping hole. From the street, you can still see the van inside.

You park in the first available spot you can find and run one final check: widow bites, two small pistols, a collapsible baton, and several combat knives tucked into your thigh holsters. Despite the fact that it’s been over a decade since you’ve carried more than a single handgun, this doesn’t feel as strange as you expected it to - not yet, anyway. You may feel differently if you end up having to put the weapons to use.

You walk straight into the building through the cratered wall. You look around, not seeing Yelena or Bucky or anyone else that you think would be with them. There’s random men cleaning up debris from whatever the fuck must have happened before you arrived, but none of them pay any attention to you.

Your phone vibrates from your back pocket. The number Yelena called you from earlier is displayed across the screen with a message that simply says: Top floor.

Inside the elevator, you press the button to take you to the very top of the building and then lean back against the wall. Your heart pounds at the possibility of what awaits you at the top floor. Sure, you’re nervous at the prospect of walking into a hostile situation.

But more than that, it’s him. Bucky.

You don’t know what you’ll say to him - or if you’ll even say anything at all. Will he even acknowledge you? What if he doesn’t recognize you? Or worse: what if he does recognize you, and doesn’t care that you’re there?

The elevator ride feels eternal.

You take a few, steady breaths as the elevator passes the last few floors before coming to a stop. The last thing you want is to appear as if you’re on the verge of a panic attack the second that he sees you.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

He’s the first person that you see. Standing on the other side of the room, directly across from you, is the man you fell in love with without so much as knowing his name.

His hair is a little shorter, and his frame a bit stockier, but he has the blue eyes and serious expression that you fell in love with so long ago.

His jaw tightens, and he swallows thickly. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s recognition in his eyes. He doesn’t appear surprised - he must have pieced together that it was you on the phone with Yelena.

You wonder if he’s putting as much effort into keeping his composure as you are.

All eyes are on you as you step out of the elevator. You force yourself to look away from him. On one side of the room is the woman you recognize to be Valentina - standing next to her is a man you’ve never seen. He wears an ostentatious, gold costume that matches his hair. He fidgets with his hands and quickly looks down when your gaze flickers to him - obviously uncomfortable.

Standing directly across from Valentina and the blond man is Yelena and several others. The only one you recognize is John Walker. You’ve never met him, but you vividly remember his brief, failed stint as Captain America several years ago. In addition to Yelena and John, there’s a paunchy, bearded man in a red costume and a tall, dark-haired woman in some kind of high-tech tactical suit.

They all look like shit. Like they’ve already had their asses handed to them on a silver platter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to show up,” Valentina drawls in a voice laced with fake cheer. “Everyone else managed to get here on time.” She gestures towards the group of people standing across from her - each of who are glaring at her.

Except for Bucky. He’s looking at you. Though his expression is stoic, you catch the way his throat bobs and his fingers subtly flex at his sides - like he’s holding himself back from saying or doing something.

“Sorry,” you deadpan as you come to stand beside Yelena. “I had to parallel park.”

“And she has a sense of humor,” Valentina retorts. “You know, you’re one of the only people to ever say no to me. Why was it you turned me down, again?” She puts a finger on her chin in mock contemplation and takes a step towards you. From the corner of your eye, you see Bucky inch forward as well, his flesh hand hovering over the gun on his hip.

“Something about someone helping you get a second chance?” She asks rhetorically. “I wonder who that could’ve been.”

You know she’s just trying to get a reaction from you, so you purse your lips, hold eye contact, and don’t respond.

“That’s enough, Valentina,” Bucky speaks up for the first time. Your heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice. You don’t let yourself look at him. “Leave her alone. It’s not her fault that she has been dragged into this.”

Valentina doesn’t take her eyes off of you. “He’s still protective. Isn’t that cute?”

“Can someone tell me why I’m here?” You can’t help the way your voice shoots up several octaves. “I wasn’t exactly given the run down.” You shoot a glare at Yelena, who looks at you apologetically.

“Lucky for you, you got here just in time,” Valentina quips as she turns away from you, back to the fidgety blond man standing beside her. “I was just telling your friends here - it is my great honor to introduce to you, The Sentry.”

“Hey, guys,” the man in the gold says. His voice is timid, though it sounds as if he’s greeting old friends.

“You see, the press is on their way here now,” Valentina continues. “And they’re going to witness the awesome power of Sentry as he takes down this ruthless group of rogue agents—”

Rogue agents? Ruthless?

“Sentry, your first mission is to take out these criminals.”

“I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just…turn yourselves in?”

Your brows furrow together. You find it hard to believe that he could hurt anyone with how soft-spoken and hesitant he seems.

Walker steps forward, speaking up for the first time since you entered the room. “You don’t wanna do this, Bobby.”

Bobby? Something clicks in your head at the sound of the name. Bob - you remember hearing someone in the background of your and Yelena’s phone call mention the name. We have to help Bob, they’d said.

As you’re piecing together that this Sentry guy is the Bob they are trying to help, there’s a sudden change in his demeanor. His eyes seemingly darken as his once meek expression turns serious.

“You can call me The Sentry,” he asserts, looking Walker dead in the eye.

“Please, don’t do this. You do not need to listen to her,” Yelena pleads with him.

“Robert, they don’t think you’re good enough,” Valentina interrupts.

“That’s not true. Remember? You can trust me. I know you.”

Bob - Bobby - Robert - Sentry - whatever the guy’s name is - shakes his head. “I don’t think that you do.”

“ENOUGH TALKING,” the tall, hairy man in the bright red suit suddenly booms, capturing everyone’s attention. “No one messes with the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts!”

At this moment, you’re every bit as confused as Valentina appears to be.

“Thunderbolts?” You echo.

The room erupts before you can process what’s about to happen.

The man in the red suit charges first, letting out a guttural war cry as he hurls himself at Sentry. With one fluid motion, Sentry lifts a single hand and sends him flying across the room with a force that cracks the wall on impact.

Walker charges next, shield raised. The tall, dark-haired woman, whose name you quickly learn is Ava due to Yelena yelling it after her, disappears in a blur of glitching pixels before reappearing behind Sentry in an attempt to destabilize him from the inside.

Yelena flanks to the right, pistols in each hand. She fires, but Sentry easily sends the bullets flying in the opposite direction - straight towards you. Bucky sprints towards you at the same time as Walker, who raises his shield to deflect the bullets.

You reach for your baton, but as you do, Bucky grabs your wrist in his flesh hand.

“Stay close to me,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. You nod, not trusting your voice to speak. Even with all of the violence and chaos happening right in front of you, all you can think about in that moment is the feeling of his hand holding yours.

Yelena’s scream as Sentry sends her flying across the room brings you back to reality.

The two of you fall back into rhythm like it’s muscle memory. Your bodies move in tandem as you cover each other. It’s almost too easy to pretend this isn’t the first time you’ve fought together in over a decade. Your movements are a little rusty from so many years of doing your best to avoid scenarios like this, but he easily picks up your slack.

From the corner of your eye, you see Ava cry out as she’s forcibly de-phased, slamming into the ground. Walker hits a column and groans. Yelena lands in a crouch, panting.

“Get down!” Bucky yells, a mere second before throwing himself in front of you.

A blast of Sentry’s energy hits him square in the chest, and he flies backward, taking you with him. Your back slams against the floor, head spinning. When you push yourself up, Bucky is already struggling to his feet.

Sentry closes in on the both of you.

He grabs Bucky’s metal arm mid-swing, and everything slows.

“Don’t—” you start, pushing yourself up, stumbling toward them.

But you’re far too powerless to stop him. With terrifying ease, Sentry rips Bucky’s vibranium arm clean off. Sentry winds the metal appendage back as if it weighs nothing and then swings it forward, slapping Bucky across the face.

“No!” You yell as you fall to your knees beside him. Your scream is swallowed by the sound of the others regrouping, but you barely hear them. All you can see is him.

Your hands cradle his face. He’s out cold.

Around you, the others seem to accept that there’s no way any of you can beat him. The only way out is to run.

Yelena shouts for everyone to move, to get to the elevator. Ava is suddenly beside you, picking up Bucky’s arm before running in the direction of the elevator.

“Walker! Alexei!” Yelena shouts. “Get Bucky!”

The two men appear beside you, hauling an unconscious Bucky into their arms. All of you run after Yelena and Ava, who are already in the elevator. You enter the cramped space a mere second before the doors shut.

Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Bucky is still held up by Walker and Alexei. Everyone around you pants, trying to recover from the absolute disaster of a fight, but your only focus is the man in front of you.

“Hey, hey,” you coo, gently tapping him on the face in an attempt to wake him up. You don’t care that your hands are shaking. You just need him to open his eyes. “Come on, Bucky. Look at me…”

There’s a visible bruise forming across his cheekbone from the impact of the heavy vibranium. His eyes flutter open and shut repeatedly, like he’s hanging onto the sound of your voice in an attempt to find his way back to reality.

There’s a beat of uncertain silence, and then he lets out a groan. His eyelids twitch, and then slowly open. Dazed blue eyes find yours.

“Am I concussed,” he grunts, “or are you actually here right now?”

You’re unable to stop the laugh that slips out of you. It’s half relief, half disbelief. “I’m actually here. Though I wouldn’t completely rule a concussion out yet.”

Ava clears her throat from behind you. You glance over your shoulder to see her holding Bucky’s metal arm out to him. “I take it you two know each other, then?”

You step back as he accepts the appendage, popping it back into place on the left side of his body. You nod, not meeting her stare. “Yeah. Something like that.”

You feel his gaze on you, but he says nothing. An awkward silence settles over the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open, no time is wasted in getting out of the building. You’re vaguely aware that Yelena, Ava, Alexei and Walker immediately start arguing with each other about what steps to take next, but you aren’t paying attention to a word they say.

The relief you’d felt when you realized that he’s okay just moments before is quickly replaced with uncertainty.

You’re here, he’s here, and you’re both okay. But what now? Where do you go from here? You spent so long wondering if you’d ever see him again, but didn’t even consider what you’d say to him if that day ever came.

Now that it’s finally here, you’re at a loss for words. Factor in the adrenaline crash that you can feel coming on…

Your lungs feel too tight. The sounds around you blur into static. Raised voices, car horns, the distant wail of sirens - none of it registers. Your vision narrows, and suddenly the space feels way too small and loud. It’s all too much.

You turn and walk. You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away. Just until you can breathe again.

You duck around the corner of the building, stepping into the cool shadow of an alleyway. You lean back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut as you try to steady your breathing.

Your pulse is racing. Your palms are damp. You press a shaking hand to your chest and attempt to count down from ten.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes at the sound of his soft voice. He’s standing at the mouth of the alley, a few feet away.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. “I just need a minute.”

“I know.”

He takes a few steps towards you, tentative and slow, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. You cross your arms over your chest. Not because you’re cold, but because you’re trying to hold yourself together.

Every part of you wants to close the remaining distance between you and throw yourself into his arms. To forget everything going on around you and melt into him in the middle of this stinky alleyway. But you fear that if you do, you’ll crumble - and there’s still so much on the line right now that’s bigger than just you and him.

Still, it’s hard to hold your tongue when the chance to say all of the words that you’ve waited years to say to him is right in front of you.

“You never came back for me. Why?”

Your voice breaks on the last word. He flinches, his gaze dropping for the first time since stepping into the alley.

“I wanted to,” he says. “I wanted to every day.”

You wait for him to continue.

“When I came back, after I was pardoned, I did come for you. But I saw how…stable and peaceful your life is. I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt that. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

There’s a lump in your throat that you force yourself to swallow down.

“All I wanted for me was you.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes - guilt, maybe regret - at your confession. Hearing the words come from your mouth seems to snap something inside him. He steps forward, closing the remaining distance between you. His hands cup your cheeks, tilting your head to look up at him. The lump in your throat suddenly feels suffocating, and your eyes begin to burn with the threat of unshed tears.

“I thought of you every day,” he whispers. The look in his eyes lets you know that he’s telling the truth. “Every single day. Staying away from you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. But I did it because I love you enough to want more for you than…this.”

He doesn’t elaborate on exactly what he means by this. Maybe he means the potential danger that looms over you right at this moment. Maybe he just means him. You’re not sure - you can’t think clearly because he just said that he fucking loves you.

The moment comes to an abrupt end when panicked screams echo from around the block. You recognize Walker’s voice barking a command at someone. You both look towards the commotion, and then back to each other.

“I should’ve come back,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “And when this is all over - whatever the hell this is - I will.”

You blink, stunned by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”

He nods, grazing his flesh thumb along your cheekbone.

“If you’ll still let me.”

Without thinking, you press your lips to his.

It feels like being transported back in time. You’re no longer standing in a Manhattan alleyway in the midst of impending doom. With your eyes closed, and his lips against yours, you’re kissing him for the first time in a Hydra facility bathroom. You’re kissing him in the bathroom of a safe house. You’re kissing every version of him - soldier, ghost, Bucky - more sure than ever that you want all of him.

It ends all too soon. When you pull away, he rests his forehead against yours.

“When this is over, I’ll be waiting.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

If someone had told you just forty-eight hours ago that you’d get a call from Yelena asking for help, that you’d be reunited with Bucky, that all of New York would be turned to shadows and everyone would be forced to relive their greatest traumas in interconnected shame rooms, and that you’d be announced as a member of the New Avengers on live television, you would have wondered if you had accidentally consumed a really potent edible.

Everything happened so quickly. Your whole life changed in what felt like the blink of an eye.

You had all been offered rooms at the old Avenger’s Tower - or the Watchtower, as Valentina has apparently renamed it. But you have a place of your own - with a lease that isn’t up until the end of the year. And a job that you actually really like. And plants that have to be watered.

Therefore, you’re back at your apartment outside of the city. At least for the time being.

Yelena didn’t look surprised when she found out that you weren’t staying.

The dust had barely settled from the aftermath of The Void. You were still in your tactical suit, attempting to wrap your head around the fact that Valentina had announced to the entire world that you’re all Avengers now. You were on your way out of the Watchtower when Yelena caught up to you in the hallway.

“Leaving already?” She’d asked. There was no judgment in her voice, only genuine curiosity.

You shrugged. “This whole…superhero thing wasn’t exactly on my vision board. I just need some time to process it all.”

Her expression softened. “What about Bucky?”

You smirked, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “Bucky knows where to find me.”

You hadn’t meant it to sound harsh. You leaving - it isn’t about pushing him away. It isn’t about making him work for it.

It’s simply about believing that he’d meant what he said. That he really would come for you.

But until then - you have books to read. Laundry to do. Shows to watch. A pothos plant that desperately needs to be repotted. A calm life full of little things that you wouldn’t have if it weren’t for him.

And for the first time in a really long time, you have hope.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Three hours.

That’s how long it takes for you to hear the revving of a motorcycle’s engine outside of your first floor apartment after you get back to your place.

You’ve barely had time to scarf down two day old leftovers and wash all of the sweat, blood, and grime off of your skin when you hear it.

None of your neighbors ride motorcycles. And the headlights are shining directly into your living room through the cracks of the window’s blinds.

It could be anyone. But you know that it isn’t just anyone.

You’re opening the door before he even has a chance to knock.

His hair is still damp from a shower. He smiles at you in a way that you’ve never seen him smile before. It reaches his eyes and brings out the laugh lines around them.

“That was quick,” you hum.

“No.” He shakes his head in disagreement, but his smile doesn’t falter. “It wasn’t. That took me entirely too long. I should’ve been here years ago.”

Without another word, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

The warm glow of a lamp in your living room is the only source of light, but it’s enough to see the dilation of his pupils as he takes in your appearance. Freshly showered, bare faced, and nothing but a loose t-shirt draped over your frame.

“Well,” you breathe. “You’re here now. What are you gonna do?”

He stares at you for a moment. Like he’s scared you might vanish if he blinks. Then, his hands are on your waist and yours are in his hair. You pull his mouth down to yours and he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist.

Without so much as breaking the kiss, he carries you through your apartment as if he’s done so a hundred times before. He places you on the edge of your kitchen counter, his hands splaying across your thighs as if to anchor himself.

“You look exactly the same,” he murmurs against the skin of your throat, in between planting kisses by the shell of your ear and your jaw. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

You grin. “Well, I was blipped for five years, so that helped a little bit. You look pretty good, too, you know. Not a day over seventy-five.”

He laughs, pulling back to look at you. His expression turns more serious as he brushes a slow circle on your inner thigh with the cool vibranium of his thumb.

“We don’t have to rush this,” he says in a low voice. “We have time now. All the time.”

Your hands slide beneath his shirt, fingertips ghosting over taut muscles and warm skin.

“I know,” you whisper. “But we aren’t rushing. I’ve wanted this for over a decade. Wanted you for over a decade.”

His mouth is back on yours in an instant. It’s hungry, but still careful. He presses closer and you can feel him - hard against your core, even through the thick material of his jeans. You roll your hips against his and he groans into your mouth at the friction.

“You have no idea,” he groans when he pulls his mouth away from yours, “how many times I’ve thought about this since I last saw you.”

“Oh, yeah?” You smile against his mouth. “What took you so long?”

“Don’t,” he warns softly, dragging his metal hand up your spine. “Don’t start with me. I’ll take you right here.”

Your breath catches, arousal blooming low in your stomach. His tone is teasing but there’s promise in his words.

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

He chuckles lowly. “Tempting. But I’m doing this right.”

Then he’s lifting you again, carrying you in the direction of your bedroom.

Clothes are lost piece by piece, hands continuously touching and roaming. When his eyes drag over your bare body, he breathes your name. Your real name - not the name on the fake passport and ID he’d given you so long ago that most people know you by these days.

Your name. And goddamn, does it feel good to hear him say it.

Then his mouth is on you - slow at first, savoring you, tongue moving with agonizing precision. You gasp, your hands flying to grip the back of his head.

“God, baby,” he mutters in between strokes of his tongue. “You are so fucking sweet.”

“Bucky,” you groan, loving that you know what to call him this time around. By the way he moans into you, you think that he seems to like it, too. “Fuck, Bucky.” Your hips twitch and he splays both hands across your belly, pinning you in place.

“Easy,” he murmurs against you. “I’ve got you.”

You cry out when he slides one thick finger inside, curling it just right, then adding a second without warning. The combination of his mouth and fingers is almost too much. You clutch at his hair, grounding yourself in the sound of his low groans and the warmth of his tongue.

He keeps going, steady and sure, working you until your thighs are shaking and his name is tumbling from your lips again and again. You come with a shudder, gripping him hard and gasping through the wave that crashes over you.

He stays there for a moment, letting you ride it out, before finally pulling away, his mouth shiny and blue eyes full of desire.

“Come here,” you say breathlessly, taking no time to recover before pulling him up to you. You pull his face down to yours, crushing your lips against his once more, reveling in the flavor of yourself on his tongue. He snakes a hand between your bodies, stroking his length in his flesh hand before teasing your entrance with the tip.

“Bucky,” you whine at this teasing. “Please. Waited long enough.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos as he eases inside you. You gasp at the stretch, sinking yourself onto his length. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And he does. It’s not rough or rushed - it’s full of reverence. Like he’s making up for all of the years that he couldn’t have you. Hands roam your body as if trying to memorize every individual dip and curve and every kiss says I missed you, I missed you so much, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

“So perfect,” he grunts beside your ear. “I love you. Loved you for as long as I can remember—”

His confession is enough to cause the hot coil in the pit of your stomach to snap. You come with a cry of his name, your nails digging into the flesh of his back as he continues to rock into you. He follows shortly after with a low, broken moan into the crook of your neck.

For a while, neither of you move. You lie together in the afterglow, sweat slicked bodies still pressed together as you both come back down to earth.

“Bucky?” You murmur after a moment, still breathless. He pulls back far enough to look down at you.

“I love you, too. For as long as I’ve known you. I never stopped loving you.”

He smiles at your words, his expression open and unguarded in a way that’s brand new to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

You curl into him as he pulls the blanket over you both. His arm wraps around your waist like he never wants to let go of you again.

The city outside is still recovering. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. You haven’t decided if you’ll take Valentina’s offer seriously, if the New Avengers are actually a thing, or what any of it means going forward.

Only one thing matters to you right now, and he’s laying beside you, holding you close.

You’re both home.

Because you’re close. Closer than you usually are.

And you’re smiling at him like you’re about to say something important—or maybe you already did and his brain short-circuited somewhere around the way your hand brushed his arm.

Sam swallows.

He wants to kiss you.

The realization lands all at once, heavy and bright and terrifying. He’s wanted to for weeks, maybe longer, but wanting something in theory is very different from standing here, actually facing it.

There’s a problem, though.

You’re shorter. Not by a little. Enough that if he just leaned in, he’d probably bonk foreheads or miss entirely and somehow make this worse. Dean would never let him live it down.

You tilt your head up, eyes searching his face. “You okay?” you ask softly.

“Yeah,” he says too fast. Then, more honestly, “I just—uh.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

You wait. You always do.

Sam rubs the back of his neck, ears burning. “I’ve… never done this before,” he admits. His voice drops, like the words might shatter if he says them too loud.

Your expression softens instantly. No teasing. No pressure. Just warmth.

“Oh,” you say. “Me neither.”

That helps. A little.

He exhales, shaky but relieved. “Okay. Good. So. Um.”

You step closer, close enough that he can smell your shampoo—something clean and comforting that reminds him of home even though he’s not sure what that word means. Not really.

“I think,” you say gently, “you might have to bend.”

Right. Yes. That makes sense. He knew that. In theory.

Sam nods, then bends too much, then straightens again, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m bad at—distances.”

You laugh. Not unkind. Just fond. You reach up, fingers curling lightly around the front of his flannel, grounding him. “Hey. It’s okay. We can figure it out.”

We.

That word does something to him.

Sam bends again, slower this time, careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. You tip your face up, standing on your toes just a little, meeting him halfway.

Your noses almost bump. Almost.

He freezes.

“Too close?” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes. “Just—perfect.”

His heart is pounding so loud he’s sure you can hear it. He’s hyper-aware of everything: the way your hand tightens on his shirt, the way his own hands hover uselessly at your sides because he’s not sure where they’re allowed to go.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your lips and back up again.

“Yes.”

So he does.

The kiss is soft. Almost shy. His lips brush yours, barely there, like he’s testing whether the moment will disappear if he presses too hard.

It doesn’t.

You lean into him, just a little, and Sam’s hands finally settle at your waist, warm and steady. The second kiss is better—still gentle, but surer. He sighs without meaning to, the sound vibrating against your mouth.

When you pull back, he’s dizzy. Smiling like an idiot.

“That was,” he starts, then stops, laughs under his breath. “Wow.”

You grin up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, glowing. “I think I liked it.”

He bends down again, this time without hesitation.

Turns out the height difference isn’t a problem after all.

It’s just something he learns how to lean into.